It was late in the afternoon when Amanda found herself alone in an ICU room with Jesse. Mark had departed minutes earlier with the promise of a prompt return, determined to settle a flagging Steve back into his hospital bed.

The last vestiges of daylight were beginning to fade and the room grew darker around her, but Amanda made no effort to move; her attention comprehensively focused on the man lying before her.

Jesse's eyes did not open. They were closed; lost in a pale, remote face. His upper body lay bare, his abdomen swathed in bandages and his chest mottled by bruises in various stages of development. Innumerable tubes and wires snaked over his unconscious form, and the ICU room seemed to heave with the sighs and breaths of the various machines.

Amanda looked down at the frail form of Jesse; his expressionless face void of his usual buoyant charm she found it hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago he had been bounding about his hospital duties with enthusiasm, somewhat like an overzealous puppy. Amanda felt an inexplicable anger flush up her face, reddening her cheeks. Whilst every ounce of her knew that Jesse bore no responsibility for his current, dreadful predicament, she nonetheless felt anger, and a fair degree of resentment that he should be lost in peaceful darkness – for she needed to believe that he was not suffering; suffering and unable to ask for help – whilst she, Steve and Mark were forced to face every waking minute knowing that he could be snatched away from them at any moment.

It was ironic, she thought, that when such a situation should arise in which only Jesse's unique mix of irreverent humour and gentle compassion would suffice to ease the anguish, it should be he who lies at the core of the heartache

Amanda leant forwards in her seat, resting her chin onto her cupped hand. The muscles in her neck felt incredibly tired, almost as if it were too great a task for them to support the weight of her head.

The room grew progressively darker and Amanda closed her eyes, tired to the point where she felt numb with fatigue.

As the sun dropped lower in the sky shadows began to lick at the walls, creeping higher and higher as the light slumped beyond the horizon.

Amanda awoke with a start.

"Oh, Amanda, I'm sorry," Mark spoke in hushed tones. "I was trying not to disturb you."

"What? Oh," Amanda blustered, "I didn't mean to fall asleep." She sat up straight in her chair, stretching her arms out in front of her and yawning.

"What time is it?"

"It's just gone quarter-past five."

Amanda nodded, stifling a second yawn.

"How's Steve?"

Mark smiled wryly and lowered himself into the chair besides Amanda's.

"Stubborn as ever, you now how he is. Argued all the way back to his room but settled quickly enough when he saw the bed waiting for him." Mark chuckled then heaved a sigh, rubbing a hand over his stubbly face.

"It could have been much worse you know, broken wrist, concussion… He's been lucky… we all have."

Both Mark and Amanda fell quiet, contemplating Mark's words. Amanda eventually broke the silence.

"What about… you know, the attacker?"

Mark did not answer at once.

"He's alive… and awake."

"What?" Amanda turned in her chair to face Mark.

Mark nodded solemnly, assiduously averting his eyes from Amanda's piercing gaze. He still felt a fair degree of guilty defiance at having played a role in saving the man's life.

"I've just spoken with Phil Avery – you know him?"

"Phil Avery? Yeah, I know him. Psychiatrist. Does trials in the ER every so often."

"That's him. He was called in to consult." Mark fell silent, his eyes falling once again on Jesse.

"And?" Amanda probed.

Mark sighed.

"His name's Schaffer. Russell Schaffer. No history of recorded mental illness but it does seem as though he's been heading that way for a while."

"He's talking?" Amanda said sharply.

Mark nodded.

"It's amazing really," he replied, shaking his head. "Despite all his injuries he's requiring only minimal support for breathing; he's alert and having to be restrained."

Mark glanced up at Amanda, taking in the steely expression on her face; she clearly did not share his view that the man's condition was 'amazing'.

"I mean," Mark intoned sounding incredulous, "he seems to be running on pure adrenaline – there's no way he should even be conscious…"

Amanda did not respond, her lips pursed angrily.

"Uh, anyway," Mark stumbled, sensing Amanda's displeasure at the benignity with which he was referring to Jesse's attacker. "Phil seems to think he's had a psychotic episode – maybe exacerbated by an element of drugs or alcohol – he's waiting for the toxicology report."

