Sorry for the delay. RL issues plus some severe writer's block equals a long time between chapters. Thanks to all of you who stuck with this story.

Knight-Errant 7: Doctor's Orders

Sandy adjusted an icepack over his eye as he examined Seth's stony profile. He knew his son. By now, Seth should be in mid-monologue, feverishly rehashing everything that happened, plotting ridiculous—or, rather, ridonkulous—schemes to speed Ryan's recovery, and speculating about all the inappropriate forms of TLC that Chelsea could provide. Instead, he was sitting in uncharacteristic silence, tense and erect, his hands precisely positioned on the steering wheel.

It didn't make sense.

"Seth," Sandy ventured cautiously. "What's going on? This attitude of yours . . ."

"What attitude?" Seth retorted. "I'm driving, that's all. Concentrating on the road. You know, so I don't get in an accident, or pulled over for running a red light or something. Oh wait—I forgot. That light wasn't red. It couldn't have been, because you know, Sandy Cohen can do no wrong." Very deliberately, Seth braked and signaled a turn into HOAG's parking garage.

A fine edge of irritation crept into Sandy's tone. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just that, hey, we barely got to the club in time. If that cop had stopped us for just a couple minutes longer, Ryan probably would be dead now."

Sandy blanched, stricken with horrified realization. "Oh my God," he whispered. "That's true . . ." Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath and released it slowly before he spoke again. "All right, son, you're upset, I understand that. God knows, we've had a major scare tonight, and after something like that . . . well, it can be hard to sort out your emotions. But you've got to remember that Ryan is fine. Or at least, he's going to be fine." Sandy's tone softened. "Come on, buddy," he urged. "Don't torture yourself, imagining how much worse the outcome could have been."

Reaching over, he tried to knead the tension out of his son's shoulder, but Seth shrugged his hand away.

"'The outcome could have been'," he echoed dully. "Nice business-speak, Dad. Way to put things in perspective." As he pulled into a parking space, Seth glanced at his father, his expression bleak and faintly pleading. "You still don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" Sandy demanded. "Seth, if something else is going on with you, please, just talk to me."

"Ha! 'Talk to you.' Good one there, Dad, really funny." Already halfway out of the car, Seth waved an ironic apology. "Yeah, only no, I don't think so. I've got more important things to do right now."

With an emphatic slam of his door, Seth turned and sprinted toward the pedestrian bridge. Sandy trailed one step behind, frowning with bewildered concern until the ominous red "Emergency" sign flashed into view. Immediately, a wave of irrational panic submerged all other emotions. His pulse pounding, Sandy caught up to Seth at the top of the stairs.

"Ryan is going to be fine," he repeated, as much to reassure himself as his son.

"Yeah?" Seth prompted, unconvinced. All insolence drained from his face as he turned to his father. Below them, a medical team swarmed out to meet an ambulance, and Seth swallowed hard, his glazed eyes fixed on the frenzied activity, the urgent rush to get the victim inside "'Cause shit, Dad, this place . . ."

"Is scary as hell, I know." Looping a supportive arm around Seth's shoulders, Sandy propelled him forward. "Come on, son. Let's find your mother and Ryan, okay?"

Leaning against his father, Seth nodded and started down the stairs.

Inside the hospital Kirsten stood by the admitting desk, mechanically completing information forms. She peered up, eyes clouded with anxiety, each time anyone entered the area. When the sliding doors swooshed open behind her, she spun around. The clipboard clattered unnoticed from her grasp and she sighed with relief at the sight of Seth and Sandy.

"I am so, so glad you're here," she cried, launching herself across the room to hug them both at the same time.

"Ryan?" Sandy prompted. His voice emerged muffled by his wife's embrace.

"He's being examined now. I wanted to stay with him, but they made me wait here." Smiling tremulously, Kirsten tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, took Seth by one hand, Sandy by the other, and led the way to a sectional couch in a corner of the room. She didn't let go even after she sat down.

"How was Ryan? On the way here I mean?" Seth demanded. "You know, was he like. . .?" Words failed him for once and he gestured incoherently with his free hand.

Kirsten's lips crimped slightly. "He was like Ryan," she recalled. "He kept insisting that he was fine. And he . . ." Her voice broke. Huddling against Sandy's shoulder, she pleated a stained fold of her blouse while she regained control. "He apologized for getting blood on my clothes. As if that mattered at all."

