Part 10
9 a.m. Tuesday Morning, November 26th
The figure in the chair slumped, flicking his disinterested eyes on the silent television. He put the remote down, having settled on ESPN Classics, and picked up his coffee. He sipped carefully, allowing the heat to warm him. Every few minutes his gaze shifted to the figure in the bed.
Unaware of his silent observer, the injured man slept fitfully. His fine features were distressed, covered by a sheen of perspiration. His pale brown brows were furrowed as he battled demons in his troubled sleep.
The grainy images were in black and white, twisted and mixed by his fevered brain. Parts of the slow-moving scenario were the diner. The tired waitress, the leering gunman and his fallen partner covered in blood, the only color in the grisly scene. They all looked at him with scorning eyes painted with blame. He turned away, stumbling and falling. He pressed against the kitchen door and the room changed. He was back in time over twenty years. Too late he realized where he was and the panic began. He beat on the doors, trying to scream for help. Something was wrong, he couldn't breathe. The beast was looming over him, shoving a pipe down his throat. It burned and tore into him, taking his air away.
"WHOA!" The body shot off the chair and grabbed the thrashing man.
Martin's eyes shot open and his heart gyrated wildly. His fists came up, striking out at whatever was gripping him. He was trembling and shivering, covered in sweat. Then the panic accelerated and he grabbed at his throat. The pipe was still lodged there!
"Leave that alone! It's helping you breathe. Calm down!"
The hand grabbed his wrist, pulling it from his throat. His wet, matted head turned and his fear-filled eyes finally focused.
Blue eyes locked on brown.
"Hey, Harvard, welcome back!"
He wiggled weakly, trying to free himself from the other man's grip. He scowled and pushed his anger outward. He wasn't sure of all the facts, but he was angry at something.
"Take it easy!"
*"You take it easy!"* Martin fumed silently, unable to speak. *"You don't have a fuckin' tube shoved down your throat. Don't touch me! Get away. Leave me be! Dammit, Danny."*
"Nice!" Danny chuckled at the irate face and continued his hold on the other man's wrist. He knew Martin wasn't fully aware yet and didn't want him doing any damage to the breathing tube. "See, they all think you're some kind of Huck Finn." He mimicked the nurses, "Oh, poor Mister Fitzgerald. Oh, he's got such pretty eyes." He shook his head, "See, they don't about that salty tongue you got! You gonna quit cursing at me now?"
*"Go to hell. Calm down? Big talk, you want to trade places?"* The blue eyes raged. Martin scowled harder, using his free hand to point at the sling on Danny's chest and then at the bed.
"I'm legit," the dark-haired man proclaimed, "I got sprung a couple hours ago."
Fitzgerald persisted, finally pried his other arm free and gestured again to the injured arm, the bed and the window.
"That's the thanks I get," he teased, leaning on the bedrail, "Drag my sorry ass over here to check on you. I could be home, being tended to by the lovely Denise..." It didn't get the smile he hoped for. An odd look crossed the fallen man's face and all the wind left his sails. He seemed to melt into the mattress, turning his face away.
"Hey," he said gently, tapping the bare arm. The head turned slowly, the eyes were bruised and set into a face too pale. He lifted the other hand and gripped it, his tone serious. "Right, wrong or indifferent, you saved my ass out there. The doctor told me I would have bled to death. I could kick your ass clear back to Seattle for pullin' a stunt like that..." his voice didn't hide his feelings. "We have our differences, Harvard, and we're gonna clash over shit, but...you're my partner now. I can cuss you out and trash talk you, but I'll break the balls of anybody else who tries it." He smiled then as a faint show of pink christened the pale cheeks. "Hey, you blush! Hey, that's cool. Chicks love that."
Martin rolled his eyes and shook his head, feeling uncomfortable. He'd ridden solo for most of his career, and being a partner didn't come without its share of pain. Try as he might, the awful, cold feeling he'd felt when he thought Danny Taylor was dead kept coming back. He kept seeing his hand on the gun...and Danny in a pool of blood. Taylor wasn't just anybody's partner, he was his partner, and despite himself, he liked that.
His headache went into overdrive, the pain forcing his eyes shut, and he dozed for a bit. Strange, the nightmares didn't come this time, just a restless sleep. Martin woke, blinked, eyed the room again and realized he was in the hospital. He shivered as the coldness he seemed unable to shake revisited.
"Hey, 'bout time you woke up." Danny moved in the chair, needing to sit but wanting to see his partner's face. "I talked to the doctor, " he paused, scratched his chin and frowned, "Either I'm gettin' old or the residents are gettin' younger. This kid looked about fourteen, like Doogie Houser, you know?" He saw the eyes soften and the weak hand came up, pointing to his chest. "Thanks, some partner! You callin' me old?" His smile got broader as the wet head nodded. "Not so old I can't kick your ass," he boasted and the patient's middle finger danced across the sheet. "Charming," he grinned. "So Doogie says you're gonna be fine. They're gonna take that tube out soon and put you on oxygen. Then, if you behave and that fever leaves, you might come home on Thursday. I'll tell you what, this is one Thanksgiving where I'm gonna appreciate the meaning of..." He paused when the scorned blue eyes went past his face to the sling.
All the fight left Martin and his whole body sagged in defeat. He closed his eyes and nodded weakly. He felt a cold cloth press against his features and it felt good. Several minutes passed and he opened his eyes again. He turned to the left and saw Taylor's profile. His pained gaze caught the sling resting against the navy blue F.B.I sweatshirt. Guilt rose uninvited and consumed him.
"Don't, Martin," Danny sighed, "Man, them blues of yours are as lethal as your gun. I'm fine, so quit with the hounddog eyes, okay?"
Martin shook his head, pointed to the sling and then turned contrite eyes to the other man. He offered his hand and it was consumed, gripped hard, and then changed to a brotherhood grip.
