Author's note: All the usual disclaimers apply – I don't own the show or the characters, only the words on this page. As always, I'd love to hear what you think.
This is set about two weeks after 'Oversight', and it refers to both the screened season 1 episodes and my other stories. The time-based format is a bit of a departure for me, and I hope it works.
Bulwark
by BHP
Thursday, 6 June
04:10
Owen Milford could almost taste the coffee.
He wished he could smell coffee, but at the moment, the only obvious smells were the sharp tang of antiseptic, the copper scent of blood and various other bodily fluids that he really didn't want to name. Or think about in any great detail.
Well, that's what he got for working a night shift in the ER. His wife thought he was crazy to do one night every week, but had long since accepted the fact that she wasn't going to change his mind on it being a valuable way to keep his skills sharp.
Just as he accepted that she was never going to give up her weekly crafting classes at the local recreation centre. He didn't need pottery mugs and crocheted coasters to place under those mugs, but it made her happy. Which was how they'd stayed married and content for so many years.
And it had been an interesting night.
Unpredictable.
And he enjoyed that unpredictability, the need to think on his feet and make quick decisions, that the ER shift provided.
There'd been the high school student who'd done a somersault over the handlebars of his bicycle on a sharp down-hill turn – he'd broken his nose and arm, but was only concerned about how the injuries would increase his social standing with the pretty cheerleader that he wanted to ask on a date.
Then there'd been the guy in his mid-twenties, who been drag racing on the coastal highway. The only problem was, he'd been competing with his own hallucinations and had managed to wrap his car around a light pole. He'd been so high on his own personal concoction of street drugs that he hadn't even broken a single bone. More importantly, he'd not injured anyone else, either.
Shift change was at six, and with just under two hours to go, Milford now expected this shift to end quietly.
Then the sharp blare of an ambulance siren cut through the brightly-lit room, and a young nurse shot past him towards the doors.
"Doctor Milford. Incoming!"
"What have we got?" He moved quickly to follow the nurse, recognising her voice and the curtain of black hair swinging forward as she turned her head.
"Radio said helicopter crash. Reported by a motorist who saw it happen. Out near Sand Island. One victim." The nurse glanced back at him, and Milford smiled at her.
"Anything else, Annie?"
"Not yet." She lifted one shoulder a fraction. "But Hanale didn't sound like it was life or death."
"Good to know."
Hanale was an experienced paramedic, one of the best in Honolulu, and Annie trusted his judgement. So Milford could trust it as well.
He relaxed a fraction, mentally running through possible scenarios. Helicopter crashes were very often fatal, so the fact that this victim was even still alive was a positive point. He could expect multiple broken bones, most likely a head injury of some sort, and no doubt copious amounts of blood.
"Although, Hanale did say the police are following them in. No idea why, but he heard them say something about arresting the victim. No ID on who that is." Annie sounded puzzled.
Milford wondered about it for a moment, then focused all his attention on the ambulance now backing into the bay outside the doors.
The sky outside was still midnight dark, stars bright, although Milford thought he could see a faint tinge of brighter light on the eastern horizon. Wishful thinking, maybe.
Moments later, the sliding doors squealed open, a gurney rolling through at speed.
His first impression was one of bulk. The man on the gurney appeared to be tall, strongly built, and lying very still. Equipment was balanced between his jean-clad legs and a breathing mask covered most of his face. The rest of his face was slicked with blood, some of which had run down his neck and soaked the neck and shoulder of the man's patterned shirt.
Milford patted himself on the back for predicting both a bleeding head wound and large amounts of blood.
He could hear Annie taking in the details provided by Hanale, taking the important details in himself without conscious thought. Then the patient had been transferred to the hospital bed, the ambulance crew had headed back outside, and he stepped forward to start his detailed examination.
Annie gasped.
For a second, it was as if the whole ER had been muted. Sound faded and time seemed to slow.
Then things snapped back into focus, details sharp and clear.
The police might not know who this man was. He might have no ID on him.
But Milford knew who he was. Annie knew who he was.
They'd both seen this man before. Camped out next to various hospital beds just a few floors above this ER. Spending the night next to his friends. Keeping demons at bay. Drinking bad coffee without complaint. Riding herd on people who kept trying to leave the hospital before they were healed enough. And according to Annie, when he thought no-one was listening, singing quietly in a voice that she would pay to hear again.
He didn't know why the police would want to arrest this man, but whatever they might think he'd done, they were mistaken.
He didn't even need to ask. There was simply no question at all in his mind.
He looked up and saw the same realisation on Annie's face. The sound of a police siren cut off outside the ER, and Milford made a split-second decision, guided by well-honed instincts.
Seconds before the door opened again, and a police officer came towards them, he spoke to Annie.
"We don't know who this is." He kept his voice low.
Annie nodded once, expression troubled, and he could see that she shared his reservations and concerns about the whole situation. But she would follow his lead.
Because there was no way this man was a criminal. No matter what the police thought, or what evidence they had.
He looked down at the unconscious man again. Took in the bruises on his face, the signs of restraints on the man's wrists, the unnatural twist of the right elbow.
Then he looked up at the face again, past the mask of blood to take in the lax features.
The features of one Theodore Calvin. Known to his friends as TC.
MPI-MPI-MPI
Thursday
Dawn, 05:24
Everything hurt.
His head throbbed, a dull drumbeat of relentless pain. His elbow was a sharp, jagged slice of agony. His whole body felt bruised and battered. And his wrists burned, a minor but annoying pain.
All things considered, he'd felt worse. Physically, at least. Emotionally, he wasn't so sure.
TC was surprised that he was still alive.
He'd actually hoped that the crash would be fatal. For him – and his passengers.
