A/N: Should have mentioned that the last chapter held references to Murder Blues, Wrong Number, and Murder on the Run. This one has a passing reference to Retribution.

Chapter 21

Steve balanced carefully on his crutch and reached with his other hand. The object he wanted shifted around on the shelf, but didn't actually fall, and he studied it in mounting exasperation. He had been home for almost three days now and, if the truth be told, this was the first day he hadn't felt like some version of hell. He had been puzzled and a little troubled at how lethargic he was, physically and mentally. His body seemed strangely disinclined to do anything but lounge around and work out a careful pattern of breathing and his mind kept circling around inside him, curiously unsorted and unresolved. He had always taken his resiliency somewhat for granted, so he had finally broken down and asked his father what on earth was wrong with him.

Mark had smiled with amused tolerance. "That low-grade fever really takes the edge off, doesn't it? And I think maybe you pushed your reserves just a little too far this time. Give them a chance to regroup."

"It's been a week," Steve pointed out, frustrated.

Mark had laughed comfortably. "A whole week, hm? Sorry, son, but I told you - the body will have its revenge. Sounds like yours is demanding some downtime." Then he had looked suspiciously like he was thinking about taking Steve's temperature again, so Steve had hastily changed the subject.

He sighed at the memory and stared back at the shelf. Normally that would have been an easy reach for him, but though his ribs were doing much better, stretching brought an immediate and loud reminder that they were not yet actually healed. He eyed his crutch thoughtfully. Hm…

The crutch was the kind that encircled his wrist rather than relying on his hand to curl around it, since his hands still weren't doing much in the way of curling. Jesse had assured him that, now that the infection was calming down, the hands would begin the process of replacing the missing layers of skin and start to heal, but that it would take a little time. Steve had studied them, trying to flex them.

"How much time?" he had asked at last.

Jesse had shrugged. "Hard to say, exactly. You've seen them - they look like hamburger. Now that they've started to clear up and dry and scab over, though, you should be able to use them a little more pretty soon."

Steve had tried again to get them to bend. "Could you at least ease up a little on the bandages?"

Jesse hadn't looked at him. "No, no - need to keep them nice and clean. And that cushioning won't hurt things either."

"Jess, I can't do anything with my hands like this!"

This time Jesse had looked at him, wearing that innocent expression that somehow managed to be anything but innocent. "No? Hm. Tough break. Guess you'll just have to take it easy for a little while."

Steve had narrowed his eyes suspiciously at that. "Jesse - are all these bandages really necessary? I'm asking you seriously, now - absolutely medically necessary."

"Absolutely medically necessary," Jesse had responded promptly with a brilliant smile that did nothing to allay Steve's suspicions. "Want a second opinion? Mark's right down the hall."

"Oh, perfect." Steve watched him carefully. "Why do I get the feeling that you're ganging up on me?"

Jesse had sighed mournfully. "Because you have a suspicious mind, my friend. Comes from spending too much time with the criminal element."

"Comes from spending too much time with somebody, no doubt." He had eased himself off the examining table. "I can't even get around. I could work around my leg if I could just have a little more use of my hands."

"Yeah, that's terrible." Jesse had shaken his head sorrowfully. "Looks like you're stuck on the couch, pal, except for - oh, that reminds me - " he'd reached in his medical coat pocket and whipped out several sheets of closely written paper.

Steve had blinked. "What's that?"

"The new, improved, recently revised, 'what to do and not do in convalescence' list. Study it carefully. There will be a quiz."

Since Jesse wasn't there to see, Steve smiled to himself at the memory. He leaned his shoulder into the wall, balancing on his good leg and studying the shelf above him. Holding onto anything required two hands, like a kid in thumbless mittens, but he might be able to manage, if he took it nice and slow. He tried gripping the crutch experimentally between his gauzy palms and raised it carefully.

The leg had been problematic mostly because of the hands - one or the other would have been fairly manageable, but the combination all but stopped him cold. He had started physical therapy on his leg almost immediately despite the infection so that the knee wouldn't stiffen up, and though the last thing in the world he secretly wanted was to try bending it, he had stuck with it doggedly, feeling that this was at least something he could do to set himself on some sort of road to normalcy. Jesse had warned him again about overdoing and had threatened to repeat the "over exertion" speech, so this time he had made up his mind to listen. Not that he hadn't listened before, but…well, doctors fussed and warned about so many things, so much of the time - it was hard to know what to take seriously. He remembered ruefully the dreary days of his hospitalization, alternating between sudden bursts of energy and foggy, weary sluggishness, and privately resolved that maybe that was one rule he'd pay a little more attention to going forward.

