Author's note:- OK no RL excuses for taking a long time on this chapter, it
just took a long time to write, really sweated blood getting this one right
so I hope you like it.
J
Part 15: Helping them back.
Sergeant Thompson knelt by Jesse's head and did a rapid sweep, trying to assess the extent of the doctor's injuries. Now that he was close there was no doubt in his mind that the figure in front of him fitted the description of Dr. Jesse Travis. Slight movement removed the necessity of feeling for a pulse point, at least they had found him alive. He pulled his radio across so that he could call for an ambulance, speaking quickly as he also called off the search. His eyes had reached the wound on Jesse's thigh which was still oozing blood, there was little he could do to stem the flow since he could see the edge of a jagged piece of metal that still sat embedded in the muscle, not knowing how deep the wound was, he knew that the safest course of action was to leave it in situ.
He looked up and was surprised to see the young Doctor's eyes open and staring at him, he was even more startled by the reaction that followed.
Jesse's world consisted of fear and pain, his head was pounding, his leg throbbing in syncopated rhythm, adrenaline coursed through his system heightening his anxiety. Memories of death and danger sparked in flashes of bright colour at the edge of his consciousness, forcing the emotions higher, blocking all rational thought. He opened eyes that refused to focus, and took in the vague form that moved closer to him. Instinct took over as he perceived the unknown form as a danger and he pushed himself up onto shaky arms, scrambling backwards in an effort to escape the stranger, who for the moment, was the sole focus for his fear.
"Hey there, take it easy, it's ok," Nick tried to be reassuring, as he watched the play of emotions cross Jesse's expressive face, but Jesse did not seem to hear him, shifting violently backwards until his back was against the wall, before looking frantically from side to side for some means of escape.
Nathan had been watching and quickened his pace the last few feet to Nick Thompson's side. He touched Nick on the shoulder. "Here let me try, he knows me."
Nick nodded and backed off. "Dr. Travis," Nathan said softly, "Jesse, it's detective Turner."
Jesse turned his attention from the retreating dark form to the person who was saying his name, and tried to process the other words as Nathan's face gradually drifted into focus. With the sharp image came even sharper memories. "No," he said, panic entering his voice. "you're dead," he said, shakily, "I saw. . ." he shook his head as he remembered his last sight of Nathan as the explosion hit. The image triggered more memories. "They. . . they're all dead." His voice faltered as he pulled his legs up, trying to retreat further he scooted a little along the wall, finding a shallow corner as the brickwork jutted out a couple of feet into the alley.
"No," Nathan said, moving forward slowly, taking care to remain unthreatening. "It's going to be all right, I'm not dead, you saved me."
Jesse shook his head, the memories were too powerful. "No.. you . . they. . . they're all dead I saw them." He drew his legs up further wincing as it increased the throbbing pain but still only able to focus on the half remembered images and snatches of emotion.
The remembered responsibility for the deaths of the porter and the nurse mingled with his memories of the explosions, of seeing Mark and Steve fall, seeing Steve in a pool of blood, seeing Amanda gasping for breath, a scarf still tightened around her neck, seeing Nathan fall, and now he knew he had killed them all.
The tears fell as fear was replaced by sorrow and despair. He looked up as Nathan reached his side. "All dead," he said quietly, hugging himself closely. "All dead," he repeated as his mind retreated to somewhere safer.
Nathan looked back to where Nick Thompson stood quietly watching and shared a look of mutual concern, relieved to hear the sirens of the approaching ambulance.
--
Steve looked up at a slight sound and realised that it was just the rattle of a trolley in the hallway, he looked at the clock, Amanda had been gone for around twenty minutes now, he turned to check on his father's increasingly restless form and wished idly that she would come back, his father would need somebody there when he finally surfaced fully to consciousness. He debated pressing the call button to get one of the nurses, but Mark had been drifting in and out for some time now, never fully regaining consciousness, if he called a nurse every time his father stirred then they wouldn't get anything done, to say nothing of him getting his own 'boy who cried wolf' tag which may mean they would not be so quick to respond if he really needed them. He relaxed his thumb from where it hovered as his father settled again. Where was Amanda?
He thought back to her departure from the room, he had been so preoccupied with his own thoughts, that he had barely noticed her get up to answer the page on the room phone at the far side of his bed. When he had finally acknowledged that she was talking into it he had only caught her saying that she would be right down.
"I need to go and check on something," was all she had given him by way of explanation before she had taken her leave, promising to be back as soon as she could, and he hadn't really thought to question her on what that 'something' might be , so he had merely nodded and turned his attention back to his father's sleeping form. Now he wished he had found out more. Considering the situation, he couldn't see that she would have left unless something else had happened and, since only bad things seemed to be happening at the moment, that didn't bode well. He tried to remember her expression as she had talked on the phone, but realised that he hadn't been paying her enough attention to take that detail in.
The cry from the bed next to him startled him back from his musings and, before he even realised what he was doing, he was out of the bed and moving to his father's side.
