Chapter 5

Jesse gravitated moodily to the sounds of the disturbance. Blessed with a naturally ebullient personality, he rarely suffered from depression, but currently he felt like retreating to a quiet room and licking his wounds in private. In the end, it was the memory of how Mark typically coped with stress that sent him out in search of distraction.

The sounds of disorder intensified, the nurses boiling around like worker ants in a frenzy over a choice tidbit, and Jesse hastened his steps. Violence was unfortunately not a rare occurrence in the ER; from people injured under the influence of a veritable pharmacy of drugs, to gang members trading potshots on a variety of territorial imperatives, they all too frequently attempted to help people who didn't want to submit passively to the rules laid down for their treatment.

He insinuated himself into the centre of the huddle, anticipating the toughest patient and could only stare slack-jawed in amazement at the sight of his best friend. In an instant that seemed to last an eternity, his emotions ran the gamut from stunned disbelief, to joyous relief to dismayed horror at his appearance.

he exclaimed, at last finding his voice.

Steve looked up and latched onto him like a starving man grasping a proffered meal. His eyes were blue shards of anxiety as he stood up, shedding nurses like a lion shaking off cubs. Jess, where's Dad? Is he okay?

Before Jesse had a chance to respond, the most officious of the nurses jumped back into the fray. Dr. Travis, this man is clearly injured but he is refusing treatment.

With an authority that might have seemed strange for a man of his size and youth, Jesse dismissed her and all the hospital personnel. I'll deal with this, thank you.

He pulled Steve into a nearby treatment room, not sure how much his friend knew and wanting to bring him up to date in private. The second the door closed behind them, Steve grabbed Jesse's arm in shaking hands. His face was set like steel -- rusted steel, with shockingly pale streaks showing through the dried blood. For God's sake just tell me. Is he alive?

Suddenly plumbing the depths of his friend's fear, Jesse hastened to reassure him. Yes, he's alive and resting...Whoa, sit down here. As if the good news had snipped the last string holding him upright, Steve's knees had buckled and Jesse hustled him over to a chair before he hit the floor. Steve buried his face in his hands, fighting for control, the abrupt downward collapse of his body diametrically opposed to the tremendous lightening of his spirit. The relief loosened the incredible constriction in his chest, the weight of his worst fear blown away. He took a deep breath. I need to see him, Jess.I don't think...Jesse, please!Steve, just listen to me for a moment, Jesse insisted. You look like something the cat had more sense than to drag in. If Mark sees you looking like that, he'll have a ... He suddenly realised that he was in the middle of an unfortunate choice of metaphor and hastily changed mid-sentence, ...it'll be a nasty shock. Let me just dress your neck and your wrists and change your shirt so you're not actively dripping blood anywhere, then we'll go and see him, I promise.

Steve assented reluctantly, acknowledging the common sense in the young doctor's words, but knowing that it would be impossible for him to relax until he'd seen his father and allowed his physical senses to banish the nightmare he'd been living. He shifted restlessly while Jesse worked, more from the delay than from the pain.

They said that he had a heart attack in the courtroom, he announced suddenly. That he actually...that his heart actually stopped.

Jesse's hands stilled at the terrible reminder, one that he would rank near the top of his list of days I'd like to expunge from my memory.' he admitted reluctantly, that's essentially what happened. I know it sounds bad, but I started CPR immediately and managed to resuscitate him within...You were there? You saved his life? Steve interrupted. Thank you. I owe you one. The words were sparse, but his face was alight with gratitude and the deep sincerity in his voice made Jesse wince with guilt. He didn't think that Steve would be expressing the same sentiments when he heard the whole story. He helped Steve remove his shirt, just succeeding in biting back a gasp at the sight of the cruel contusions that almost covered Steve's entire torso.

