EPILOGUE
"I need you to sign right here."
"Hm." Steve glanced down apologetically at his hands. "Um - does it have to be legible?"
The delivery man followed his gaze and shrugged. "Guess you could just do the best you can."
Steve took the pen tentatively, holding it awkwardly. Jesse had reduced the bandages just a few days ago, freeing his fingers from the tips to the first set of knuckles and, more importantly, his thumbs. He was almost ludicrously pleased to have his thumbs back, folding them toward his palm and pulling them away again over and over, just to show he could. It stung, and mobility was still limited, but it made a huge difference in what he was able to do. He grasped the pen between his fingertips and his thumb and scrawled something that he hoped resembled his signature.
The delivery man didn't seem to care one way or another. He took back his tablet, bobbed his thanks, and handed Steve a square, surprisingly heavy, package with a couple of flowers sticking out of the top. Steve studied it curiously, wincing a little at the pull hefting it put on his ribs, then he eased his way back inside the door and limped down the stairs to his own apartment, using the wall for a little support. He had abandoned his crutch a few days ago, too - all right, technically he still had it in case he needed it, but he was determined to get along without it whenever he could.
He entered his living room. Returning to his own unit was new, too - only taking place yesterday, when he had proved himself fairly adept at managing stairs. He was relishing being back in his own space with his own things around him - another few days in the upstairs guest room and he knew he would be begging his father to at least allow him to make it a little less - well - pink.
He started to carefully lower his package onto the coffee table in front of the fireplace, using his forearms in place of his hands, trying to find adequate space among the proliferation of cards and get well tokens displayed there. After a second he abandoned the idea and placed it on the sofa instead, sinking slowly down next to it and lifting his right heel onto the table. That leg still felt a little better elevated. He poked through the styrofoam peanuts that filled the open top of the box to get a better look, lifted his brows at the sight of six neat bottle tops. Curious now, he pulled one out and gave a low whistle. Imported beer. Nice brand, too. Expensive. He fished through the packing material for a card.
There was a pre-typed label with his name and address. Underneath it said, 'Best wishes for a speedy recovery. Candy.'
Huh.
He leaned back, studying the bottle, then the typed message. Funny, but today was the first day his medication level and head injury allowed him to drink alcohol again. She couldn't possibly know that, could she? On the other hand, those forensic guys were awfully good at research. Bemused, he ran a fingertip over the roses sticking their heads out of the top of the box. I wonder…his eyes drifted to his father's laptop, set up nearby. Mark had seemed determined that, if Steve was going to move back downstairs, he should have every possible sort of entertainment at his disposal. Probably trying to forestall any potential temptation to take on more questionable pursuits, though Steve couldn't imagine what he thought he was going to try - surfing? His stitches didn't come out until tomorrow, and even he knew you didn't surf with stitches - even if he had had two good legs to balance on. He glanced at the view through the French doors wistfully. Not that he wouldn't really love…he pulled his eyes away determinedly and back to the roses. White and some kind of pink this time. Hm…
After a second, he limped over to the laptop and hit the "on" button, letting it boot up. All right, forensic scientists were good researchers, but police detectives were no slouches in that venue either - let's see if she was trying to send him a message. When the screen displayed, he two-finger typed "language of roses" into the search engine and waited. A surprising number of categories downloaded. He selected the top one and watched a list fill the screen. He frowned at it for a minute. It was a lucky thing, he decided, that they provided pictures along with descriptions, because there was no way he would have been able to identify some of those colors without them. After some exasperated consideration, he decided that his flowers were not exactly pink and not exactly orange, but that "coral" was a pretty good way to describe them from the tiny images pictured alongside the words. At least, he reflected ruefully, he was pretty positive that the others were white.
He read over the message for "coral and white" and felt a flush rise to the roots of his hair. Oh. Well, if she was trying to get his attention then she certainly had it. All right, well, two could play at this game…he scrolled down the list of messages, reading carefully, then signed off. It took him four florists to find one who could supply roses that would be described as "brown" - God knew he couldn't ever remember seeing any - but the third florist he tried referred him to a specialty florist who he swore would have just what he wanted. His mind drifted a little as the florist waxed eloquent about his choice and launched into some lengthy discourse about the roses' origin, but eventually he was able to give his credit card number and the return address from the label into the telephone and hung up, feeling satisfied. Let's see how Miss Candy liked being played in her own game. It had cost quite a bit, of course, but he didn't really mind - Candy certainly hadn't spared any expense on him.
