Chapter 22

The Chief escorted Mark to another ambulance, giving instructions to the personnel that Mark didn't struggle to hear. On the way to the hospital, they flushed his eyes with liquid antacid and placed a temporary dressing on his head wound. Mark accepted their ministrations numbly, his mind trapped in one all-consuming loop. If Steve were torn out of his life, his loss would leave a gaping wound that would be impossible to heal.

The emergency room night staff at the hospital were familiar, but nobody he would consider an intimate friend. Passively, he allowed them to stitch his head, but when they tried to admit him, he refused, signing the AMA forms and summoning enough cogent arguments to alleviate their concerns.

He asked no one about Steve, knowing that any news at that time would be the worst. As long as Steve was alive, the doctors would still be working on him. Mark only made it as far as a waiting room before his legs were shaking too hard to support him and he sank down, the familiar but alien environment distancing him from his emotions.

It was aptly named, 'waiting area'. The furniture was worn and too uncomfortable to encourage a lengthy stay. The stained surfaces of coffee tables were littered with old magazines and crumpled and half-filled disposable coffee cups. Mindless Muzac droned softly from somewhere overhead, drowned out occasionally by an announcement. Yet despite the late hour, the lighting was harsh, even garish, revealing mercilessly the pallor and stark shadows of fear that lined the faces of its few occupants.

He felt as fragile as glass, that the smallest touch would shatter him, sending him falling into jagged fragments on the ground. His head injury and exhaustion were clouding his usual common sense, and he clung to the relative anonymity of the waiting room, eschewing the doctor's lounge with its greater likelihood of questions and sympathy.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall, finding it difficult to bring it into focus. Had it been that long a time? That short? He couldn't remember the last time he ate or slept. It was as if time itself were on hold, stopped short by impending...his mind shied away from completion of that thought.

"Mark?" Amanda's soft voice recalled him to his surroundings, and he looked into her concerned face as she knelt beside him.

"Hi, honey," he replied naturally, as if sitting in the dingy waiting room were an every day occurrence.

"I came as soon as I heard," she continued cautiously.

"You didn't have to do that," Mark murmured automatically. "The boys?"

"My neighbour came over to baby-sit. They're fine." Amanda took a deep breath, anticipating the argument ahead. "Mark, you're in no condition to be sitting here. You need to be lying down. Jesse's in with Steve. He'll bring news as soon as he can."

"It's okay, honey, I'm fine," Mark answered vaguely, unaware that his slurred speech was giving her an entirely different message.

She didn't try to argue with him but patted his knee. "Wait here," she ordered unnecessarily, as Mark continued to stare at the space she vacated, not bothering to change his focus. He had no idea of the passage of time before she returned pushing a wheelchair. At her urging, he moved unsteadily into the wheelchair, but as she started to push him, a sudden flashback to the last time he'd used this mode of transportation produced a spurt of adrenaline that partly cleared his mind. He looked round in alarm until he caught sight of Amanda.

"Where we going?" he asked, confused.

"I've arranged for a room for you," she reassured him. "You've got a concussion and you need to be resting."

Mark wanted to protest, but his head was reeling and he couldn't quite frame the words he was looking for, so he subsided despondently.

The sight of the room, almost identical to the one in which he'd spend the previous day waiting, brought a wave of revulsion, but he allowed Amanda to sit him on the edge of the bed, the weight of the leg cast making it hard to swing up further.

Amanda tapped the cast. "I'll take this off now if you want. It's served its purpose, hasn't it?"

Mark nodded wearily. "Yes. The Chief was able to trace the GPS signal from the transponder he gave Jesse to hide in there. It worked like a charm." The latter was said with an uncharacteristic edge of bitterness.

Amanda looked up, concern behind the enquiry in her gaze.

It was almost too much of an effort to form coherent sentences, but regret impelled the words, almost unconsciously. "It was my plan that was far from perfect. I didn't factor in the possibility that Canin was beyond reason and would attempt to fight his way out of an unwinnable situation."

Practicality blended with compassion in Amanda's voice. "Mark, no plan can be perfect. You had to get to Steve and you had to get to him quickly, and it worked. It was a brilliant plan. The Chief explained how you suggested one of the cops with you in each shift was chosen from the list of those on the take. The other was honest so Canin could get the information but they wouldn't be free to act."

"I miscalculated there too."

