Fathers and Sons, pt. 4

Did someone say KickAss!Sandy?

xxxx

The op-tech who had outfitted Sandy was watching SAC Martin with hooded eyes as Jack paced around him. The man strode furiously in a circle, cursing steadily under his breath. Jack Martin was known as a man with a long, very slow fuse. And the cold fury that was released when he did, finally, lose his temper was legendary. The agents under his command waited patiently, and a little apprehensively.

Jack had known this was possible, probable, in fact, but it didn't mean he was happy with it.

"I want every shooter we have aimed at the front door. Now!"

Agents ran, mouths to walkie-talkies snapping orders, fingers to ears as they listened for replies through their earpieces.

"When that door opens, Johnson, you and Kwan be ready to shoot on my command. I don't know who's going to bring the boy out, but if it's Atwood, and you have a clear shot, take it. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

God, let Sandy have a plan.

xxxx

Supporting Ryan against him, Sandy turned toward Dave. "We're ready."

There was no movement. Sandy knew he needed to get Dave to the door, and he squeezed Ryan around the waist hoping the boy would understand.

"You gonna give me a hand? He's not a little kid any more, and he can barely stand up." Seemingly on cue, Sandy felt Ryan go limp, almost staggering them. He bit back a startled grin, slanting a look at Ryan. But Ryan's eyes were closed, his face shuttered. Sandy shifted his grip, glaring at Dave as he let Ryan sag in his arms.

Dave watched them coldly. Finally, he took a step forward. As Dave came toward them, Sandy moved to one side, putting himself closer to the door, keeping himself on Ryan's right side, protecting the injured arm.

The other man grabbed Ryan by the left elbow, jerking the arm up and over his shoulder, putting an arm around his waist, hauling him upright. Sandy felt Ryan flinch at the rough treatment, but the boy didn't make a sound, and Sandy gritted his teeth to keep from saying anything that might change Dave's willingness to help.

In silence they headed to the door, and Sandy made a note to himself where the other two men were – one to the right, peering through the curtains, one to the rear, still standing by the hallway door.

Slowly, they crept forward, and as they reached the front of the house, Sandy reached for the knob of the door, hoping, praying that this would work.

His fingers touched the smooth metal, and with one quick motion, Sandy turned the handle, and pulled, flinging the door open, even has he pivoted with Ryan, jerking the boy out of his father's arms, knocking him to the ground, throwing his own body over Ryan's.

xxxx

In the midst of the chaos – the blare of guns, the staccato ping of bullets, the cacophony of voices, shouting – Sandy heard it – a sobbing scream from Ryan when the two of them hit the floor, as Sandy covered his son with his body, trying to shield him.

Sandy raised himself slightly, frantic, trying to see Ryan's face. He pushed the boy's hair back, felt the clamminess of his skin, saw its chalk whiteness, the tears, heard the desperate whisper, "Sandy, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts," the unsaid, "Make it stop," felt his heart shatter as he leaned over, pulling Ryan close, answering helplessly, "I know, I know, I know," waiting, praying that it would all be over soon. Ryan bit down hard on his lip, pressed into Sandy.

Sandy kept his head down, one hand protectively over Ryan's head until the initial exchange of gunfire subsided. In between the now intermittent shots, Sandy risked a look around and with a sinking sensation, realized their situation really hadn't improved much in the last five minutes. He and Ryan were both still in the house.

He could see one man down, immobile, on the other side of the room, the light from the now open door making a clear path across the floor to his fallen body. Two others were hugging the walls, firing shots out the broken windows, through the doorway. Sandy's attention was caught by the sight of Dave Atwood across from him, blood streaming down his arm, face grim as he shot round after round at the agents outside.

Sandy felt the hatred in his gut start to rise into his chest, and he forced it away, swallowing it, making himself think, trying to assess the situation coldly. His mind kicked into high gear, considering possibilities, desperate to get Ryan out of harm's way. But even as his brain worked on the problem, a stifled whimper from Ryan derailed him.

Sandy felt the tremor of the moan reverberate in his chest, somewhere deep in his being, in a place he hadn't known existed before this week. Suddenly, the coldness was gone—and in its place was a fire of pure, unadulterated rage.

Later, Sandy would swear that he actually felt something snap inside him—as if that small sound from Ryan shattered the tenuous grasp on control Sandy had over the raw instinct that made him want to rip out the throat of the man in front of him. For the last six days Sandy had denied that rage, pushing it down and back, refusing to look at, or acknowledge, the murderous power behind it. Now, it was all he had—a fury so deep, so all-consuming, that the only thing he could see, blurred around the edges by red, was the man who had hurt his children.