"No, please. . . don't, I need to help." The cry was full of pleading, full of anguish, "I can't leave. . .please . . . Steve." In the half state between sleeping and wakefulness, the traumatic memories of the day before had returned to haunt Mark. The images so real, he was back in the parking lot of the hospital being dragged away from his dying son. Every detail was accurate, the remembered emotion as strong as the first time he had felt it. This time he tried to plead with the now shapeless form of his captor who was dragging him away, relentlessly pulling him as he watched his son's life ebb away, and there was nothing he could do, no way he could stop it.
Steve gripped his father's hand and swallowed back the pain of seeing him in such distress. "Dad," he said but the word came out slightly choked, no use for breaking into his father's nightmare, he licked dry lips and tried again. "Dad," he repeated, putting all of the strength that he could into the word, "Dad, it's me Steve I'm here, you're all right." He kept his tone even, strong, looking down at his father's hand, encouraged, as he felt the strong grip he had on it returned. Looking back up, that brief sense of relief was shattered. "Dad?" his voice faltered again, his tone questioning, as his father's eyes finally opened and he saw the depth of anguish and guilt written there, saw the half formed tears that still threatened to fall, "Dad," he said again trying to maintain his own calm.
Mark's disorientation was complete as he opened his eyes on a world that bore no resemblance to the powerful images of his dreams. His confused mind tried to process the sudden contrast between the sensory input and what he perceived to be happening, for a moment the incongruity was too great, there was no way to reconcile the two, and fear took hold once more. Then a single word got through, "Dad," the unmistakable tones of his son's voice began to break down the barriers, and Mark finally blinked his eyes into focus, not quite able to believe the concerned face that was staring down at him.
"Steve?" The name was half statement, half question, he looked down at the hand that gripped his and flexed his fingers against the warm skin that he felt there. His gaze moved up again until crystal blue eyes met and held his own. "Steve," he said again as a powerful sense of relief flooded his system. Steve was alive.
The locked gaze lasted only a few seconds but seemed to stretch for hours as each man studied the other, each needing to have fears allayed, wanting, needing reassurance.
Steve, sought the keen intelligence behind his father's eyes, and, although it was still masked by fear, he found it there. Relieved, he knew that whatever else happened, whatever else they had to deal with, he had his father back.
Mark, simply needed the reassurance that Steve was not dead. For the briefest of moments he doubted his own eyes again. It was possible that this was an illusion, that he was seeing what he most desired, still in the grip of his dreams, but the truth was held in the shared gaze, was spreading from the warm grip on his hands. Slowly he shook off the lingering doubt. Steve was standing beside him and that was all that was important. He drank in the welcome sight for a moment more, but as the relief registered so did a turmoil of questions. His difficulty in reconciling his memories of being dragged away from Steve with seeing him here now, fuelled an urgent curiosity. He tried to form some of the questions into words but they tumbled into each other. "How. . . where. ..?" He took a deep breath and tried to settle his thoughts.
Steve recognised the change, uncomfortably familiar with the sensation of waking up in a hospital room with a mind full of questions. "It's OK," he stated, repeating his earlier reassurance, "you. . ." he hesitated, "we're in the hospital."
"What happened?"
'What happened?' an innocent enough question, but where did you start with something like that, and how much of what they had figured had happened should he pass on if Mark didn't remember himself? Steve drew in a deep breath. "We think the killer drugged you, then had you admitted to the hospital as a burns victim." He did his best to keep his tone even, but the breath had been a mistake, igniting a fire in his back, he did his best to cover the grimace. "Bandaged to hide your identity," he continued, "and sedated so that you couldn't alert anyone." He felt distinctly lightheaded, but forced himself to remain standing, his father needed him.
Steve watched as his father considered this information, grateful that it distracted him from noticing his own somewhat shaky predicament. It was rare that Mark was open with his darker emotions. He would readily share warmth, joy, happiness and wonderment with everyone, carrying those who met him along, as a radiant cloud seemed to fill the air around him, and yet, this openness was reserved only for the positive emotions. If Mark felt guilt or pain, sorrow grief, those emotions were private, he would take them away and lock them inside, walk with them in quiet places. Only very rarely did he allow anyone, even his son, to catch these emotions on display, and Steve saw them all now as they flitted across his father's features, each trying to take hold as he struggled to order his thoughts. In that moment Steve knew that his father remembered everything that had happened. Their eyes locked again.
"I'm sorry," Mark said softly, "I. . ." Tears welled, "she. . . made me leave you." The pain was clear. "You were. . . I shouldn't have. . ."
"It's OK," Steve replied firmly, "You didn't have a choice." Steve did not need to hear his father fill in the details to know that that was true. There was utter conviction in his tone.
Mark was about to respond but his protest died on his lips as Steve's knees began to buckle and he lurched forward, catching himself on the side of the bed, he let out a groan as pain receptors sparked in angry protest at being treated so carelessly.
"Steve," Mark's concerned shout, escaped as he caught his son, realising he did not have the strength or position, to do anything more than steady him, he helped as Steve shakily turned himself to rest on the edge of the bed.
