AN: This is part of my series "The Scarf" but it's not necessary to read the others first to understand this one.

Gerard watched Cathy back out the door, his heart thudding somewhere in his stomach. Their conversation left him winded.

He swallowed. "And where is my dang doctor? I've been waiting twenty minutes in this joint!"

Cathy winked. "He'll be along shortly. Newman and the others can't wait to see him."

Too tired and sore to process this, Gerard scrubbed a hand over his eyes. His feet hung off the edge of the bed and he felt like a child.

He shouted after her retreat down the hall. "What is that supposed to mean? I don't have time for puzzles—I have a convict to apprehend!"

The silence of the little county clinic settled over Gerard in waves. His aching bones sagged. Finally, he removed his hand from his eyes and stared at the floor.

It took several long minutes for Gerard to remember that he wasn't wearing any shoes—so the worn loafers before his examination table couldn't possibly be his own—and even longer to realize that someone was standing in those shoes.

A rumpled man, wearing a white lab coat and visitor's badge and smelling of airport food, stood directly in front of Gerard, fumbling with a chart.

"Kimble?" Gerard leaned forward to better see under the floppy fringe. "What on God's green earth are you doing here?"

Doctor Kimble glanced up. His bewildered eyes tracked Gerard like he'd grown an extra nose. "You got shot."

And then he went back to the clipboard, like those three words explained everything. Which, Gerard supposed, they did.

"The vest stopped it," said Gerard. He shifted.

"Let me have a look."

Gerard waited, patient, while Kimble lifted his shirt and disinfected the broken skin along his ribs. The silence stretched, but it was comfortable. And Gerard found muscles unwinding that he didn't even realize were tensed.

"There." Richard stepped back, pasting on the last of the butterfly stitches. He offered a wry grin. "I think you'll live."

"You almost didn't."

Kimble dropped the stethoscope in his hands.

Gerard immediately regretted the words. He rubbed at his eyes again. It eased the ache behind them and gave him an excuse to hide from his friend's—friend. And doesn't that feel good, even after so long—shocked look.

Kimble turned, stooping to pick up the scope and give Gerard time to collect himself.

Gerard closed his eyes with a sigh. He startled when calloused hands thumbed at the dark purple under each eye.

"You haven't been sleeping," said Richard.

Sam shook his head. "There's something about this case…I'd forgotten about that moment, just before we lost you in the parade…"

Richard sank down beside him. Both stared at the wall, eyes thousands of miles away and almost five years in the past. Their breathing seemed to hum in the air. For a brief moment, Sam had no idea how he'd ended up in this bizarre scene.

Then Gerard patted the doctor's knee and he stirred to life.

"Here." Richard set the scope to his back. "Big breath in."

Gerard inhaled. "I've dreamt about that moment every night for the past two weeks, even before this case. How 'bout that?"

The doctor's hands moved to his injured side. "Again. Nice and deep."

"I mean, it's not like I actually shot you between the eyeballs."

"Sam?"

"Right." Gerard straightened and sucked a breath. "Sorry."

This breath came shakier. Richard put the scope down.

"Noah called me," he said, jotting something on the chart. "Before you got shot. Worried about you. I was on a flight this morning and heard about your dramatic tumble into the bayou when I landed."

"Dramatic? Everyone knows Renfro is the real drama queen on this team."

Richard smiled. "Bruising on several ribs and your lung."

Sam blinked. "I didn't even know it was possible to bruise a lung."

"You want something to help you sleep?"

Sam's mouth twisted.

Seeing you alive should do the trick.

He didn't say this out loud but Richard nodded with a lopsided grin, blindingly genuine, and Sam thought maybe he'd heard anyway.

The bullet sat in a beaker on the table. Sam pulled on his shirt and picked up the beaker, twirled it around. The bullet's high plinking was the only sound for a time.

"I made a mistake, Richard. The only reason I'm alive is because a half inch of Kevlar stopped it."

"So did the bulletproof glass."

Sam looked up. He met Richard's eyes for the first time. The doctor was healthier, cheeks less pale, not gaunt and lonely like the fearful eyes that had locked on his own past a wall of bullet cracked glass.

That had always bothered Sam, that a bullet had just slammed not three inches from Richard's face, but the doctor didn't spare it a second look. Just gazed at Sam with those hurt eyes.

These present day eyes were warm. They glittered with life, quiet and cautious, yet hoping for the best. Sam, like he had high up on the dam, felt this man could see into the depths of his being, to places Sam didn't know existed.

The good with the awful.

"I think you need this today more than I do." Kimble held out his two tone scarf, that Gerard had given him for Christmas, coat draped over his other arm.

Gerard took it, noticing the doctor didn't let go. For a frozen moment, they were connected by the scarf.

"I dream about pretty much everything else, except that," said Richard, voice low and even. "Know why?"

Gerard didn't speak.

"Because I saw regret in your face that day. Because later, on the hotel rooftop, I heard you order 'don't shoot.' Because of a million other things you've done to earn my trust."

Sam didn't take his gaze off the scarf. His jaw worked.

"We should both be dead," said Kimble. "Yet here we are."

Gerard sniffed. "God's got a weird sense of humour."

Richard chuckled. The sound was so entirely unexpected that Sam fumbled with his end of the scarf. He could count on one hand—one sparse hand—the number of times he'd heard his doctor friend truly laugh.

Kimble draped his scarf around Gerard's neck and held out the coat.

"There's a chopper waiting. Don't get shot. Doctor's orders. I am not waking up to a two am call from a worried marshal again." He thought for a minute. "If this case is bothering you…maybe your runaway is innocent…"

"Oh no." Gerard eased himself to stand. "Don't you start with me. So not funny."

Richard's eyes crinkled with humour. He held out his hand. "Deputy."

"Doctor."

Sam had the immense pleasure of seeing Richard's gob smacked expression when he rejected the handshake and pulled the doctor in for a hug. Rigid with surprise, Richard's arms hung by his sides. Sam refused to let go until one hand wandered up to pat at the marshal's shoulder blade.

Then Gerard pulled away and guffawed like he'd told the joke of the century.

Which, Sam thought with a flush of pride, their friendship really was.

"Come on," he barked. "I'll let you ride shotgun. The whole gang will be thrilled to see you. They haven't shut up about your limbo skills since that office party."

Richard shook his head. "God really does have a weird sense of humour."

Written in 2016.