A/N: Patscats, I vote for the reviews as being the funniest. You guys really make it a blast to post. I'm still laughing over Sharon's "knight in tattered t-shirts". Priceless. Wish I'd said that. And I'm sure with a few more females on the Board of Health, we could get Steve serving without his shirt. He may have to soon anyway.

11. It Isn't Over Til It's Over

Someone was yelling.

Loudly.

Very loudly.

In Spanish.

For a little while that was all he was aware of, and none of it seemed important enough to bother about. The next thing he gradually realized was that his right eye was throbbing.

Mercilessly.

In time with his pulse.

He could feel the pressure building up in the lid, so no doubt it was swelling - maybe even swelling shut. Probably it would be blackening. So he had a black right…wait a minute, wait a minute - wasn't that his good eye? So he had two…? He groaned out loud.

"Steve?" Instantly the Spanish yelling stopped and he felt a gentle hand on his forehead. "Steve? Are you all right?"

Aside from looking like a total geek with two black eyes? He was just peachy.

He reached up to cup one hand carefully over his right eye. "Yeah…" he rasped. Then, with more assurance, "I'm fine." He couldn't have been out for more than a second or two. He felt hands grasp at his biceps to help him sit up, then let go abruptly as the shrill avalanche of Spanish started up again.

Okay. He had it now. Spanish. That had to be Cristina. Had to tell her what a bad idea it was to yell at the patrons - in any language. He tried to get his elbows under him to push up under his own steam, but a hand on his chest stopped him.

"No, Steve! Lie still! You shouldn't move!"

Steve fumbled for the hand and gently peeled it away from his chest. "Cristina, I appreciate your dedication to your medical studies, but really, I'm fine. Think I just took one too many of these headers today. I'm going to get up now."

The hands reappeared at his biceps, but this time he got a blurry glimpse of Cristina swatting them away with a sharp exclamation in Spanish.

His brows quirked. Well. This was a whole new side of her.

He felt her slide her arm under his shoulders and lever him into sitting position. He stayed for a moment, letting the first level settle, before grabbing the edge of a table to pull himself up. The room swirled and wavered, and he was still for another minute until it stopped. Probably the not eating wasn't helping either. He sat down hard on one of the chairs and rested his elbows on the table to cradle his head in his hands.

"Did you hit your head on the floor?" He felt fingers brush the back of his skull. "Let me get you something for your eye."

Yeah. You do that. He thought about just putting his head down on the table, but that probably wouldn't look good. Voices hummed around him, but he couldn't seem to bring any words into focus. His hand jogged the bump at his hairline and he winced. Oh yeah. Forgot about that one. So he had that lump, both eyes…he touched the back of his head and felt the growing swelling under his hair…and, sure enough, he had hit his head. Which meant he was in for that lecture about repeated blows to the head from his father…he groaned again.

Someone touched his shoulder and he heard another burst of Spanish as the hand was knocked aside. "Here you go…" the voice, switching to English when it addressed him, was incongruously soothing. He felt something hard and cold and wrapped in a dishtowel press into his hand and pushed it against his right eye.

Better. "What the heck happened?"

There was a shuffling of feet on linoleum, followed by the clearing of several throats. Curious, Steve raised his head enough to get a peek.

"It was me," the beer drinking patron burst out at last. "I mean, it was a accident. I was going to shake hands, like you said, and then, just as I was getting ready to, well, something bumped my elbow, and…and…turns out…"

"Oh." Steve swallowed down another urge to laugh. Laughter with a slightly hysterical edge would not help the situation - it just scared people. It was sort of starting to scare him.

"Look - I'm - I'm really sorry - "

Steve waved with his free hand. "Forget it."

"I'm sorry too."

Steve squinted his better eye to catch a glimpse of the portly bus patron.

There was an elderly woman with her hand tucked in the patron's arm, staring pointedly at him while he spoke. His face was red right up to his bald pate. "I - well, I behaved abominably." The elderly woman smiled encouragingly. "I suppose being stuck on a bus with twenty other people for two weeks - well - doesn't bring out the best in me - "

Steve smiled thinly. Yeah, I can relate to that. I was in the service.

The elderly woman nudged the portly patron firmly and his red color deepened to scarlet. "Not - not that I'm making excuses. I'll pay, of course, for any damages. I'd like - " he paused, but another elbow in the ribs urged him on. "I'd like to pay for the beers for this young gentleman's table too. It's the least I can do."

Steve raised his brows. "That's not - "

"Please." The man smiled for the first time, and the change in his face was amazing. "I'd like to. I'm pretty embarrassed about the whole thing and it would make me feel better."

Steve nodded carefully, keeping the range of motion small. Well, that would minimize awkward explanations to Jesse anyway…

"And we'll clean up." This from the elderly woman. "No arguments. You just sit there and take care of that eye." She gave his shoulder a motherly pat, and this time Cristina didn't swat her hand away.