Seth's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to comment, but Sandy forestalled him. "Kirsten? Did they tell you anything about his condition?"

"Not really. The doctor just said not to worry . . ." Shuddering, Kirsten shook her head. "How is that even possible? God, it's the most awful feeling, Sandy, riding in an ambulance with your child, having to just sit there, helpless . . . We've been so lucky until now, never having to go through that with Seth . . ."

"Sweetheart--"

"We've been blessed, Sandy. We have. And we can never, never take that for granted again." Kirsten's eyes blazed with intensity before memory dimmed them again. Her nails scraped restively at a bloodstain on her cuff. "I just kept thinking, the whole way here . . . What if we hadn't gone to the club? What if that man had the chance to . . .?" She stopped, unable to finish the thought, and her voice sank to a whisper. "And Ryan. He wouldn't admit it, but I know he was in pain, and there was nothing I could do. I just kept promising him that we'd get here soon. Only it seemed like the trip would never end."

Sandy's arm tightened around his wife's waist. "But Ryan was awake the entire time, Kirsten? He didn't lose consciousness?"

"No, thank God. I made him keep talking the whole way here."

Seth stirred, shifting closer to his mother. "Yeah? You made Ryan talk? How did you manage that?"

"Oh, it wasn't easy," Kirsten admitted. She glanced fondly at Seth and squeezed his hand. "I just kept asking him questions about school and—well, anything, really. Did you know that his favorite color is green?"

"Green, huh?"

"Dark green, not like grass, and definitely not like Kool-Aid," Kirsten reported. Seth stared at her, incredulous, and she blushed. "I made him go into detail. Ryan complained that I had him mixed up with you, sweetie, when I wouldn't accept any one-word answers. But you definitely can't tease him about fainting again."

Sandy's gaze darted from his wife to his son. With relief, he noted faint amusement on Kirsten's face, although Seth's expression still appeared somewhat distant. "What's this about fainting?" he asked. "Did I miss something here?"

"Yeah, you could say that," Seth mumbled.

Sandy frowned, his brow furrowing quizzically, but Kirsten, oblivious to any tension, gave a soft chuckle. Somehow the sound relaxed Seth. He sagged in his chair, unclenching the fist he had made and blowing a puff of air that ruffled his curls.

"Just our boys being boys, sweetheart," Kirsten explained, stroking Sandy's wrist. "While you were talking to the police, the paramedics started an IV-line. Ryan passed out—just for a moment—and Seth Ezekiel here--"

"Hey!" Seth protested. "Ezekiel? Mom . . ."

"Seth Ezekiel," she repeated, emphasizing her son's middle name, "made fun of him for it. I believe the words 'swoon' and 'vapors' were used."

"Really? 'Swoon,' ala Scarlett O'Hara? Hmm. Somehow I doubt Ryan appreciated being compared to a southern belle," Sandy observed drolly. "You do live dangerously, son." He chanced a small, indulgent smile, but Seth hunched one shoulder, staring glumly at the floor and tapping the toes of his sneakers together.

"Yeah. Except compared to Ryan, maybe not so much."

Abruptly, the moment of levity ended, and the Cohens settled into silence. Their eyes fixed on the doors leading to the examination area, willing them open, trying to bore through the surface so that they could see inside.

"I don't want Ryan working with that man anymore," Kirsten announced suddenly. Her voice, fierce and adamant, startled Seth and Sandy.

"Sweetheart . . .?"

"I mean it," she insisted. "If Ryan is going to intern at the Newport Group, he should work with you, Sandy. Matt Ramsey . . . well, the man is obviously irresponsible and even if this wasn't his fault, it's not right, forcing Ryan to deal with him."

Seth ground his toe into the floor. "Said the woman who's working with Julie Cooper," he mumbled, grimacing.

"What about Julie?" Kirsten asked blankly.

"Seth," Sandy warned. "This isn't the time . . ."

Whipping around, Seth confronted his father. "No?" he argued. "So when is the time, Dad? See, according to my watch, it's like five months overdue."

"We can talk about this later." Sandy folded his arms, his expression daring his son to challenge him.

"So . . . what? You're a judge now? Case closed?" Seth scoffed. "'Cause yeah, keeping Mom in the dark has worked really well so far . . ."