"I'm OK," Steve said, betrayed by the weakness in his voice and the tremors in his muscles as the fire in his shoulder intensified.
Mark studied him, noticing for the first time the heavy bandaging that looped over one shoulder and covered his back, he berated himself for being so wrapped up in his own emotions that he had not checked on Steve first. After all, the last time he had seen him he had been close to death. He realised with a start that he didn't even know how long ago that had been. He followed the pieces of tubing that led from Steve's chest to the chest drain and the still attached IV line, took in how pale Steve's skin still looked and the thin sheen of sweat that had broken out from even the small exertion of standing for a few minutes, and concluded that it had not been long. Certainly not long enough for Steve to be out of bed. "Come on," he said, only partially succeeding in keeping reproval from his tone. "You need to get back into bed."
Steve did not protest, the room was beginning to spin and the pain in his back was making any movement, even breathing a trial. He managed a small nod as Mark stood and helped to support his weight across the few feet to his bed.
Mark helped to get Steve settled, watching him carefully as he sank gratefully back onto the raised pillows. He reached across for the call button to summon a nurse but Steve's hand stopped him.
"No," he said.
"Steve, you need. . . " Mark began, he could tell by the strain around Steve's eyes that the pain was bad.
Steve gripped his hand again. "I know, I just want another minute." Steve knew that summoning the nurse would bring drugs, and with them relief from the pain, but those same drugs would also rob him of his consciousness and he wasn't yet ready to surrender to sleep, would not be, until he was sure that his father was going to be all right.
Mark let his hand drop, turning to sit on the edge of the bed. "How long?" he asked quietly.
"You were missing for 24 hours." Steve replied.
Mark's mind flashed back to how he had found Steve, that was only one day ago. A familiar mixture of frustration and admiration struck him, as he realised that Steve had ignored his own injuries to help him back from his nightmare. He paused for a moment, staring at the far wall, still gripping Steve's hand, tacitly acknowledging, as ever, the need for some form of physical contact to quell the demons of trauma.
"She said she'd shoot you if I didn't go with her."
"I figured it was something like that."
"You were dying."
"I know," a small pause, "It's OK."
"She made me walk away."
"I know," pause, "it's OK."
"I couldn't help you. . I could see. ." Mark faltered as the raw emotion hung in the air. "Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive," Steve said softly. "You kept me safe in the only way you could."
Steve watched as his father sat motionless for a few moments more, still staring at the far wall. The silence stretched as Mark fought the lingering feelings of inadequacy and guilt, taking little comfort from Steve's words. He had not kept him safe, he had almost lost him, the emotions accompanying that knowledge were going to take time to work through. Logically he knew now, as he had then, that he did not have a choice, but that did not seem to lessen the emotional fallout of what he had been forced to do. Nor did Steve's obvious unshakeable belief in him, somehow that made him feel even more like he had failed.
The pragmatic side of Mark's brain allowed the introspection for only a little longer. He recognised his own residual weariness from the drugs that he had been given, but, more importantly, Steve needed something to relieve the pain. He turned to look at his son letting out a breath. "We both need to get some rest," he said, reaching for the call button.
--
Amanda sat in the ER treatment room, silently keeping vigil as she watched her bruised and battered friend sleep. Jesse had been conscious for little of the time since they had brought him in, and that in itself was worrying, as they tested for complications from the head injuries he had received. Although none of the blows to the head had individually been too severe, the combination over such a short time period could easily have life threatening consequences. He would need careful monitoring for the next few days.
In the times he had been conscious, he had seemed completely disoriented and confused, although no one was sure whether that was due to the concussion, shock or the emotional trauma of the situation he was in. Most likely a combination of the three.
They were waiting to take him to surgery to remove the metal from his leg and, although all but emergency operations had been cancelled due to the limitations on the two remaining OR's, it was taking some time for one to clear. So Amanda sat and waited, in an emergency room that was looking increasingly like a police precinct as officers checked everyone in and out. She had taken on the responsibility of monitoring his vitals, checking his pupils and waking him at regular intervals, a task that could easily have been left to one of the nurses, but Amanda was reluctant to leave his side.
She had never seen him so dazed and confused. When awake, his already boyish features took on a compelling vulnerability, like that of a lost and frightened child, and, in a way, that was a fitting analogy, the best way to describe his psyche at that moment was 'lost', as a plethora of negative stimuli vied to keep it that way.
She knew that Mark and Steve needed her too, but knew that they would understand why she had not returned. She was fairly confident that they would provide support for each other and right now Jesse needed her more.
Jesse was finding it nearly impossible to sort his thoughts and emotions, as a combination of nightmares and remembered images fuelled his confusion and distorted his reality. Little had made sense apart from a deep sensation of fear and despair, but this time as he forced open reluctant eyes, he at least recognised his surroundings. He soaked up the sight of the ER treatment room and anchored himself on it's normality. The place he worked every day was comfortingly familiar. He wasn't sure how he had ended up here, still couldn't focus on the memories, but he knew that for the moment he was safe, he let go of a little of the fear, as he noticed for the first time that he was not alone.