Amanda snorted derisively and mumbled, "That's no excuse."

"No," Mark nodded solemnly, "That's no excuse…" he paused.

"Phil suspects some kind of personality disorder – hallucinations, grandiose delusions, paranoia, a complete lack of remorse – Phil says he has a history of defying authority, there's a string of failed relationships, a parasitic lifestyle, aggressiveness… There are several disorders that might be to blame, but… well, psychiatry isn't an exact science." Mark paused again, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Jesse's bruised chest.

Amanda remained silent, taking a moment to digest the information she was hearing.

"So," she said slowly, "what does this all mean? He'll get off on an insanity plea?" Amanda's voice shook slightly through anger. She knew she was being unreasonable and the likelihood of Russell Schaffer being released on any account was minimal, but still could not help but feel an intense resentment toward the man.

"No." Mark spoke more harshly than he had intended.

"No. He will not be getting off. Not on any plea. I don't know if it will be a prison or a mental institution, but he will be punished for what he's done, that I am certain."

Amanda glanced up at Mark, noting the determination in his voice and the resolve on his tired face.

She offered him a small smile and nodded.

"I hope you're right."

The crystalline vista gleamed an azure so bright it suggested the hours of rain that had blighted the preceding few days had cleansed the sky of all impurities, washing them into the ocean with the tide of the storm. The steely thunderheads had been replaced with the merest suggestion of cloud casting an occasional pure white wisp here and there, whilst the brazen sun shone proud and majestic onto the streets of LA.

Mark gazed out of the window, basking in the sunlight, drinking in the warmth and comfort it bestowed. He closed his eyes for a moment and allowed a small shudder to run down his spine. Turning back to face the room Mark released the blind, letting it drop back into place. Renewed shadows instantly sprang back into life, dancing lightly across the floor as the blinds fluttered back and forth. Narrow bands of light crept through the gaps in the slatted window, escaping into the room where they fell carelessly along the floor and up across the body and face of the figure laying asleep in the bed. Noticing this fact Mark repositioned the blinds, pushing the rays further down the foot of the bed and away from the occupant's face. Jesse did not stir.

Returning to the side of his young friend, Mark sat. Some thirty-six hours had passed since Jesse had been brought to the hospital, thirty-six hours since he had finally reached the help he had desperately needed.

Jesse had not stirred since losing battle with unconsciousness as they had begun the fraught journey down the lonely, grey highway and neither friendly coaxing nor the frequent but necessary jab of a syringe had awoken him.

For the umpteenth time that morning Mark found himself gazing into Jesse's face, searching for some sign of movement; a blink, a twitch, anything.

But Jesse was motionless – his blonde eyelashes resting quietly on his colourless cheeks, whilst his lips, cracked and grey, remained still around the ventilation tube that protruded from his mouth.

Mark knew he should be grateful. Jesse was alive, after all. He had survived the initial attack and the long, endless hours that had followed. He had survived the struggle to reach the hospital and two subsequent surgeries. His body had been cut and stitched and probed and bandaged, and still he fought. Against the massive blood loss and hypothermia. Mark had lost track of the number of times Jesse had arrested. He had seen his young friend's body go through more than he cared to imagine. His survival was a testament to his tenacity, and for that Mark was grateful.

A high-pitched alarm broke the rhythmic pattern of the various life support machines, and Mark jumped abruptly from his seat, his eyes searching the many monitors for the source of the concern.

Finding the IV bag empty quelled the rising surge of fear, but had obviously left an impression on Mark's already strained face.

"Dr. Sloan?" ICU nurse Sally Harper stood in the doorway, an expression of concern etched onto her expressive face, and a fresh IV bag clasped in one hand.

"Dr. Sloan, you really ought to get some rest," Sally bustled into the room and began to replace the empty IV, her nimble hands working swiftly at a task they were accustomed to completing. Within a minute the job was complete, and Sally turned to face the doctor.

"He's in the best place Dr. Sloan, we'll take care of him. You go home now and get some sleep or you'll be no good for anyone!" Sally Harper stood hands on hips, an imperious expression on her face as she awaited a response.

Seeing though that her audience was none too willing to take orders, Sally huffed knowingly and strode from the room muttering.