"I don't blame you, is that what you thought?" Danny asked of the awful eyes, "It happened, not your fault, not mine, it just happened. Would I have pulled a move like that, going for that old man's gun? No way." The face turned away and he got angry, yanked on the arm until it turned back. "But I should have reacted differently. I should have understood that move and given you some support. Later on I would have kicked your ass for doin' that," he teased, then grew somber, "but by not supportin' you, I put myself and you in danger. I'm sorry."
Martin jerked his head and shook it hard, gesturing with his hands.
"Slow down! We're partners. I should have been watchin' your back out there. I pulled back. That jerkoff, he knew that. That's why you got shot." Danny turned away, dropped his head down on the bed and pulled his hand free. Several minutes went by and he felt a trace of fingers on his temple. He raised his eyes and saw Martin straining to reach him. Every muscle was taut from exertion, from the weak body moving to reach out. He eyed the open palm and all it offered and he hesitated, eyes unsure.
*"My head's about to fall off and I got a tube shoved down my throat. Don't give me any shit, Danny. I'm not blaming you, dammit."*
"Okay, quit cursin'," the dark-eyed man teased of the irate features. He took the hand and cocked his head. "So maybe we each got a few things to learn? Still have some kinks to work out, huh?" The head nodded and he responded in kind. He took the hand and resumed the brotherhood grip, sending a solid wink with it.
"As much as I hate to bust up this Kodak moment..."
They both turned at the voice from the doorway, where their boss stood. Actually, he did more than stare, he glared openly at Danny Taylor. If Martin's ailing body had been capable of grinning, he would have. Malone was pissed and the source of his ire was his new partner.
"Hey boss!" Danny exuded, "Don't Martin look better? That doctor said --"
"If I didn't know better," Jack entered the room, tossing his coat on the foot of the bed and staring intently at the squirming agent, "I'd swear you can't hear. What about the words 'rest and recover' don't you understand? You think that doctor was shootin' shit when he ran down that list of complications?"
"Don't you start too!" Danny warned the now glaring blue eyes in the bed, "You're supposed to be coverin' my back."
"You two will have plenty of time to debate the ins and outs of this incident later. For one thing," he turned to Martin Fitzgerald, "whatever was bothering you in Atlantic City, that caused that inappropriate behavior, you lose that, understood? I need your head clear when you're on the street. You've got a few weeks of downtime coming and you get rid of that shit, are we clear on that?"
"He'll do it," Danny answered, watching Martin's face blanch.
"And while we're on the subject of screwing up, did it occur to either of you Einsteins to report in? If we had known you'd pulled into that diner, things might have been different." He saw Martin tap his chest, but not before Danny disagreed.
"Don't even try that," Taylor shot a glare at Fitzgerald, "I was driving, it was my call."
"Enough!" Jack placated, when the patient got distressed. "I haven't begun yet. We still have a lot of ground to cover, including that stunt you pulled with the gun!" he warned Martin, "But now, you're leaving."
Martin pointed to Danny's coat, far across the room and then the door, before waving a 'goodbye' gesture.
"I was on my way home," he defended, "I just stopped by to make sure my man Harvard was okay."
"You're both busy," Malone stated, "You've got a cab outside waiting to take you home. Martin's tube is comin' out and they want to come in and prep him." He turned to the patient, whose features were pale and drawn. "I've been there," he noted of the tube, "It hurts like hell, but it only lasts a minute. I'll be just across the room, okay?"
Martin nodded and watched Jack help Danny into his coat. He waited until his partner was ready and caught his eye.
"You behave and keep a civil tongue," Danny warned, then grew somber. "Hey, Agent Fitzgerald, in case I haven't said it, I'm damn grateful." He tapped his heart with his fist and nodded once. Then he saw Martin weakly repeat the gesture and he found a smile. "Later, man." He leaned down, wagged his brows and smirked, "Oh, I told that big nurse, the one with the hairy mole, you needed a slow sponge bath. You can thank me later." He chuckled when the middle finger was tapped on the sheet.
"Good Afternoon, Mister Fitzgerald."
Danny nodded and exited and Jack hovered by the door, as the physician entered and gave instructions. A nurse came with him, wheeling in a tray and waiting by the patient's bed.
"It's time for your extubation. That's the process of removing that tube. We've been keeping check on your ABG's." He saw confusion looking back at him and paused, "Arterial blood gases, that is how we make sure you are getting enough oxygen in your blood and carbon dioxide out. We'll put you on a CPAP, uh, a mask that supplies oxygen at a certain base pressure, but you will be breathing on your own. Once you stabilize on that and improve, you'll be upgraded to a nasal cannula. I'm going to warn you, your throat will be very sore and you shouldn't attempt to talk for awhile. You'll be allowed ice chips until we are confident you don't need to be reintubated. Then, if things go well, you'll get a clear tray for dinner." He waited, seeing both fists clutching the sheet.
"You'll do fine!" The nurse encouraged, wincing at the wide eyes.
"Okay, I'm going to take the tape off now," he kept his voice low and watched the saucer-like blue eyes as he gently removed the tape holding the tube in place. "There, that's done. Now I need you to listen carefully. I want you to take a deep breath, as deep as you can. Then you watch me and wait until I say EXHALE. That's when I'll take the tube out, okay?" He saw the wet head nod and moved in. "Okay, Martin, take a deep breath," he paused, "EXHALE!" He pulled the tube out and turned to leave, letting the nurse move in and work.
"What's wrong?" Danny asked.
"I thought you left?" Jack pushed him back out into the hall, but not before Danny saw Martin's body jerking on the bed and heard the sickening gagging sounds. The terrified wide blue eyes were unsettling.
"She's gonna suction him, get all the trapped mucus and fluid from his throat," The doctor advised the worried dark-haired man. "It's normal, and you need to rest, you look awful."
"He was just leaving!" Jack bristled, pointing to the elevator and waiting.
"Yeah, yeah." Danny eyed the closed door, worried, until Jack physically turned him and shoved.
"GO HOME!"
Jack waited until the nurse left and went back inside, relieved that Martin was now free of the device. He moved closer, watching the sleepy eyes fighting to stay open. He knew they had given the pained man something to relax him and it was now kicking in.