And Sandy was going to kill him.

xxxx

Outside the house, Jack, watching through binoculars, had seen the flash of a yellow shirt as Sandy flew past the open door, heard through the mic the sound of bodies colliding, the voices raised in yells, noticed the cessation of firing from the cabin.

"Move, move, move!" he screamed into his walkie-talkie.

FBI agents in riot gear converged on the house, Jack right behind them, swatting at the hands that tried to hold him back as he raced toward the scene. It was over quickly. Agents poured into the house, taking deadly advantage of the distraction Sandy had unwittingly provided.

When Jack arrived, one agent was already crouched by Ryan, calling for a medic, easing the boy onto his back, speaking in a low, hushed voice, telling him he was safe, that he was going to be alright.

Jack could hear Ryan asking about Sandy, unresponsive to the agent's promises that Sandy was fine, feverishly insistent that someone make sure Sandy was OK. Jack started forward hoping to reassure Ryan, even as his eyes moved around the scene, assessing the situation. Quickly, he took in two men down across the room, one moving sluggishly as an agent read him his rights, the other utterly still. And to his left…

Sandy Cohen pounding on the motionless body of Dave Atwood.

"What the hell!"

Jack pushed through the knot of agents standing silently by and jumped in, wrapping both arms around Sandy, pinning the man's arms to his body.

"Sandy!" he yelled, tightening his grip and pulling upright, as Sandy struggled against him. Jack tried to shift him, throwing his weight to the left, hoping to turn Sandy, but Sandy would not be moved. He wrenched free, falling on Dave Atwood again, fists flying.

Jack grabbed Sandy again, snarling orders at the agents around him to get Atwood out of the way. This time, Jack jerked with enough strength to separate Sandy from Dave and slammed his friend up against the wall as a medic pulled Dave clear.

Hating it, Jack put Sandy in a choke hold and leaned all his weight against him, pressing him into the wall, cutting off his air until the enraged man stilled, lack of oxygen finally taking some of the fight out of him. Jack eased up immediately, but kept a firm grip.

"Sandy, you calm now?" Jack asked, breathless himself from the struggle. There was a pause as Sandy caught his breath, regained control. Jack felt Sandy's body slacken under him, and loosened his grip further. Finally, Sandy nodded, and Jack released him. Sandy turned, pale and shaken. Jack squeezed his arm in commiseration, eyes dark with understanding, and stepped back, letting Sandy see Ryan.

With a gasp, Sandy moved forward, dropping to his knees beside Ryan.

"It's OK, Ryan. It's OK." Sandy put a trembling hand on Ryan's forehead. "You're safe now, kid. It's over."

At the sound of Sandy's voice, Ryan's head ceased its restless movement, and his eyes opened, desperately seeking out Sandy.

"You're OK?" he asked hoarsely, only willing to believe it from Sandy himself.

"I'm OK," Sandy reassured him. "We're both going to be OK."

xxxx

The next hours were a nightmare of a different kind to Sandy.

In the aftermath of what Jack had called—half amused, half awed—his berserker rage, Sandy felt an exhaustion that made his body ache to its core. He had Ryan back and all he wanted was to take his son and go home. But, of course, it couldn't be that easy. Ryan was hurt—decisions needed to be made, treatment discussed; there were statements to be made, people to call, media to be handled. Sandy tried to gear himself up for the coming battles, but he was just so tired.

He sat in the helicopter, hand holding Ryan's, trying to pay attention to Jack who was outlining the course of action once they reached the hospital.

"Obviously, the first priority is getting Ryan taken care of," Jack started briskly, as the medics worked around them, inserting i.v.s, monitoring Ryan's blood pressure, examining his arm, treating the cuts and bruises on his face. Ryan was motionless as they worked on him and Sandy watched, nodding along as Jack talked, hearing it all, but not able to process any of it.

"Sandy?" Jack's voice was suddenly very gentle. A hand on his arm turned Sandy to his friend.

"What?" Sandy blinked, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Jack. What?"

"You're in shock." Jack reached into one of the overhead bins and pulled out a blanket. He wrapped it around Sandy's shoulders and called to the front of the aircraft, "Y'all got coffee up there?"

An arm reached back, extending a thermos. Jack took it, unscrewed the top and took a deep breath. He grinned at Sandy. "This'll help." He poured a cup and thrust it toward Sandy. Reluctantly, Sandy let go of Ryan to accept the offering. He took the cup in both hands, raising it to his lips. It was hot and black and sweet as hell. He shuddered as he drank, but began to feel the warmth spread from his belly almost immediately.

"Thanks."