"Amanda," he said softly.
Concerned brown eyes turned to meet his. "Jess," Amanda couldn't help breaking into a smile as she saw some of the life and intelligence return to Jesse's eyes, the very fact that he recognised her was major progress. "How are you feeling?"
Jesse took a moment to consider the question and wished he hadn't. There wasn't a square inch of his body that wasn't radiating some sort of pain, even his hair seemed to hurt, but the worst of it was coming from his leg. "Like someone bounced me down a few flights of stairs," he replied, wincing and shifting his position slightly so that he could see the leg more clearly. He looked up from the wound, not needing to word his next question.
"You were in an explosion," Amanda explained, she had been kept up to date on the current findings by Nathan, who had been reluctantly persuaded to stay and get his own injuries treated. "You went with Nathan to arrest Bilson, but he clearly had other ideas. Either he already had the place boobytrapped or he was attempting to set one up as the police arrived, either way it backfired because it looks like he blew himself up in the process."
Jesse's mind flashed to images of Steve and Mark in an explosion, his heartrate increasing as part of his mind told him once again that they had been killed. "Steve? Mark? They were. . ."
Amanda caught the change instantly. "They're both fine, they're upstairs. That explosion happened yesterday." She explained calmly. "You were there yesterday and in another explosion today, remember?"
Jesse concentrated, using what Amanda was telling him to sort some of the confusion. Another memory returned. "Nathan?" He asked.
"Is fine too, in fact he'll probably be in later to thank you for saving his life."
But Jesse wasn't really listening as his mind flashed to Steve's bloodied form in the parking lot. He looked at her, "Steve was hurt, there was blood?"
The next few minutes were taken with Amanda helping him order his memories as they returned in brief snatches She patiently helped him sort the chronology of events, doing her best to be quietly reassuring as he relived the traumas, even her own brush with death. Finally he looked at her.
"We'll get through this," she said with conviction.
Jesse wasn't so sure, so much damage had been done already. "Not until we catch her," he said with equal conviction. "No one is safe until we catch her."
--
Paul Bilson looked from his image in the mirror to the photographic still on the TV accompanying the news report about his demise, and marveled at how different he looked, he doubted that his own mother would recognise him, between the change of hair style and colour, the fake tan and make-up that had darkened his skin, and the coloured contact lenses, he was having a hard time accepting his own reflection.
Hands snaked around his neck as a face appeared nestling into his shoulder staring at his reflection. "You look good."
Bilson moved his arm to wrap around his lover, turning into her and pulling her around. "Thanks to you," he stated as he leant forward for a passionate kiss before turning once more to stare at the reflection of the 'new' him. Their cheeks still touched as she also turned to the mirror, their eyes meeting through the reflection.
"So what's it feel like to be dead?" She asked, smiling
"You tell me. You've had more practice at it." Bilson replied.
A finger on his chin gently turned his head, "Oh I think you'll enjoy it," she said, her hand brushing through his hair as she pulled him into another passionate kiss that lasted longer than the first, Bilson's hands were beginning to wonder as their bodies pushed closer in the embrace. After a minute or so, she pulled her head back and stared into his eyes, enjoying the obsessive passion she saw there. "Soon we'll be free to start again."
Bilson kissed her forehead, "Why didn't you kill him in the alley," he asked. his breath heavy with desire.
She pulled back once again, brushed the now blond hair from over his eye. "Patience my love," she said, pulling his arms around her she turned her back to him, resting her head on his chest as she once again met his gaze in the mirror. "I went through three years of Hell before you found me." Her eyes defocused for a moment. "He said he loved me, said that he would protect me." Her voice took on a venomous tone, "and then he lied about me." She pulled Bilson's arms more tightly around her, leaned further into the embrace, asking for and receiving comfort in the touch. "Him and his friends, they all lied about me." Her gaze was back, holding contact with that of his image, fired with hatred. "He hasn't suffered enough, not yet." There was a pause as she reached up to run her hand down the side of Bilson's cheek. "But soon."
--
Jesse stumbled down the alley, his thoughts confused his mind numb, he knew that he was in danger, but couldn't pin down the source. He moved forward as quickly as he could, there were footsteps behind him now. He could hear them. He knew that he should keep moving, that stopping to look behind would further slow his already tortuous pace, but the compulsion was too strong. He turned, shocked by the sight he tumbled backwards, falling. . .
Falling.
His muscles jerked in response, as his whole body reacted to the sensation, he woke in a sweat, taking a deep breath to calm his thoughts as the last of his missing memories dropped into place.
"Jess?" Amanda questioned, alarmed by the sudden increase in his heartrate, he had only drifted off to sleep a few minutes earlier.
"It was her," he said taking a deep breath and swallowing. "In the alley today. She was there" The last words were almost whispered in disbelief. His heart was still pounding rapidly, her image seemed burned on his retina.
"Who?" Amanda asked, moving closer.
"My God, Steve was right," he stated, the anguish clear as his eyes met hers, "it was Chloe Marsden."