I have to get you to x-ray, he announced curtly. He didn't intend the anger that suddenly burned hotly inside to flare out of control and singe his friend, but luckily Steve seemed oblivious to his tone.

was his only response and Jesse judged the monosyllabic reply to be an indication of Steve's state of utter exhaustion. Slight tremors shook his frame almost continuously, yet Jesse believed his friend would proceed on sheer strength of will even when his physical reserves were utterly depleted. He wouldn't rest until he'd seen his father and the best thing Jesse could do was to expedite that, ignoring the medical training that told him to treat and medicate.

The only item he had with which to replace the stained and tattered shirt was a hospital gown, but at least it concealed the worst of the damage. He then fetched a wheelchair. Steve regarded it with mild disfavor but made no demur, and the journey up to the cardiac wing commenced in silence. Steve was too weary to think, never mind talk, and Jesse was too absorbed in his own thoughts to make the effort.

However, as they stopped outside a private room and Jesse reached to open the door, Steve intercepted his hand. Let's not worry him more than we have to, huh? He placed his hands on the armrests of the chair and pushed himself upright, steadying himself against the door frame. Jesse was about to intersperse a sarcastic comment about the relative merits of the wheelchair versus falling flat on his face when he witnessed a remarkable transformation. Although clearly running on fumes, Steve dredged up at least the appearance of animation, straightening up and throwing back his shoulders, moving with an ease that belied the true weariness he was experiencing.

However, the most accomplished acting in the world couldn't alter his dire pallor and the bruising which suggested he'd gone several rounds with a boxing team...and lost. He opened the door gently, not wanting to disturb Mark if he was resting quietly. Amanda was sitting by the bed, but Steve's eyes gravitated exclusively to his father. Mark's face was drawn and pale, the skin on his forehead pulled into unaccustomed deep furrows, a visual record inscribed in flesh of the stress he'd suffered in the last 24 hours.

Amanda's gasp alerted Mark to the intrusion, and he turned in the direction of the door. If Steve had ever doubted the depths of his father's feelings for him, he would have revised his opinion at that moment. In that one unguarded moment, Mark's expression reflected a relief so profound as to be painful and then blazed into a smile full of love that radically reversed the previous grey exhaustion of his face. Steve made it over to the bed on autopilot, then Amanda nudged him into her chair, dropping a kiss onto an unmarked spot on his forehead to express her own sense of relief.

Mark reached out, gripping his son's hand firmly. It was a simple touch, but the vulnerability and trust it communicated made Steve's throat tighten. For long minutes neither spoke; words had long ago become a secondary mode of communication between them, but eventually Mark's curiosity prompted a question.

What happened? He gestured towards Steve's neck.

It's just a scratch. He aborted a shrug in the middle, the simple motion pulling painfully at a myriad of bruised and torn muscles.

Mark knew from the size and type of bandage that this was a typical understatement to try to deflect his concern. His knowledge of anatomy also informed him that, knife or gun, the weapon had been scant fractions of an inch away from his son's carotid artery, and that minute measurement between life and death sent a thrill of fear up his spine. He masked this new surge of concern under a curmudgeonly scowl.

You look terrible, half dead on your feet.

Steve did his best to allay his worry. I'm fine, Dad, honestly. Just a few bumps and scratches. Mark summoned the young doctor for a more objective opinion.

Dented, but salvageable, Jesse confirmed dryly.

You need to be worrying about yourself, Dad, not me. The bruises will be gone in a week, but a heart attack...that's serious. He hated the thought of that infirmity. Despite his innate protectiveness of his father, there had always been an indestructible quality about Mark.

Oh, I'll be fine, Mark said hastily, effectively dismissing the subject. Yet there was something in his words that, despite his exhaustion, tickled Steve's detective instincts. He frowned, studying his father. There was an earnest innocence in his expression, but Steve had learnt to read beyond what was obvious and sensed an odd evasion. He turned to Jesse, knowing that young man was as transparent as Mark was opaque. He found the last thing he'd ever expected to see there -- anger.

