A/N: Here I am, writing another SSD fic. I'm not sure how many are out there reading this, but I guess I'm also writing this to entertain myself. This story takes place about a month before the ending of "Higher Ground." Yes, I know that was one of the most perfect episodes, but I thought I'd use this time period to delve more into Oliver's entire character. He's a complicated man, and has dealt with a lot of hurt and anger in his life. He cut out his father for almost 15 years. I wanted to experiment with how he would react if one of his worst fears came to fruition. I hope you'll give me some poetic license here (especially with any medical stuff) and give me a chance to tell my whole story. Now that the disclaimers are done, I'll just hold my breath and let you read…

Chapter 1

"DLO, this is Rita," she said brightly into the blue phone on Oliver's desk.

The voice of a very distraught woman met Rita's pleasant greeting.

"I'm Sharon McInerney, Shane's mother—I- just received word from Steve Marek that Shane is being flown to Denver Memorial Hospital. He was going to send her home to Washington, but since I'm on a cruise, well…Shane speaks of you from the DLO as her family, so I had Steve send her to Denver. Please, can someone go to the hospital and be with her until I can make it back there-?" And Shane's mother began to cry.

Rita's face went white. "She's in the hospital? Oh my goodness—what happened? Is she going to be okay?"

Norman, in the midst of carrying a load of mud-stained mail toward his office, paused mid-stride at the almost frantic note in his girlfriend's voice. He set down the box and hurried to join her at Oliver's desk.

Rita was hastily jotting down a room number beneath Denver Memorial on a yellow sticky note.

"Oh dear! Yes, yes of course. Oliver isn't in the office right now—I'll let him know as soon as possible. I'm so sorry, Mrs. McInerney, and I promise someone will be by her side around the clock until you get here." She began writing down a phone number. "I'll call you as soon as I see her. Yes, yes, I will. Safe travels. Good-bye."

Rita replaced the receiver on its cradle and threw herself into Norman's arms. He automatically held her, feeling her pounding heart against his chest. His own heart picked up speed.

"What—what is it? Something happened to—to Shane?"

After her initial shock and fearful tears, Rita managed to pull herself together. She had a job to do, after all, and she needed to be there for Shane. Her voice only shook a little as she explained the gist of the phone call.

"Shane was riding in an SUV that ran into an IED. The explosion rolled the vehicle. Shane was hurt, and she's in a medically induced coma at Denver Memorial. Her mom's on a cruise and asked us to go and be with her until she gets here."

"Oh no! Oliver. How are we going to tell Oliver?"

"Tell Oliver what?"

With his usual perfect timing, their boss walked into the DLO. Two and a half months of worrying and pining for Shane had made Oliver's face more drawn, the circles beneath his eyes more pronounced. He hadn't been sleeping well, so he stayed late most nights at work, trying desperately to keep his mind occupied lest he go mad. Naturally, when he heard Norman's troubled mention of his name, his thoughts immediately went to the worst, especially when Rita and Norman exchanged distressed glances. He forced himself not to freeze in place, but to walk the rest of the way to his desk to stand near his anxious friends. His throat felt so tight he could barely speak.

"Is-Is it Shane?" he asked hoarsely.

Rita quickly explained the situation, and for a moment he felt faint. He grabbed hold of the edge of his desk to steady himself, and Norman's hand shot out to grasp his upper arm. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Oliver said haltingly. Then, clearing his throat: "I have to go to her."

"We all do," proclaimed Rita. She gave Oliver an assessing glance. "I'll drive."

All the way to the hospital, Oliver sat numbly in the back seat of Rita's car. Fear was his only emotion, and it sent worst case scenarios swirling around in his head.

What if she dies?

What if she never wakes up?

And if she does awaken, what if she doesn't remember me? Remember us?

Then, from the driver's seat, Rita began to speak, her words from the 27th Psalm:

"The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?"*

In God's calming words, Oliver found his faith, his center, and he began to speak along with her; Norman soon joined in. "The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid…?"

And Oliver switched then to 2 Timothy, a verse which for him had always been where he drew his greatest comfort in the worst moments of his life: "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind."**

And then, Rita began to pray aloud for Shane, asking God for His healing, for His protection, and to ease their troubled minds.