"Between you and that partner of yours, I'm gonna go bald." He waited and saw the sky eyes crinkle in mirth. "Oh, you think that's funny?"
Martin nodded and smiled weakly, then pointed to the cup.
"Ice. Hold on." Jack got a spoonful, gently eased the mask up and eased the utensil onto the waiting tongue. The small moans of pleasure gave him a smile. "I know how good that feels."
Two spoonfuls later, he spoke again, timing his words carefully.
"Listen, Martin, your father stayed all night. He was exhausted. I called at seven this morning and he was still here. They made him go home and rest." He saw the mocking face appear and caught the hurt eyes. "I don't know what's happened between the two of you. But, you could have died out there. Maybe he knows that too, now. Maybe...you need to reach out and forgive him." That got a reaction, the body twitched, the head rolled in anger and two weak fists formed. "I know you're pissed, Martin. You've got good reason. But you still have him. I wish my old man were around. He died and we had unfinished business. You can't ever get that back, once they're gone. He's picking you up on Thursday to take you home. Talk to him, Martin -- before it's too late."
*"Talk to him?"* Martin fumed. Who did Malone think he was? Victor only listened to the sound of his own voice. Talk? He blinked and felt the wave of the drugs kicking in. His eyes drooped and he felt a blanket pulled up higher, taking his shivers away.
"You get some sleep, okay? You think on what I said."
Martin nodded sleepily, despite the razors he felt were lodged in his tender throat. He was glad he'd seen Danny. They had their differences of opinion on tactic, style and procedure, but he wouldn't have anyone else. He wanted Taylor watching his back. He blinked and watched Jack's profile as he drifted off to sleep, for now, keeping the hidden demon at bay.
**************
Wenesday night, Eight p.m.
"...and that concludes our Thanksgiving presentation for this year. I think you'll all agree the children did a great job."
The applause was thunderous in the school auditorium. The heat blasted through the room, making it too warm. He sought the cool air in the corridor, sucking noisily and heading for the water fountain. He waited by the door, watching the 'pilgrims' spill out. He saw a tall boy, who waved excitedly
"Hey, Miles Standish!" Danny boomed, "You were great!"
"Thanks. Hey, come here," Patrick Kelly waved and tugged on his mother's hand, "MOM, it's the F.B.I. man I told you about. Remember?"
"Hi, I'm Mary Kelly and you sure made an impression on the children. Patrick now has a new career goal."
"Once I get done in the NFL," the tall boy boasted.
"That's my man!" Danny ruffled the shock of hair. "It's nice to meet you," he waved as they departed. He waited as the crowd thinned, then saw the one he sought. He smiled and waved, putting his best smile on.
"Hi, Danny," Scott walked over, "You came. I can't believe you came."
"A man is only as good as his word," he shook the small hand, "You were terrific, Scott. I loved the poem, you put your heart into it."
"That's cause you helped," the small boy thought on their initial meeting, "I was so scared, even tonight, but I heard your voice again. Thanks."
"No problem," Danny grinned as a young couple walked over. Scott looked like his father, who held a two-year-old. Another child of about five was standing next to the mother.
"Danny Taylor?" The man shifted his sleeping tot and shook the hand. "I'm sorry about your injury. We saw it on the news. Is the other agent okay?"
"He's gonna be fine, thanks." Danny nodded, "Your son, I was very proud of him."
"So were we," the mother smiled, "He told us about your encouragement. He takes things to heart, my Scott. He's sensitive."
"Most gifted artists are," Taylor praised with a wink to the shy boy, "and he's very gifted."
"Can we give you a ride?" the father offered, shifting the sleepy tot again.
"No, thanks!" Danny grinned, "My girlfriend is getting the car. She thought you were awesome, too!"
"Danny, could I come visit sometime?" Scott asked, "I never saw an F.B.I. office."
"Sure!" Danny struggled but got his wallet out, then flipped it to the mother who drew out a card. "You call me, and I'll give you the grand tour, okay? But I'm gonna be out for awhile."
"Okay, maybe after the New Year," Scott suggested, shaking the hand, "Thanks for everything!"
Thursday Morning, November 28th, Thanksgiving.
"Good Morning, Martin."
He was sitting on the bed, dressed and waiting to leave. The nurses had gotten him ready, giving him instructions, medications and orders to rest. They had warned him about the severe repercussions of the concussion. Not to overdo it, or blackouts and dizzy spells could result. He might have lapses of memory and shouldn't be alone. He had nodded, listened and felt the room closing in. He wanted out, to leave the smell that only a hospital can produce.
He looked up as his father entered, holding the door for the nurse. The older man's face was still youthful at fifty-eight. The black hair had just started streaking with shots of gray. He looked at the same eyes he wore, just aged a bit. But he sensed a change, the cobalt blues were softer somehow. He wondered about that as the nurse got him on his feet and into the wheelchair.
The elevator ride was silent. He waited with the nurse, thanking her as his father opened the cab door. He let the older man ease him inside and leaned back against the black vinyl, closing his throbbing eyes. His stomach was upset and he felt sick. His head throbbed and his chest kept time.
"We're here."
He blinked and puzzled as they pulled up. He let his father get him inside and into bed. He took the pain meds and fell into an exhausted sleep. He'd not rested the night before, too full of fear and apprehension. For with every fall of his lids, he feared the return of the beast. It was the reason his eyes were bruised and the dark circles lingered under them.
He woke up to blackness. He frowned and sat up painfully, shoving the blankets off. He hissed audibly at the burning pain in his chest and the dull headache. He furrowed his brows in confusion, padding to the bathroom. Did he have the flu? Why did he ache so? He flushed and turned to wash and shocked himself. The man in the mirror was pale but the left side of his face was blue and purple. The bruises and swollen area were from a beating.
"Jesus!" he jumped again as his father's image appeared, "How the hell did you get in here?"
"I brought you home from the hospital, remember?"
"Hospital?" Martin blinked, his hand resting on his tender side. "That why I feel like a truck hit me?"