He limped back to his box and pulled the roses out to put them in a glass of water, taking one beer along to stow in the fridge to chill, then returned to the coffee table and placed the label among the other well wishes, wondering idly if that was really wise. His father would be on it like a bloodhound, but he would see the flowers anyway and he had every intention of offering him some of the beer, so it was only a matter of time one way or the other. He glanced at the other cards and smiled.
There was a new one CJ had made after a visit that sported an illustration of him with huge, oversized, bandaged hands - like Mickey Mouse. It was a pretty accurate depiction of what his hands felt like, actually. Dion's contribution had a picture of him surfing instead - a nice, optimistic view that everything would soon be back to normal. Steve had thought it unusually sensitive of him. He was a nice kid - they both were. He'd have to think of something he could do with them as soon as he was a little more mobile.
Next to Dion's card was a more sober, regulation greeting from Captain Newman. It was on official department stock and said simply, 'Nice work. Jim'. Steve had been surprised and touched, but that had changed to wry amusement when he had opened the folded sheet inside to find a photocopy of the department regulations for medical leave, with a few passages carefully highlighted. 'Might want to review this', was scrawled in the margin. He had shaken his head and set it aside.
Next to that was a whole series of cards from Cheryl, one almost every day. Each one had a comic message and a quick hand written note filled with precinct gossip or her dry observations on the rest of the station personnel. Steve knew she was trying to make sure he didn't feel too separated from station doings while he recovered, and he appreciated it more than he could say. He was eager to return to work but knew he wasn't in any way fit for duty, and Cheryl's efforts to keep him in touch with things made it easier to bide his time with some semblance of patience.
Just beyond Cheryl's set of cards was one with pink bunnies on the front from Nurse Tupper. It had contained a folded sheet of paper as well, which he had quickly secreted, and a sweet message with her well wishes. It had also provoked a conversation with his father, whose eyebrows had jumped almost to his hairline at the sight of it.
"Son - " he had begun hesitantly.
Oh, great, Steve had thought. 'Son', not 'Steve'. Never a good sign.
"Son," Mark had continued after much throat clearing, "You know I try never to involve myself in your personal life - " He was interrupted by a snort of laughter from Steve and smiled. "I said 'try'," he repeated mildly. "I didn't say I always succeed. I just wonder if - you've thought about the fact that - well, Kayley is a very nice girl, but don't you think she's a little young to…?"
Steve had stared at him. "A little young to…what?" he had demanded incredulously.
"To…well…" Mark had trailed off, red with embarrassment.
Steve had stared harder. "You've got to be kidding," he said indignantly. "You think I would even consider…? Dad, she's practically a baby!"
"No, no - of course I didn't think…" but Mark had looked ridiculously relieved. "It's just that Jesse has this idea in his head that you're plotting with her to play a joke on him, and then the card, and I just thought - well…" Mark had shrugged and smiled.
Steve had grinned at that. "Jesse still thinks I'm plotting something with Kayley Tupper?"
"Yes. And frankly, he's driving both Amanda and me a little crazy about it, so I would appreciate it if you would do me a favor and tell him otherwise."
Steve's grin had broadened. "I have told him otherwise. About a hundred times. I don't know why he doesn't believe me."
"Hm." Mark had looked suspicious this time. "Well, did you tell him sincerely, or did you tell him in an 'I've got a secret' tone, guaranteed to make him think that you were just trying to lull him into a false sense of security?"
Steve had thrown up his hands. "How should I know? I just told him. I can't be responsible for whether he believes me or not."
"I suppose." Mark had looked pensive. "But if you gave him that sort of angelic twinkle thing you do when you said it then he's never going to believe you, because that's a sure sign that you're not telling everything."
Steve had frowned at that. "If I - what?" He'd sighed deeply. "You know, Dad, it's not that I've ever kidded myself that I'm a man of mystery or anything, but I didn't quite think I was a human telegraph either. What do I do?"
Mark had laughed self-consciously and patted Steve's knee reassuringly. "Oh, nothing, nothing - I'm just glad to hear that you're not - not that I ever thought that you were, mind you! I just hope that Jesse lets go of this idea. Really, it's making him impossible to work with. He's driving himself crazy."
Steve had chuckled at that. "Yeah, I know. And without me even trying."
There was another envelope lying still unopened on the corner of the table and he hesitated over it, as he always did, studying the left handed backslant to the writing, wondering what it could contain. His father had offered to open it for him, clearly torn between reading it first or spiriting it away to the trash, just in case. He had done neither, of course - Steve was comfortable that he would never trespass on his privacy that way, even if he thought it was for his own good. But he was obviously eager to have it opened and exposed and behind them, for better or for worse. Steve was less eager - not really ready, in fact. He couldn't imagine what she might have to say to him but, good or bad, he needed a little more time. She had been absent from his dreams for a while now and he had no desire for a return visit. He looked at the envelope a little longer, then put it aside again. Some other time. Not today.
