TRUST – Part two
Author – Moneypenny
Notes: Follows straight on from Part One
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"Please. You've got to help me."
Slowly, like a man caught in a bad dream, Harm knelt down on the sidewalk and met the terrified gaze of the man lying prone in front of him. The paleness of Petty Officer Robinson's face contrasted sharply with the dark red, bloody stain spreading across the front of his shirt.
"Help's coming. Hang in there. You'll be fine," Harm heard himself promise. 'Liar' his mind screamed at him as Robinson weakly grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. With his face now only inches away from the Petty Officer's the evidence was undeniable; the man was dying.
Drawing in a rattling breath, Robinson's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "I called you, sir. I tried to tell you. You should have listened –"
"I know, I'm sorry."
"You could have helped me. You could have stopped him…"
"I tried…"
Robinson's lips twisted in a bitter smile. "No you didn't, sir."
Automatically Harm opened his mouth to deny the allegation. Icy cold fingers of guilt stroking his spine made him change his mind. Robinson's terrified expression contained more than a hint of accusation. Swallowing down a wave of nausea, he covered Robinson's hand with own, in a helpless gesture of comfort. It was cold to the touch, the palm covered in something sticky. Blood.
Looking down he recoiled in horror. His own hands were covered in blood, from his wrists down to his fingertips. The front of his crisp white uniform shirt was covered too, the material sticking to his skin underneath. And the smell…
Retching, he scrambled backwards on his hand and knees, Robinson's accusing gaze following him, burning into him like red-hot steel. Swamped with guilt he froze. He knew he should do something but he couldn't; his body just wouldn't obey his brain. Paralysed, he watched the blood stain grow, pooling on the sidewalk, reaching out towards him…
"Commander? Commander, wake up."
With a jerk, Harm came awake. His heart thundering, he sucked in a ragged breath. Breathe, his mind screamed at him, just breathe. With an effort he did just that. His heart gradually slowed but the nightmare still lingered. Half-opening his eyes, he focused on the scene around him, determinedly replacing the bad memories with good ones. The walls were painted blue. Bright blue walls.
Bethesda – he was in Bethesda.
Mac.
For a second he was tempted to close his eyes again, to pretend the last few hours had never happened. But the brief glimpse that he'd got of the room had told him that he wasn't alone. Reluctantly he opened them.
He was rewarded with an encouraging smile from the nurse who was standing beside his bed. "Hey, there you go." Removing her hand from his shoulder, she flashed him another smile. Petite, blond and in her mid-twenties she was exuding enthusiasm. Before he could say anything she was heading for the door in a haze of bustling efficiency. "I'll go get you some water."
He opened his mouth to protest then shut it. Hewasthirsty he realised, licking his lips. The nightmare had left a sour taste in his mouth. Pulling himself up on the bed he shivered as the image of Robinson threatened a re-appearance. With a shake of his head he pushed it away. With the doctors already doubting his physical ability to do his job, the last thing he needed was for them to doubt his mental ability as well. Glancing down at his crumpled uniform shirt, he did the top button up. Just in time, he pulled up the knot of his tie as the nurse reappeared.
Switching on his Flyboy grin he took the glass of water from her. "Thanks."
A look of kind concern on her face, the nurse hovered beside him. "Feeling better?"
Fighting an insane urge to laugh Harm concentrated on emptying the glass instead. Drinking it dry, he handed the glass back. "Thanks."
Like a faithful puppy the nurse stayed by the side of the bed, her eyes never leaving his face. It crossed his mind to tell her to leave but despite his dark mood he pulled back; she was just doing her job. Her look of concern was the last thing he needed right now though. Exhausted, embarrassed, his skin still goose-pimpled and covered by a sheen of cold sweat, all he wanted to do was take a long, hot shower and retreat to his apartment. He knew it wasn't going to happen. It looked like he was going to be stuck in Bethesda for at least a couple more hours. And he knew who he had to thank for that.
