A/N: It's coming, TwistoftheScarlettRose. Probably in the next chapter or the one following. Sit tight.

Chapter 20

He felt the familiar bite on his forearm and let the arm drop. He knew he wasn't supposed to do that - people kept telling him to stop - but somehow or other, he couldn't quite help it. It was…irksome. Part of him linked that tube in his arm with all his problems - the slow clumsiness of his movements, the even slower drag on his thoughts, as if he was trying to reach the rest of the world from deep under water. Morphine, Charlie had said. Seemed kind of intense for a little…well, he couldn't quite remember what Charlie had called it, but it seemed like too much anyway.

Not that it hadn't hurt…he had vivid memories of being trapped in a hot envelope of savage pain, of a throbbing pressure building in his leg, as if it was trying to burst through the skin. Even now he felt as though someone had jumped up and down on his insides in a pair of sports cleats and then bundled them carelessly back inside, and his leg's insistent pressure, though eased, lingered as a raw torment. Still, morphine? Come on - that was pretty serious stuff. Mom had used morphine, toward the end. When he thought of how she had suffered, it just seemed like he should be able to make due with less. Maybe he could talk them into cutting back on it. Yeah, good luck with that, Eppes - cause you've never been more eloquent. He pulled again without thinking.

"You know that isn't good for you."

That was NOT a voice he had been expecting and he froze, wondering what dream world he had wandered into now. Reality had been tenuous at best, and try as he might, he couldn't quite work out which things he had been told, which he remembered, and which he had simply dreamed.

"That's better." There was an unmistakable and familiar smile in the voice.

It had to be a dream - that was the only explanation. Well, he might as well enjoy it. "Nadine?" His eyes were glued shut, but his voice eked out a sad imitation of its usual self.

"That's right. Your father and Charlie decided to clean up a little, but they didn't like to leave you alone, so I volunteered. I have this lovely file to work on anyway."

Oh, no, no, no…he had had many fantasies involving Nadine, but absolutely none of them had included him wearing a hospital gown. Evidently his car wasn't the only thing that had careened out of control when his appendix burst…wait a minute…file…"Twilliger?"

"That's right."

A hundred questions spun in his head, about the interrogation, the preponderance of evidence, the planned line of prosecution, but none of them seemed prepared to marshal themselves into practical, useful sentences. Frustrated, he yanked on his arm again, stilled at a silken pressure along his forearm, followed by an amused drawl.

"You are just not a good boy, are you, Special Agent Eppes?"

He felt his mouth turn up in a smile, despite everything. No arguing with that. But he had more important things on his mind. "Got him? Right?"

"I don't see why not - solid work in here. The DA wants the death penalty."

Don felt himself relax. Yeah. That worked. "You - okay with that?"

"Me? Oh, yes. Even before he went and made it kind of personal."

He shifted a little to quiet the growling pain in his leg, felt his forehead bunch in a frown. Nadine didn't know any of the victims, did she? Or wouldn't she have to recuse herself? "The victims…? You knew one…?"

There was a pause, then the silken pressure moved from his arm to rest on his brow, the thumb smoothing out the frown gathered there. "Go back to sleep, Don. You need your rest."

He could hear the laughter carefully suppressed beneath the words, couldn't quite figure out what was so funny, but his attention was drawn away by a clean, flowery fragrance that reminded him of something…oh, yeah. Lavender.

Kim used to put lavender in their sheets and they had always smelled like that. There were things he really missed about living with a woman - aside from the obvious. The sheets were one - Kim had had a passion for nice bed linens, and had introduced him to 300 thread count Egyptian cotton. At first he had laughed - you honestly telling me that somebody counts the threads in these sheets…? But they had proved addictive. His heart still ached a little when he remembered early morning nuzzlings among the faint, fresh scent of lavender, the cool, creamy fabric sliding underneath.

When he reached California, he had missed them. Had always meant to get himself a set, but somehow he had never got around to it. He should. They would be nice after these hospital sheets, which must be about - what - six thread count - and reeked of antiseptic.

"Smells nice."