"You got shot and a rib punctured your lung on Sunday..." Victor's voice trailed off at the blank face. "The concussion. The doctor said you might have lapses of..."
"THE DINER!" the younger man choked, seeing the flashes of stainless steel, tiles and blood. "Danny. Aw shit, I shot Danny."
"He's fine." The older man tried to move his son from the image in the mirror, but the sky eyes of the younger man were transfixed. "As a matter of fact, he's called twice. Are you hungry?"
"Huh?" Martin blinked, "Danny's really okay?"
"He's worried about you."
"It's nice somebody does," he shot back, moving past the older man. He eased a flannel robe on, hoping to conquer his chills. He blinked in the dim light in his living and dining area. The table was set and classical music played on the stereo.
"I called and had some dinner sent over. There's a caterer nearby..."
"Why are you doing this?" Martin turned, still battling the hostile feelings.
"I, uh..." Victor saw such hurt in those eyes it stole his words. The body swayed a bit and he reached out, but the younger man pulled away. That hurt. "I won't hurt you, Martin."
"You're a little late, Dad."
He walked into the kitchen, leaving his father behind. He put water on for tea and eyed the containers of turkey, stuffing, potatoes and trimmings in the refrigerator. Jack's face appeared in his head, complete with the advice given. He sighed, reached inside for the milk and then cried aloud.
"Be careful!" Victor grabbed the milk with one hand and his son with the other, "SIT DOWN!"
"I'm not six, don't yell at me!" Martin pulled away and gingerly eased his aching body into a kitchen chair, "Hell, you didn't even yell at me then. You didn't even see me."
"That's not true!" Victor denied, pouring hot water into a mug over the waiting tea. "I tried, Martin, maybe you only remember what you want. I know I'm guilty of being an overachiever, spending too much time away from you and your mother. But at the time, I didn't..." He sighed, poured a glass of wine and eyed the squirming body. "That's not the right kind of chair. Why don't you rest on the sofa?"
Martin didn't argue that, he was too sore. He shuffled into the living room and found the sofa, complete with pillows and a blanket. Soon he was settled, covered and warm. He sipped the tea carefully, suddenly seeing himself in his father. How many times during his checkered career had he lost girlfriends and even buddies, not unlike Danny, due to his 'work'. His compulsion to drive, his unending quest to get it right, he was a perfectionist too.
"Looks like the apple don't far from the tree," he muttered, then turned his cold eyes towards his father's, "But I'd never abandon my child."
"I never abandoned you. You had a good home, good school. Your mother and I..."
"I DIDN'T HAVE YOU!" Martin raged, sat up too quickly and felt a horrific pain in his side. He cried out and flailed, latching onto a hand.
"Easy now. That's gonna hurt for awhile. You have to be careful." Victor waited, held on fast and shamefully realized that he could not recall the last time he'd touched his son. It was not a strange feeling, the warm skin on his own, but a good one. He looked at the profile hard, seeing both himself and his late wife there. The sky eyes were rimmed in pain, tearing up due to the injuries. He reached his free hand out and stroked the back of his son's hair. The head jerked in surprise, as the face turned towards him. "You're so much like her, your mother. I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you."
Martin nodded, swallowed hard and eyed the hand in his own. Maybe Jack was right, maybe it wasn't too late.
"Guess if I want to eat some of that food, I ought to have a nap before dinner."
"Good idea, you have pills due, hold on."
Martin eased back onto the stack of pillows and waited. He saw the blinking red beacon on the phone and slid his hand over.
"Hey Martin! Welcome home!"
He grinned at Samantha's voice.
"Vivian and I stopped in to see you yesterday, but you were sleeping. We're coming over tomorrow to visit. Call me later."
The second message brought a genuine smile.
"Hey, Harvard, get your ass up and get this phone. I could get a relapse hittin' the redial so much. My nurse isn't happy --"
"He's a naughty boy!" came a second voice from the machine.
"He sleeps in shit!" Martin laughed at the feminine voice in the background. He picked up the phone and dialed his partner.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"My man!" Danny exuded, "How you feeling? You get home okay?"
"Yeah, my dad's here." He paused, suddenly wishing the young man was with him.
"How's that going?" Danny tried to control the vinegar in his voice.
"We talked a little," he hedged, "it's a start. He's leaving Saturday morning."
"You got plans?"
"Yeah, I'm rock climbing!" Martin teased, "Hell, I can't even scratch decent."
"You want some company?"
"Sure," Martin sighed.
Victor paused in the doorway, seeing the warmth on his son's face. It was the same look he'd had when Jack Malone was with him. In a short span of time, the two men had given his son something he'd failed to in nearly thirty years. Was it too late to get that look? He decided it wasn't and he'd try his best. He waited until the phone was back on the cradle and approached.
"Here," he gave the pills over with a mug of cranberry juice, "My culinary skills not withstanding, I think dinner will be fine."
"Okay," Martin yawned, settled back and felt the blanket pulled up. "Thanks."
"Martin?"
"Yeah?"
"You remember Art Zimmaro?"
"No," he sighed, his heavy eyes drifting.
"He was a neighbor of ours when you were about ten, I guess. His wife and your mother were best friends. They had a big sheepdog..."
"Barney!" he yawned, "Yeah. I think I remember now."
"They live in Newport now, he's retired. I go hunting with him a couple times a year .He has a cabin upstate," he noted of the lodge in the mountains, "I was thinking, the weekend of the fourteenth of December, maybe you and I could meet there. Just to talk, spend some time. It's a beautiful area."
Martin thought for a moment, the cabin, the rural setting and the date spinning in his head.
"Fourteenth?" he yawned, "London."
"I'll fly back, I have a break between the ninth and seventeenth," he noted of the international meeting.
"Okay," he nodded, sleep taking him.
Martin was already sleeping when the sigh came. He didn't feel his father's light touch on his cheek or see the relief in the blue eyes. He didn't feel the hair brushed from his forehead or see the eyes go skyward.
"Thank you," Victor said, for the answer that had come to his prayer.