He got the crutch positioned under the objects on the wire shelves and poked it through. The objects bobbled around, but didn't actually fall. He frowned at them in disgust. Maybe if he could jiggle the shelf instead they would actually come down. Making sure he was well clear of any potential falling debris, he braced the crutch inside one of the wire holes and pushed. That was more effective - a little too effective, actually - the crutch hooked in the wire and the shelf slid from its brace, sending the objects he wanted - and everything else, including the shelf - showering to the floor with a noise like a percussion section just warming up. Instinctively, he let go of the crutch and covered his head. When his mini avalanche had stopped, he dropped his arms.

Well, not exactly what he had had in mind. And now in order to retrieve what he wanted he would either have to get down on the floor or see if he couldn't scoop it up with his crutch and his pathetic excuses for hands. Except that his crutch was now part of the fallout…

Cursing his clumsiness, he turned so that his back was braced against the wall and started to lower himself cautiously to the floor.

"Something I can help you with?"

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere and he jumped, losing his balance and sliding abruptly the rest of the way, landing on the concrete with an unceremonious thump that drilled a dart of anguish through his back. He closed his eyes tight and decided irritably that he was going to BUY his father noisier shoes.

He heard Mark hastily close the distance between them. "Are you all right? Did you hurt anything?" Since he didn't trust himself to speak right away, he held up a hand to indicate that he was fine. He squeezed his eyes open to his father's concerned and not-very-pleased face. "You certainly chose an odd moment to clean out the garage." The voice was dangerously even.

Steve attempted something resembling a smile. "I was just - going through a few things."

"Mm hm."

He wondered if there was another man alive who could use that genial tone to say so many different things - from genuine affability to doubt to downright displeasure. This time it was definitely reading displeasure. He felt an arm around his upper back, deftly avoiding the jostled ribs.

"Come on - let's get you back inside - "

"Wait - just let me get - " He opened his eyes all the way to try and track down the objects of his desire, meekly accepting the crutch Mark handed him.

The arm around his back loosened. "What?"

He pointed with his crutch and Mark gave him an intent look before scooping the items up with one hand and hefting him carefully to his feet with the other.

"You don't have to make it look so easy, " Steve complained, a little breathlessly.

"Just let me get you settled again and then you can tell me what's so important about this old catcher's mitt - especially since I don't think it would fit you any more, even if you had any hands to use it with."

"I know - " Steve let himself be steered back inside and lowered onto the couch, grateful for the help. Sitting was still one of the tricky things - he had yet to find a way to manage it without hurting something. He accepted the mitt from Mark and winced a little at the sight of his accompanying cordial smile. That smile definitely boded a lecture. "I just figured maybe it was time to get rid of a few things."

Mark sat down on the sofa next to him. "And you thought that now would be a good time to work on that."

Steve avoided his eyes. "As good a time as any. They're just taking up space here - thought maybe somebody else could put them to good use."

Mark brushed dust from the batter's helmet. "Somebody like - maybe - Cliffside?"

Steve leaned back carefully, stretching out his right leg, smiling the slightest bit in spite of himself. "You know, it would be polite if every once in a while you would just humor me and pretend that you can't read my mind."

Mark was silent for a long moment. "I can't always, you know," he ventured quietly at last. He looked up from the helmet and held Steve's gaze. "Sometimes you have to tell me."

Steve lost his smile and looked away. Ouch. Okay, no more stalling - here we go. He poked pointlessly at the worn well in the center of the glove. Could use a little oiling, if anybody else was going to use it... "Sometimes there's nothing to tell."

"No?" Mark prodded.

Steve turned the glove over and ran his bandaged fingers over the stitching, then the webbing. Had a lot of good times with this glove…"No," he repeated with more conviction. He met his father's eyes directly this time. "No."

Mark hesitated. "Steve - "

"Dad - " Steve managed to put the glove aside and shuffled his hands aimlessly against each other. He missed being able to clasp them - about all he could do with them now was play patty cake. "It's fine. Really."

Mark sat back and studied him so intently that Steve felt the color rise in his cheeks, but he resisted the urge to turn away. Finally, Mark shook his head. "So you really don't mind? It never bothers you?"

Steve smiled slightly. "Never is a big word, Dad."

Mark smiled a little in return, then sighed. "Maybe I should just - "

It was Steve's turn to sigh. "Look, do whatever you want - it's really up to you - but don't do it because of me. I'm not asking you to."