TO BE CONTINUED. . . .
Part 15: Helping them back.
Sergeant Thompson knelt by Jesse's head and did a rapid sweep, trying to assess the extent of the doctor's injuries. Now that he was close there was no doubt in his mind that the figure in front of him fitted the description of Dr. Jesse Travis. Slight movement removed the necessity of feeling for a pulse point, at least they had found him alive. He pulled his radio across so that he could call for an ambulance, speaking quickly as he also called off the search. His eyes had reached the wound on Jesse's thigh which was still oozing blood, there was little he could do to stem the flow since he could see the edge of a jagged piece of metal that still sat embedded in the muscle, not knowing how deep the wound was, he knew that the safest course of action was to leave it in situ.
He looked up and was surprised to see the young Doctor's eyes open and staring at him, he was even more startled by the reaction that followed.
Jesse's world consisted of fear and pain, his head was pounding, his leg throbbing in syncopated rhythm, adrenaline coursed through his system heightening his anxiety. Memories of death and danger sparked in flashes of bright colour at the edge of his consciousness, forcing the emotions higher, blocking all rational thought. He opened eyes that refused to focus, and took in the vague form that moved closer to him. Instinct took over as he perceived the unknown form as a danger and he pushed himself up onto shaky arms, scrambling backwards in an effort to escape the stranger, who for the moment, was the sole focus for his fear.
"Hey there, take it easy, it's ok," Nick tried to be reassuring, as he watched the play of emotions cross Jesse's expressive face, but Jesse did not seem to hear him, shifting violently backwards until his back was against the wall, before looking frantically from side to side for some means of escape.
Nathan had been watching and quickened his pace the last few feet to Nick Thompson's side. He touched Nick on the shoulder. "Here let me try, he knows me."
Nick nodded and backed off. "Dr. Travis," Nathan said softly, "Jesse, it's detective Turner."
Jesse turned his attention from the retreating dark form to the person who was saying his name, and tried to process the other words as Nathan's face gradually drifted into focus. With the sharp image came even sharper memories. "No," he said, panic entering his voice. "you're dead," he said, shakily, "I saw. . ." he shook his head as he remembered his last sight of Nathan as the explosion hit. The image triggered more memories. "They. . . they're all dead." His voice faltered as he pulled his legs up, trying to retreat further he scooted a little along the wall, finding a shallow corner as the brickwork jutted out a couple of feet into the alley.
"No," Nathan said, moving forward slowly, taking care to remain unthreatening. "It's going to be all right, I'm not dead, you saved me."
Jesse shook his head, the memories were too powerful. "No.. you . . they. . . they're all dead I saw them." He drew his legs up further wincing as it increased the throbbing pain but still only able to focus on the half remembered images and snatches of emotion.
The remembered responsibility for the deaths of the porter and the nurse mingled with his memories of the explosions, of seeing Mark and Steve fall, seeing Steve in a pool of blood, seeing Amanda gasping for breath, a scarf still tightened around her neck, seeing Nathan fall, and now he knew he had killed them all.
The tears fell as fear was replaced by sorrow and despair. He looked up as Nathan reached his side. "All dead," he said quietly, hugging himself closely. "All dead," he repeated as his mind retreated to somewhere safer.
Nathan looked back to where Nick Thompson stood quietly watching and shared a look of mutual concern, relieved to hear the sirens of the approaching ambulance.
--
Steve looked up at a slight sound and realised that it was just the rattle of a trolley in the hallway, he looked at the clock, Amanda had been gone for around twenty minutes now, he turned to check on his father's increasingly restless form and wished idly that she would come back, his father would need somebody there when he finally surfaced fully to consciousness. He debated pressing the call button to get one of the nurses, but Mark had been drifting in and out for some time now, never fully regaining consciousness, if he called a nurse every time his father stirred then they wouldn't get anything done, to say nothing of him getting his own 'boy who cried wolf' tag which may mean they would not be so quick to respond if he really needed them. He relaxed his thumb from where it hovered as his father settled again. Where was Amanda?
He thought back to her departure from the room, he had been so preoccupied with his own thoughts, that he had barely noticed her get up to answer the page on the room phone at the far side of his bed. When he had finally acknowledged that she was talking into it he had only caught her saying that she would be right down.
"I need to go and check on something," was all she had given him by way of explanation before she had taken her leave, promising to be back as soon as she could, and he hadn't really thought to question her on what that 'something' might be , so he had merely nodded and turned his attention back to his father's sleeping form. Now he wished he had found out more. Considering the situation, he couldn't see that she would have left unless something else had happened and, since only bad things seemed to be happening at the moment, that didn't bode well. He tried to remember her expression as she had talked on the phone, but realised that he hadn't been paying her enough attention to take that detail in.
The cry from the bed next to him startled him back from his musings and, before he even realised what he was doing, he was out of the bed and moving to his father's side.
