Title: Ice Forms Over

Disclaimer: Slash, language, violence, and angst.

POV: Danny

Chapter Six: Racing Through the Red

I pace back and forth in the waiting room. It's been more than an hour since I brought Martin in and I haven't heard anything. They always say that no news is good news, how can that be? If they can't tell me any news because they're too busy than things can't be that good, can they? I chew my bottom lip nervously as I finally sit in one of the many chairs. The blond wood of the arms are scratched and scarred, there's very little padding left in the seat. All around me nurses go to and fro with clipboards in their hands. Other people wait, either for help with their own injuries or to hear about a loved one. I feel a few eyes watch me as I get up to pace again.

"What's wrong with you man? You got ants in your pants? Why don't you just sit your ass down," a teenage boy dressed in gang clothes says.

I give him a cold look. He just shrugs it off. I continue to pace. I feel like this is my fault. I should have been home to watch over him. How can I be so irresponsible? I only hope that his father doesn't hear about this. I really don't need to get yelled at, and what if he decides to shift the blame from Jack to me? What if he sees the shooting as my fault? I don't want to lose my job.

"Dude, don't make me force you into your chair," the punk pipes up again.

I clench my fists in anger. I don't like that my worry for Martin is taking a turn toward anger over this worthless kid. Thoughts of threatening the teenager, showing him my badge, or even flashing my gun all race through my mind. It's amazing how emotions can take over your personality and the way you handle situations.

"Danny, what the hell is going on?" Jack's voice cuts through my muddled thoughts. I turn to look at him.

"Why are you here?" I voice my newest thought. I didn't call him. I hadn't called anyone to talk about Martin. Maybe because I didn't want them to know. Now Jack probably things I can't handle Martin's healing.

He stops beside me. "I overheard a radio transmission. Is he okay?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I feel like I don't know anything. They haven't said anything to me. I swear, they have this sick obsession for dramatic airs around here." I drop into the chair beside the punk, exhaustion finally getting the best of me.

"That so hard man?" The punk asks giving me an odd look.

"New friend of yours?" Jack questions with a raised eyebrow.

I lean forward in my chair, resting my elbows on my knees and holding my chin in my hands. "I don't make friends with punk-ass kids, Jack."

The kid gives a snort of disapproval as he shifts his position. Jack takes a look at his watch. He asks me how long I've been waiting and I tell him. The look on his face tells me that he's not too happy. He tells me to stay in my seat and walks over to the nurse's station. After a few minutes he disappears around a corner and reappears alone. Under his breath I hear the teenager making remarks about impatient guys in suits. Another ten minutes go by before the doctor in his white lab coat makes it over to us.

"Agent Taylor, Agent Malone," he acknowledges.

I stand. The teenager shifts uneasily in his chair and looks about all nervous like. Probably has drugs on him or something. I don't care. Though there is a small bit of pride at seeing him squirm.

"How is Agent Fitzgerald?" Jack asks.

The doctor flips through the pages on his clipboard before offering any sort of answer. "I see here that Agent Fitzgerald is getting over a gunshot wound." Jack and I both nod to confirm what he's reading. "Who has been taking care of Martin?"

"He's been staying at my place," I speak up. "He won't let me take time off, says he can take care of himself and that the department can't handle losing another agent."

The doctor smiles. "Martin is a good man. I'm glad I don't see him in here that much. That goes for the two of you also. You guys do good work." I feel myself getting antsy with the idle chitchat. "Now, Danny, I need to ask you a few more questions. I'm afraid the paramedics have been busy with a pile-up, ten cars, can you believe that?"

I shake my head. "What questions?"

"Well, how was Martin when you found him? Was he responding to noises around him? Did he have an unusually quick pulse? Anything like that," the doctor suggests.

I let myself think back to about an hour and half ago. "He didn't respond to me when I said his name. I think he was pretty far out of it by the time I got home. I'll admit that I didn't check his pulse. I could tell he was breathing and I was worried about why he wouldn't wake up."

"Has Martin been acting weird since he got discharged from the hospital for his gunshot wound?"

I look at Jack who shrugs in return; he wouldn't know. "Not that I've noticed. He's not too happy about the wheelchair and not being able to work. Aside from that he's been as good as one can expect. Why do you ask? You make it sound like he did this to himself."

The doctor looks around the waiting room. Eyes shift away from us. Everyone had been listening intently to the conversation. The fact that we are Federal Agents got them hoping for some sort of gruesome details about a crime. Humans are curious creatures, sometimes they're too curious. The doctor motions for us to follow him to a more private area. Once inside an empty room he resumes the conversation.

"Martin has a high dose of medication in his system." He holds up a hand. "Now, I'm not saying that he tried to overdose on the pain medication that we prescribed him. Though it does bother me to see such high levels of the drug in his system, I must say that whatever was going on in Martin's mind helped him in the long run."

"What do you mean?" Jack inquires.

"The high dose of pain medication aggravated a growing infection around the healing wound. An infection that would have eventually found its way into the bloodstream. It's a good thing you brought him in when you did, Danny. There were no outward signs of the infection and it would have gone untreated, thus possibly causing Martin to suffer from Septicemia and eventually he'd have gone into Septic Shock."

My heart momentarily stops as those words leave the doctor's mouth. Septicemia is bacteria in the bloodstream. It rapidly deteriorates into Septic Shock and most people don't survive it; which is completely understandable. Septic Shock causes low blood pressure and low blood flow. I shiver. When I found Martin he had some of the symptoms of Septicemia; a spiking fever, the chills, and unresponsiveness. That's why the doctor asked about his pulse, respiratory rate goes up with Septicemia.

"Is he going to be okay?" Jack asks when I don't say anything after a few minutes. I really don't know what to say at this point.

The doctor smiles. "Martin got here before the infection reached his bloodstream. There are no signs of him having Septicemia. We have put him on antibiotics and we'd like to keep him here overnight, just to make sure things go okay," he explains.

I nod. "So it's just a minor setback?"

"Yes. If he makes it through the night without any other complications we will be discharging him tomorrow afternoon. I suggest that he continue to take antibiotics for a week and come back for a follow-up visit, just to be on the safe side."

I relax as the doctor continues to talk with Jack. When the doctor leaves us Jack mentions something about having to make an important phone call. He exits the room and I find myself alone. I sit on the empty bed in the now silent room. I'm grateful that I got home from work when I did, yet, I'm mad that I wasn't home to watch over him. What if I had to work overtime? Martin would have gotten sicker. I shake my head to clear away the unpleasant thoughts. There have been too many close calls lately. I nearly lost him to the bullet, then I had to agonize while he was on the operating table, now the infection; will things ever get better for Martin?

And what about the medication? The doctor suspects that Martin tried to overdose. That doesn't seem like something my friend would do, maybe I don't know him as well as I though. Who really knows anyone? I try to remember back, to see if I noticed the bottle of pills. There's nothing there, though. All I see is Martin sick, and I hope I never have to see that again.