Wait a minute, wait a minute - had he actually said that out loud? Man, didn't his mouth used to have an off button? Now thoroughly irritated, he gave another pull at the offending IV.

Another small, silken hand slid into his palm, holding it neatly and firmly in place. "I'll make a note that you like that one…" Nadine's voice had a purring, soothing edge now, and the gentle rubbing of her other hand on his forehead was hypnotic.

But he had a lot of other questions he wanted to ask about the case: he'd ask them too, except those lousy drugs had turned him into an idiot…the drugs, and Nadine's nearness and scent and gentle caress, which were all kind of…distracting. He opened his mouth to try his most pressing questions anyway, was disgusted when the words came out in a tired, satisfied sigh instead. Well…damn.

His last thought as sleep took him back under was that the sense of smell really was the strongest memory link…and that hopefully somebody had at least had the sense to make sure that he'd had a shave.

000

When he woke again, the lavender was gone, overridden by the pervasive smell of antiseptic. He wrinkled his nose, the scent tickling something at the back of his brain.

Something else was different too - the heat that had simmered just under his skin seemed less intense. Hm. He took a slow inventory. His leg seemed stiff and permanently clenched in pain. His head still ached, but with something less than the nauseating pressure that had pushed so relentlessly against his temples for so long. His abdomen was the worst of it, but even that seemed a little more manageable.

He had a vague sense that he was alone, and for the first time in a while. He turned his head carefully on the pillow, bit back a soft curse as he found the sore spot, fingered his scalp to explore the damage. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle as he found the edges of the bump. Funny how he could never seem to remember about that - it felt pretty memorable. He noticed the bandage on his hand as he withdrew it and frowned. Now, how the heck had he done that? Oh, wait…digging for his gun. He'd probably left a whole lot of DNA on the pavement.

He ground the heels of his hands in his eyes, trying to loosen the tight band around his temples and clear his vision. When he tried again, it wasn't all that much better. He blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings, then smiled.

Okay, so he wasn't alone. How had he missed the snoring? If he squinted, he could make out the solid figure of his father, sprawled on the cot, limbs scattered in sleep. He must be pretty tired. Better not wake him.

He wrinkled his nose again, rubbed at it to chase the smell away: that mixed aroma of antiseptic and starch and the indescribable, unmistakable odor of illness. It reminded him of something, but what exactly slid away before he could name it. How long had he been lying here, anyway?

Suddenly desperate for a moment of independence and privacy, he groped for the bed controls, poked clumsily at them until the head of the bed began to rise with a soft hum. It provoked a surprising rush of vertigo, and he had to shut his eyes again for a minute and let the world re-balance itself.

Phew. It'd sounded so easy. He rested a tentative hand on the dressing on his right side. There was a warning pull there, but nothing unbearable. Okay. Bad news is, this could really hurt. Good news is, I'm drugged half out of my mind anyway. He glanced at the cot and his sleeping father. The smart thing to do, probably, would be to wake him up and ask for help, or to ring for the nurse. What the hell - nobody ever said I was the smart one. Easy does it…

He cautiously peeled back the covers and eased one leg over the side of the bed. So far, so good. He looked more dubiously at his bad leg. That would be the tricky part, because aside from the steady grumble of pain, it felt as though someone had removed his leg all together and left a telephone pole in its place. He used his hands to jimmy the leg off the cushion it was resting on, winced as it hit the mattress a little more abruptly than he'd hoped. Ow. Still. Progress. Encouraged, he slid it carefully across the mattress until it dropped over the side of the bed and dangled there like a dead thing. Then he clung to the sheets to pull himself erect and independent of the support of the bed. And nearly toppled forward onto his face.

He tightened his grip on the sheets as he wobbled back and forth, leaned forward until his head nearly rested on his knees and the room stabilized. Breathing in short gusts, he finally released the sheets with one shaky hand and wrapped his palm around his eyes, slid it around to the back of his head to calm the suddenly awakened volcano there. Okay, okay, you're doing fine…okay, maybe not fine, but you're not on the floor yet…he straightened his back by inches, felt both a little queasy and a little smug as he managed to remain upright. See? Nothing to it. A little exercise will do you a world of good.