"No, please. . . don't, I need to help." The cry was full of pleading, full of anguish, "I can't leave. . .please . . . Steve." In the half state between sleeping and wakefulness, the traumatic memories of the day before had returned to haunt Mark. The images so real, he was back in the parking lot of the hospital being dragged away from his dying son. Every detail was accurate, the remembered emotion as strong as the first time he had felt it. This time he tried to plead with the now shapeless form of his captor who was dragging him away, relentlessly pulling him as he watched his son's life ebb away, and there was nothing he could do, no way he could stop it.
Steve gripped his father's hand and swallowed back the pain of seeing him in such distress. "Dad," he said but the word came out slightly choked, no use for breaking into his father's nightmare, he licked dry lips and tried again. "Dad," he repeated, putting all of the strength that he could into the word, "Dad, it's me Steve I'm here, you're all right." He kept his tone even, strong, looking down at his father's hand, encouraged, as he felt the strong grip he had on it returned. Looking back up, that brief sense of relief was shattered. "Dad?" his voice faltered again, his tone questioning, as his father's eyes finally opened and he saw the depth of anguish and guilt written there, saw the half formed tears that still threatened to fall, "Dad," he said again trying to maintain his own calm.
Mark's disorientation was complete as he opened his eyes on a world that bore no resemblance to the powerful images of his dreams. His confused mind tried to process the sudden contrast between the sensory input and what he perceived to be happening, for a moment the incongruity was too great, there was no way to reconcile the two, and fear took hold once more. Then a single word got through, "Dad," the unmistakable tones of his son's voice began to break down the barriers, and Mark finally blinked his eyes into focus, not quite able to believe the concerned face that was staring down at him.
"Steve?" The name was half statement, half question, he looked down at the hand that gripped his and flexed his fingers against the warm skin that he felt there. His gaze moved up again until crystal blue eyes met and held his own. "Steve," he said again as a powerful sense of relief flooded his system. Steve was alive.
The locked gaze lasted only a few seconds but seemed to stretch for hours as each man studied the other, each needing to have fears allayed, wanting, needing reassurance.
Steve, sought the keen intelligence behind his father's eyes, and, although it was still masked by fear, he found it there. Relieved, he knew that whatever else happened, whatever else they had to deal with, he had his father back.
Mark, simply needed the reassurance that Steve was not dead. For the briefest of moments he doubted his own eyes again. It was possible that this was an illusion, that he was seeing what he most desired, still in the grip of his dreams, but the truth was held in the shared gaze, was spreading from the warm grip on his hands. Slowly he shook off the lingering doubt. Steve was standing beside him and that was all that was important. He drank in the welcome sight for a moment more, but as the relief registered so did a turmoil of questions. His difficulty in reconciling his memories of being dragged away from Steve with seeing him here now, fuelled an urgent curiosity. He tried to form some of the questions into words but they tumbled into each other. "How. . . where. ..?" He took a deep breath and tried to settle his thoughts.
Steve recognised the change, uncomfortably familiar with the sensation of waking up in a hospital room with a mind full of questions. "It's OK," he stated, repeating his earlier reassurance, "you. . ." he hesitated, "we're in the hospital."
"What happened?"
'What happened?' an innocent enough question, but where did you start with something like that, and how much of what they had figured had happened should he pass on if Mark didn't remember himself? Steve drew in a deep breath. "We think the killer drugged you, then had you admitted to the hospital as a burns victim." He did his best to keep his tone even, but the breath had been a mistake, igniting a fire in his back, he did his best to cover the grimace. "Bandaged to hide your identity," he continued, "and sedated so that you couldn't alert anyone." He felt distinctly lightheaded, but forced himself to remain standing, his father needed him.
Steve watched as his father considered this information, grateful that it distracted him from noticing his own somewhat shaky predicament. It was rare that Mark was open with his darker emotions. He would readily share warmth, joy, happiness and wonderment with everyone, carrying those who met him along, as a radiant cloud seemed to fill the air around him, and yet, this openness was reserved only for the positive emotions. If Mark felt guilt or pain, sorrow grief, those emotions were private, he would take them away and lock them inside, walk with them in quiet places. Only very rarely did he allow anyone, even his son, to catch these emotions on display, and Steve saw them all now as they flitted across his father's features, each trying to take hold as he struggled to order his thoughts. In that moment Steve knew that his father remembered everything that had happened. Their eyes locked again.
"I'm sorry," Mark said softly, "I. . ." Tears welled, "she. . . made me leave you." The pain was clear. "You were. . . I shouldn't have. . ."
"It's OK," Steve replied firmly, "You didn't have a choice." Steve did not need to hear his father fill in the details to know that that was true. There was utter conviction in his tone.
Mark was about to respond but his protest died on his lips as Steve's knees began to buckle and he lurched forward, catching himself on the side of the bed, he let out a groan as pain receptors sparked in angry protest at being treated so carelessly.
"Steve," Mark's concerned shout, escaped as he caught his son, realising he did not have the strength or position, to do anything more than steady him, he helped as Steve shakily turned himself to rest on the edge of the bed.