"The cop who was drugged is fine. The other..." she shrugged, "...I won't shed any tears for him. He was willing to betray his oath and let you be taken and killed."

She could still see the doubt in his eyes and searched for the right words to alleviate his guilt. She decided to focus on the essentials. "You've given Steve a fighting chance. If you hadn't taken action immediately, Canin would have killed him or he would have died of his injuries. This way he's got a real chance, thanks to you. Steve's strong," she stated optimistically, wanting to remove the bleak look in her friend's eyes. "Given a chance, he'll pull through."

Mark didn't mention his long-held opinion that there were only so many times that even the strongest person could pull himself back from the brink of death, but he did share his most immediate fear. "He had no reserves left." His voice was low and pained. "He was exhausted."

"Do you remember when Steve was shot by Oz Tatum?" Amanda asked carefully. The look of incredulity on Mark's face informed her that it wasn't an event that could slip from his memory.

"Jesse and I...well, we didn't think he'd make it," she continued hastily. "But you refused to give up on him. You were determined that he would make it and somehow I think you transferred that faith to him."

For a moment, all Mark could remember was the bitter sorrow of being dragged to jail while his son's fate was still in the balance, but he pushed that memory aside to allow the balm of Amanda's words to soothe his fears.

He took a deep breath before saying firmly, "I'm not giving up on him now either. Thanks, honey."

She fluffed his pillows, ruthlessly forcing him back into them, then, in a quiet monotone, started updating him on recent events at the hospital in his absence.

Mark struggled to stay awake, but his body mutinied and took his will captive by the simple expedient of dragging it back into the darkness of unconsciousness.

It was some hours later that his subconscious recognised Jesse's voice in the whispered conversation in his room, and he woke up in a convulsive start, memories washing acidly back immediately.

"Steve! Jesse?"

He looked at Jesse with a set, rigid face, eyes bleak and pleading, suddenly terrified that the younger doctor had come to inform him that Steve was dead.

However, the tentative smile Jesse offered him augured well, and he relaxed a little. "How bad, Jess?"

Jesse sat down on the edge of the bed, picking his words carefully. "He made it through surgery without too many problems. What I'm most concerned about is sepsis. It's playing havoc with his blood pressure. I've sutured the wounds that I could, but too much time has elapsed to be able to do more than irrigate and bandage most of his injuries. We're also giving him IV fluids and medication to help support his blood pressure. He's on breathing treatments and oxygen. I haven't placed him on a ventilator yet, but it remains a possibility."

Mark nodded thoughtfully; it could have been much worse. "I want to see him, Jess."

"I know you do," Jesse soothed. "But at the moment, he's unconscious and you need to rest."

"I'm going now!"

Mark turned the full power of his best glare of intimidation on his colleague - an amazing feat considering he'd just woken up and was lying in bed - and Jesse caved in the face of such determination. Lifting his hands in surrender, he nodded, "Okay, okay. I'll be right back."

They both accompanied him to Steve's room, Jesse pushing the wheelchair, but, after transferring him to a specially placed comfortable chair beside the bed, they left him alone, affording him the privacy he desired.

His initial trepidation was somewhat assuaged as he automatically read the machines surrounding his son. He knew that, thanks to the angle of entry, the last bullet had missed anything vital. None of Steve's injuries were, by themselves, life-threatening. It was the cumulative effect, and the fact that they had gone so long untreated, that led to his continued presence in the ICU. Once he was successfully stabilised, he could be moved to a regular room.

Now that he was actually with his son, Mark's most acute fears evaporated, leaving him imbued with a new sense of resolution. Steve was adrift on a perilous sea, but Mark would be his life preserver, keeping him afloat until he reached safer shores.

With an aching heart, he watched Steve sleep. Lines of pain that Mark didn't remember seeing before were evident on his son's face. He was still pale, although he had more colour than when he'd been loaded into the ambulance. There were still dark shadows beneath his son's eyes, which were emphasised by the dim light in the room, but hopefully rest and relaxation would erase them.

He took his son's hand firmly in his, a physical anchoring reinforcing the more tenuous link offered by his voice.

"You're safe in hospital now, son and you're going to be fine." It was as much a command as a statement of faith, and he reinforced it with a gentle squeeze to the lax hand he was holding. For a minute there was silence, then he continued more conversationally.