Relieved that the alarm had signified nothing worse than an empty IV bag, Mark allowed himself a grin.

Nurse Harper as a robust woman, matronly and skilled in her work, she reminded him of the statuesque gym teacher he had been so frightened of in his schooldays. Despite the years he had on her, Sally always had the knack of making him feel like a naughty school boy.

Mark sat tiredly back into the chair.

It was true, he had not slept for many hours, determined instead to maintain a constant vigil at Jesse's bedside.

Steve, stubborn as ever, had refused to heed the advice of both his doctor and father and had discharged himself, proclaiming obstinately that he was 'fine'. He had, however, eventually given in to the exhaustion induced by his injuries and fallen asleep in a side room, which, Mark had consoled himself, was better than nothing.

Amanda, wrought with emotion and fatigue had fought her hardest to keep the vigil with Mark, but eventually succumbed to her body's demand for sleep and taken to the doctor's lounge.

Resting back in his chair Mark glanced around the room.

Despite the clinical surroundings, he felt safe here. Even the bare walls and lingering scent of disinfectant to him seemed a comfort. So far removed were the four walls of the private ICU room that Jesse occupied from Mark's own home that there were no comparisons to be brought between the two. Whilst Mark adored his home he knew that he could not rest there – not yet. Not so soon after everything that had happened, and certainly not alone.

When Jesse's awake maybe, he thought leaning his head to his shoulder and yawning.

And Steve is feeling up to it. Mark blinked slowly, his eyes gritty and aching.

Steve… Mark closed his eyes and fleetingly wished that the turbulent events could have been washed away as easily as the storm clouds.

Drifting into sleep Mark's breathing slowed to a rhythmic pace, and but for a monitor resounding an echo of Jesse's heartbeat, the room was silent.

Hovering on the brink of consciousness was like fighting against the tide.

The gravity of the darkness pressing in around him was immense, a void of dense emptiness pulling him back into the steely black undercurrent.

Jesse fought against it, struggling toward the surface and breaking through the surf for fleeting moments, catching glimpses of light and sound and voices. It was the last of these, the voices that whispered in an indistinct murmuration at some intangible point in the distance that made him continue the struggle; grappling against the tendrils of obscurity that dragged him back down into the gloom.

It was in these brief moments of clarity that Jesse experienced meteoric bursts of pain that were so intense he willingly allowed himself to sink back into the insensate blissful reprieve unconsciousness afforded him.

But he continued to fight, drawing nearer and nearer to the surface, clawing his way back until the first threads of true consciousness penetrated the murky confines of his torpid mind.

Jesse blinked sluggishly and found the effort inconceivably draining, yet for his attempt he succeeded barely in opening his eyes even a fraction. He felt as if his eye were cemented together by the bond of some strong adhesive.

He tried again.

The light that filtered in was a dull, muted orange that exuded from a fixture in the ceiling above him.

Jesse blinked heavily, his vision blurred. He tried to focus on the luminous glow; the gossamer of muzzy coronas that shimmered around it.

He could not think, did not know where he was.

But there was pain. Endless, caustic, fierce pain. His entire body ached, but his abdomen seemed to be the epicentre of the agony.

Jesse opened his mouth, trying not to scream out. But he found he couldn't, his airway obstructed.

Jesse gagged, he could not breathe. There were hands around his neck, choking him, squeezing the air from his lungs.

Jesse flailed, lashing out. An intense pain sheared through his side, burning into his chest, taking his breath.

He remembered the knife glinting in the car headlights, the cold steel, the pain.

"Jesse, shh, Jess. It's okay, Jesse. It's okay…"

Firm hands rested onto his shoulders, holding him down.

There was something familiar in the touch.

Jesse continued to struggle but his attempts became weaker and weaker as the effort required drained him of what little he had left to give. He gagged again, choking for air.

"Jesse, you're in the hospital. There's a tube in your throat, don't fight it, okay? Just breathe slowly, that's it."

The voice too was familiar, clear and strong in its command but carrying undeniable softness in its delivery.

Jesse forced himself to take a shallow breath, doubting the ability of the tube that to all intents and purposes he felt was obstructing his throat, to give him enough oxygen to quench the burning in his chest.