"Thank you, Rita," said Oliver solemnly. He met her eyes in the rearview mirror, and he reached out gratefully to squeeze her shoulder. She nodded, giving him a watery smile.

"She's going to be okay, Oliver; I feel it."

At the hospital, they discovered, to their dismay, that Shane was in the ICU. A nurse at the information desk told them that only two at a time could go in to visit her, and only for up to thirty minutes. As anxious as Rita was to see her friend, she insisted Oliver go in by himself first.

"I think we should call Oliver's dad," said Rita, looking worriedly at the sliding glass door Oliver disappeared through. "I have a feeling he's going to need all the support he can get."

"Good idea," said Norman, and Rita drew out her phone from her purse.

Their prayers in the car had calmed Oliver considerably, but he still wasn't prepared to see Shane's face, swollen, bruised, and pale against the stark white pillowcase. He tentatively peered around the drawn curtain, noting the bandage wrapped around her head, covering her beautiful blond hair, and that her arm, encased in a cast, lay on her stomach on top of a thin blue blanket and sheet. Her steady breathing was amplified by an oxygen mask, and from her uninjured arm ran an IV line and a blood pressure cuff, a monitor clipped to her index finger. Oliver thought he could feel his heart literally breaking in two, and his hand went to his chest.

A nurse was changing her hanging IV bag, and she looked up as Oliver stepped further from behind the curtain.

"You're her first visitor," she said quietly. "We've just gotten her settled after her long flight."

"How—how is she?"

"She's stable. We're waiting for the swelling to go down before we wake her up. Are you family?"

Oliver answered immediately: "Yes. At least, the only family she has here." He knew Shane thought of the POstables as family, so he wasn't the least bit apologetic for the misleading characterization.

The nurse nodded in understanding.

"Feel free to sit with her, hold her good hand, talk to her. She might be able to hear you. I'm Janine, if you need anything," she said, finishing her task. "I'll let you have some time."

"Thank you," he muttered, as she left them, and he grabbed a chair by the window to move beside Shane's bed. He sat down heavily, and, taking her cool, dry hand in his, brought it to his lips. He choked back a sob.

"Please," he whispered brokenly, the words torn from his soul. "Please don't leave me."

He cried a little then, hot tears that slowly seeped from his eyes, and for a few minutes, he let himself feel the fear again, the self-pity. That finished, he reached into his suit jacket pocket and employed his handkerchief. Sniffling once, he said another prayer for strength, and then began to talk to Shane, as if she were wide awake and listening.

"You know, we found Gabe, like I promised we would. No news of Hattie, however. It's a sad thing, losing the love of your life." He immediately knew this was a dangerous topic, and switched to talking about the last night he saw her, the perfect real date at last—at least, before Marek intervened.

"Everything about the evening was wonderful," he said, avoiding the moments around her leaving. "Might I even say it was magical. Our walk in the rain, the music, the conversation, your tutelage regarding the emotional impact jazz has on you." He laughed softly, patting his pocket where her napkin doodles remained, close to his heart. "I couldn't take my eyes off you; you were so beautiful that night, so enchanting. You glowed, Shane, and every word you spoke filled me with warmth, with…love." His voice faltered again, and he kissed her hand once more, closing his eyes tightly, remembering.

"And when I kissed you on the steps…Oh, Shane…I didn't know a kiss could be like that. I wanted more of that—I want more," he amended. He cleared his throat. "And when I walked you home, you held onto my arm, I held your hand. We both knew this was the beginning of something special, and I knew I was ready…to love again." He took a shuddering breath. "I love you, Shane, with all of my heart, and if there's any good that comes from this horrible situation, it's that I can finally tell you that. I—I just pray, that you'll be able to tell me soon that you feel the same, that's it's not too late…"

Despite his best efforts, the image of Steve Marek, sitting on their porch swing, interfered in his reminiscence, and he was filled with a sudden, blinding rage. Marek had vowed to protect her, reassured him she'd be safe. He never would have let her go with that—that cad if he'd thought for a moment Shane had doubted the man. But Oliver had doubted, had had a bad feeling the moment the government agent had asked for her passport. But what else could he have done? Demand that she not serve her country and stay with him?