Glancing at the clock on the wall he came to a decision. Dragging together the last dregs of his energy, he straightened his shoulders, and flashed the nurse a weak smile. His shoulder protested at the sudden movement, reminding him why he was back in the hospital in the first place. Ignoring the pain, he slid off the bed, using his full height to his advantage as the nurse looked up at him in surprise.
"What time did the doctor say he'd be ready to talk to me again?" he asked, retrieving his jacket from the end of the bed and carefully shrugging it on.
Confused, the nurse stared back at him. Harm could understand her confusion; she'd been with him earlier that afternoon when the doctor had finished examining him and given him instructions for the rest of the afternoon. Still, he reflected wryly, she'd already witnessed the effects of his nightmares. A mild case of amnesia shouldn't phase her at all.
It didn't. "Three-thirty," she replied, recovering quickly.
"Good. Gives me half an hour to stretch my legs." Buttoning up the jacket, he headed for the door.
"Okay." Behind him the nurse sounded doubtful again. "Er…Commander Rabb, you will come back, won't you?"
Offended, he froze then turned. The genuine concern he saw on her face forced him to swallow his resentment. "Half an hour, that's all."
With a nod and a sigh she let him go. Not waiting to be told twice, Harm went. With only half an hour to play with and zero energy at his disposal a walk outside seemed ambitious. Settling instead on a trip to the cafeteria he bought himself a coffee and found a small table in a quiet corner.
Five minutes later, and despite his best efforts, the nightmare was still lingering at the back of his mind. Brief snatches of it kept playing in his mindseye. Not clear pictures - more like shadowy images that refused to reveal themselves but which reeked of fear. Pushing them away, he focused on the scene around him again, grabbing onto the normality like a life raft. He shouldn't have let himself fall asleep in that examining room he realised, berating his own weakness. But he'd been so tired when the nurse had suggested he rest for a while. Tiredness coupled with the effects of a recent dose of painkillers and his body had made the decision for him.
How the hell had he let everything get so out of control?
When you let your own personal views about Petty Officer Robinson cloud your judgement, the guilty voice at the back of his mind taunted. All you had to do was return his calls and the man would still be alive. Instead Robinson's dead and Chief Petty Officer Shayler is squirming his way out of the murder charge. You're on the verge of losing your wings and maybe even your JAG career. And then there's Mac…
With a grunt he slammed the lid shut on that train of thought. Pulling the coffee towards him he sipped at it gingerly, screwing up his face at the bitter taste. He didn't really want it – the smell alone was doing strange things to his stomach – but asking the nurse for another glass of water hadn't seemed like a bright idea. She'd been brimming with questions he wasn't prepared to answer.
Remembering the nurse's parting question about whether he was coming back, he shook his head with disbelief. Just what were the medical staff expecting him to do? Okay, maybe he hadn't been honest with the doctors at La Jolla about his shoulder. And yes, grudgingly he had to admit that he had planned to miss his appointment with the physiotherapist that afternoon at Bethesda. But it had been for a good reason. With another shake of his head he attacked the coffee again. Admiral Chewiggen must have put a rocket up the doctor's six to get him behaving like this. Still, he knew how that felt. The Admiral had put a rocket up his as well.
Letting his mind drift, he ran through the events of the last few hours. From the moment he'd spotted Bud striding across the JAG parking lot towards him he'd known he was in trouble. As his friend had escorted him back to the Admiral's office he'd tried kidding himself that things weren't as bad as they looked, despite the fact Bud had confiscated his case files. He'd get out of it, he always did. The Admiral would glare at him over the top of his glasses; he'd apologise for whatever he was supposed to have done. Then he'd head out with Mac to do the interviews for their latest case and everything would be back on track.
Except it hadn't worked like that. Not this time.
