Guys, just thanks for all your support. You make me so happy. And now back to the story.

VI - Propior

(Closer)

There were clouds, over the precinct.

Not many, but enough to suggest rain. The sky was pretty clear, swelling in the good fat azure of California mornings, but they hang there around the red roof and the tips of the apple tree planted by the parking.

There were clouds over the precinct, and they were not moving.

Carlton found himself on the sidewalk out of Francesca's car. Again he had no idea how he did it.

-Hurry up. We go in.-

He was running up the stairs before she could close the car.

-You're always like this? Barking orders around like some sort of Vietnam sergent?-

-Hush, girl. I need to concentrate.-

They were already past the PD doors, flying swiftly through mops of rookies and secretaries and suspects more or less ragged. He didn't need his nose to know how it smelled, old coffee and disinfectant and sweat, how the heater puff felt against the back of the shirt. It felt good. It felt very good.

The girl licked her lips. -What are we doing now?-

-Find out if they've already any element, and if not communicate our forensic team should be on its way, I'm positive Pocofov's name has already popped up somewhere. And we could always use you as a random bystander.-

-Mh-mh.- She didn't look very convinced.

-I don't think it'll be necessary, however. We just need to find McNab. And go to the archive.- Pass the desk, turn in the hall. -It's way past eight a.m., the reports could be already here too.-

-Mh-mh. Ehy, it's normal all that people stuffed there?-

Those words tickled Carlton, in a no-place he had come to call his Bad Switch. The Chief's office was indeed hemmed in a fat ring of bluish uniforms, heads practically smashed against the windows. A lot of heads.

Clack.

He turned sharply to the kid.

-Why did they let you pass?-

Francesca blinked. -Uh, I suppose because I'm a five-foot tall not-armed girl...?-

-No, I mean, why they let you pass without checking. Every civilian entering the PD should be recognized and scheduled as not-dangerous, or at least asked an identification document at the door. They didn't do it. That's, odd.-

Carlton slowed down. Who were the control agents at the door? He had not even really looked. Actually, he had not really looked at the whole precinct.

He hushed the girl before she talked and lifted his head. He knew istantly something was wrong.

Around the desks was a lot of agents, yes, but they were scattered: some arguing in hissings at the porter's lodge, others fidgeting with the papers fastened on the advise reports weren't typed even at the usual painful pace. A bunch of cops, good cops, he recognized Rodriguez and Harp, were slumped on the relax room couch, talking softly among them. It was not only the rookies around the office. He glared at the kitchenette.

-There's still coffee. After the night shift.-

-Maybe they made it again?-

-Obviously you've never been to a precinct.- The thickle got worse. Cops not drinking coffee meant disorganization. It meant disorder, or lot of work, but they were clearly not working. They were wasting time. He clenched his teeth without feeling it. -Unacceptable. No. Where the heck is McNab? The Chief?-

Carlton marched back towards the office, searching around. Where were the other detectives, anyway? O'Brien, and Donovan and Potter, and what the Hell was Samson doing in the corner with all the cops lazing around?

It shouldn't work like this. There were things to do, cases, operations. It should't work like this. He came by the studio. The shutters were pulled aside. McNab was inside, sitting across the desk. He was contemplating pure air.

-What the hell.- Carlton growled. The girl was saying something, he didn't hear it.

What is it? What's wrong?

No one, nearly no one was working. The suspects weren't guarded. No one talked. It was like New Year aftermath but a hundred times worse. He roamed around, feeling his clear spot slipping far and far and far, anger itching at his fingertips. He just wanted to stump a foot and shout them at place. It would be the right thing to do.

-Unbelievable. This is just unbelievable. I'm surrounded by tearaways.-

Ungrateful.

-Detective, what's wrong?-

Ungrateful.

-Don't talk.-.

The girl stopped, and Carlton just kept walking. He found himself back at the relax room, the cops had gone away. For a moment Carlton just wanted to start screaming and ravaging around, punching the Hell out of the walls until it felt enough, but no. He stumped on a sofa in front of the windows, looking slowly at his people.

It was stupid. They were men, normal men doing a job, it was early morning with no superiors around, it was obvious they would let it go. By now he should know it. They were all normal men and getting so angry was stupid.

What was he thinking to do there, anyway? Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he had discovered nothing. Or maybe really nothing of this crap was true and it was all in his head and he was dying in a hospital room with O'Hara eating M&Ms by his side, and if so, his subconscious was a very cruel and very banal place to be. Oh, and there was the girl. She needed to sleep. To eat, too. She had a family that was waiting for her, he had not even checked if she'd called them. Rookie mistake. Damn.

He plunged his head in his hands. It was so sad. All of it, it was, it was.

-Why in the Hell is everyone acting like a goddamn lobotomized?- Carlton asked softly.