Bewildered, Kirsten looked from Sandy to Seth and back again. "What are you two talking about?" she demanded. When no one responded, she lifted her chin and her voice grew frosty. "I want answers. Now."

Seth started to reply but Sandy glared a warning so he shrugged, muttering, "Fine. You're the one who should have told her anyway."

"Kirsten, listen, after Trey regained consciousness last fall . . ." Sandy paused, setting his jaw, before he continued, "He accused Ryan of shooting him. Ryan was arrested and held overnight before Trey recanted."

All trace of color leached out of Kirsten's already pale skin. "He was arrested?" she stammered. "But why would Trey . . .?"

"It was Julie's doing," Sandy admitted. "She paid Trey off to say Ryan had shot him so that Marissa wouldn't be blamed."

"Oh my God." Kirsten's voice was barely audible. She pulled away from Sandy, sinking against the couch, staring straight ahead. On her face, disbelief slowly dissolved into realization and then into fury. "All this time I've been working with Julie, supporting her, welcoming her into our home, and you never told me . . .?"

"Yeah well, you know, dad's been kind of busy," Seth observed caustically. "Come to think of it, you've both been busy. But hey, no worries, guys. Ryan and me—we understand about priorities."

Kirsten swiveled around, scalded by the hurt in her son's voice. "Oh, sweetie. Seth, no, don't ever think that. Your dad and I are never too busy for you and Ryan."

"Actually . . . we have been, sweetheart."

Kirsten caught her breath and Seth allowed his bleak gaze to meet his father's. His mouth twisted, but he said nothing.

"Seth's right," Sandy admitted reluctantly, "At least he's right about me. But I think . . . neither one of us has been there for the boys the way we should have been. If we had been paying attention, if we had been listening—" Sandy swallowed hard and twined his fingers through Kirsten's. "Maybe we wouldn't be sitting here right now." Reaching across her lap, Sandy covered Seth's clenched fist with his other hand. "I think I get it now, son. This is what you were trying to tell me, right?"

"Yeah." Seth lifted one shoulder in a desolate shrug. "Yeah, I guess it is."

"Well then, tell you what. Once we get Ryan home, we'll sit down together, all four of us, and we'll see if we can't get this family back--"

Sandy stopped as a doctor strode into the room, stilling all conversation. He paused by the desk, adjusting his glasses and scanning the faces that fixed on him expectantly.

"Mrs. Cohen?" he called.

Kirsten and Sandy both rose in a breathless rush. Beside them, Seth scrambled to his feet, knocking a stack of magazines to the floor and almost toppling a plant with his elbow. Ignoring them, he sidled next to his mother and grabbed her hand, gripping it tighter than he had since the day she left for rehab.

"We're the Cohens." Sandy stepped forward, peering at the doctor's nametag. "How is Ryan, Dr. McHolland?"

Behind his wireless frames, the doctor's eyes danced. "Right this minute?" he mused. His mischievous tone instantly eased the tension. "Well, right now I'd say Ryan is very upset that I'm out here instead of him. He seemed to believe he could head home the moment we finished putting in his stitches."

"Right," Seth agreed eagerly. "So, what, he can, can't he? Come home, I mean?"

"Not quite yet. But soon," Dr. McHolland promised. He smiled at Seth, who was straining forward, bouncing on his toes, before turning his attention to Sandy and Kirsten. "Ryan will be fine," he continued more seriously, "but he did lose a fair amount of blood. We're replacing that now, and we want to wait for all of his test results before we release him. Basically, he has some rather colorful bruising, two cracked ribs, and several superficial cuts around his neck. Those should heal with no problem. It's just the knife wound on his right side that concerns us. We will need to watch for any sign of infection since it's fairly deep and we found bits of gravel embedded when we cleaned it."

The doctor's hand sketched a probing motion that made Seth wince, and Kirsten sucked in a quick, fearful breath. "But Ryan really is all right?" she prompted.

"He's very sore, weaker than he wants to admit, and, shall we say, quite impatient to be out of here. So 'all right' might be overstating his condition. But yes, all things considered, Ryan is doing very well." With another smile, warm and reassuring, Dr. McHolland inclined his head toward the exam area. "Why don't you come and see for yourself?" he suggested. As he led them down the corridor, he added over his shoulder, "And while you're there, maybe you can convince Ryan to relax. Frankly, he acts like he's never heard the word before."