He'd done his best to ensure a fatal end to the flight. But he'd failed.
He needed to know where he was before he let on that he was conscious.
He kept his eyes shut, his face expressionless. He listened, knowing that he would never hear the tiny sounds that Rick and TM always seemed to pick up with ease. No matter how hard he tried, he'd never managed to figure out how they heard all the things they did.
But he didn't have to try very hard to hear the repetitive beeping near his head.
Heart monitor. Hospital.
Damn.
If he'd survived, then his passengers probably had as well. That was really not good.
He strained to hear past the machine's tone, sure that he wasn't alone. The feeling of being watched wasn't something you forgot easily. After those hideous eighteen months, it had taken him weeks to stop checking for surveillance. And even longer to believe that he truly wasn't being observed all the time.
But this time, he wasn't mistaken.
This particular feeling wasn't one he'd ever forget.
He suppressed the instinctive twitch when he heard the door swing open, followed by quiet footsteps entering the room.
The conversation was quiet, but clear.
"I told you to wait outside." TC recognised the voice from other occasions over the course of the last year. Doc Milford. Who was clearly unhappy about something.
"He's my prisoner." The tone bordered on arrogant.
A young man, TC thought. Eager to impress his superiors.
"And I'm his doctor." Milford's tone had gone cold. "And if you ever want to speak to him, you'll do as I say."
"I don't take orders from you." TC wanted to laugh, but held himself back. The younger man didn't realise that he'd already lost this battle.
"No, indeed." Milford agreed placidly. "You don't." Then his tone changed, hardened. "But this is my hospital and my patient. My rules. I'm sure the hospital administrator will be more than willing to take this up with your commanding officer."
The silence grew thick, then TC heard the shuffle of feet.
"He's under arrest for multiple felonies. Burglary, assault, maybe more depending on whether that security guard lives."
"I'm aware. But as you've already handcuffed him to the bed, it's not like he's going anywhere." Milford's ever-so-reasonable tone almost broke TC's control. "As soon as I'm sure he's stable, you can speak to him."
Moments later, reluctant footsteps faded away and the door swung shut.
"TC." Milford spoke again. "I know you're awake. We're alone now, so you may as well open your eyes. Annie has the blinds down."
TC eased his eyes open, the surge in brightness making him cringe. Slowly, he grew accustomed to the dim light, and managed to focus on Doc Milford and Annie.
"Hey, Doc. Annie." TC kept his voice low, hoping not to attract the attention of the officer who'd just left the room.
"Well, that answers a few questions for me. You know who we are, you clearly know who you are." Milford sounded pleased. "So that's a yes on the concussion, but a no on the major brain damage."
TC couldn't help the chuckle. But he had other concerns right now.
"Where are the other guys, Doc?" Urgency filled the question.
"What other guys?" Annie cut in. "You were the only person at the crash site."
"No. Oh, damn it." TC tried to move, only to find his left wrist handcuffed to the bed rail. "I've got to get out of here."
"Don't move." Annie laid a hand on his arm. "You'll only make things worse."
TC heard the rustle of the hospital gown he now wore, and wondered fleetingly what had become of his clothes. What he would wear if he could find a way out of the hospital.
"I suppose you're like your friends," Milford sighed, "and aren't even going to ask how you are. So let me fill you in. You have a concussion, surprisingly mild, I'd say. A nasty cut on the side of your face, which we've done some very fine needle work on, if I say so myself. A lot of bruising. A dislocated right elbow, which we've reduced for you – please note that brace and don't even think about taking it off."
TC lifted his left shoulder an inch and let it drop. The damage to him didn't matter; he'd survived worse. Only the fact that his passengers had escaped mattered to him at the moment.
"And, of course, there are those restraint marks on both your wrists." Milord's mild statement was a question, and TC chose not to answer it.
"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Milford asked.
TC held firm and shook his head.
"Would you like us to call your friends? Let them know what happened, where you are?"
"No." TC couldn't get the word out fast enough. "Please, no."
"They'd want to know. I'm sure they would." Annie tried to convince him.
"Are you sure?" Milford tried again.
"No. Don't call them. You can't tell them." TC couldn't say more than that.
"Interesting word choices. Whatever's going on here has something to do with them."
TC hated the speculative look on Milford's face. TM had said that the man was too observant, had too much insight into his patients. Looked like Magnum had been right again.
"Maybe you can tell me this, instead." TC couldn't hide as Milford met his eyes directly, couldn't turn his head away from the open concern. "Why does that police officer think you took part in a robbery?
"Because I did." It cost him, but TC managed to keep his tone even. Unconcerned. Emotionless.
He wasn't prepared for Milford to laugh at him.
"I'm no expert on criminals, but I'd bet my medical licence that you're not one. So why would you say that you are?"
TC felt his left fist clench, but kept his face expressionless.
His passengers would come looking for him. He was sure of that, just as he was sure that silence was the only weapon and defence he had left.
As long as he said nothing, things would be okay. At least, he could hope so.
He could handle whatever happened to him. He knew that. He'd done it before, after all. And there was nothing that anyone here could do to him, that would be as bad as what he'd already been through. No prison in Hawaii could be as bad as the POW camp he'd already survived. After all, prisons had decent food, clean water, actual beds and medical care.
"We haven't told him who you are." Annie whispered, nodding towards the door. "And we're not going to. Not until you say we can."
"You have your reasons for what you say you did." TC felt the weight of Milford's stare, as the older man gave him a considering look, then nodded. "And we both have ours for doing this."
The support and belief on both their faces almost broke TC's resolve. But he had his friends to think of, to protect. They came first. Always.
So he looked at Doc Milford and Annie one last time, then deliberately shut his eyes and turned his head away.
MPI-MPI-MPI