Slowly, very slowly, the wave of panic began to subside.

Jesse blinked more determinedly, squinting his eyes and lowering his gaze, allowing it to come to a rest on the blurry but unmistakably smiling face of Mark Sloan.

"Hi Jesse." Mark grinned broadly, smiling with true happiness for the first time in what felt like weeks.

"Nice of you to join us," Mark chuckled, feeling quite suddenly that a tremendous burden had been lifted from his shoulders. The sight of his friend's blue eyes, unfocused and bloodshot though they were, was all he had needed to be certain that the worst was now behind them.

Jesse, incapable of doing much else, blinked again. The motion was unusually prolonged as he fought to keep his eyes open.

Jesse's head was beginning to ache. The light, though dimmed, seemed abnormally harsh, and the symphony of beeping and hisses exuding from the many machines that filled the room was beginning to grate; resounding dully in his ears.

Mark's face drifted in and out of focus and the room grew darker. Jesse tried to force his eyes to stay open, scared of falling too deeply back into the black abyss, but the struggle to remain conscious was becoming too much.

His eyelids finally ceding to the draw of unconsciousness Jesse felt himself sinking down into the bed, his muscles relaxing as the pain that had filled his body ebbed away and the gloom that clouded his vision became complete as he once again succumbed to the respite of sleep.

Mark drummed his fingers lazily onto the chart that rested on his lap. He had read through its contents numerous times and was quietly satisfied with the batch of graphs and numbers that represented Jesse's slow recovery.

Mark found himself once again at Jesse's bedside, this time accompanied by Steve who – despite frequently screwing his eyes up against the headache that was obviously bothering him – claimed to be fully recovered from the concussion he had sustained.

Jesse had flittered in and out of consciousness intermittently, his periods of wakefulness increasing steadily and each time his eyes opened the blue shone that little bit clearer.

Earlier that morning he had been extubated – an alarming experience for both Jesse and his friends as they had watched him cough and wheeze, gasping for air before his breathing settled into a shallow rhythm.

He had lay, mouth slightly agape, breathing heavily, his face waxy and pallid and creased in pain, and without speaking his eyes had closed and he had drifted into sleep.

Mark, Steve and Amanda, all of whom had doggedly ignored the 'family-only-and-one-person-at-a-time' rule clearly signposted throughout the ICU, cluttered the room whilst maintaining a stream of banter; alternately jollying the conversation along with jokes and embarrassing anecdotes – most of which, to Steve's chagrin, were at his expense – and falling into hushed whispers where the current status of Russell Schaffer was heatedly discussed.

"Mark?"

Mark started, jostling forwards in his seat so rapidly that the chart fell with a clatter to the floor.

"Jesse!"

"Jess!"

Steve, who had moments earlier been slouched in his chair, head lolling sleepily onto his chest, jumped up.

"Hey" Jesse spoke softly, his voice sounding odd to his own ears.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asked the question and instantly felt rather stupid for what, given the situation, was somewhat of an inane question.

Jesse smiled fleetingly, his face lighting up for the briefest of seconds as he did so.

"I'm ok… What happened to your wrist?"

It was typical Jesse. Despite it being he who was confined to a hospital bed his concern nonetheless resided with others.

Steve looked quickly at his father then down at his wrist.

"Oh, you know," he said with a shrug, "Line of duty and all." He gave a small chuckled that, even to his own ears, sounded false. He hadn't made a conscious decision to lie, or mislead at any rate, but on the spur of the moment it seemed far easier not to get into the whole story of a night he would just as rather forget.

"Do you remember what happened Jesse?" Mark asked the question with some hesitation. None of them yet knew the details of his attack – how he had come to be so viciously beaten – but at the same time he was not quite certain that he wanted to be the one to fill him in on the subsequent events that he was unlikely to have been aware of.

Jesse did not respond immediately. He remembered what had happened only too clearly.

Since he had regained consciousness – true consciousness – he had been plagued with flashes of memory. Searing pain and the cold rain beating down onto his body; the man bearing down on him, fingers laced around his throat; the shadows closing in as he tried to reach the beach house.

Jesse was grateful for the chatter that met his ears when he woke, but was greeted by darkness that seethed with menace the instance his eyes closed. He didn't know where the memories ended and the nightmares began.