"I'm OK," Steve said, betrayed by the weakness in his voice and the tremors in his muscles as the fire in his shoulder intensified.
Mark studied him, noticing for the first time the heavy bandaging that looped over one shoulder and covered his back, he berated himself for being so wrapped up in his own emotions that he had not checked on Steve first. After all, the last time he had seen him he had been close to death. He realised with a start that he didn't even know how long ago that had been. He followed the pieces of tubing that led from Steve's chest to the chest drain and the still attached IV line, took in how pale Steve's skin still looked and the thin sheen of sweat that had broken out from even the small exertion of standing for a few minutes, and concluded that it had not been long. Certainly not long enough for Steve to be out of bed. "Come on," he said, only partially succeeding in keeping reproval from his tone. "You need to get back into bed."
Steve did not protest, the room was beginning to spin and the pain in his back was making any movement, even breathing a trial. He managed a small nod as Mark stood and helped to support his weight across the few feet to his bed.
Mark helped to get Steve settled, watching him carefully as he sank gratefully back onto the raised pillows. He reached across for the call button to summon a nurse but Steve's hand stopped him.
"No," he said.
"Steve, you need. . . " Mark began, he could tell by the strain around Steve's eyes that the pain was bad.
Steve gripped his hand again. "I know, I just want another minute." Steve knew that summoning the nurse would bring drugs, and with them relief from the pain, but those same drugs would also rob him of his consciousness and he wasn't yet ready to surrender to sleep, would not be, until he was sure that his father was going to be all right.
Mark let his hand drop, turning to sit on the edge of the bed. "How long?" he asked quietly.
"You were missing for 24 hours." Steve replied.
Mark's mind flashed back to how he had found Steve, that was only one day ago. A familiar mixture of frustration and admiration struck him, as he realised that Steve had ignored his own injuries to help him back from his nightmare. He paused for a moment, staring at the far wall, still gripping Steve's hand, tacitly acknowledging, as ever, the need for some form of physical contact to quell the demons of trauma.
"She said she'd shoot you if I didn't go with her."
"I figured it was something like that."
"You were dying."
"I know," a small pause, "It's OK."
"She made me walk away."
"I know," pause, "it's OK."
"I couldn't help you. . I could see. ." Mark faltered as the raw emotion hung in the air. "Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive," Steve said softly. "You kept me safe in the only way you could."
Steve watched as his father sat motionless for a few moments more, still staring at the far wall. The silence stretched as Mark fought the lingering feelings of inadequacy and guilt, taking little comfort from Steve's words. He had not kept him safe, he had almost lost him, the emotions accompanying that knowledge were going to take time to work through. Logically he knew now, as he had then, that he did not have a choice, but that did not seem to lessen the emotional fallout of what he had been forced to do. Nor did Steve's obvious unshakeable belief in him, somehow that made him feel even more like he had failed.
The pragmatic side of Mark's brain allowed the introspection for only a little longer. He recognised his own residual weariness from the drugs that he had been given, but, more importantly, Steve needed something to relieve the pain. He turned to look at his son letting out a breath. "We both need to get some rest," he said, reaching for the call button.
--
Amanda sat in the ER treatment room, silently keeping vigil as she watched her bruised and battered friend sleep. Jesse had been conscious for little of the time since they had brought him in, and that in itself was worrying, as they tested for complications from the head injuries he had received. Although none of the blows to the head had individually been too severe, the combination over such a short time period could easily have life threatening consequences. He would need careful monitoring for the next few days.
In the times he had been conscious, he had seemed completely disoriented and confused, although no one was sure whether that was due to the concussion, shock or the emotional trauma of the situation he was in. Most likely a combination of the three.
They were waiting to take him to surgery to remove the metal from his leg and, although all but emergency operations had been cancelled due to the limitations on the two remaining OR's, it was taking some time for one to clear. So Amanda sat and waited, in an emergency room that was looking increasingly like a police precinct as officers checked everyone in and out. She had taken on the responsibility of monitoring his vitals, checking his pupils and waking him at regular intervals, a task that could easily have been left to one of the nurses, but Amanda was reluctant to leave his side.
She had never seen him so dazed and confused. When awake, his already boyish features took on a compelling vulnerability, like that of a lost and frightened child, and, in a way, that was a fitting analogy, the best way to describe his psyche at that moment was 'lost', as a plethora of negative stimuli vied to keep it that way.
She knew that Mark and Steve needed her too, but knew that they would understand why she had not returned. She was fairly confident that they would provide support for each other and right now Jesse needed her more.
Jesse was finding it nearly impossible to sort his thoughts and emotions, as a combination of nightmares and remembered images fuelled his confusion and distorted his reality. Little had made sense apart from a deep sensation of fear and despair, but this time as he forced open reluctant eyes, he at least recognised his surroundings. He soaked up the sight of the ER treatment room and anchored himself on it's normality. The place he worked every day was comfortingly familiar. He wasn't sure how he had ended up here, still couldn't focus on the memories, but he knew that for the moment he was safe, he let go of a little of the fear, as he noticed for the first time that he was not alone.