"Oh, he's heard it." Sandy's eyebrows wagged in amusement and he beamed at Kirsten and Seth, his heady relief enveloping them like a hug. "We're just not sure that he knows how to do it."

"Well then, this would be an ideal time for him to learn." Dr. McHolland stopped at a cubicle, pushed back the surrounding curtain and stepped to one side. "Your family is here, Ryan," he announced.

For a moment, the nurse bustling next to the bed blocked their view, but when she moved aside, the Cohens saw Ryan sitting upright, fumbling to pull a sheet over his naked chest and the stark white bandage that covered much of his right side. Against his ashen skin every bruise stood out in ugly relief, but his face lit with welcome at the sight of Kirsten and Sandy.

"Hey guys," he murmured, lips curving in a hesitant half-smile. Then Seth wedged between his parents, face wreathed in a grin, and Ryan flushed, tugging the cover higher. "Don't say it, Seth," he warned, before any of the Cohens could speak.

Seth's eyes widened innocently. "Dude!" he protested, struggling to repress the laughter that undermined his feigned indignation. "Say what?"

"You know," Ryan growled. "Whatever you're thinking right now."

"I am totally hurt, buddy. For your information, I was just thinking that you . . . about your . . . what you and the. . . Ahhh, right." Squinching up his face, Seth sighed regretfully. "Yeah, probably best not to share." Ryan started to laugh, but his breath snagged on a flash of pain. Seth winced in sympathy. All teasing vanished from his tone and he sketched a small wave. "Seriously, though, man. It's good to see you."

"Thanks," Ryan said softly. "It's good to see all of you too."

Slipping next to the bed, Kirsten cupped Ryan's cheek and leaned down to kiss him. "How are you feeling, sweetie?" she asked, at the same time that Sandy moved to the other side, kneading Ryan's shoulder as he remarked, "Hey, kid. How about it? You hanging in there?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." Ryan emphasized the last word. Darting a sideways glare at Dr. McHolland, he added pointedly, "All stitched up and ready to go home with you now."

The doctor paused as he checked the blood pressure read-out. "See what I mean?" he chuckled. Peering over his glasses, he shook his head. "Sorry, Ryan. I'm afraid you're stuck here a little while longer. And since you are, here's a little hint: you're allowed to actually let your head touch the pillow. In fact, we recommend it. Cheryl? How's the refueling?"

In what appeared to be a single motion, the nurse removed a syringe from Ryan's elbow, bandaged the tiny puncture wound it had made and nodded. "All done, Doctor."

"Excellent. You folks visit—and remember what I said about Ryan relaxing. I'll be back when we get his test results." Dr. McHolland winked, closing the curtain with a flourish as he and the nurse left.

"Hmm. Tests, the man says." Claiming the solitary chair in the cubicle, Seth straddled it so that he could cross his arms and rest his head on the back. "I'm guessing those would be, what? Anatomy? Biology? Physiology?" His brow creased and he tapped his chin solemnly. "Man, those sound brutal, Ryan. I hope you studied. But maybe you were too busy with extracurricular activities—you know, liiiike . . ." Seth prolonged the word, his eyes sparkling wickedly. "Visiting strip clubs, perhaps? Getting to know its lovely employees up close and personal?"

Cocking a finger, Seth flashed a smug "gotcha" grin that deepened his dimples.

"I wasn't . . ." Ryan objected. "I mean, okay, I was, but not that way. . ." His cheeks flamed and then hollowed as he sucked in a mortified breath. "Look, Sandy, I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I know I owe you an explanation for what happened tonight . . ."

Sandy patted Ryan's wrist, letting his hand linger for a moment. "Actually, kid, you know what?" he declared. "You don't owe us anything at all." He waited, smiling with warm assurance, until the tension in Ryan's face eased. Then, abruptly, he swiveled around, grabbed Seth's arm and hoisted him out of his seat. "You, though . . . up!" he ordered. "Your mother gets to sit. You? Get to be a gentleman, son."

Ryan smothered a gleeful snort as Seth stumbled to his feet, gaping with surprise.

