A/N: Finita la commedia. We just wanted to thank you guys - you've been awesome. Your witty remarks and clever feedback were often vastly more entertaining than the story itself. You made posting this so much fun for us - we'll really miss it. And, by the way, Lisa66, we do agree - Steve and Bambi Sue definitely have unfinished business. She will ride again.

Thanks again to all of you.

Chapter Twenty One

"Surprise!"

Steve looked up, his eyebrows lifting. "Balloons," he observed slowly. "You aren't going to pull a coin out of my ear now, are you? Or are you headed to pediatrics?"

"No, they're for you. I thought they looked cheerful. But you'll probably like these better." Mark fanned a stack of magazines out across the tray table.

Steve picked up the motorcycle magazine on top and whistled. "Nice. Did you leave anything in the gift shop?"

"A few things. I didn't think you'd want to be seen with any of the teddy bears, for example."

"Good guess." Steve tried a copy of Sport's Illustrated next and nodded appreciatively. "Swimsuit issue. Very thoughtful. Any special reason you're feeling indulgent? I haven't had a take like this since I had my tonsils out. In fact - " He looked from the balloons to the magazines, realization peeping through. "Barring the ice cream, I think you gave me the exact same thing when I had my tonsils out."

"Oh, I'm sure the magazines were different."

"Mm. Probably."

"But you needed cheering up then. You were so sick… you'd had a reaction to your medication… and then you had to miss that big game - do you remember? I felt just terrible for you."

Steve shrugged. "Kind of, I guess…oh." He eyed his father shrewdly. "So you're feeling terrible for me now?"

"Um…" Mark colored.

Steve tried to get a better look at his face. "Something I should know about?"

"Oh!" Mark chuckled uncomfortably. "Oh, no. You have no signs of secondary drowning, the hypothermia is in check…you're going to be our guest for a few days, need a little physical therapy, but there's no reason to think you won't make a full recovery."

"Good. So…?"

Mark shoved his hands in his lab coat pockets and perched on the arm of a chair. "I - uh - saw Tom Peterson."

Steve grunted non-committaly.

"I know he stopped by to see you. You two have a nice talk?"

"He's one piece of work."

"Well, he's a nice enough fellow," Mark smiled, remembering how many times he had tried to explain - to apologize. Peterson had just laughed and winked at him, as if to indicate that they shared a secret. "…in his own odd way."

"He brought me this." Steve jerked his good thumb at the newspaper photo on the nightstand. "Can you believe that made the paper?"

Mark leaned in to study at the photo more closely. "Personally, I like the one on the front page of The Observer better."

"The Observer," Steve's brow creased. "It's in The Observer, too? Wait a minute, you knew about this?"

Mark wanted to kick himself. "Well, I - couldn't help but see it. I - do get the paper…"

Steve stared at him. "Were you gonna tell me?"

"Of course I was!"

"When?"

Mark dropped his voice. "Once - you'd - " he cleared his throat behind his hand. "healed…"

Steve opened his mouth to reply, stopped suddenly, remembering. "Oh. Oh - " he groaned and closed his eyes. "Tell me that me slugging Peterson didn't make the front page."

"You slugging Peterson didn't make the front page."

Steve stopped massaging his eyelids with his fingertips and lifted his hand to peek hopefully at him. "Really?"

"Really."

Steve eyed him suspiciously. "You wouldn't just say that to - "

Mark shook his head with conviction. "It's the absolute truth, Steve. None of those pictures appeared in print."

Steve released his breath in a rush and relaxed back into the pillows. "Wow. How'd I get away with that?"

"Some fancy explaining, as I understand it, from Captain McKarren and, believe it or not, Peterson himself. I think they felt they owed you. Myself, I'd say it's the least they owed you. Not that anyone asked me."

Steve smiled half a smile. "Boy, I'd sure love to hear that explanation."

Mark managed a smile in return.

Steve shifted his eyes to the photo again and abruptly lost his smile, winced. "Couldn't you at least have made sure that I had some clothes on?" he complained.

A chuckle escaped Mark. "If you remember, I was just as surprised by the whole thing as you were! Besides, you were wearing your jeans - it's just hard to tell because we had to cut one leg out to make room for your injured knee."

"Great." Steve scrubbed a hand over his face. "Two papers. I guess it could be worse."

Mark cleared his throat. "There - might have been one or two more."

Steve eyed him apprehensively. "How many?"

Mark coughed something into his fist.

Steve started to lean forward, trying to hear; hastily decided that was a bad idea and sank back again. "How many?"

Mark smiled awkwardly. "All of them," he repeated more distinctly. "Nurse Sookie even brought me a clipping from the Pasadena Chronicle." He chuckled involuntarily at Steve's stricken expression. "Well, you said yourself that it's a big story! And you and Lt. Peterson are very photogenic, don't you think?"

Steve glared at the photo. "I should have split his other lip while I was at it. Do you have any idea what kind of ribbing I'm going to take down at the station…?"

"Now, I'd think they'd be impressed! After all, you took down Guy Trevalia!"