"Amanda," he said softly.
Concerned brown eyes turned to meet his. "Jess," Amanda couldn't help breaking into a smile as she saw some of the life and intelligence return to Jesse's eyes, the very fact that he recognised her was major progress. "How are you feeling?"
Jesse took a moment to consider the question and wished he hadn't. There wasn't a square inch of his body that wasn't radiating some sort of pain, even his hair seemed to hurt, but the worst of it was coming from his leg. "Like someone bounced me down a few flights of stairs," he replied, wincing and shifting his position slightly so that he could see the leg more clearly. He looked up from the wound, not needing to word his next question.
"You were in an explosion," Amanda explained, she had been kept up to date on the current findings by Nathan, who had been reluctantly persuaded to stay and get his own injuries treated. "You went with Nathan to arrest Bilson, but he clearly had other ideas. Either he already had the place boobytrapped or he was attempting to set one up as the police arrived, either way it backfired because it looks like he blew himself up in the process."
Jesse's mind flashed to images of Steve and Mark in an explosion, his heartrate increasing as part of his mind told him once again that they had been killed. "Steve? Mark? They were. . ."
Amanda caught the change instantly. "They're both fine, they're upstairs. That explosion happened yesterday." She explained calmly. "You were there yesterday and in another explosion today, remember?"
Jesse concentrated, using what Amanda was telling him to sort some of the confusion. Another memory returned. "Nathan?" He asked.
"Is fine too, in fact he'll probably be in later to thank you for saving his life."
But Jesse wasn't really listening as his mind flashed to Steve's bloodied form in the parking lot. He looked at her, "Steve was hurt, there was blood?"
The next few minutes were taken with Amanda helping him order his memories as they returned in brief snatches She patiently helped him sort the chronology of events, doing her best to be quietly reassuring as he relived the traumas, even her own brush with death. Finally he looked at her.
"We'll get through this," she said with conviction.
Jesse wasn't so sure, so much damage had been done already. "Not until we catch her," he said with equal conviction. "No one is safe until we catch her."
--
Paul Bilson looked from his image in the mirror to the photographic still on the TV accompanying the news report about his demise, and marveled at how different he looked, he doubted that his own mother would recognise him, between the change of hair style and colour, the fake tan and make-up that had darkened his skin, and the coloured contact lenses, he was having a hard time accepting his own reflection.
Hands snaked around his neck as a face appeared nestling into his shoulder staring at his reflection. "You look good."
Bilson moved his arm to wrap around his lover, turning into her and pulling her around. "Thanks to you," he stated as he leant forward for a passionate kiss before turning once more to stare at the reflection of the 'new' him. Their cheeks still touched as she also turned to the mirror, their eyes meeting through the reflection.
"So what's it feel like to be dead?" She asked, smiling
"You tell me. You've had more practice at it." Bilson replied.
A finger on his chin gently turned his head, "Oh I think you'll enjoy it," she said, her hand brushing through his hair as she pulled him into another passionate kiss that lasted longer than the first, Bilson's hands were beginning to wonder as their bodies pushed closer in the embrace. After a minute or so, she pulled her head back and stared into his eyes, enjoying the obsessive passion she saw there. "Soon we'll be free to start again."
Bilson kissed her forehead, "Why didn't you kill him in the alley," he asked. his breath heavy with desire.
She pulled back once again, brushed the now blond hair from over his eye. "Patience my love," she said, pulling his arms around her she turned her back to him, resting her head on his chest as she once again met his gaze in the mirror. "I went through three years of Hell before you found me." Her eyes defocused for a moment. "He said he loved me, said that he would protect me." Her voice took on a venomous tone, "and then he lied about me." She pulled Bilson's arms more tightly around her, leaned further into the embrace, asking for and receiving comfort in the touch. "Him and his friends, they all lied about me." Her gaze was back, holding contact with that of his image, fired with hatred. "He hasn't suffered enough, not yet." There was a pause as she reached up to run her hand down the side of Bilson's cheek. "But soon."
--
Jesse stumbled down the alley, his thoughts confused his mind numb, he knew that he was in danger, but couldn't pin down the source. He moved forward as quickly as he could, there were footsteps behind him now. He could hear them. He knew that he should keep moving, that stopping to look behind would further slow his already tortuous pace, but the compulsion was too strong. He turned, shocked by the sight he tumbled backwards, falling. . .
Falling.
His muscles jerked in response, as his whole body reacted to the sensation, he woke in a sweat, taking a deep breath to calm his thoughts as the last of his missing memories dropped into place.
"Jess?" Amanda questioned, alarmed by the sudden increase in his heartrate, he had only drifted off to sleep a few minutes earlier.
"It was her," he said taking a deep breath and swallowing. "In the alley today. She was there" The last words were almost whispered in disbelief. His heart was still pounding rapidly, her image seemed burned on his retina.
"Who?" Amanda asked, moving closer.
"My God, Steve was right," he stated, the anguish clear as his eyes met hers, "it was Chloe Marsden."
TO BE CONTINUED. . . .