He was quite aware of Jesse's strong feelings of awe and affection for Mark, and welcomed him into their adopted extended family, but now his father had had a heart attack and Jesse reaction was wrath. It made no sense. The unconnected facts floated in his mind, rotating lazily around each other until, reaching the correct configuration, they pulled together with a resounding explosion, and he turned back to Mark with horrified understanding.

What did you do!I didn't really do anything; it was an accident, Mark defended himself lamely.

Your heart attack was an accident? Steve questioned hotly.

Mark considered prevarication and dissembling, the verbal equivalent to the sleight of hand he loved so much, but the dangerous glint in his son's eye stopped any protestations of innocence.

Let me explain. He coughed, trying to find words that would mellow the upcoming lecture he could foresee in the near future. A quick glance showed him that no help would be forthcoming from Amanda or Jesse. Both stood with arms crossed and amazingly identical expression of disapproval on their faces.

He suppressed a sigh and ventured on bravely. I had to play for time, you see. Perjury would merely postpone the inevitable. Once the verdict was in, they'd have no more use for you. His jaw tightened at the memory of that agonising predicament and he continued on more strongly. It would be a near impossibility to find you in the time we had available; they could be holding you anywhere. It was essential to postpone the trial in such a way as to ensure your safety and maybe even force them into the open. Anything too blatant would have the same effect as a guilty verdict and would have cost you your life.So you thought you'd do something subtle like kill yourself in the middle of the courtroom? Steve remained unimpressed, his tone as dry as the Atacama desert, but behind that was a matching heat which told Mark his son was poised on the edge of an explosion.

Mark had tried contrition, but it was hard to pull off when he felt no regret. His son was alive, here and if front of him, and in his mind that was all the justification his actions needed. So now he matched Steve's dryness, upping the stakes with dignified offense. Actually, no, that wasn't part of the plan. If I'd died, then again they would have no reason to keep you alive, so that would defeat the purpose.

Steve was somewhat mollified by this disclosure. So what was the plan?

Mark was tempted to shift some of the culpability for the scheme in Jesse's direction, but in fairness, that young man had provided the inspiration in all innocence. The plan was to fake a heart attack. Well, maybe fake is the wrong word, simulate is better. It had to be totally convincing, an unavoidable but not catastrophic snag in their plans that wouldn't warrant retribution. I would still be a potential witness so they'd have to keep you around for leverage. Meanwhile, we'd have won the time we so badly needed, giving Cheryl the chance to locate you. So, did it work? Did she find you?

It all sounded eminently sensible, and Steve found himself thawing. When Mark ended with a question and looked at him with bright expectation he was within a hair's breath of answering. But his father was a past master at misdirection, and ultimately Steve refused to take the bait.

We'll talk about that later, he directed sternly, feeling like a heel as Mark's face fell, but sticking to his guns anyway. Are you telling me that you didn't have a heart attack after all, that you just pretended?Well...no. It had to look good. I couldn't just grab my chest, say arrrrghh' and lie down, Mark replied testily.

Steve prompted impatiently.

The symptoms at least had to be authentic and impressive, and we had little time to procure drugs. It was either swallow some fertilizer from the garden and give myself organophosphate poisoning...But I didn't do that, Mark stated virtuously. The only other thing immediately available was potassium.Didn't you tell me an overdose of potassium was what killed Lilian Oliver in the first place?Well, that's sort of where I got the idea, but, he continued hurriedly, you have to understand. She had congestive heart failure, and there were drug interactions at work too. I was aiming at a nice dose of hyperkalemia with some cardiac arrhythmia. Besides, Jesse was there and he had some the calcium ready to inject into the bloodstream to treat the cardiac toxicity and some sodium bicarbonate...So what went wrong? Steve interrupted, recognising diversion trick number twenty-seven, inundate them with excessive medical terminology.