"You know, this was much easier when you were just having your tonsils out. Actually," he chuckled gently, "I didn't handle that too well at the time either. It was the first time I experienced the real disadvantages of being a doctor, of knowing all the things that could go wrong - not that they were likely to happen, but were still possibilities. I didn't want to worry your mom, but I think the pacing gave it away."

Memories tumbled into his mind, warring for dominance, scrambling to be remembered first. He talked about things he'd probably never have mentioned if he'd had a conscious audience for his words, but eventually his voice trailed off as, lulled by the comfortable support of the chair and reassured by the strengthening of his son's vital signs, he slipped back into sleep.

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Hospital. Even in a drugged, semi-conscious state, Steve could catalog the sounds, smells and physical sensations that informed him of his present location - the constant beep of the heart monitor in particular - and he congratulated himself wryly on his detective skills.

Most importantly, he was aware of someone gripping his hand, and he smiled faintly, reassured. It was his father, he could tell without looking. Mark's presence was tangible even in silence. His Dad was okay. He knew that was important, though he couldn't remember why he was concerned.

He lazily examined his memory, skimming like a skipping stone over the placid surface of his mind until he impacted with a jarring thud against an obstacle labeled Canin and sank into turbulent images that brought him fully awake with a convulsive jerk.

"Steve?" The concern in the familiar voice nearby forced him to open his eyes, the lids feeling gummy and leaden.

"Dad." His mouth was too dry for the words to issue audibly from his lips, but from the grin that split his father's face, he clearly understood.

"I'll get you something to drink."

Mark could see his son's eyes tracking him as he moved around the room, as if afraid he was an apparition that would vanish if eye contact was lost. As he reseated himself, he told his son reassuringly. "I'm not hurt, don't worry."

Steve's eyes pointed accusingly at the bandage decorating his head. "OK," he amended, "a few scratches, nothing more, I promise."

He helped Steve take a few small sips through a straw, then seeing a slight wince, he asked, "How are you feeling; are you in any pain?"

Steve's voice was hoarse but audible. "No pain, just lots of wavy lines and the room..." He tried to lift an arm to demonstrate how the room was spinning, but it seemed too heavy to move.

Mark chuckled encouragingly. "We're pumping more than a few drugs into you, so that isn't really surprising. You'll need some physio on your leg especially, but you're going to be okay."

The relief in Mark's face told Steve that the outcome had been in doubt at least in his father's mind, but he didn't press the issue. Sleep was pulling him inexorably down into its grasp again, so he decided to focus on the essentials.

"Canin?"

"Dead."

Mark didn't look too distraught while imparting this information and, remembering the gun aimed at his father, Steve decided he wasn't either.

"You still under arrest?"

"Oh!" Mark looked surprised. "I have no idea. I haven't tried to leave this room for a while, so the issue hasn't come up. Hopefully the Chief has got that all cleared up. Anyway, don't worry about that now."

"Sleep?" Steve was reduced to monosyllables.

"Yes," Mark was amused as his son's eyelids completed their gradual descent. "Sleep is good."

"Not me, you." Steve's words were increasingly slurred as the drugs eased him back into the arms of Morpheus.

"I'm fine." Mark swallowed down the lump that threatened to choke him.

Steve slid one eye half open, attempting to bring his father into focus to verify this claim, but it fell shut of its own volition.

Mark patted his son's hand consolingly as the younger man drifted back to sleep, then rose to his feet to inform Jesse that Steve had finally awoken. But, at the movement, a hand reached out to grasp his sleeve and pull him down again.

"Don't go." The drugs had lowered Steve's normal defenses, revealing a vulnerability that took Mark back 40 years to the little boy having his tonsils removed. He had a feeling the appeal was motivated as much by Steve's innate protectiveness, a determination not to let his father out of his sight again, but the plaintive request brought a lump to his throat. A wave of love so powerful it nearly overwhelmed him surged through his heart as he stood gazing down at his son, noting that even nearly asleep, Steve's fingers remained entwined in his sleeve.

"I'll be right here," he promised thickly. His eyes burned as the magnitude of his near loss filled his chest until he could scarcely breath, but relief sang joyously through every cell of his body. It had been too close yet again, but Steve's tenacity and amazing resilience had pulled him through.

As his son's fingers relaxed in sleep, Mark gently pulled free of the grip on his sleeve, renewing his own grasp on Steve's hand and settling back, the quiet bustle of the hospital at night soothing to his ears.