His favorite gift so far was on the end of the table, and he picked it up to look at it again.
Last night had been his first back in his own bed and he had slept like the proverbial dead. This morning when he had finally awoken, he had found breakfast prepared and set up on a small tray table at his bedside with a flat package half under the plate. It hadn't escaped his notice that the breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and toast was all carefully chosen so that it could be handled without needing a knife. There had been a note under the glass of orange juice too, that read, Call if you need anything. The nurse will stop by twice today.
He grimaced. The nurse had been a real bone of contention between them, but Mark had flatly refused to return to work and leave Steve alone with limited use of his hands and leg unless there was someone available to look in on him or help if he fell. Steve was insistent that it was completely unnecessary, but he knew that his father had been out of work long enough on his account and had finally reluctantly agreed to a series of part time visiting home nurses. He had figured that he could always convince the nurse that he was fine anyway, and that she could find other things to do with her time - erroneously, as it turned out. He should have realized that working for Dr. Mark Sloan was something of a big deal in the local medical community and could make or break a nurse's reputation. Consequently, he had found himself overwhelmed with attention - no, Lt. Sloan did NOT need a back rub thank you, no, the lieutenant was sure his temperature was just fine, no, Lt. Sloan probably didn't need another sponge bath (his name was Steve - couldn't they please call him Steve…?) the last nurse had given him one and God, didn't he long for the day when he could enjoy a shower again, no, really, he wasn't hungry - it wasn't as if he was active or anything and besides, there was plenty of food that he could manage for himself…each nurse in turn was so attentive and smothering that he almost longed to return to the hospital where he could enjoy some comparative peace and privacy. He glanced at the clock. He had almost two hours before the next one showed up, anyway.
His eyes automatically returned to the contents of the package, and he smiled. It had only been wrapped loosely in tissue paper in deference to his hands. He had pulled the paper away to reveal a brushed nickel frame containing two photographs: the top one a copy of the photo of his grandfather's Academy graduating class, the bottom one a picture of his own. On the back of the frame he found a message scrawled in his father's distinctive doctor's handwriting:
Congratulations on your case. I guess sometimes there's just no substitute for a little routine police work. Your grandfather would have been very proud. Love, Dad. P.S. So am I.
He studied the pictures again. They looked good together, he decided, not for the first time. He'd have to find a good place to hang it - maybe over his desk.
Still smiling, he limped to the refrigerator to retrieve his beer. It wouldn't be truly cold, but he wanted to enjoy one while he watched, and it was almost time. Opening the bottle confounded him for a minute, but he had a bottle opener permanently attached under the counter that he could manage pretty well if he held onto the bottle with both hands. He brought the beer and the water glass with Candy's flowers back to the living room with him and set the flowers on the coffee table, making himself comfortable on the couch. He pulled the insert from Kayley's card out of the book he had stowed it in and double-checked. Yup. He should have time before the next nurse arrived. He reached for the universal remote his father had purchased for him when he came home from the hospital - one with extra large buttons, designed for the seeing impaired. It had made him feel silly at first, but it sure was easier to navigate with his limited fingers - and he turned on the television and found the right channel, listening for the show's opening music.
He had developed an odd, proprietary feeling toward Miranda and their shared memory loss and now that he had his own back, he sort of felt a vested interest in seeing her regain hers, too. Probably hers would be much more dramatic and television worthy than his had been…he frowned suddenly at the memory. Then again, maybe not. It was kind of hard for even a soap opera to compete with that car chase through a parking lot. Still, it would be nice to see Eric and Miranda happily settled, no matter how that happened. Kind of close this little chapter for him.
Of course, he would rather open a vein than let anyone know what he was doing…it was good to know that Kayley could keep a secret. He took a swallow of his beer and closed his eyes for a second to savor it - ambrosial - as the first scene opened, smiling to himself as he pictured what his friends and father would have to say if they knew what he was up to.
"Guess you don't know everything about me after all," he murmured smugly, then took another pull on his beer and settled back to watch.
THE END
For those of you who hate to look up such things yourself: coral and white roses together mean, "You're heavenly and I desire you". Brown roses mean, "Fascination and anticipation."A/N: Thank you so much for reading along. I am truly overwhelmed by your kindness you have made posting here a wonderful experience for me.