Wrong? Well it didn't really go wrong, it went...too right. Reading the storm warning on his son's face, Mark tried to discharge the thunder harmlessly. We...I calculated the dose that would cause arrhythmia with some nice dramatic sweating and pallor. It was vital that it was convincing so I suppose I erred on the side of... He broke off with a wince, realising his inopportune choice of words, but Steve picked up where he left off.

Caution, is that what you were going to say? Caution. Steve's voice rose with each word, and Mark noticed with interest that his original pallor had been replaced by a more healthy looking flush of anger. You wouldn't know caution if it walked up and introduced itself then whacked you on the head. How have you convinced everybody that you're a genius? I've met lemmings with better survival instincts.

He rounded on Jesse, ready to include him in this castigation, but he was struck by the very real misery on the young man's face and he changed his mind. How many times had his father persuaded him to do something against his better judgment, from harbouring a fugitive to setting himself up as bait for a serial killer? For all his amiability, when he believed he was in the right, Mark strongly resembled a bulldozer, cheerfully rolling over opposition.

He turned back to his father. Have you apologised to Jesse? he demanded.

He didn't often succeed in surprising Mark, but whatever his father expected, it wasn't that. The older doctor glanced involuntarily at Jesse, who was exhibiting his own astonishment, but what he saw gave him pause and, for the first time, a certain shame in his own actions. He had been so absorbed in saving his son, he'd given no thought to the impact of his activities on others.

He flashed back to the horrendous experience of resuscitating his own son, the agony of hope and visceral fear of failure battened down in the frenzied, preprogrammed whirlwind of motion to be released later in a devastating explosion of overloaded emotions, in which relief was impossible to distinguish from pain. He would never have wished to inflict even a portion of that ordeal on anyone else.

I am so sorry, Jesse, he exclaimed sincerely. I didn't think...it must have been...well, I'm truly sorry.

Jesse still looked more shellshocked at not being on the receiving end of Steve's ire than gratified, and waved a limp but magnanimous hand. S'okay. I suppose it's worked out for the best.

He ignored Steve's mutter of, Don't let him off that easily, and, feeling slightly embarrassed to be the recipient of Mark's apologies, edged towards the door, Amanda in tow.

Why don't we leave the two of you to sort this out. He shook a cautionary finger at Steve. You've got fifteen minutes, then I'll be back.

Steve watched them leave and didn't immediately turn back, needing a short reprieve. The brief surge of energy brought on by anger had dissipated and he felt utterly exhausted and depressed by the notion that his father held his own life in such little regard.

He felt Mark gently touched his arm, then give a sharp inhalation. Following his father's gaze, he saw blood had oozed through the bandages around his wrist. He shook the gown's sleeves down lower, but they failed to cover the sight adequately. Seeing how upset Mark looked, Steve was unable to summon any more outrage, but he was equally unable to drop the subject.

Seriously, Dad, your concept of survival is remarkably flawed. It was said with affectionate humour and Mark responded in kind.

And this from a cop who risks his life for strangers every day.It's not the same, Steve argued. An elevated eyebrow invited him to explain the difference, but his brain was too tired to find the words for a concept he understood instinctively. On the streets, he was armed and trained and although anything could happen, he still held an element of control over his own fate. The cold-blooded courage of surrendering to the vicissitudes of chemical interactions was beyond his comprehension.

Although he didn't answer, Mark seemed to have understood his thought processes. Weapons are your speciality, drugs are mine.

Steve could see that he had failed entirely to make his point so he attempted to drag together a small fraction of his original wrath. Do you have any idea what it was like to hear that you'd had a massive heart attack? I just had to sit there, not knowing if you were dead or alive, utterly...

Steve broke off in surrender as his father just regarded him steadily, his eyes saying that yes, he knew exactly what that felt like, that it was, in fact, why he'd taken the actions he had. Steve stifled the impulse to once again insist childishly, it's not the same,' in favour of the more adult, Well, just don't do it again.I certainly hope I never have to. After all, Mark continued thoughtfully, it would almost certainly lose its impact the second time. I'll tell you what, I'll promise if you promise never to get kidnapped again.