Steve thought about protesting, but half-rising to shake the portly man's hand convinced him that sitting still for a couple of more seconds wouldn't be such a bad idea. Little woozy. He thought of something else. "I might need a couple of minutes before I drive you home, Darla."

"Steve! I don't think you should be driving at all!"

Steve reached under the damp dishtowel and touched his swollen lid delicately. Ouch. "Cristina, really, I'm fine. It's just a black eye. I've had worse."

"But you can never be sure with head injuries," Cristina insisted. "I just had a symposium on head injuries, and - "

"I think," Steve interrupted gently, "it's more than a bit of an exaggeration to call this a head injury." I hope.

"I could drive Darla home."

The new voice had Steve raising his brows, then wincing slightly as the motion pulled at the tender skin around his eye. He turned his focus on the beer drinking patron. "That's a very generous offer. But I - "

"That would be okay with me, Steve."

Darla's soft voice raised his brows a little higher, making him wince again. He turned his gaze back to the beer drinking patron. "You've been drinking," he pointed out.

"Just two beers!" the beer drinking patron turned as red as his hair. "I wouldn't never think of driving Darla if I didn't think I was okay to do it!"

Steve leaned back in the chair, studying him closely for the first time. Hm. That sounded pretty good. Responsible. The beer drinker looked to be about Darla's age, in a t-shirt blazoned with a band name Steve didn't recognize and a backward baseball cap. He had a straggly red goatee that looked more hopeful than dashing, and the way he looked at Darla made Steve thoughtful.

"Her old boyfriend might be looking to make trouble. Not sure you could handle it."

"I wouldn't let nobody hurt Darla!"

A corner of Steve's mouth turned up at the ferocity of his reply. He could see Darla blush. Maybe this would do her good - to have even a car ride with a guy who would treat her with a little respect. Still…he pushed slowly to his feet, keeping one leg braced against the table for support. He folded his arms over his chest and eyed the beer drinker up and down. "You, uh, know what else it is I do for a living, don't you?" He smiled when he said it, but it was a very hard, bright smile, filled with meaning.

The beer drinker seemed to be transfixed by the sight of the muscles playing under Steve's tight-fitting, borrowed t-shirt and could only nod dumbly.

"That's good." Steve flicked a piece of invisible lint from the shoulder of the boy's t-shirt. "Then you know I could make somebody disappear and the LAPD wouldn't even bother to look for them, right?" Steve laughed lightly to show that he was joking. Mostly.

The boy laughed along with him, sounding a little high-pitched and uncertain.

"So you'll drive very carefully, isn't that right? And obey all the traffic laws."

The boy nodded again.

"What's you're name?" Steve's hand came to rest on his shoulder, just a little more heavily than necessary.

"C- Clay." His voice cracked on the word.

"All right, Clay. And you know how upset I'll be if Darla is distressed in any way after this ride? I know you don't want me to be upset." Steve's benevolent smile broadened wolfishly.

"I - I would never dis - distress Darla," her swain squeaked, with all the bravado he could muster.

Steve smiled for real this time. "Glad to hear it. You two kids take care, then. Darla - you have my cell number. Call if you think anything even looks a little peculiar."

"I will, Steve." Darla smiled shyly and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Thanks for everything, Steve."

He aimed his blurry stare meaningfully at Clay. "That goes for you, too. You see anything that looks even a little suspicious, just stay in the car and call me. Don't try to take care of it yourself. Got it?"

"Yeah, sure." Clay was almost bouncing with eagerness now. "C'mon, Darla," he tugged insistently at her arm. "I'll show you my car."

Steve watched as Clay ushered Darla to the door, then lowered himself gingerly back into the chair. He shifted the ice pack on his eye, frowning.

"They make a cute couple, don't they?"

He glanced up to see that Cristina was watching too. "Well, he's got to be a big improvement over that loser she was dating." He shifted the ice pack again, trying to make it fit comfortably, finally pulled it away. "What the heck have you got in here, anyway? It doesn't feel like - " He peeled back the towel, then stared at the frozen block of ribs.

Cristina shrugged apologetically. "Between the drinks and your foot we used all the ice. I thought that would work just as well."

The front door swung inward and Steve reflexively reached a hand across to the holster that wasn't there. He rolled his eyes at himself - or, he rolled the better one anyway. Jumpy today. Part of him kept expecting Darla's druggy boyfriend to return and make trouble. Silly. He was probably off somewhere trying to score a new fix by now - and a new girlfriend.

The figure in the doorway certainly bore no resemblance to him. A tall, tired-looking middle-aged man stood there, seeming reluctant to enter all the way. He was running to paunch now, but something about the way he held himself made Steve think he'd either been on the Force at one time, or in the military, or both.

"I'm sorry," Steve began, "But we're about to close - "

"Just came to pick up my bus passengers." He didn't sound very enthusiastic about it. He raised his voice. "Tire's fixed folks - you kin git back on the bus and we'll git to the hotel. Sorry you had to wait so long."