A faint draft tickled his back. Oh, yeah - probably want a robe…a squinting inventory of the area nearby failed to reveal one, and he sucked in his lip, momentarily thwarted. Well, he'd never get a sleeve around the IV anyway - better just take the blanket. He pulled the blanket crumpled at the bottom of the bed around his shoulders, shrugged more deeply into it when it proved to feel surprisingly cozy.

Now for the tough part. Standing. He'd messed up his leg once on a slide into home plate, so he knew that the first step was the charm. He wrapped his hand around the IV as an ersatz crutch and dropped his weight down onto his feet. When he thought they might hold him, he tried to straighten away from the support of the bed at his back. The warning stab in his side made him jerk in surprise and the IV took on a life of its own, shooting across the floor and taking him with it, a trip that stopped abruptly only steps later when they both met the wall with a thud. He leaned his face into the wall and tried to breathe through the pain. Possibly…(breath)…just possibly…(breath)…this was a very...(breath)...bad...(breath) ...idea...

When he thought he could risk releasing his flat-palmed grip on the wall, he leaned into his shoulder and peeked cautiously at the cot. His father snorted in his sleep and rolled over. Don grinned. Wow - Mom wasn't kidding. Sleeps like the dead. He let the wall take a little more of his weight. Of course, I guess I know why he's so tired. That thought brought the return of his restlessness and he reached for the IV stand again. At least that little side trip had done the trick of getting it free from Charlie and Larry's contraption. Must be that safety Charlie had talked about. He squinted at it. What had they used - bungee chords? Maybe he could ask them to add a hand brake - for safe IV traveling. Well, he'd gotten this far - no point in turning back now. And the wall would come in handy.

Pressing his shoulder deeper into the wall, he let it support him as far as the door, one leg dragging behind. The door was a trickier, since it meant he had to give up the wall's support for a minute, but clinging to the lintel on one side and shouldering open the door on the other got him through. He immediately found the outside wall with his back again and rested against it, breathing heavily and looking around. He broke into a grin as he took in the hallway, lights subdued, thin of people, but - well - a change. Mission accomplished. It felt like he'd found his way back into the real world again.

He tightened his grip on the IV, shivering a little under a thin layer of sweat that now coated his skin. Just a short walk, and then he'd head back before anybody missed him. There were a lot of things he wanted to think about, and he needed some space.

He shuffled his way around the corner and discovered a small waiting alcove, furnished with a sofa and coffee table facing a large, arched window. Abruptly out of steam, he decided this would be a good place to rest for a minute or two.

Huh. Lowering himself without tearing something would be the trick. He got a fresh grip on the IV pole, jammed it into the sofa so that it couldn't take it into its head to roll free again, and spread his other hand on the arm rest, lowering himself as slowly as he could before his arms gave out and dumped him unceremoniously on the seat cushions. He swore, wrapping a forearm guardedly around his abdomen until the fire there subsided some, then dropped his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. Yeah. Okay. Hurts. But it doesn't seem like anything's been permanently damaged.

He stretched out his leg, chewing his lip. Be nice if he could get that elevated - say, the coffee table. He tried to lift it - it was hard to say which was unhappier with the idea, the wound in his gut, or the leg itself. Aw, what the hell - stretched out is good enough. He drew the blanket closer and half-opened his eyes. From this position, he could just make out the washed grey of the sky. Must be early. Dawn.

Okay. He knew how he was physically, how about the other stuff? He poked surreptitiously at his feelings, trying to trace the underlying sense of sadness. Well, he'd nearly screwed up a major arrest - he'd have to answer for that. He'd operated a firearm while impaired. And it didn't look like he'd done his family any favors, either.

He let his eyes slide closed again, rubbed absentmindedly at his nose. The smell wasn't as strong out here, but it still lingered in the air. His eyes popped open as his brain clicked. Oh. Yeah. He squeezed the lids tightly shut again, suddenly beyond tired, weighted down with sorrow.

Smell really was the strongest memory link.

TBC