Great, no pressure there. Steve abandoned the effort. Matching wits with his father was a challenging task at the best of times, and at present, his brain cells had parted company with his cranium and gone AWOL, and he couldn't scrape together enough acumen to rationalise his way out of a paper bag. The room dipped and swung, and he swayed with it, obeying its unspoken command to join the dance.

Mark's anxious voice broke into his reverie. I'm going to call Jesse, you should be in bed.Just a few more minutes, Dad. Steve's mouth twitched as the familiar childhood plea slipped easily from his lips and, from the answering smile on his father's face, it was obvious that Mark was experiencing the same nostalgia. Steve didn't want to explain that after the fears of the last few hours, he needed the reassuringly vibrant presence of his father more than he needed rest. Maybe the converse was true for Mark, since he made no effort to carry through on his threat.

So how did you find me? Mark wasn't the only one who could use distraction for his own ends.

We were lucky. Mark looked sombre as he reflected on the proximity of tragedy and the narrow margin by which it had been averted. When I...woke up in the hospital, I handed my cell phone to Cheryl and she was able to trace the last call back to the motel.

Steve stared, remembering Hicks reaching back for the phone. That seems uncommonly stupid, even for criminals, he commented.

I don't think it was stupid so much as overconfident. They were watching me all the time so they knew I couldn't trace the call after it was made. Then, once I'd testified, they would kill you and leave, and the motel room would have no connection to them. I think they also intended to kill me as I left the courtroom. No loose ends either way.

A cold chill trickled down Steve's spine. His one consolation while bound, bruised and staring death in the face cross-eyed had been that his father was safe and, since the Mob had taken some pains to keep him that way, it hadn't occurred to him in all the commotion that they'd intended it to be a very temporary condition.

he figured out slowly. By leaving the courtroom in an ambulance, surrounded by medical technicians, you were also safeguarding your own life.

From the jolt of surprise on Mark's face, it was clear that this benefit hadn't previously occurred to him, but he rallied quickly. Well, as I mentioned before, it was an excellent plan, covering all the bases.

Steve wasn't ready to concede that much, but privately he had to admit that he couldn't think of another strategy that would have left them both alive. His father's unconventional thinking had almost certainly saved them both. Grudgingly, he confessed, It did have the benefit of making things easier my end. Hicks went off to discuss the situation with his boss, and he sent one of the men who'd been in the room to check out the situation here, which meant there were only three men left, a rather more manageable number. I'd managed to take two of them out before Cheryl showed up with the cavalry. That almost certainly saved us from what could have been a lengthy hostage situation.

Mark was torn between gratification, awed amazement that his son, injured and bound, had still managed to disable two of his captors, and horror at the belated realisation that success in locating his son could easily have not translated into saving him.

A comfortable silence fell for a moment. As Steve began to relax under his father's soothing presence, his body started to hijack him into lethargy. He drifted away, but started as Mark spoke again.

We really owe a lot to Cheryl. She agreed to help look for you unofficially, without bringing in reinforcements or informing the Captain until it wouldn't endanger you further. Where is she, by the way?She had to go back to the motel, so after abandoning me to the tender mercies...

Steve glanced casually towards the door as he was speaking. It wasn't even in his peripheral vision, so he wasn't sure what instinct alerted him to its surreptitious opening. He was expecting to see Jesse arriving to implement his earlier threat, and start the poking and prodding that he'd promised, but the face that peered round bore no resemblance to the young doctor's. It was dark, grizzled with stubble and grimed in such a way that said that hygiene was not a particularly high priority to its owner. It also contained a nose that had clearly been broken so many times as to have lost the sense of direction in which it was supposed to sprout.