9 a.m. Tuesday Morning, November 26th
The figure in the chair slumped, flicking his disinterested eyes on the silent television. He put the remote down, having settled on ESPN Classics, and picked up his coffee. He sipped carefully, allowing the heat to warm him. Every few minutes his gaze shifted to the figure in the bed.
Unaware of his silent observer, the injured man slept fitfully. His fine features were distressed, covered by a sheen of perspiration. His pale brown brows were furrowed as he battled demons in his troubled sleep.
The grainy images were in black and white, twisted and mixed by his fevered brain. Parts of the slow-moving scenario were the diner. The tired waitress, the leering gunman and his fallen partner covered in blood, the only color in the grisly scene. They all looked at him with scorning eyes painted with blame. He turned away, stumbling and falling. He pressed against the kitchen door and the room changed. He was back in time over twenty years. Too late he realized where he was and the panic began. He beat on the doors, trying to scream for help. Something was wrong, he couldn't breathe. The beast was looming over him, shoving a pipe down his throat. It burned and tore into him, taking his air away.
"WHOA!" The body shot off the chair and grabbed the thrashing man.
Martin's eyes shot open and his heart gyrated wildly. His fists came up, striking out at whatever was gripping him. He was trembling and shivering, covered in sweat. Then the panic accelerated and he grabbed at his throat. The pipe was still lodged there!
"Leave that alone! It's helping you breathe. Calm down!"
The hand grabbed his wrist, pulling it from his throat. His wet, matted head turned and his fear-filled eyes finally focused.
Blue eyes locked on brown.
"Hey, Harvard, welcome back!"
He wiggled weakly, trying to free himself from the other man's grip. He scowled and pushed his anger outward. He wasn't sure of all the facts, but he was angry at something.
"Take it easy!"
*"You take it easy!"* Martin fumed silently, unable to speak. *"You don't have a fuckin' tube shoved down your throat. Don't touch me! Get away. Leave me be! Dammit, Danny."*
"Nice!" Danny chuckled at the irate face and continued his hold on the other man's wrist. He knew Martin wasn't fully aware yet and didn't want him doing any damage to the breathing tube. "See, they all think you're some kind of Huck Finn." He mimicked the nurses, "Oh, poor Mister Fitzgerald. Oh, he's got such pretty eyes." He shook his head, "See, they don't about that salty tongue you got! You gonna quit cursing at me now?"
*"Go to hell. Calm down? Big talk, you want to trade places?"* The blue eyes raged. Martin scowled harder, using his free hand to point at the sling on Danny's chest and then at the bed.
"I'm legit," the dark-haired man proclaimed, "I got sprung a couple hours ago."
Fitzgerald persisted, finally pried his other arm free and gestured again to the injured arm, the bed and the window.
"That's the thanks I get," he teased, leaning on the bedrail, "Drag my sorry ass over here to check on you. I could be home, being tended to by the lovely Denise..." It didn't get the smile he hoped for. An odd look crossed the fallen man's face and all the wind left his sails. He seemed to melt into the mattress, turning his face away.
"Hey," he said gently, tapping the bare arm. The head turned slowly, the eyes were bruised and set into a face too pale. He lifted the other hand and gripped it, his tone serious. "Right, wrong or indifferent, you saved my ass out there. The doctor told me I would have bled to death. I could kick your ass clear back to Seattle for pullin' a stunt like that..." his voice didn't hide his feelings. "We have our differences, Harvard, and we're gonna clash over shit, but...you're my partner now. I can cuss you out and trash talk you, but I'll break the balls of anybody else who tries it." He smiled then as a faint show of pink christened the pale cheeks. "Hey, you blush! Hey, that's cool. Chicks love that."
Martin rolled his eyes and shook his head, feeling uncomfortable. He'd ridden solo for most of his career, and being a partner didn't come without its share of pain. Try as he might, the awful, cold feeling he'd felt when he thought Danny Taylor was dead kept coming back. He kept seeing his hand on the gun...and Danny in a pool of blood. Taylor wasn't just anybody's partner, he was his partner, and despite himself, he liked that.
His headache went into overdrive, the pain forcing his eyes shut, and he dozed for a bit. Strange, the nightmares didn't come this time, just a restless sleep. Martin woke, blinked, eyed the room again and realized he was in the hospital. He shivered as the coldness he seemed unable to shake revisited.
"Hey, 'bout time you woke up." Danny moved in the chair, needing to sit but wanting to see his partner's face. "I talked to the doctor, " he paused, scratched his chin and frowned, "Either I'm gettin' old or the residents are gettin' younger. This kid looked about fourteen, like Doogie Houser, you know?" He saw the eyes soften and the weak hand came up, pointing to his chest. "Thanks, some partner! You callin' me old?" His smile got broader as the wet head nodded. "Not so old I can't kick your ass," he boasted and the patient's middle finger danced across the sheet. "Charming," he grinned. "So Doogie says you're gonna be fine. They're gonna take that tube out soon and put you on oxygen. Then, if you behave and that fever leaves, you might come home on Thursday. I'll tell you what, this is one Thanksgiving where I'm gonna appreciate the meaning of..." He paused when the scorned blue eyes went past his face to the sling.
All the fight left Martin and his whole body sagged in defeat. He closed his eyes and nodded weakly. He felt a cold cloth press against his features and it felt good. Several minutes passed and he opened his eyes again. He turned to the left and saw Taylor's profile. His pained gaze caught the sling resting against the navy blue F.B.I sweatshirt. Guilt rose uninvited and consumed him.
"Don't, Martin," Danny sighed, "Man, them blues of yours are as lethal as your gun. I'm fine, so quit with the hounddog eyes, okay?"
Martin shook his head, pointed to the sling and then turned contrite eyes to the other man. He offered his hand and it was consumed, gripped hard, and then changed to a brotherhood grip.