Jesse met Mark's eyes and gave a small nod.

"Yeah," he said softly, "I remember."

Steve and Mark exchanged a glance, knowing only too well that the extent of Jesse's awareness could not possibly stretch to the whole story. The obvious frailty of their friend however, the weakness in his voice and the pain in his eyes, was enough to convince them both that the full story could wait until another day, when he was stronger.

Jesse however, had other ideas.

"So… uh, do you know…? I mean… who… the guy who…" Jesse faltered, looking apprehensive.

"The man who attacked you?" Mark replied.

Jesse nodded again.

"Because, I mean, I can't remember the licence plate but I remember the car and… and I could give you a description…" Jesse broke off, catching on to the look that flashed between Mark and Steve despite the fogginess that was beginning to cloud his head again.

"What?"

Mark looked at Jesse, considering his response. He sighed heavily. There was no point in lying, but he had wanted to spare Jesse the knowledge of what had happened after he had arrived at the beach house, certain that his response would be to blame himself.

Jesse listened mutely as Mark spoke, his attention flicking back and forth between the two men as Steve interjected with the occasional addition.

Sure enough his reaction was exactly as Mark had expected.

"This is all my fault." Jesse whispered, his voice barely audible.

"No it isn't" Steve retorted, glaring at Jesse intently.

"It is." Jesse muttered, to himself more than anyone.

"I started it all off. I made him angry. I… I was driving too fast or something…"

"Oh don't be stupid Jesse. Russell Schaffer is completely insane; if it wasn't you it would have been someone else, don't you get that? You were just in the wrong place, at the wrong time. You didn't ask that maniac to attack us anymore than you asked him to attack you."

"But I led him to you!" Jesse intoned, his voice rising. He winced and stiffened in his bed, throwing his head back as a spasm of pain rippled through his body.

"Jesse, it's not your fault." Mark stressed, standing and placing a hand on Jesse's tense shoulder, pushing him gently back down onto the bed. "It's not."

Jesse did not argue – at least not verbally – unable to speak as the jagged pain continued to course through his body. But Mark could see the guilt in his eyes and he cursed Russell Schaffer for putting it there. Not only had the man damaged Jesse physically, he had marked him psychologically – and it was those scars that would remain long after the physical wounds had healed.

"Russell Schaffer is locked up where he belongs – he's not going to hurt anyone else, alright? What matters now is that you're going to be ok. I'm ok, Steve's ok, Amanda's ok. We're all ok, okay?"

Jesse smiled despite the pain,

"Okay."

The Pacific Ocean glinted like a sheet of rippled glass in the morning sunlight, refracting the shimmering rays back up into the sky. The view was nearly perfect, spoiled only by the solid grey bars that obstructed the window.

Russell Schaffer faced the window staring unseeingly out, his gaze resting on some vague point on the horizon. He muttered to himself distractedly under his breath, his fingers moving fervently about their task as he continued his smouldering tirade.

Telling me to sleep, as if I'm life them! Weak… pathetic… I don't need sleep. I'm better than that, better than them.

Schaffer moved his fingers more nimbly and shuddered in perverse delight as a slither of pain snaked through his chest.

Fools. Just let them try, let them try and keep me down… No idea who they're dealing with… just a matter of time… Let them try and stop me.

He clawed at his skin, tearing at the stitches that held his damaged chest together, gauging his nails into the semi-healed wound and paring the flesh open into a bloody crevice. With a renewed shiver of pain he pulled the thin thread of a stitch from his chest and let it drop into the growing pile of similarly bloodied sutures.

Schaffer allowed his eyes to drift, taking in the throng of people on the streets below going about their business. He wondered if they knew of him yet, wondered if they spoke his name in the awe his existence demanded.

If not, then they soon would.

He pulled another stitch from his body, a trickle of blood oozing from the gaping wound. It pleased him.

It would need attention, he knew that.

Maybe, he thought, Maybe he will come.

He had heard the nurses talking, knew that he was a doctor.

Tracking the progress of the rivulet of blood as it trickled down his bruised chest, Schaffer smiled in satisfaction.

The blonde one… Jesse.

THE END