Recognition was instant on both sides. Tony gaped unattractively at the man he'd recently left, tied and beaten in a motel room, closely guarded by well-armed comrades. His laborious thought processes struggled to make sense of this unexpected apparition, running through and rejecting the possibility of twins and of Hicks releasing the cop voluntarily. Unable to resolve the matter to his satisfaction, he fell back on what experience had taught him to be the best way to dispose of inexplicable problems and his hand dropped to his gun.

For Steve, the only puzzle was why he hadn't expected the gunmen to arrive and the answer to that was simple enough. He'd assumed that Tony would have already finished at the hospital and would be on his way back to the motel room, but now he realised that the two mobsters had probably found it difficult to locate Mark, since hospital policy would have limited the information released. He was also in no doubt as to what course of action to undertake. A jolt of adrenaline crackled down his spine and he jumped to his feet, grabbing the first object that came to hand, which happened to be the lid of Mark's rejected lunch, hurling it violently at the gunman and following it closely with the chair he'd just evacuated, and then with himself in hot pursuit.

He slammed a right fist into Tony's face before the mobster had completed drawing his weapon, and the blow sending him reeling back into the corridor. Distantly, Steve heard his father shout his name and an alarm go off. The awareness that he was all that stood between Mark and a bullet stoked a blazing, fear-based fury that imbued him with a strength he wouldn't have believed possible mere seconds before. However, even in this rage he didn't allow himself to compound what he saw as his error in forgetting Hick's command to his men to check the hospital. There had been two men dispatched on the errand.

The second man had barely escaped being bowled over by his friend's abrupt expulsion from the room, but Steve remedied that lapse with a swift elbow in his face followed by an uppercut. It wouldn't put him down for long, but Steve didn't have the luxury of time to finish the job; Tony had recovered from his impact with the wall and was already drawing his weapon. Steve leapt on him as the gun discharged. As they struggled for possession of the automatic, there were screams from down the corridor and some shouts for security, but they sounded far away and oddly muffled. The air had taken on a peculiar thick syrupy quality that was hard to inhale and his breath was coming in harsh, gasping pants.

The brief burst of energy was draining faster than bath water through a gaping plug hole, and he was operating on pure nerves, employing elbows, knees and head in the battle since his hands were hanging grimly onto the gun. Losing was unacceptable, but winning was looking unobtainable and at this point he would settle for a stalemate. The punishment he was receiving was severe on an already battered body, and a sharp blow to the ribs weakened his grip, allowing Tony to gain the superior position for the first time. His snarling face filled Steve's vision but he refused to relinquish his hold. Then suddenly Tony was gone, and all resistance had vanished.

With an effort, he shifted his focus and his father's face swam into view, staring down at him anxiously and clutching the broken legs of a chair. Understanding dawned. Way to go, Dad, he croaked. Not that I didn't have everything under control.Sure you did, Mark soothed, helping Steve to sit against the wall. Um...you can let go of the gun now.

No, he couldn't. Steve looked across the hall at the second gunman who was only now struggling to consciousness in the arms of security. Tony was crumpled near him on the floor, the shattered remains of the chair decorating his body. Steve eased the gun out of the man's limp hands, feeling better for that possession.

In a move that Steve somehow missed, his father was suddenly kneeling beside him, easing aside the hospital gown. I need to check this out.It's okay, Dad, just a few more bruises to add to the collection.And a few more holes, Mark added grimly.

Yet, even as he spoke, the last of the adrenaline that had surged so effectively and overwhelmingly through his system evaporated, and the pain it had displaced suddenly came roaring back with supplemental interest for the additional battering he'd just endured. A hiss of pain escaped from his clenched lips.

Mark's hands stilled for a moment. You're going to be fine, he informed his son gruffly. Went in and out through your side here, right through this love handle, so it didn't touch anything vital.Don' have love handles. Steve's voice was slurred with exhaustion.