"I don't blame you, is that what you thought?" Danny asked of the awful eyes, "It happened, not your fault, not mine, it just happened. Would I have pulled a move like that, going for that old man's gun? No way." The face turned away and he got angry, yanked on the arm until it turned back. "But I should have reacted differently. I should have understood that move and given you some support. Later on I would have kicked your ass for doin' that," he teased, then grew somber, "but by not supportin' you, I put myself and you in danger. I'm sorry."
Martin jerked his head and shook it hard, gesturing with his hands.
"Slow down! We're partners. I should have been watchin' your back out there. I pulled back. That jerkoff, he knew that. That's why you got shot." Danny turned away, dropped his head down on the bed and pulled his hand free. Several minutes went by and he felt a trace of fingers on his temple. He raised his eyes and saw Martin straining to reach him. Every muscle was taut from exertion, from the weak body moving to reach out. He eyed the open palm and all it offered and he hesitated, eyes unsure.
*"My head's about to fall off and I got a tube shoved down my throat. Don't give me any shit, Danny. I'm not blaming you, dammit."*
"Okay, quit cursin'," the dark-eyed man teased of the irate features. He took the hand and cocked his head. "So maybe we each got a few things to learn? Still have some kinks to work out, huh?" The head nodded and he responded in kind. He took the hand and resumed the brotherhood grip, sending a solid wink with it.
"As much as I hate to bust up this Kodak moment..."
They both turned at the voice from the doorway, where their boss stood. Actually, he did more than stare, he glared openly at Danny Taylor. If Martin's ailing body had been capable of grinning, he would have. Malone was pissed and the source of his ire was his new partner.
"Hey boss!" Danny exuded, "Don't Martin look better? That doctor said --"
"If I didn't know better," Jack entered the room, tossing his coat on the foot of the bed and staring intently at the squirming agent, "I'd swear you can't hear. What about the words 'rest and recover' don't you understand? You think that doctor was shootin' shit when he ran down that list of complications?"
"Don't you start too!" Danny warned the now glaring blue eyes in the bed, "You're supposed to be coverin' my back."
"You two will have plenty of time to debate the ins and outs of this incident later. For one thing," he turned to Martin Fitzgerald, "whatever was bothering you in Atlantic City, that caused that inappropriate behavior, you lose that, understood? I need your head clear when you're on the street. You've got a few weeks of downtime coming and you get rid of that shit, are we clear on that?"
"He'll do it," Danny answered, watching Martin's face blanch.
"And while we're on the subject of screwing up, did it occur to either of you Einsteins to report in? If we had known you'd pulled into that diner, things might have been different." He saw Martin tap his chest, but not before Danny disagreed.
"Don't even try that," Taylor shot a glare at Fitzgerald, "I was driving, it was my call."
"Enough!" Jack placated, when the patient got distressed. "I haven't begun yet. We still have a lot of ground to cover, including that stunt you pulled with the gun!" he warned Martin, "But now, you're leaving."
Martin pointed to Danny's coat, far across the room and then the door, before waving a 'goodbye' gesture.
"I was on my way home," he defended, "I just stopped by to make sure my man Harvard was okay."
"You're both busy," Malone stated, "You've got a cab outside waiting to take you home. Martin's tube is comin' out and they want to come in and prep him." He turned to the patient, whose features were pale and drawn. "I've been there," he noted of the tube, "It hurts like hell, but it only lasts a minute. I'll be just across the room, okay?"
Martin nodded and watched Jack help Danny into his coat. He waited until his partner was ready and caught his eye.
"You behave and keep a civil tongue," Danny warned, then grew somber. "Hey, Agent Fitzgerald, in case I haven't said it, I'm damn grateful." He tapped his heart with his fist and nodded once. Then he saw Martin weakly repeat the gesture and he found a smile. "Later, man." He leaned down, wagged his brows and smirked, "Oh, I told that big nurse, the one with the hairy mole, you needed a slow sponge bath. You can thank me later." He chuckled when the middle finger was tapped on the sheet.
"Good Afternoon, Mister Fitzgerald."
Danny nodded and exited and Jack hovered by the door, as the physician entered and gave instructions. A nurse came with him, wheeling in a tray and waiting by the patient's bed.
"It's time for your extubation. That's the process of removing that tube. We've been keeping check on your ABG's." He saw confusion looking back at him and paused, "Arterial blood gases, that is how we make sure you are getting enough oxygen in your blood and carbon dioxide out. We'll put you on a CPAP, uh, a mask that supplies oxygen at a certain base pressure, but you will be breathing on your own. Once you stabilize on that and improve, you'll be upgraded to a nasal cannula. I'm going to warn you, your throat will be very sore and you shouldn't attempt to talk for awhile. You'll be allowed ice chips until we are confident you don't need to be reintubated. Then, if things go well, you'll get a clear tray for dinner." He waited, seeing both fists clutching the sheet.
"You'll do fine!" The nurse encouraged, wincing at the wide eyes.
"Okay, I'm going to take the tape off now," he kept his voice low and watched the saucer-like blue eyes as he gently removed the tape holding the tube in place. "There, that's done. Now I need you to listen carefully. I want you to take a deep breath, as deep as you can. Then you watch me and wait until I say EXHALE. That's when I'll take the tube out, okay?" He saw the wet head nod and moved in. "Okay, Martin, take a deep breath," he paused, "EXHALE!" He pulled the tube out and turned to leave, letting the nurse move in and work.
"What's wrong?" Danny asked.
"I thought you left?" Jack pushed him back out into the hall, but not before Danny saw Martin's body jerking on the bed and heard the sickening gagging sounds. The terrified wide blue eyes were unsettling.
"She's gonna suction him, get all the trapped mucus and fluid from his throat," The doctor advised the worried dark-haired man. "It's normal, and you need to rest, you look awful."
"He was just leaving!" Jack bristled, pointing to the elevator and waiting.
"Yeah, yeah." Danny eyed the closed door, worried, until Jack physically turned him and shoved.
"GO HOME!"
Jack waited until the nurse left and went back inside, relieved that Martin was now free of the device. He moved closer, watching the sleepy eyes fighting to stay open. He knew they had given the pained man something to relax him and it was now kicking in.
