Chapter XIII – Long Day
Miles was standing over Simon, talking. Ron watched them for a minute or two through the open blinds. Something in Ron was jealous; he had a wife once, but he'd made a hash of that: working too hard, being emotionally out of reach. That had been the closest chance he had to a family. Ferdinand and Simon were brothers – not even 'like' brothers, they had something that went deeper than the obligatory connection that was blood. The army begets strange relationships – close ones between men that no one from the outside really understands. A wistful memory of his own wingman, his best friend, brought the pain back – the pain that had kept him distant from his wife; the realisation of how fragile life is. Matt's death was a guilt he carried every day of his life, it was the guilt that made him so good at his job – the obligation to protect, the need for some kind of redemption. Snapping out of his thoughts, he gently pressed on through the door.
Simon's eyes flicked to the man he was beginning to consider more of a friend than a superior. He saw regret written all over his bare features – the game face seemed to be dropped every time he entered the room. From under the oxygen mask, Simon offered a smile. Miles looked oddly nervous.
"They say he's ready, they're just waiting on the consultant to come in."
"That's great news."
"They can fix the bulk of it in one op." Miles had been excited and relieved at the news, despite the explanations of various plates and grafts going well over his head.
"I'm relieved! Simon, how are you feeling?" Simon slowly moved the mask from his nose and mouth:
"Sooner... the better" Ron nodded, smiling tightly.
"Well, you get some rest there – I just need to talk to Miles about something a minute?" Simon replaced the mask and nodded.
Ferdinand followed Ron out, knowing almost full well what this was going to be about. His shoulders dropped and he waited for the barrage of scolding telling him he should have handled CJ Cregg differently.
"Miles, about earlier..."
"I know, I should have..."
"No, Miles; you did exactly the right thing." Ferdinand was so shocked that he stopped still. "Yeah. I know it looked bad, but I think that was the best way – I think she understands a little now."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"I didn't mention it to Simon." It was Ron's turn to be quiet. "I didn't mention it, but he's going to be mad at me for turning her away y'know?"
"But he said?"
"Yeah, he does that, he's a simple guy most of the time, just aside from when it's to do with women." Ron's brow, thinking hard for a moment.
"This still about Aimee?" Ferdinand snorted at the sound of Simon's ex-wife's name.
"I think it's safe to say it screwed him up pretty bad, I don't think he knows if he can trust it not to go wrong again – he did always fall for beautiful women." Ron nodded. He remembered Aimee, she – like CJ, could make any man melt with the right look. Yet he was still puzzled:
"So he wanted to see her?"
"Sure he did!" The taller man raised his eyebrows, his face falling slightly. "Yeah, but you were right, Ron – and y'know how I hate that, but the nurses told me 'bout the packet on his chest. They said that kind of stress is way too much for his heart to cope with right this minute. Any more before he gets a bit better could actually kill him." Miles shook his head. "So I guess I owe you an apology."
"Forget it, Miles." The shorter man nodded slowly, looking at the toes of his boots as he rocked on his heels. "We better go back in, he'll be thinking we talking 'bout him."
CJ found her way to her car. She fumbled with the keys, her sight blurred from what was beginning to be an endless stream of tears. Wrenching the door open, she slung herself into the seat and slammed shut her cocoon. Resting her head on the cold steering wheel, gripping the smooth wood tightly, she let out a whimper. Her breath made a small cloud in the cold interior.
"Oh God, how did I get like this?" She sobbed, uncaring whether anyone was truly up there. "I don't even know him, three weeks of just being there – oh God! Why? Why did I have to... fall..." She stopped herself, realising slowly that was the very reason. "If you let him die, I swear... don't let him die!" All coherent thought had left her, she wept herself dry. Her breath caught in her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut to try and regain some form of control. That sick feeling in her chest, stinging cheeks, aching heart... she slammed her palm down hard on the wheel. "Damnit I can't do this!" She exclaimed. Taking a breath, she flung the door open again. There was no hesitation with the keys, the door was locked behind her and her stride was nothing short of confident.
The surgeon, Professor Khan, had finally come on duty – he was a young looking fellow for his title and qualifications. Clearly and concisely, he explained to an apprehensive congregation the details of mending a shattered scapula, with the various plates and pins. Furthermore, the removal of left over shards of bone and metal that remained in the chest cavity, and the repair to his diaphragm to improve his breathing. Two teams would go to work at once, and while every operation carries risks, the Professor explained, and this was far from elementary. Ron and Ferdinand nodded numbly at the details, while Simon's eyes never left Kahn's kind face. The pep-talk was just winding up, the nurses were about to call the anaesthetist when the door to the private room burst open.
All eyes fell on the intruder. Ron blinked hard and Ferdinand gulped air. Kahn looked around for assurance that he shouldn't yell for security to remove the pale looking woman, who looked quite frankly, dangerous with her slightly dishevelled hair and bloodshot eyes.
"Professor, if you could put the anaesthetist on hold for just a couple of minutes? I think we ought to give them some time." Miles spoke up.
"Of course, Mr Orson – are you ok with this?" The surgeon looked down into the stunned face of his patient, who turned his head slowly, waiting for the last possible second to take his eyes from her. Simon nodded affirmatively. The room emptied, CJ bowed her head, not looking at them as they passed.