Well, it still went through your side. What did you think you were doing? They both had guns and you were unarmed! The exasperation in Mark's voice couldn't mask his concern.

Shoulda just sat there and let em shoot us both? Sides, I was armed. I had a dad with a chair.A weapon of choice for every beleaguered cop, Mark commented dryly. When are you going to learn to duck? He was holding a pad against the wound to stem the flow of blood, and it was almost soaked through so he pressed more firmly. However, there was a slight twinkle in his eye as he continued. You nearly gave me a heart attack!

Steve returned the grin weakly, marveling at his father's ability to drive him crazy and keep him sane all at the same time. He let his head fall back against the wall, fatigue deadening the worst of the pain, distancing him from his own reactions to the recent crisis, yet his overtaxed mind wandered off to contemplate the realisation that had come to him as he leapt for the gunman, a comforting epiphany that finally allowed him to fully relax. He'd needed the change of perspective to understand that his actions had been no different from his father's in intent. He'd have done anything in that minute to keep the gunmen away from his father, and Mark's desperate actions in the courtroom were a reflection of his own need to protect. It had nothing to do with Mark holding his own life cheaply, but everything to do with the value he placed on his son's. Steve didn't fight the surge of warmth around his heart the thought provoked.

Suddenly he was experiencing a sensation of falling, tumbling down as if gravity itself had ceased to have meaning, and he reached out for something to stall his descent.

He felt his hand grasped firmly and his father's reassuring voice offering a further anchor. You're going to be fine, son. We'll have you patched up in no time. Just relax.

Steve would have liked to have acknowledged the encouragement, but his eyelids refused to stay open, and he felt darkness swirl over him and drag him into its warm embrace.

Mark caught him as he slid sideways, cushioning his fall and easing him into a comfortable position against him, protectively shielded from the rest of the world. His senses told him that his son was alive and would recover, but it always proved harder to convince his subconscious, and he scanned anxiously for Jesse through the curious crowd of onlookers.

The young doctor soon appeared, slipping lithely between packed bodies. He dropped to his knees beside Steve, shooting Mark a quick assessing glance, then started a brief evaluation of his most recidivistic patient, muttering something about people who couldn't stay out of trouble for ten minutes.

Mark followed his movements nervously until Jesse sat back on his heels with a nod of satisfaction. I know he looks a mess, Mark, but his injuries are mostly superficial.

His diagnosis matched Mark's, but still the older doctor was relieved to hear it confirmed from a more objective source. He nodded and reluctantly shifted his hands, allowing Jesse to tape down the gauze in preparation to moving Steve onto the gurney.

Let me patch him up and check him out with x-rays, and we'll be back in no time, he reassured the anxious father. I'm presuming you'd enjoy a new roommate, and it's probably the only way I'll keep you in your room recuperating as you should be...right now, he hinted strongly.

Mark smiled slightly in acknowledgement, trying to conceal how truly loath he was to let Steve out of his sight even momentarily. Well, as long as he doesn't snore, he lied unconvincingly. He watched tensely as Steve's limp body was carefully lifted onto the gurney, stepping forward stiffly to tuck one hanging arm into a more comfortable position. He rested his hand lightly on his son's forehead, smoothing the hair away from an ugly gash above his eyebrow, then nodded to Jesse to proceed. He was standing forlornly, staring after the gurney, too weary to determine his next move when Amanda materialised beside him.

Mark, let's get you cleaned up and back to bed. You've been through a lot and need your rest.

Mark mustered a slight smile which faded quickly as he gazed at hands sticky with his son's blood. Docily, he allowed Amanda to help him get clean, change stained clothes, and get back into bed. Her calm tones helped fill the empty silence while he waited for Steve's return.

The interval appeared more prolonged than it actually was, and before too long, Steve was being transferred to the other bed. As the nurses made their still unconscious patient comfortable, Jesse updated Mark on his son's condition. The bullet wound had done no internal damage and would heal quickly if Steve kept activity to a minimum. As suspected, there were several cracked ribs and the accumulation of minor injuries was daunting, but he should recuperate quickly.