"Between you and that partner of yours, I'm gonna go bald." He waited and saw the sky eyes crinkle in mirth. "Oh, you think that's funny?"
Martin nodded and smiled weakly, then pointed to the cup.
"Ice. Hold on." Jack got a spoonful, gently eased the mask up and eased the utensil onto the waiting tongue. The small moans of pleasure gave him a smile. "I know how good that feels."
Two spoonfuls later, he spoke again, timing his words carefully.
"Listen, Martin, your father stayed all night. He was exhausted. I called at seven this morning and he was still here. They made him go home and rest." He saw the mocking face appear and caught the hurt eyes. "I don't know what's happened between the two of you. But, you could have died out there. Maybe he knows that too, now. Maybe...you need to reach out and forgive him." That got a reaction, the body twitched, the head rolled in anger and two weak fists formed. "I know you're pissed, Martin. You've got good reason. But you still have him. I wish my old man were around. He died and we had unfinished business. You can't ever get that back, once they're gone. He's picking you up on Thursday to take you home. Talk to him, Martin -- before it's too late."
*"Talk to him?"* Martin fumed. Who did Malone think he was? Victor only listened to the sound of his own voice. Talk? He blinked and felt the wave of the drugs kicking in. His eyes drooped and he felt a blanket pulled up higher, taking his shivers away.
"You get some sleep, okay? You think on what I said."
Martin nodded sleepily, despite the razors he felt were lodged in his tender throat. He was glad he'd seen Danny. They had their differences of opinion on tactic, style and procedure, but he wouldn't have anyone else. He wanted Taylor watching his back. He blinked and watched Jack's profile as he drifted off to sleep, for now, keeping the hidden demon at bay.
**************
Wenesday night, Eight p.m.
"...and that concludes our Thanksgiving presentation for this year. I think you'll all agree the children did a great job."
The applause was thunderous in the school auditorium. The heat blasted through the room, making it too warm. He sought the cool air in the corridor, sucking noisily and heading for the water fountain. He waited by the door, watching the 'pilgrims' spill out. He saw a tall boy, who waved excitedly
"Hey, Miles Standish!" Danny boomed, "You were great!"
"Thanks. Hey, come here," Patrick Kelly waved and tugged on his mother's hand, "MOM, it's the F.B.I. man I told you about. Remember?"
"Hi, I'm Mary Kelly and you sure made an impression on the children. Patrick now has a new career goal."
"Once I get done in the NFL," the tall boy boasted.
"That's my man!" Danny ruffled the shock of hair. "It's nice to meet you," he waved as they departed. He waited as the crowd thinned, then saw the one he sought. He smiled and waved, putting his best smile on.
"Hi, Danny," Scott walked over, "You came. I can't believe you came."
"A man is only as good as his word," he shook the small hand, "You were terrific, Scott. I loved the poem, you put your heart into it."
"That's cause you helped," the small boy thought on their initial meeting, "I was so scared, even tonight, but I heard your voice again. Thanks."
"No problem," Danny grinned as a young couple walked over. Scott looked like his father, who held a two-year-old. Another child of about five was standing next to the mother.
"Danny Taylor?" The man shifted his sleeping tot and shook the hand. "I'm sorry about your injury. We saw it on the news. Is the other agent okay?"
"He's gonna be fine, thanks." Danny nodded, "Your son, I was very proud of him."
"So were we," the mother smiled, "He told us about your encouragement. He takes things to heart, my Scott. He's sensitive."
"Most gifted artists are," Taylor praised with a wink to the shy boy, "and he's very gifted."
"Can we give you a ride?" the father offered, shifting the sleepy tot again.
"No, thanks!" Danny grinned, "My girlfriend is getting the car. She thought you were awesome, too!"
"Danny, could I come visit sometime?" Scott asked, "I never saw an F.B.I. office."
"Sure!" Danny struggled but got his wallet out, then flipped it to the mother who drew out a card. "You call me, and I'll give you the grand tour, okay? But I'm gonna be out for awhile."
"Okay, maybe after the New Year," Scott suggested, shaking the hand, "Thanks for everything!"
Thursday Morning, November 28th, Thanksgiving.
"Good Morning, Martin."
He was sitting on the bed, dressed and waiting to leave. The nurses had gotten him ready, giving him instructions, medications and orders to rest. They had warned him about the severe repercussions of the concussion. Not to overdo it, or blackouts and dizzy spells could result. He might have lapses of memory and shouldn't be alone. He had nodded, listened and felt the room closing in. He wanted out, to leave the smell that only a hospital can produce.
He looked up as his father entered, holding the door for the nurse. The older man's face was still youthful at fifty-eight. The black hair had just started streaking with shots of gray. He looked at the same eyes he wore, just aged a bit. But he sensed a change, the cobalt blues were softer somehow. He wondered about that as the nurse got him on his feet and into the wheelchair.
The elevator ride was silent. He waited with the nurse, thanking her as his father opened the cab door. He let the older man ease him inside and leaned back against the black vinyl, closing his throbbing eyes. His stomach was upset and he felt sick. His head throbbed and his chest kept time.
"We're here."
He blinked and puzzled as they pulled up. He let his father get him inside and into bed. He took the pain meds and fell into an exhausted sleep. He'd not rested the night before, too full of fear and apprehension. For with every fall of his lids, he feared the return of the beast. It was the reason his eyes were bruised and the dark circles lingered under them.
He woke up to blackness. He frowned and sat up painfully, shoving the blankets off. He hissed audibly at the burning pain in his chest and the dull headache. He furrowed his brows in confusion, padding to the bathroom. Did he have the flu? Why did he ache so? He flushed and turned to wash and shocked himself. The man in the mirror was pale but the left side of his face was blue and purple. The bruises and swollen area were from a beating.
"Jesus!" he jumped again as his father's image appeared, "How the hell did you get in here?"
"I brought you home from the hospital, remember?"
"Hospital?" Martin blinked, his hand resting on his tender side. "That why I feel like a truck hit me?"