He'd told himself he was being unreasonable, since there was no denying he'd been jealous of the man since they'd first met in DC months before, and yet he'd sized him up immediately as a spurned suitor, one who still held a tendre for Shane, one whom Oliver would not put it past to try to manipulate her into a romantic situation. He felt the rage settle to an icy fury, and he made a vow that if he ever saw Steve Marek again, he would be sure the man received the set down he deserved.

Nurse Janine came in again, saving Oliver from voicing his anger aloud to Shane, which certainly wouldn't have helped either of them.

"You have quite a crowd gathered out there, waiting to see her."

Oliver nodded, not wanting to leave, but realizing there were others who loved Shane, who were anxious to see her for themselves. He stood and tenderly kissed the less bruised cheek. "I'll be back soon, my love," he said. He gently and reluctantly set down her hand.

The first person he saw in the waiting area was his father, Joe, and, without a word, fell into his warm embrace. "I'm so sorry," Joe whispered. "Rita called me. We've all been praying for her together." Oliver's eyes watered, and he blinked the tears stoically away.

"Thanks for coming." He looked fondly at Rita for her thoughtfulness. She and Norman took a step toward Shane's room, when suddenly Steve Marek came around the corner bearing a tray of to-go cup coffees.

"You," growled Oliver, and lunged toward him. He literally saw red, just like he'd read described in novels. Marek took a surprised step back, nearly spilling his tray as he faced his advancing attacker.

"Oliver!" said Joe, reaching for one arm, while a quick-thinking Norman grabbed the other. Mindlessly, Oliver struggled against their hold, his hands tightening into fists.

"You swore you'd protect her with your life! I demand satisfaction!"

Marek's eyes widened, then narrowed. "What are you going to do, slap my face with your gloves? You've got to be kidding me. Look, Oliver, I'm just as angry as you are, and God knows I blame myself too. I wasn't there to protect her. She was in the SUV ahead of mine—"

"You left her side? In a war zone? You should have been the one in that vehicle, you-remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless…villain!"***

"Oliver! Enough!" His father stepped in front of him, trying to block him from saying and doing what he'd no doubt regret later, but Oliver was twenty years younger and twenty years stronger, and he broke free from his captors. He brushed past Joe to stand before Marek, seething, but reaching down deep inside for a semblance of control.

"It would be unseemly as a gentleman simply to kill you, so choose a civilized way in which to end this."

Marek's lips formed a disbelieving smirk. "Pistols at dawn, is it?"

Oliver's mouth formed an angry line, furious anew the man wasn't taking him seriously.

"How about fisticuffs at the gym?"

Marek appraised the glorified postman before him. They were about the same height, but Marek had no way of knowing how fit Oliver was beneath his well-tailored suits. He'd learned long ago not to judge someone's true strength by their outward appearance. Nevertheless, the mild-mannered man seemed to be itching for a fight, for some sort of payment for the suffering of the woman lying in a nearby hospital bed. Deep down, he couldn't really blame him. Part of Marek felt guilty enough to deserve a beating, but the Federal agent in him was never one to back down from a challenge to his honor.

"Fine," Marek agreed, resigned. "Where and when?"

Oliver rattled off an address and said he'd meet him there in an hour's time. Marek shoved the tray into Oliver's hands and turned on his heel, leaving the waiting room in a huff. The three bystanders to the scene stood in shock, before Rita took the tray from Oliver and set it down on a nearby chair. Oliver slowly lowered his hands, took a deep breath, and turned back to them, just as an orderly rushed into the room.

"What's going on in here?" he asked in annoyance. "Was there a fight?" He almost seemed sad that he'd missed it.

"No," said Joe. "Just a disagreement. The man who started it left before things got out of hand."

"Oh. Well, please try to keep it down in here. There are sick patients that need their rest."

"Sorry," called Norman after him as he left them alone again.

Rita looked worriedly from Oliver to Joe and back again, and as Joe led Oliver to a chair, he gave a reassuring nod to Rita. He'd take over now.

"Norman, let's go see how Shane is doing."

"Good idea," Norman replied wholeheartedly, still trying to process whether he'd actually witnessed what he thought he had. They moved down the hall toward Shane's room

"Oliver," said Joe, his hand on his son's stiff shoulder. "What the Sam Hill was that all about?"