"Peterson took down Guy Trevalia! My contribution consisted of acting as a distraction by getting the snot kicked out of me! By a GIRL! Oh, brother, no wonder you feel terrible for me - all of a sudden I feel terrible for me!"

Mark made himself busy fastening the balloons to the bed rail. "That's not exactly what I was thinking about, but…they, uh - can be pretty rough at the station house, huh?" Steve winced and shrugged. "Of course, a hospital is the same way, to an extent - like a small, gossipy village - but I don't think there's quite so much - machismo at stake."

Steve sighed. "If that's what you want to call it."

"Of course…" Mark arranged the balloons to his liking, then retreated to the arm of his chair again. "There's usually a grain of truth in gossip."

Steve glanced at him. "Now you sound like Peterson."

"Well, he isn't always wrong, you know." Mark hesitated, then, "Steve. I heard what he said to you."

"Which was that? He said a lot of things. Sure loves the sound of his own voice."

Mark watched his face carefully. "I heard what he said about me."

Steve frowned, perplexed.

"Just before you fattened his lip…?"

"Oh." For a minute Steve looked angry all over again, then he shrugged. "Well, don't worry about it, Dad. I'm well past the age of caring what the other kids think of my dad."

Mark smiled slightly. "I'm not sure I am. Or, I care quite a bit about what one kid thinks, anyway. He's right, isn't he? I do it a lot."

Steve looked uncomfortable for a minute, then dropped his eyes to the hospital blanket. "Not - Dad, you're a doctor. Things come up. There's not much you can do about that."

"Oh, I think there may be a few things I can do. Sometimes, anyway. My job doesn't have to ruin every vacation."

A corner of Steve's mouth quirked up. "Oh, I think it was my job that ruined this one."

"But I should have been there. I'm sorry, son."

Steve choked. "You have no idea how grateful I am that you weren't!"

"It might have been different if I had been."

"Yeah - you'd be dead! The thought of you stumbling into that was almost all that kept me going! Just thinking about it gives me nightmares!"

Mark gave him a tight smile. "The fact remains that the main reason you were elected for the job was that Peterson was so sure that I wouldn't go with you. And I didn't."

"Well, thank God."

"I had a lot of time to think about it." Mark got up and returned to the balloons, patting one gently. "While they were running tests on you, I tried to think back - to count. It's funny - individually, they never seemed so significant, but when I tried to bring them all to mind…they really add up, don't they? I do it a lot." He tugged on one of the balloon's strings, watched it bounce. "I never mean too. I just - get carried away sometimes."

Steve's forehead creased. "Dad, it's okay."

"No." Mark pushed the balloons aside. They stuttered together and rebounded back. "It's not. You might have died, Steve. And the last thing I would have had to remember about us is that I wasn't there when you needed me most. That I had a chance to spend what were your last minutes with you and I didn't."

"Well, I hope you'd have a little more to remember about us than that!" Steve retorted indignantly. "Dad, you're making way too much out of this! You can't spend every second worrying that it might be my last or your last - you'll drive yourself crazy! Your job messed us up and then my job messed us up more - period."

"I'm going to do better. I promised myself. I want to make as many memories of leaving with you as planned as I have of postponing or delaying or meeting you later or not as all. At least as many."

Steve raised his hands resignedly. "You do what you want. You will anyway."

Mark gave a short laugh of acknowledgment. "So," he said after a minute. "How many?"

Steve smiled at him with a combination of amusement and bemusement. "What?"

"How may times? Have I done it?"

"Have you done what?"

Mark frowned at him over his glasses. "You know what. Stood you up. How many times? I want to know."

Steve looked as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be irritated. "You think I keep a tally someplace?"

"I think it's probably a lot harder for you to forget than it was for me."

"Dad - "

"Steve - " Mark hesitated. "I - just don't want to forget again. I did once before. If I had a number…"

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. What was the question?"

Mark gave him an exasperated smile. "How many times have I not been there when I should have been? How many times have I let you down?"

"Hm." Steve settled back against his pillows, his eyes on some distant point. Mark couldn't help wondering what it was he was seeing there.

Steve was quiet for a long time - so long that Mark was becoming a little nervous - beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all. Had it really been that many? Did he really want to know? Maybe it wasn't too late to renege…

"Steve…"

"Don't rush me."

Mark almost dropped his head into his hands. Oh, dear Lord. Well, all he could do was his best to begin to make amends…

"So, the question is," Mark thought he would scream at Steve's slow, measured tone, "How many times have you not been there when I needed you? Have you let me down?"

Mark winced, but nodded.

Steve nodded back seriously. "Well, looking back and doing some careful counting…I think I can categorically say…" He gave his father an impish smile. "Never." Mark released his breath on an annoyed laugh, then Steve's face grew serious. "Never, Dad," he repeated, with no trace of humor this time. "Not when it counted. None."

Mark examined his face carefully. "You're sure. You're not just saying that?"

Steve's eyes softened. "You know, that may be one of the few things that I really am sure of?"

Mark nodded stiffly, a lump suddenly crowding his throat. He tried to speak around it, swallowed. "I love you, son," he choked at last.

A faint, affectionate smile lit Steve's eyes. "Yeah," he said simply. "That would be the other thing."

THE END