Jack topped him off again. "I'm sorry I didn't catch it earlier. Your reaction shouldn't surprise me. You've had a hell of a week and a damn scary day."

"I…" Sandy opened his mouth to ask Jack a question, but an agitated movement from Ryan distracted him. Jack took the cup out of Sandy's slack grip as Sandy leaned forward, taking Ryan's hand again, eyes questioning the medic. She shook her head, frowning slightly, even as Ryan stilled.

"He's in and out, Mr. Cohen. I'm afraid I can't give him anything to do much for the pain at this point. The doctors will need to assess him without anything masking his symptoms." She touched Ryan's cheek gently. "The pain's making him restless."

Sandy nodded, tightening his grip. "Hold on, kid. We'll be there soon."

xxxx

Ryan felt the gurney hit the ground and the fire consume him, lancing out from his arm, engulfing him. Biting back the cry of protest at the pain, he opened his eyes, saw the blades of the helicopter whipping over him, heard the roar of the motors, voices raised to be heard, searched for Sandy, found him.

Sandy's eyes caught his, and Ryan saw a surprised smile light his foster father's exhausted face.

"Hey, kid." Sandy moved out of Ryan's line of sight, just for a moment, and Ryan felt his gorge start to rise. Then Sandy was back, jogging along side the gurney, taking Ryan's hand.

"Sandy," he whispered, struggling not to be sick, fighting against the pain.

"I know, sweetheart." Sandy ran a hand over his hair as he hurried to keep up. "It's going to be OK – we're at the hospital. They're going to take good care of you."

Ryan closed his eyes tightly and clung to Sandy's hand even as he faded back out.

He was jostled again and jolted into awareness somewhere he didn't recognize; people in masks and strange noises and no Sandy. It hurt. Ithurtithurtithurt. Where…? Ryan felt his heart speed up, his chest start to rise and fall in quick succession, faster and faster. Sandy… Where… He tried to sit up, desperate to run, to get away from this place that he didn't know, from the pain he couldn't escape. Where was Sandy, why did he leave, where was Sandy… He fought against the hands that were restraining him.

"Ryan!" "Someone hold him!" "Honey, stay still." Hands grabbing at him, pushing him down and Ryan struggling weakly, a sob starting deep in his chest.

He didn't understand. He thought it was over. He thought Sandy had come. He thought Sandy had come.

"Mr. Cohen!"

Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness Ryan heard the call, paused, absorbing; and suddenly Sandy was there, hands on Ryan's face, soothing, trying to calm.

"Hey, hey, hey." Sandy's face, blue eyes worried, eyebrows drawn together, filled Ryan's field of vision. "Shhhhh. I'm here. Ryan. Look at me. It's OK."

"Sandy." Relief overtaking the terror. "Please…" Ryan's eyes caught Sandy's and then rolled to the side, to the strange figures, voice shaking, afraid. He didn't want to be alone again.

"I'm here." Ryan saw Sandy's eyes shift to one of the masked people. Doctors, Ryan realized with a start, brain catching up, initial panic fading with Sandy's presence. "I…"

Ryan blinked rapidly, his mind finally processing what was happening. He was suddenly embarrassed, realizing where he was. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks, and he went completely still.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, mortified. "I'm so sorry…"

"It doesn't matter." Sandy was shaking his head, fingers again wiping tears off Ryan's face, gentling. "I'm right here and I'm not leaving."

Ryan drew in a steadying breath, trying to will his heart to stop racing. He let the sound of Sandy's voice and the words sink in. Ryan nodded his acceptance.

"I need you to be still, though, OK? Can you do that for me?" Ryan nodded again, taking another uneven breath. He could do that.

xxxx

Sandy kept his promise, not moving from Ryan's side as the doctors and nurses worked around him.

"Mr. Cohen, we need to be right where you are for awhile. Can you…?" Sandy nodded, looked at Ryan.

"Buddy, I'm going to move to the end of the bed, OK? I'm still here—just down a little." He smiled, squeezed Ryan's hand. "See, it'll be easier for you. You won't even have to turn your head."

Ryan took in what Sandy had said, assessed it. "'kay," he agreed, eyes following Sandy's progress toward his feet.

Sandy put a hand on Ryan's foot, gave his big toe a squeeze, watched a smile flit across Ryan's drawn face, winced as Ryan paled again as the technician moved his arm while they maneuvered the x-ray machine around him.

It seemed like hours that Sandy had watched Ryan suffer, since they'd gotten to the hospital. But he knew the reality was much shorter.