Oliver looked blindly down at his shoes, shaking hands raking through his hair.

"I thought it was fairly obvious." He met his father's eyes with painful resignation. "Dad, if I don't do something halfway civilized to make him pay for what happened to Shane, I—I just might kill the man."

"I see. You realize that this isn't Marek's fault, not really. It's the fault of the insurgents that buried that IED. Shane chose to go of her own free will, right?"

"Yes, and I didn't stop her. I could see she wanted me to, or that she might not have been too opposed to my intervention. I let her down, so if I don't win this fight, I'll have deserved it. But Marek said he would protect her too, and he failed, so at least one of us should pay. Right this moment, I'd prefer it were him."

"Okay, well I see you're bound and determined to go through with this, but I have to say, Oliver, a year's worth of Karate lessons when you were thirteen isn't enough to beat a highly trained Federal agent. I love you son, but that guy's gonna mop the floor with you."

Oliver gave a humorless chuckle. "You may be right. But what you don't know is that I've been boxing scientifically for the last fifteen years, whenever I feel the need. I wear a padded helmet, so I rarely get bruised in the face when I spar with my coach, but I'm fairly proficient, actually. When Mom died, I needed some sort of outlet for all my anger—at you, at her. My faith has helped too, of course, but there's nothing like pummeling a punching bag for an hour or two to work out one's frustrations. I quit when I married Holly—she didn't approve of the violence of pugilism. But after she left, I recommitted myself, with a vengeance. Since I met Shane, well, I haven't felt the same compulsion. That is, until she left two months ago."

Oliver's eyes darkened with renewed wrath at the thought of what he'd been through since she left, how worried he'd been, how lost and alone. Because of Marek. He'd felt like he had when Holly had left, only that hadn't held a candle to how he felt with Shane gone. Poker with his friends and Dad had helped. Church had helped. But hitting the old boxing bag had done wonders for his control. Until now.

Joe looked at his son with new, proud eyes, but of course, it was also mixed with concern. Joe knew first hand what it was like to be the object of his son's anger. Even as a boy, his frustration with his flighty mother had resulted in occasional, uncontrollable tantrums, especially after she'd first left them both. Once he'd grown up a little more, accepted that she was well and truly gone, he'd become increasingly introverted, suppressing that anger until the day he'd mistakenly decided Joe had kept his mother away from him and cut Joe off without a backward glance. He was glad he'd found a way to try to cope with those emotions, since Joe couldn't be there to help him. Seeing him revert back to this was killing Joe inside. This kind of anger and grief was coming from fear, and it went against everything Oliver stood for.

"This is not like you, Oliver," he reasoned. "You're not a violent man, let alone a vengeful one."

"But this is about Shane, Dad. Shane. You haven't seen her in that bed. She looks so pale, so lifeless. I can't help her, but I can do this at least, for her."

"I don't think you have to. I think God is taking care of it, because it looks to me like Marek feels so bad about what happened that he's going to have to live with the guilt a long time. Isn't that enough punishment? And what do you think Shane would think of all this? I'm pretty sure she'd tell you this wasn't a good idea. More importantly, what about turning the other cheek, son? What about loving your enemies, forgiving them?"

Oliver became coldly defensive. In this mode, with this stubbornness, Joe knew it was pointless to try to dissuade him.

"On the contrary, I think anger can be a healthy emotion, if correctly directed," Oliver was saying. "Jesus was furious with the moneychangers, and violently flipped over tables. If, God forbid, Shane doesn't—"he couldn't even say the words—"I can't just let this go, Dad. I can't. This is for Shane." He stood up again. "I have to go and meet Marek now."

Joe sighed. "Fine. But I'm going with you. If you're going to take part in a duel, you're gonna need a second."

A/N: Yes, this might seem a little over-the-top out of character for Oliver, but then, we haven't seen him in this situation. And he has had anger issues and the inability to forgive in the past. I'm just trying to bring this out in him so ultimately, he can learn and deal with it (and yes, I might have a little fun with it along the way). I hope you'll continue on this journey with me. Thanks for reading.

*Psalm 27:1

**2Timothy 1:7

***Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2