-Because they are scared, detective.-

He looked at his back. The girl was leaning against the kitchenette, rummaging in a pack of Cheetos.

-They are scared. Their Head Detective, their boss has been shot and they don't know why or how bad. They don't know what will happen and if it will hurt and maybe they will have to set again all the rules. It's the scariest thing that one could feel, detective.-

-How can you say it?-

She curled on the uncomfortable leather couch. -Let's say I have a bit of experience in feeling angry and confused and messed up. And I saw hundreds of dramatic series, after all.-

Ah. Ridiculous. Naive. Yet Carlton simply nodded, looking up at the precinct behind the door. The pastel-colored walls, people carrying papers they would never finish in peace, the Police Ball posters still in the cellophane. His desk and O'Hara's and the blatant lack of that nonsensical whirpool of rush and fullness that burned up everytime they were all together.

-They are not disorganized, detective. They're waiting. For you.-

He found hard speaking.

-This is so, so unprofessional.-

-Nah. I think it's kinda cute.-

Carlton felt himself grin a bit. His precinct, his men, waiting for him. Maybe it wasn't true.

It felt good. It felt so really good.

-Well, what now?-

The question was so sudden Carlton snapped out of his haze. The girl was staring at him, one leg folded under her and an expression of quite interest.

-What do you mean "now"?-

-What do you want to do.- She shrugged. -What's the plan.-

-What about the cosmic equilibrium and the rightness and so on?-

-Screw the cosmos.- Francesca clacked. -You are a good person and I know that if I don't try to help this mess I'll regret it for all my life. So really, screw the cosmos.-

She crossed her arms. He noted the nibbled yellow nail polish on her fingers, the spurt of freckles around her nose. For the first time since he met her, she actually seemed a twenty years old.

It won't be dangerous. You should contact her parents. She understands and she wants to come, she wants to come.

Where the Hell are we going with that, detective?

We're going.

-We need more information.- He said suddenly, getting up. -We need cases and ugly facts and suspects.-

-Are we going to the archive?-

-No.- Think, breathe, act. - We're going to my house.-

She had slept, and even rather deeply: except that between "deeply" and "fitfully" there are several universes of distance. That kind of sleep was a little like turn off a battery: a trick she learned the hard way when her parents were arguing and she waited for her dad to finally leave for real, and that she brought to perfection during ambushes. On, off. Gray dreams, waking up. Dozing, nurse coming to check the IV's. Eating a handful of M&M's, sleeping again against the wall. On, off.

Are you the wife, Miss?

Uh, no.

Oh, so you are another cop?

Yes. No. Yes. I'm his partner.

Juliet growled, waking up again and taking off her face from the wall. Gosh, she was drooling again. Her face should look like a sort of blonde scarecrow. She groaned.

Although she grew up with a nest of brothers, Jules was one of those persons who needed clean clothes and tidy hair to feel completely themselves. The care of herself was one of her best mood indicator, and the same went for Carlton; thus why she sympathized with him in front of some of Shawn's outfits. For him clothes were a way to avoid scandalized complains or to shock someone; for them they were substitute of medieval armors. It must be a thing for ex- very lonely kids.

With that she sighed, and turned toward the hospital bed, and begun the checking ritual for the fifth time of the night.

Carlton was awfully pale, and he wasn't sleeping. People loved to say that their dead or unconscious ones look like sleeping, but she had always found it slightly disturbing. Death, unconsciousness is not slumber; shutting down after you nearly bled to death and flat-lined three times is not slumber, and it shouldn't look like it.

He was gray-skinned, eye-lashes curved on blue sockets; skin thin like paper. She could almost see the web of azure veins under the temples, along the forearms. Carlton had always had this absurd mix of sturdy Irishness and dainty details on him, but now they stood out piercingly, horribly. The collarbone line spourting from the bandages looked ready to snap at the lightest touch, and she didn't feel a bit ridiculous to say it from her five foot height.

And God, there were so many tubi. Things that clicked and biped and dig in his skin. Near the kitty cat poster hanging from the wall one of the monitor was beating, slowly, and it was deafening.

He would hate to be seen like this; you earned that right only after centuries. It was not right others saw him like this. People that didn't know him, that didn't give him all their chocolate after the divorce papers' signature, that never organized him the worst birthday ever and still stayed his friend. That didn't see him neither being happy nor angry nor taking aim at someone's head.

She leaned to brush away a forelock. The kitty cat watched silently.

- So I'm not the only awake thing in this place.-

Juliet spun around so fast she nearly fell from the chair. Immediately babbling her list of excuses. -Oh, I, I'm a police officer, I asked the Surgery Chief to stay, for sicurezza, he said yes so I am, here. I'm his partner.-

In the blue-lighted doorway was a man: she spotted a white coat, a roundish face that could be smiling. He was the doctor, she had talked to him that afternoon. She hadn't even checked who it was before dropping her guard. Her gun was forgotten in her purse. Gosh, Juliet, shake it up, rookie mistake.