"Yeah. Okay. Um—Mom?" Seth stammered. He rubbed his elbow, gesturing to the vacant chair and sketching a clumsy bow when his mother sat down.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Kirsten said absently. Hitching the chair closer to the bed, she angled it so that she could maintain contact with Ryan and still reach the table next to him. "Do you need anything?" Her hand hovered over the pitcher. "Something to drink? There's ice water here, but I'm sure I could get you some juice . . ."

Ryan ducked his head, embarrassed, and pulled the sheet tighter. "I'm good, Kirsten. Thanks. But maybe . . . something to wear?" he suggested. "My clothes are . . . well, pretty much useless now."

"But, sweetie, why do you need . . .?"

"To go home," Ryan explained. His eyes narrowed, flickering warily between Kirsten and Sandy. "I am going home tonight, right? As soon as the doctor gets back?"

Kirsten looked helplessly at Sandy, who brushed Ryan's hair off his forehead and then raked back his own.

"Well, we certainly hope so, kid," he replied. "But Dr. McHolland didn't make any promises, so we'll just have to be patient until he gives the okay. At least you've got us to keep you company, right?" He wagged his eyebrows, trying to elicit a smile, but Ryan's mouth set in a dejected line.

"In fact," Kirsten added, fluffing the pillow behind Ryan and gently but firmly easing him against it, "we're under strict orders to make you relax. So here's the deal. You lie back—all the way back, young man—and I'll see if the nurse can find some scrubs for you to wear home. But you have to relax for me first."

Reluctantly, Ryan settled against the pillow, trying not to tense as Kirsten tucked the sheet around his bare shoulders.

"Speaking of relax . . ." Seth surveyed the cubicle in consternation. "Aren't there chairs for the rest of us? I mean, if we're going to be here very long--" At Ryan's glare, he amended hastily, "Not that we will be. Or that I mind standing . . . It's just, you know, for dad, because he's old. Or, I mean, older . . ."

"Gee thanks for your concern, son. I'm touched," Sandy drawled wryly. "Tell you what. I'll hunt up a couple more chairs—that is, assuming this decrepit old body will move." Groaning, he shuffled forward, using the bedrail as a crutch. "Sweetheart?" he wheezed, doing his best impression of an infirm ninety-year-old. "A little help here?"

Kirsten laughed. Getting up, she poured a glass of water and put it in easy reach of Ryan. "In case you get thirsty," she whispered, dropping a kiss on his forehead before she took Sandy's arm.

"It's your job to keep Ryan entertained until we get back, Seth," Sandy ordered. "Think you can manage that?"

Offended, Seth slapped his chest. "Please! You are talking to Seth Cohen, AKA Mr. Comic Relief. I am entertainment. Tell them, Ryan . . . Ryan? Go on. That was your cue."

"Um . . . yeah. Seth's funny," Ryan agreed doubtfully. "Kirsten? Sandy? You guys won't be gone long, right?"

"Back before you know it," Kirsten promised. "Remember now, relax." Behind Seth's back, she smiled, resting her cheek on her folded hands and miming sleep as she and Sandy left.

Grinning, Ryan promptly closed his eyes.

"Okay, looks like it's Seth-Ryan time," Seth announced, spinning around to reposition the chair so that he could straddle it again. "For once, it doesn't even have to be about me, or at least not entirely about me, because dude, I so want--" A soft snore interrupted him and he paused, leaning over the bed suspiciously. "Ryan?" he prompted. "Ryan! Come on, I know you're awake."

"Nope," Ryan mumbled. "Sleeping now. Doctor's orders."

"Yeah?" Seth countered. "You do realize that's never stopped me before, even when you've actually been asleep. I'll just keep talking, buddy."

Ryan sighed and opened his eyes, defeated. "That's true . . . So Seth-Ryan time." Inclining his head, he signaled an official start. "All right, Seth. I'm listening."

"Okay, good. So . . . you should have called me, bro."

"Seth, I . . ." Seth folded his arms and Ryan looked away, abashed. "Yeah, I know. Look, I'm sorry, but I kept thinking I wouldn't be very late. Then . . . well, things got out of control and my phone didn't work."

Unmoved, Seth shook a stern finger. "No excuses. You should have called me," he insisted. "Have we learned nothing, dude?" He waited, but Ryan just squinted dubiously. "Remember? 'United we're unstoppable. Divided people get shot.' Words to live by, my friend. In this case, almost literally."

"I didn't get shot, Seth."