Crisply and concisely the Admiral had run through a few simple questions. Not once had he raised his voice but even before he'd had a chance to answer the first question, Harm had known he was sunk. Somehow the Admiral had found out about his unscheduled trip to the Emergency Room at Bethesda the night before. He knew he'd been ordered to attend physiotherapy sessions. And he'd heard about the doctor's 'suggestion' that he take a few days leave. He didn't need a PhD in rocket science to figure out how the Admiral had found all that out; there was only one person he'd trusted enough to accompany him to the hospital the night before.
His stomach roiled at the sense of betrayal. Swallowing hard, he struck out angrily, pushing the coffee cup away. It tilted precariously, spilling steaming hot coffee over his hand and he snatched it back, sucking on his thumb to ease the stinging pain. Cursing under his breath, he pushed himself away from the table, the chair legs scrapping loudly across the floor. He knew he was drawing inquisitive stares from the other customers but a few well-placed stony glares quickly solved that.
Pushing through the swing doors of the cafeteria he headed down the corridor and towards the stairs. He didn't know where he was going and he didn't care; he needed to get out. His emotions were swirling, fighting for supremacy; he felt like he was going to explode. Speeding up he let his feet carry him down the first flight of stairs, the steady beat of his shoes matching the thumping of his heart. Faster he hit the second flight, using the handrail to swing him round onto the next step. His breath rasped painfully in his throat, reminding him just how unfit he still was from his injury but he pushed himself and kept going. He wanted out. He hated the smell of this place, the stifling heat, the non-stop clatter of footsteps over the hard floors night and day. He hated the alien feeling of not being in control.
Rattling down the last few steps he pushed through the fire door and came to a halt. Breathing hard, he looked around him, spinning on his heels to get a better view. Around him the organised chaos of the Emergency Room continued, the staff oblivious to his sudden appearance.
Disorientated, Harm stood rooted in the middle of the corridor. Physiotherapy was on the ninth floor. He could remember taking the first two flights but then… Shaking his head he tried to pull himself together. The warring emotions of anger, guilt and betrayal that had propelled him down the stairs were gone, leaving him empty. Now he just felt weary to the bone.
"Make a space! Coming through!"
Like a cork bobbing on water, he was brushed out of the way as a group of doctors and nurses rushed past him with a gurney. He caught a glimpse of the badly bruised and bloodied face of the man lying on it but then they were gone, disappearing behind a set of swing doors into one of the emergency treatment rooms.
Green tiles. He could remember the green tiles on the walls in the emergency treatment room. And the bright lights. Mac had been in there somewhere too, a familiar face amongst all the strange ones. At least he thought it had been Mac. The period after the shooting was still a blur. He could remember lying on the sidewalk, the Marine Guard leaning over him, saying something. What, he'd never figured out. All he could remember was faces, lots of faces with silently moving mouths. And there'd been a hand holding onto his.
Machad been there with him. So why had she told –
The beeping of his pager broke into his confused thoughts. Digging it out of his pocket, it took him a moment to realise the message was from Sturgis. Frowning, he read it again then shoved the pager back in his pocket. The doctor would be waiting for him, he reminded himself. Glancing one last time at the doors to the treatment room he headed for the elevators. Sturgis would have to wait, he decided, the fresh ache of betrayal taking control of his thoughts. If his friend wanted to find out that urgently how he was all he had to do was ask the Admiral. Hell, every member of the JAG Ops staff probably knew what was going on by now. Of course, he was assuming Mac hadn't run straight to Sturgis' office and told him everything. After all, she hadn't wasted any time running to the Admiral.
Stepping into the elevator he straightened his tie again. As the floor numbers slowly increased, so did the churning in his stomach. It was only physiotherapy he reminded himself. He wouldn't lose his wings. That was unthinkable. Itwouldn'thappen. He wouldn't let it.
The doors slid open again and he squared his shoulders and stepped out. Wiping his palms against his trouser legs he turned left towards the nurses' station. The young nurse appeared and he forced himself not to react at the look of relief that crossed her face. Smile, he reminded himself. Give her the Flyboy grin.
As the memory of Mac's hand holding his floated uppermost in his mind, he walked up to the nurse and smiled.