He didn't sound particularly sorry. Steve couldn't bring himself to blame him.

"We have to settle up."

Steve smiled at the grey-haired wife of the portly passenger and started to rise to go to the cash register.

Cristina waved him back down. "You sit. I'll get it. I know how."

Steve opened his mouth to demur, then decided against it. If he pushed, Cristina would probably start looking in his eyes and feeling around his head and all those other irritating things medical people always insisted on doing. Better to sit tight until they had to clean up.

The bus patrons flocked to the register, buzzing with conversation, for all the world looking as though they'd enjoyed a pleasant evening. They were stuffing bills into the tip jar and graciously thanking Cristina.

Steve watched them in wonderment, rewrapping the frozen ribs to settle a fresh cold spot against his eye. No matter how old he got, people never ceased to amaze him. The portly gentleman broke off from the group for a second and hurried back to Steve's table. Steve watched his approach warily.

"For your trouble." The man thrust a bill into his hand.

"Sir - it's not - "

The man held up his hands to show he wasn't discussing it and slid his arm around the grey-haired woman's shoulders, following the crowd out the door. Steve watched them go with a small glimmer of wistfulness. Everybody seemed to be pairing off today except him. Oh, well.

Cristina waved goodbye to the last of them and pulled out the cash drawer. She walked over to his table and put it in front of him. "Can you see straight enough to close out the drawer while I load the dishwasher?"

Steve looked at the stack of receipts and bills. "Sure." He threw the bill the portly man had given him on the table next to the drawer and reached for the slips of paper.

Cristina gasped and snatched it up. "Steve! That's a five hundred dollar bill! Where did you get it?"

Steve took it back from her and frowned dumbly at the picture of McKinley. Wow. Just - wow.

Cristina snatched it back. "I don't think I've ever seen one before!"

"It was that guy - from the bus - the one with the attitude. I mean, the earlier attitude."

Cristina whistled. "At least he knows how to make it up to you! Does this have to pay damages, or…?"

Steve grinned knowingly. "It will go in the pot, just like any other tip, so one third is yours and another third is Darla's. The rest can go toward damages."

Cristina stuck her lip out. "I don't think the rest should go back in the restaurant. You should keep something for yourself. It was a rough night."

Steve fought down a chuckle at the magnitude of that understatement. "The owners don't get tips, Cristina. Besides, you know as well as I do that you're going to spend your third on text books instead of something fun too, right?"

Cristina lifted her chin. "I might. Or I might buy myself a steamy new dress for clubbing." Her face changed. "Or there's this really nice stethoscope I've been saving for - it has three different heads, and - "

"I rest my case." Steve reached for a stack of cash and began counting.

"Hmph." Cristina made a face at him. "You police detectives are all alike."

Steve grinned, keeping his eyes fixed on the bills he was counting. They showed a tendency to get just a little fuzzy around the edges. "You know a lot of police detectives?"

"You. And - you know - television." Cristina scrubbed vigorously at the nearest table.

"Stereotypes," Steve chided.

"They get those characters from somewhere."

"Yeah - wild imaginations." He blew out his breath in exasperation as one of the bills blurred again. That could be a five - or it could be a fifty. He threw it down and massaged his temples. "Cristina, I'm sorry, but I really need you to do this - my focus is still a little off. What do you say you count while I take out the garbage?"

Cristina stowed her rag in an apron pocket and came back to his table. "Are you sure you're up for it? I really think you should be lying down."

Steve intercepted the hand that reached for his forehead and put it gently aside. "I think I can manage a little garbage. And I'm sure not letting you do it. I'll be fine as long as I don't have to read anything."

Cristina didn't look convinced, but Steve heaved to his feet and made his way toward the kitchen door, limping slightly.

Cristina sat down by the abandoned cash and began to count. "You'll let me know if you need help?"

Her voice carried through the pass-through. "I'll let you know," he called back. He propped open the alley door and started hurling overstuffed garbage bags through it. It was astonishing how much garbage a small eatery could produce in a day. He pushed the last bag through and followed it outside, letting the door swing closed behind him. Funny how garbage could be a cop's best friend, and a restaurateur's worst enemy.

He flipped open the dumpster and picked up the first bag, pitching it expertly inside. He couldn't imagine how Cristina thought she'd be able to manage this at her size.

He reached for the next bag, swinging it to follow the first. The back of his neck prickled warningly, and he clucked his tongue impatiently as he picked up a third bag. Good thing this day was almost over. He needed to get some sleep and get back on an even keel so he could stop jumping at his own shadow and imagining trouble around every corner. He was starting to act like a three-year-old who thought there were monsters under the bed and in the closet.

He had his arms under the third bag and was raising it over his head for a throw when a sound on the loose gravel made him spin automatically on his heel. Before he could tell himself how silly he was being, he got a whooshing glimpse of something big and wide and blurry, swinging in a vicious arc, right at his head.

TBC