Still. No matter now swift and efficient the staff was being, it was too long to see your child hurt like he knew Ryan was hurting. He bit his tongue to keep from asking—again—about when Ryan could expect relief. They're working as fast as they can. Don't distract them.

Finally, the frantic pace around Ryan seemed to slow, and Sandy saw a nurse insert a syringe into the i.v. She caught Sandy watching her and smiled tiredly at him.

"The doctor prescribed some pain meds for him. This will help."

Sandy watched Ryan's face as the medication did its work. Slowly, the tension eased, and the boy on the gurney transformed back into the kid Sandy knew; he hadn't even realized how different Ryan looked until he saw him pain free. Or at least with the pain markedly reduced.

"Wow." Ryan blinked owlishly at Sandy. "That is so much better."

Sandy actually laughed at loud at the slurred words. He moved back to Ryan's head, ran a hand through his hair, grabbed a handful, gave him a gentle shake.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ryan smiled at Sandy, eyes unfocused.

"Mr. Cohen?"

Sandy turned to the man at the door, acknowledged him.

"I'm going to go talk to the doctor for a minute, OK? I'm still here." Sandy wanted to reassure him.

"'kay," Ryan mumbled, eyes already shut. Whatever.

"We need you to sign some consent forms," a nurse said as she handed Sandy a clipboard.

"OK," he said, signing wherever she pointed. He looked at the doctor.

"What am I agreeing to?"

The doctor smiled wryly in sympathy, too used to the procedure of the hospital and dealing with emergencies not to be aware of how overwhelming everything could be to parents faced with medical decisions fortheir injured children.

"Surgery. For his arm." Sandy had finished scrawling his signature on the forms and handed everything over to the waiting nurse.

The doctor headed to a lighted panel on the wall of the emergency bay, thrusting an xray into the holders. Sandy followed, keeping an eye on Ryan.

"His arm has been dislocated in two places—elbow here" he pointed, "and shoulder here" again he pointed. "Plus there are a couple of breaks here and here." The doctor also emphasized the fractures with an out thrust finger.

Sandy nodded, peering at the slides. He could actually see the breaks in the bones, where the joints were not in alignment. He glanced again at Ryan, swallowing.

"We need to repair the damage and, actually, some of the healing." Now the doctor peered at the films. "Can you see here?" He indicated two points, one at the elbow and one at the shoulder. "With joints out of the socket as long as his were, the body starts trying to heal around it." Sandy couldn't really see what the doctor was referring to, but he believed him.

"When…" Sandy started to ask about the timing, but was interrupted by what was clearly the surgery prep team coming through the doors.

"Right now," the doctor answered the unspoken question.

"Wait." Sandy went to Ryan, pushing past one of the women who was taking hold of the gurney, about to move the boy. "Don't…" He stopped the bed. "I need to talk to him."

The woman in charge made an impatient movement, and opened her mouth to protest.

"Give them a minute." The doctor cut her off, nodding at Sandy.

Sandyspared the man a grateful look as the group left them alone. He took Ryan's hand.

"Hey, kiddo."

Ryan turned his head to Sandy, blinked open his eyes. "Hey," he whispered groggily.

"How're you feeling?"

"OK, I think." He was clearly struggling to put words to his thoughts. "Still hurts." There was a long pause. "I just don't feel it." Ryan frowned, puzzled. That didn't make sense.

But Sandy seemed to understand, and he brushed unruly bangs off Ryan's forehead.

"I talked to the doctor, and he says he needs to operate on your arm, kid."

Ryan nodded, eyes slipping closed, agreeable to anything Sandy suggested. "'kay."

"I'm going to have to find out what drugs they've given you and lace all your food and Seth's when we get home." He smiled at Ryan, continuing to mess with his hair. "I think I could get you to agree to anything at this point."

"Prob'y," Ryan said sleepily. He stirred slightly, belatedly picking out another word from Sandy's sentence that meant something to him. "Seth?"

"He'll be here. And Kirsten, too, when you wake up." He smoothed a hand back over Ryan's forehead.

"Kirsten?" Ryan's voice faltered. Tears began to trickle out of the corners of his eyes, the reality of what had happened stark on his face again.

Just the mention of Kirsten's name seemed to crumble Ryan's defenses, and Sandy watched with a physical pain in his chest as the grief and residual fear resurfaced, watched as the boy fought back against the emotion he'd mostly held so carefully in check for the last week.

"I want Kirsten," Ryan whispered brokenly.

What was it about "mom," Sandy wondered, that could reduce even teenage boys to tears with the wanting of her when they were hurt or scared?

But Sandy wanted her, too; abruptly, overwhelmingly Sandy ached for his wife.

"She's coming," he said.

xxxx