Jesse and Amanda left with warnings that both invalids needed to take it easy and get some rest, and Mark nodded obediently, but as soon as their footsteps had faded, he pushed his blankets aside and made his way across the room.

He eased himself into a chair at Steve's bedside, his eyes cataloging the evidence of all the recent assaults upon his son's body. Steve still looked deathly pale in the few places where his natural colour could be spotted beneath the spreading purple mosaic of bruises, and even sleep didn't erase the frown of pain that had inscribed itself permanently into his skin. Mark reached out tentatively and smoothed his fingertips across his son's forehead, wishing he could eradicate the memories of the events that had caused the lines. Steve was too warm to the touch, evidence that some opportunistic infection had taken hold, but Mark wasn't too worried about that, knowing that antibiotics as well as fluids to replace what was lost were dripping into his son's bloodstream through the IV attached to his arm.

There was a bandage stretched partway across his discoloured abdomen, and electrodes attached to his chest monitoring vital signs which were reassuringly strong. In the middle of this perusal, Steve's hand twitched suddenly and Mark covered it with his own, surprised when he saw his son's eyes open and fix somewhat blearily on his face. "How you feeling?" he asked, unconsciously patting the hand he held in his own. You're going to be fine. Try to rest."

Steve's first attempt at speech resulted only in a hoarse croak, and he swallowed dryly. Mark held a glass of water with a straw to his mouth, letting him take a few sips and his second effort was more successful. Didn't we just do this? he rasped, gesturing vaguely at their relative positions.

Well, I was the one lying down and you were the one remonstrating with me over my lack of caution, but essentially, yes.Like father, like son, huh? A faint smile tilted Steve's lips. I don't suppose we could just skip the lecture part and move straight to the part where you admit I didn't really have a lot of choice?

Mark was too grateful to have his son back and relatively whole to have any interest in berating him for past indiscretions. He also recognised the oblique apology in his son's words, the covert admission that Mark's options had been extremely limited, and that in this situation the ends could be said to justify the means. He smiled affectionately. We're certainly a pair, he mused.

Not a pair, a team. The words were just a murmur and Steve's eyes drifted closed again.

Mark smiled involuntarily, his heart full. He stayed in the chair until he judged that Steve had fallen deeply asleep, then reluctantly stood up to return to his bed. He started violently as Steve's hand suddenly grabbed his.

Steve looked disoriented and was clearly distressed about something, and the monosyllabic question at first led Mark to think his son was unsure of his own location, but his defensive posture and probing, if confused, survey of the room indicated that he was more concerned with his father's intended destination even in a semi-conscious state.

I'm staying right here, Mark clarified soothingly. We're roommates for the duration. Just relax, it's all over now. Recalling some of the information passed on by Amanda, he related the latest developments. Cheryl is right now rounding up the last of the gang who kidnapped you. We're safe, so lie down and go back to sleep.

He wasn't sure that Steve had understood, but eventually he nodded slightly and lay back, although half-closed eyes tracked Mark's movements until the older man climbed back in his own bed. As his offspring slid back into sleep, Mark settled himself as comfortably as was possible with ribs aching from the battering they'd received during CPR, but he wasn't yet ready to nap.

It had been far too close yet again, and he needed to stay awake in the superstitious belief that his alert presence would eliminate, or at least divert, the specter of imminent death that had hovered so persistently over his son. For now, he could savor the knowledge that everything important in his life was safe. His vision centered on the place where his son's chest rose and fell, and he smiled.

A/N: Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews. They have provided tremendous inspiration for my other story and spurred me on to greater efforts. However, since it is probably the difference between a snail and a snail riding a tortoise, I don't expect to finish it until the end of summer. Thanks again! Sarah.