"I just want to be sure you've thought this through."

Steve's smile listed to one side. "It's pretty much all I've been doing. Sure have had the time."

Mark continued to study him, clearly unconvinced, and Steve returned his eyes to his useless hands. Damn, he was no good at this. Why did people always want to talk about these things? Why couldn't anybody just take his word for it? He had no idea how to explain his feelings, so finally he burst out, "Do you remember when I was in 'Nam?"

Mark looked startled, but he answered, a little reproachfully, "Of course I do."

Steve nodded, watching his hands dangle loosely between his knees. "One of the things I remember best is how mad it made me. Not the political thing - at least, not so much - I don't think I understood that, really, at the time - what made me mad was that everywhere I looked, there was some big guy beating up on a littler guy who couldn't defend himself. Taking advantage. Heck, sometimes it was even one of us, and we were supposed to be the good guys. Just - made me mad. I couldn't wait to get back home where I wouldn't have to look at that every day." He eased forward and ran a hand over the scrapbook lying open on the coffee table in front of him. Mark didn't comment, so he continued, "Problem is, when I got home, I noticed it wasn't all that different here. Subtler, maybe, but - not really. Everywhere I went, it seemed. I got really - tired of it. Felt like I'd maybe like to do something about it." Mark remained silent, so after a pause, he flipped the scrapbook closed and ran his hand down the cover this time. "Remember this?"

Mark nodded. "I don't think I ever poured over it quite the way you did, but, yes - my father's scrapbook. I've been through it a few times."

"Yeah." Steve ran his hand over it again, flipped back to the first page. "One day, after I got back, when I was thinking about all this and wondering what I was going to do with myself now, I passed a cop car parked along the side of the road. On the side it said, 'to protect and serve'." He fell silent, his eyes intent on the book under his hand. He dropped his voice and shrugged self-consciously. "I don't know. I know it sounds - well - corny - but I liked the sound of that. It got me thinking. I came home and pulled out Grandad's scrapbook and looked at it for a couple of hours." He rested his elbows on his knees. "Did you ever notice that he has the Law Enforcement Oath of Honor and Code of Ethics pasted right in the front?"

Mark gave a surprised laugh. "Does he? I suppose I saw it before, but I don't think it really made an impression on me."

Steve nodded. "It did on me." His gaze skimmed the open pages. "By the time I'd read it over a couple of times and thought some more, I'd decided to enroll in the Police Academy."

Mark's smile grew a little sad. "And don your Superman suit."

Steve gave him a wry grin. "Dad, I was six, okay? I have figured out that I'm not Superman and that I can't actually fly."

"Really." Mark sounded politely skeptical.

Steve gave him a speaking look. He felt as though he'd said much more than he wanted to already, but wasn't sure he'd really made himself clear. He looked back at the scrapbook again. "As a Law Enforcement Officer, my fundamental duty is to serve the community; to safeguard lives and property; to protect the innocent against deception, the weak against oppression or intimidation, and the peaceful against violence or disorder and to respect the Constitutional rights of all to liberty, equality and justice…" He trailed off, then swung the cover gently closed and sat back. "There's more."

Mark was watching him carefully. "You know that by heart!" he observed.

Steve shrugged. "It's a good thing to keep in your head. Remind you of what you're trying to do and why. Something Cheryl said made me think that maybe it was time to sit down with it again, word for word." He saw Mark looking at him and held up his hands. "Hey, don't laugh. I still know all the words to the Boy Scout Pledge, too."