"Shot, stabbed—same ultimate effect," Seth declared. "Sharp, burny things puncturing bodies, tearing flesh, ripping muscles, making blood gush, and . . . and . . . and . . ." His head plummeted onto his hands as his voice trailed off. "I just made myself totally queasy here."

Rolling his eyes, Ryan grabbed the glass Kirsten had filled and offered it to Seth, who drained the contents in a single gulp.

"Thanks," he said brightly, as he wiped his mouth. "That helped. You'll be pleased to know that I don't think I'll puke after all."

"Good news."

"So . . ." Seth shifted, putting his face in profile. "Notice anything?"

Ryan blinked, confused. "Like . . . what?"

Lifting his chin, Seth preened as he pointed to his jaw. "Battle scars, buddy. See? Proof that I, Seth Cohen of the brains-but-not-so-much-brawn hit the big, bad stalker/kidnapper guy. That's right. I punched the asshole. Put the hurt on him big time."

"Yeah?" Ryan allowed himself a small, fleeting smile. "Are you sure? 'Cause that mark? Sort of looks like the start of a zit."

"It does not!" Insulted, Seth patted the red spot affectionately. "This is obviously a wound, incurred in combat."

"If you say so. But you know, Seth all it really proves is that the big, bad, stalker/kidnapper guy hit you."

"In retaliation! To defend himself from my mighty blows!" Seth countered indignantly. He curled his fingers, displaying bruised knuckles for Ryan's inspection. "For your information I was right there defending you, bro. With no thought of my personal safety." Nodding, Seth admired his own broken skin as he waved his hand closer to Ryan's face.

"You don't want me to kiss it and make it better, do you?"

"Dude!" Open-mouthed with horror, Seth yanked his fist away.

Laughing, Ryan gently rapped Seth's knuckles with his own. "Sorry. And seriously . . . thanks, man. I don't know what I would have done if you and your parents hadn't shown up."

"Just give us the chance, Ryan. We'll always show up."

Seth's eyes held Ryan's, both of their expressions grave and sincere.

The moment of reflective silence was broken when the curtain around the cubicle rustled softly. "Ryan?" a female voice whispered. "Are you in there? Can I come in?"

Ryan's eyes widened. "Chelsea?"

"Chelsea?" Seth echoed. "Of the club and the pole and the lap dance and . . . and, um?" Babbling incoherently he jumped up, his chair clattering to the floor as Chelsea peeked around the curtain and then edged inside. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail and her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, but a thin t-shirt stretched across her ample breasts, and her shorts ended right at the top of her thighs.

Seth gulped, staring, and lifted one hand. "Hey. Um, hi," he spluttered. "Seth. Seth Cohen. Nice to see you—that is, meet you. I'm, I'm—"

"Seth Cohen?" Ryan finished wryly. "Yeah, I think she got that. Chelsea, hi. Come on in."

"Yes! Come in! Here, please, sit down," Seth urged, gesturing to the spot where the chair had stood. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Where?" Chelsea asked, dimpling.

Seth gaped blankly at the empty space and then dove to retrieve the upended chair. "Oops, sorry. Wait. Let me just--"

"You know what? It's okay, Seth. But thanks anyway." Strutting to the bed, Chelsea planted her hands on her hips, scowling as she examined Ryan. "Shit, Ace," she declared. "Didn't I tell you to take care yourself? You look like crap."

Seth smirked, but his glee gave way to a stunned whimper when Chelsea leaned over and kissed Ryan, long and deep, on the lips. "Does that make you feel any better?" she purred.

"Oh yeah," Ryan murmured as Seth, watching, nodded dazedly and gurgled, "Uh-huh."

"Jerry told me what happened. That son-of-a-bitch Colston--" As she pronounced his name, Chelsea's voice quavered. Her bravado evaporated and her eyes brimmed with tears. "Ryan, I am so, so sorry that you got hurt defending me. How I can ever make it up to you?"

Her fingers threaded through Ryan's hair and he bit his lip, peering up from under his lashes. "Another kiss might help," he suggested slyly.

Chelsea smiled tremulously. "Well, if you say so . . ." She started to bend down, then glanced over her shoulder at Seth.