"You got shot and a rib punctured your lung on Sunday..." Victor's voice trailed off at the blank face. "The concussion. The doctor said you might have lapses of..."
"THE DINER!" the younger man choked, seeing the flashes of stainless steel, tiles and blood. "Danny. Aw shit, I shot Danny."
"He's fine." The older man tried to move his son from the image in the mirror, but the sky eyes of the younger man were transfixed. "As a matter of fact, he's called twice. Are you hungry?"
"Huh?" Martin blinked, "Danny's really okay?"
"He's worried about you."
"It's nice somebody does," he shot back, moving past the older man. He eased a flannel robe on, hoping to conquer his chills. He blinked in the dim light in his living and dining area. The table was set and classical music played on the stereo.
"I called and had some dinner sent over. There's a caterer nearby..."
"Why are you doing this?" Martin turned, still battling the hostile feelings.
"I, uh..." Victor saw such hurt in those eyes it stole his words. The body swayed a bit and he reached out, but the younger man pulled away. That hurt. "I won't hurt you, Martin."
"You're a little late, Dad."
He walked into the kitchen, leaving his father behind. He put water on for tea and eyed the containers of turkey, stuffing, potatoes and trimmings in the refrigerator. Jack's face appeared in his head, complete with the advice given. He sighed, reached inside for the milk and then cried aloud.
"Be careful!" Victor grabbed the milk with one hand and his son with the other, "SIT DOWN!"
"I'm not six, don't yell at me!" Martin pulled away and gingerly eased his aching body into a kitchen chair, "Hell, you didn't even yell at me then. You didn't even see me."
"That's not true!" Victor denied, pouring hot water into a mug over the waiting tea. "I tried, Martin, maybe you only remember what you want. I know I'm guilty of being an overachiever, spending too much time away from you and your mother. But at the time, I didn't..." He sighed, poured a glass of wine and eyed the squirming body. "That's not the right kind of chair. Why don't you rest on the sofa?"
Martin didn't argue that, he was too sore. He shuffled into the living room and found the sofa, complete with pillows and a blanket. Soon he was settled, covered and warm. He sipped the tea carefully, suddenly seeing himself in his father. How many times during his checkered career had he lost girlfriends and even buddies, not unlike Danny, due to his 'work'. His compulsion to drive, his unending quest to get it right, he was a perfectionist too.
"Looks like the apple don't far from the tree," he muttered, then turned his cold eyes towards his father's, "But I'd never abandon my child."
"I never abandoned you. You had a good home, good school. Your mother and I..."
"I DIDN'T HAVE YOU!" Martin raged, sat up too quickly and felt a horrific pain in his side. He cried out and flailed, latching onto a hand.
"Easy now. That's gonna hurt for awhile. You have to be careful." Victor waited, held on fast and shamefully realized that he could not recall the last time he'd touched his son. It was not a strange feeling, the warm skin on his own, but a good one. He looked at the profile hard, seeing both himself and his late wife there. The sky eyes were rimmed in pain, tearing up due to the injuries. He reached his free hand out and stroked the back of his son's hair. The head jerked in surprise, as the face turned towards him. "You're so much like her, your mother. I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you."
Martin nodded, swallowed hard and eyed the hand in his own. Maybe Jack was right, maybe it wasn't too late.
"Guess if I want to eat some of that food, I ought to have a nap before dinner."
"Good idea, you have pills due, hold on."
Martin eased back onto the stack of pillows and waited. He saw the blinking red beacon on the phone and slid his hand over.
"Hey Martin! Welcome home!"
He grinned at Samantha's voice.
"Vivian and I stopped in to see you yesterday, but you were sleeping. We're coming over tomorrow to visit. Call me later."
The second message brought a genuine smile.
"Hey, Harvard, get your ass up and get this phone. I could get a relapse hittin' the redial so much. My nurse isn't happy --"
"He's a naughty boy!" came a second voice from the machine.
"He sleeps in shit!" Martin laughed at the feminine voice in the background. He picked up the phone and dialed his partner.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"My man!" Danny exuded, "How you feeling? You get home okay?"
"Yeah, my dad's here." He paused, suddenly wishing the young man was with him.
"How's that going?" Danny tried to control the vinegar in his voice.
"We talked a little," he hedged, "it's a start. He's leaving Saturday morning."
"You got plans?"
"Yeah, I'm rock climbing!" Martin teased, "Hell, I can't even scratch decent."
"You want some company?"
"Sure," Martin sighed.
Victor paused in the doorway, seeing the warmth on his son's face. It was the same look he'd had when Jack Malone was with him. In a short span of time, the two men had given his son something he'd failed to in nearly thirty years. Was it too late to get that look? He decided it wasn't and he'd try his best. He waited until the phone was back on the cradle and approached.
"Here," he gave the pills over with a mug of cranberry juice, "My culinary skills not withstanding, I think dinner will be fine."
"Okay," Martin yawned, settled back and felt the blanket pulled up. "Thanks."
"Martin?"
"Yeah?"
"You remember Art Zimmaro?"
"No," he sighed, his heavy eyes drifting.
"He was a neighbor of ours when you were about ten, I guess. His wife and your mother were best friends. They had a big sheepdog..."
"Barney!" he yawned, "Yeah. I think I remember now."
"They live in Newport now, he's retired. I go hunting with him a couple times a year .He has a cabin upstate," he noted of the lodge in the mountains, "I was thinking, the weekend of the fourteenth of December, maybe you and I could meet there. Just to talk, spend some time. It's a beautiful area."
Martin thought for a moment, the cabin, the rural setting and the date spinning in his head.
"Fourteenth?" he yawned, "London."
"I'll fly back, I have a break between the ninth and seventeenth," he noted of the international meeting.
"Okay," he nodded, sleep taking him.
Martin was already sleeping when the sigh came. He didn't feel his father's light touch on his cheek or see the relief in the blue eyes. He didn't feel the hair brushed from his forehead or see the eyes go skyward.
"Thank you," Victor said, for the answer that had come to his prayer.