CJ closed the door softly, holding her position facing the solid wood for a moment, trying to get herself together, feeling the cold metal of the handle in her hand, telling herself this was really happening. After a deep breath, she took the plunge. The few strides over to the cot seemed like a marathon. As she settled on her feet, Simon, although with seemingly great effort, brushed the mask away from his face. He blinked profusely, not believing – after he asked his friends not to say any – his thoughts were cut short:
"Hi... uh... I just... look – I really don't care for your soldier's pride right now; I don't even care how you look, and if you don't want to see me, it's just too bad!" She waited for a response, hand firmly on her hips. CJ got nothing more than a stare from a pair of blue eyes thick with hurt, bewilderment and something she dared not place. Frustrated at him, she continued, letting a hand loose to illustrate her words in gestures: "Because if you think... IF you think that I can just sit out there in my car and not..." She bit back the tears, looking skywards briefly for strength and air, letting her hand fall; "and not CARE, then you're... you're wrong! And... well then you're a damn IDIOT, Simon Donovan!" Her eyes fell back to his. They were pools of liquid sorrow.
Simon mouthed something to her, the little force that was his voice failed him. In a trance, she was drawn towards him, trying desperately to hear what he had to say. As she neared him, so focused were her eyes on his, that she failed to notice the tanned hand making a painfully slow journey to her cheek. She flinched at his touch, but she did not move. His rough thumb lightly swept across her soft skin. Through the mist of the searing pain, he felt a sensation so fragile he barely dared to persist in the motion. As Simon's thumb came to rest for a second on her bridge, the memory of their night in New York flooded back. The journey to the end of her nose seemed to take forever; she closed her eyes, letting herself go back to that place: back into his arms, basking naked in the comforting warmth of the afterglow... the brief moment of pressure she was expecting on the tip of her nose came, his hand lingered for only a second, before drawing away rather too quickly. Her eyes flicked open at the loss of his touch.
"I'm... sorry." He gasped, his eyes too sad for words. As hers flooded, she shook her head slowly and lightly, not able to speak at all. The weight of the words were too much, two simple words completely floored her. She reached out a hand to touch him, her feather-light fingertips on his forehead for only a second as a sharp knock on the door made her jump away.
"Sorry to disturb, but we really need to get going."
"Sure." CJ turned and replied politely to the nurse, smiling – almost. The room became crowded around them, but their eyes didn't lose contact. There were no words, just a connection that they had both stubbornly refused to forget.
The anaesthetist manned the cot on the opposite side to CJ – he spoke but didn't really have his patient's attention:
"Mr Orson, I'll count to ten, count with me... ten," his eyes still with hers, "nine," the cold liquid ran through his arm, "eight," she was his focus, he didn't want to leave her again – she smiled weakly, folding her arms across herself; "seven," losing grip on her, his focus began to wane, "six," she was slipping from his grasp... "fi..."
"Okay, he's out." Kahn's voice was soft but urgent. He glanced over to the tall woman on the other side of the cot. Her eyes had not yet left the patient. Gracefully, but quickly, he walked around to her. Laying a careful hand on her arm, his words were only for her to hear: "ma'am?" Her eyes were fixed, her body frozen. "Ma'am, we have to take Eric to theatre now... we're doing our best for him – and the best thing now is to get him on his way, ok?" She nodded weakly, closing her eyes. The surgeon took his cue, "Ok, let theatre know we're on our way."
Simon was wheeled out of the room. CJ stood rooted to the spot, opening her eyes only when she knew he was gone. Her eyes were glassy and staring. Ron and Ferdinand looked at one another, Ron read it in the detective's eyes, he was the right one to do this.
The room was suddenly very empty, and CJ didn't even notice the presence of the short New Yorker. There were no tears this time, there was just nothing. 'I'm sorry' he had said. He was sorry. Sometimes, undeniably, it is the hardest word to say; but sometimes it's even harder to hear it.
"I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you." It got her attention – she managed to pluck herself from wherever she was to focus on Ferdinand's warm brown eyes. "I've known him a long time, and there have been women – even women he was close to. But you know, he only shared that gesture with one of them, and that was his Mom; and she taught it to him. I don't know if you're even listening to me right now – and I wouldn't blame you if you aren't. I have to know I told you this though, CJ – I have to know that I told you he's not taking you for a ride, he doesn't expect anything from you, he's come to expect nothing short of being alone in this life. It's where he's been for far too long now." He took a deep breath as she continued to look right through him. "All I'm askin' you CJ, is that you realise he's been through hell too – he's got a big heart, but he's got scars that still ain't healed." He looked hard at her, trying to catch her eye, even though he was the target of her stare. "CJ?" She nodded her head, her eyes unmoving, unblinking. The detective faded from her peripheral view and left the room quietly, letting Ron slide past him.
Moving up to her shoulder, Ron spoke quietly, but directly into her right ear:
"CJ, they need you at the White House, Leo McGary just called, he thought you might be here." She nodded and turned past him, her eyes fixed on some point on the horizon. The lift doors closed behind her. It was 6:30 AM.
While monitors bleeped, and a respirator hummed, Professor Kahn ordered the first incision.
TBC-