"Oh. I, um—yeah." Clapping one hand over his eyes, Seth shuffled backwards, humming to cover the intimate sounds coming from the bed. After a minute he peeked through his fingers. Chelsea was perched next to Ryan, running a finger down his cheek while he smiled contentedly.

"You know, I really shouldn't kiss you like that," she teased. "It's practically incest."

Seth choked as Ryan's eyes narrowed. "Incest?" he prompted skeptically.

"Mm-hmm. Apparently they only let family members back here." Chelsea tickled Ryan's throat with the end of her ponytail. "So I told the receptionist that I was your sister."

From the hallway came a small, meaningful cough and Sandy's warm chuckle. Ryan's head jerked up and Seth spun around to see Kirsten, her arms crossed over a set of scrubs and her brows arched quizzically, standing next to his grinning father.

"Your sister, Ryan? Funny, you never mentioned a sister to us." Before Chelsea could get up, Sandy crossed to greet her, smirking at the matching blushes on Seth's and Ryan's faces.

"Sandy, no, this is--"

His eyebrows wagging, Sandy dismissed Ryan's stammered introduction. "Oh, I think I can guess, kid . . . How do you do?" he said, extending his hand to Chelsea. "I'm Sandy Cohen and this is my wife Kirsten. Obviously you already know both of our boys—well, since you're related to one of them. It's very nice to meet you . . .?"

"Chelsea Brahler." Scrambling off the bed, Chelsea tugged down her inadequate shorts and smoothed her rumpled t-shirt. "Mr. Cohen, I am so sorry. I know I shouldn't have lied to get in here. Or gotten Ryan involved in this whole mess at all. It's my fault that he got hurt."

"No, it's not," Ryan protested.

"Of course it's not," Kirsten agreed unexpectedly. She set down the scrubs she was holding and offered Chelsea her hand. "Nobody blames you for what happened, Chelsea. We all know who's responsible."

Ryan's breath hissed as he ducked his head guiltily.

Kirsten laughed and ruffled his hair. "No, sweetie, not you either. Don't worry. We'll get all of this settled later." Glancing meaningfully at her husband and son, she stroked Ryan's arm before turning back to Chelsea. "I think it's very sweet that you wanted to check on Ryan, especially considering what you've been through tonight. But right now it might be best if you didn't . . ."

"Oh!" Chelsea exclaimed as Kirsten gestured to her own lips. "Of course. I was just . . ."

"Making Ryan feel better," Seth concluded, nodding sagely. "Have you ever thought about becoming a doctor, Chelsea? Because you've got a really great bedside manner."

"Seth!"

Three indignant voices chorused his name and he barricaded himself behind the chair. "What? Was that inappropriate? Okay, shutting up now."

Chelsea laughed. "And I'm leaving. Obviously you're in good hands, Ace. Although--" Hesitantly, she faced Sandy and Kirsten. "If it's all right, I would like to stop by in a few days. Just to make sure that Ryan is doing all right?"

"I'm sure he'd enjoy that," Kirsten replied.

Ryan waved his hand. "Hey! I'm right here, people. But yeah, Chelsea, that would be great."

"It would be. Awesome," Seth agreed reverently.

"Then I'll see you soon, Ace," Chelsea promised, blowing a kiss as she retreated. "Oh—you too, Seth!"

Sandy waited until Chelsea disappeared down the corridor. Then he assumed what Seth called his "lawyer face", appraising Ryan with apparent gravity. "You do seem more . . . relaxed . . . since Chelsea's visit," he observed. "But you know what, kid? I think Kirsten and I have some news that will make you feel even better."

Warily hopeful, Ryan's eyes flickered from Sandy to Kirsten. "Yeah?" he prompted.

Kirsten shook out the set of scrubs, examining them critically. "Hmm. They should fit. At least well enough for you to wear--"

"Home?"

"Home," she confirmed, her beaming smile mirroring Ryan's own. "Sandy and I spoke to Dr. McHolland and he says that as long as you're careful of the stitches and follow doctor's orders--"

Cupping a hand in front of his mouth, Seth muttered, "Which means do everything that the Kirsten says."

"Yes, smartie." Kirsten admitted, looping an arm through her son's. "That is exactly what it means."

"So what do you say, Ryan?" Sandy asked. Resting one hand on Ryan's shoulder, he circled Kirsten's waist with the other, his touch connecting them all. "I think we're all ready to go home. This whole family has some healing to do."