Mark's chuckled. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Steve gave him a tiny smile, his eyes wandering back to the scrapbook, but reciting from memory. "…I will never act officiously or permit personal feelings, prejudices, political beliefs, aspirations, animosities or friendships to influence my decisions. With no compromise for crime and with relentless prosecution of criminals, I will enforce the law courteously and appropriately without fear or favor…" he broke off and cleared his throat. "What I guess I'm trying to say, Dad, is that - I didn't get into this kind of work with some idea of being a star or a hero. Whatever personal feelings or aspirations I might have - well - they have to be beside the point when it comes to the job. I don't know about Grandad's day, but these days, nobody does this kind of work alone. We've got forensic odontologists, forensic sculptors, even forensic meteorologists. We can solve more crimes now, more accurately, then we could fifteen, ten, even five years ago. If we're careful about preserving evidence, then the possibilities are limitless - we just need to wait for technology to catch up. Do you know that we recently solved a twenty year old murder using new techniques on old forensic evidence? Some kid who lost his mother when he was just a baby is now graduating from college, finally knowing what happened to her - " He broke off as he caught sight of the warm light in his father's eyes, suddenly embarrassed. He ducked his head and dropped his eyes. "Okay, I'm babbling. But it takes as many people - as much expertise - as we can get - to solve as many crimes as we can as quickly as we can - and that's the whole point, really, of what we do. Protect and serve. What finally cracks a case may turn on me or Cheryl or someone like Candy - or even someone like you. That's really not the point. The point is that we use whatever we have at hand, whatever it takes, to do it." He faced Mark squarely. "You have a way of looking at things that's - well - unique. It helps a lot." He offered a glimmer of a smile. "You're my secret weapon. I know I don't do what you do. I'm good at the other stuff - collecting all the pieces, filling in the blanks, creating the scenario, building a case for the prosecution…" he shrugged. "A little routine police work. That's what I'm good at. That's what I do. Whatever it takes to get that done," he shrugged again. "I can live with."

Mark eyed him keenly. "I think what you do is a little bit more than that."

Steve held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong - I'm not apologizing for it. I happen to love what I do and I think I'm darned good at it. And I have every intention of making captain some day."

Mark watched him for a moment, then he shifted his gaze to the batter's helmet, turning it slowly in his hands. "So you'd like to bring these to Brian Fuller?"

Steve blew out his breath, grateful for the respite in subject, though he strongly suspected that this conversation was not over. "Well, I know nobody is gonna let him near another baseball bat for a while - " The look Mark shot him told him that his dark humor was not appreciated, and he twinkled back apologetically. "But - he liked fielding. I thought it might make things a little bit more normal for him, and all his own stuff is still impounded as evidence. And you know how it is - if you play left-handed, it's always a good idea to bring your own equipment."

Mark nodded. "I could drive you up there sometime next week, if you wanted to do it in person."

"I don't know. I wouldn't mind seeing the place. What if I'm back to work next week?"

"You won't be."

"I meant just desk - "

"Steve."

"All right, all right…" Steve slumped in surrender. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

Mark reached over and picked up the scrapbook, flipping thoughtfully through the first few pages. He paused on a photograph of his father's graduating academy class and smiled to himself. "Do you know, you're the only person who even questioned my theory?"

Steve closed his eyes and swallowed. "Dad - "

Mark raised his brows mildly. "That wasn't a criticism, Steve." His impish smile plucked at the corners of his mouth. "I think I was bragging." Steve gave him a puzzled frown. "Everybody else was just - willing to take my word for it. I suppose I've been right enough times that it seemed natural that I must be right again."

"Well, you did have a signed confession," Steve pointed out. "And I had insider information - even if I couldn't remember what it was."

Mark shook his head. "No. That's not it. Or, not all of it anyway. You never just take my word for it. You always question me. Is this theory or is there real evidence? Is it evidence that will hold up in court? Can the evidence be presented, or has it been obtained by illegal means so that we have to get there some other way? Do I have anything solid, or am I just listening to my feelings? Intellectualizing? You're a regular bulldog about it, come to think of it."

Steve eyed him warily, trying to decide where this was going.

Mark turned a page in the scrapbook, admiring another picture flanked by a yellowing newspaper clipping. "I guess I never really noticed how much I - counted on that - until what Jesse told me made me think that this time you weren't. Made me feel pretty insecure, let me tell you." Steve watched his face, but didn't interject. Mark tilted his head to study another picture, then smiled up at him. "I thought about it and I realized that one of the things that makes it easier for me to let loose and theorize - to really let my mind wander free - is that I don't have to worry about any of that. All those details about what's procedure and what's admissible and what makes a court case and what doesn't - when you're trying to see the big picture, they can really weigh you down."

Steve's brows rumpled. "There's no point to solving a case if you can't prosecute…"

"I know that." Mark closed the book and rested it in his lap. "What I'm saying is that I never have to worry about that part, because you do. I know you won't let me wander too far off the track - you'll always pull me back and make sure that everything is solid. So I can theorize to my heart's content - work it as an intellectual puzzle - and everything will still be all right. We'll have what we need to go to court. I guess what I'm saying, Steve, is that you're my secret weapon, too." Their eyes met for a long moment, then Mark smiled tentatively. "We make a good team," he suggested.

Steve's eyes crinkled at the corners, and he sank back comfortably into the depths of the couch. He nodded with satisfaction. "That's what I think, too."

All done except a short epilogue. Thanks for hanging in there with me.