-Glad you're so informed, Detective O'Hara. Although I can't understand how you're so lively at four in the mornin'.-

The doc took some steps on the linoleum, approaching the bed.

She tried her hardest to master a smile, disastred mascara and all. What was his name? It was something that literally screamed Scotland. McArthur? McDonnell? The biping was distracting.

-Is it...has it happened something? Complications? Other tests?-

He shook his head, casting a glance to one of the monitors. He was small, skinny in a way that seemed crafted for fly: one of those men that looked impressive thanks to a mix of temper and sheer will force. He reminded her painfully of her partner. And he had a beautiful voice. Rough, deeper than expected, with a Southern drawl thick like honey.

-No, don't worry suga'. I'm here just to check on the guy. Makin' sure he isn't planning strange things.-

Here she guessed a dismiss. She couldn't move.

The doctor gave her a half-smile. -He's one lucky guy, isn't he?-

-Oh, no, we don't. I mean, I'm not.-

-Oh no, no, I didn't mean it. It was clear.-

-Clear?-

He did a vague gesture with the free hand. -Staying here all night but never touchin' him. Talking with every livin' thing in your range as an angry bear. I have a sister. She's almost the same.- His voice softened. -A lot of times it's them that stay. The rompipalle sisters, no offense intended.-

She smiled. He smiled.

-Doctor, how bad is it?-

-Straight to the point. Well, on a scale from one to ten, I think we're at six.-

There should have been something very rabbit-in-the-headlights in her face, because he turned and propped against the night stand.

-Let me explain. Under the left shoulder and the collarbone there's a thing called Subclavian artery, and as every artery it is often a little bitch. When struck arteries bleed a lot and a lot fast. We repaired it pretty fast, but the blood loss had been huge. The Subclavian is close to the heart, that's why his body tried to shut down so soon. We call it blood loss shock.-

-And now?-

-Now we've managed to stabilize him. We're pumping in all the blood we can, but the truth is, we don't know. He went into arrest two times, it's some stress for a system. We have to wait. He could wake up tomorrow, or ...-

-I got it.-

He paused. -Sure thing.-

-It shouldn't have happened. I mean, it was routine, we did crazier things. A lot of crazier things. I didn't calculate. There was so much blood, and I. - To Juliet's horror, her throat let out a whine-ish sound. -I'm sorry. I'm not usually like that. I don't, I, I'm a good cop.-

-I do not doubt it, ma'am.-

Silence.

-Let's do that.- He pulled himself up, talking softly. -Now I'll go taking his analysis, and you'll calm down and we'll still pretend to be the tough professionisti we fancy to be. Sounds good?-

Juliet breathed. Her teeth unclenched enough to speak.

-Sounds good.-

-Good. Stay with him, Detective O'Hara. It helps. I know it from experience.-

The doctor nodded, preparing to leave. He talked again when he was at the door.

-And don't worry. The hair is not that bad.-

-How...?-

He gestured over his shoulder. -Younger sister!-

Juliet watched him disappear across the door with a smile. She realized she still didn't know his real name.

I will ask him tomorrow. And I'll call the precinct too. And Gus, yeah, maybe Gus could come a bit. Poor Gus, sweet Gus.

But those were tomorrow things. Day-light things, now was not the right time, and she was not the right Juliet. The words "Blood loss shock" still sounded a lot scary.

A lot of times, it's them that stay.

Juliet got up, to stretch her legs and go to the bathroom, and coming back she sat again on her chair. It didn't feel enough. She needed to be there, closer if he. If he. She bent over the bed, sliding her arms around his neck, and it felt so awkward and so right. She pressed her head on his chest. He was warm. She closed her eyes. Counting the breaths. One, three. One.

Don't leave me, okay? Please, for me. It would be wonderful.

A breath, just again her cheek.

Thanks.

Shawn lit his first cigarette at seven a.m.; the first cigarette in more than four years, actually. The last one had been in a lousy motel on Santa Barbara's outskirts, the night before he knocked at his Dad's door and began the greatest show of his life. He hadn't needed them in ages. But that morning the sun had bleached white his teenage room's curtains and they looked suddenly like pale pale skin and he couldn't breathe and Shawn decided that it was better getting up and having a good ciggie.

He slipped out of the door and climbed on the roof, picking the lighter with shaking hands. At the first puff he coughed pitifully, but he went on, and at the third one the smoke burned deep enough in his lungs. In and out. In and out. The world reduced to it. No tears. In and out.

He heard the clanging of feet on the metal stair. Slight pants, ex-asthmatic wheeze.

-Ugh. It's freezing up there.-

-'Suppose so.-

-Put the coat on, Shawn.-

-Gus...-

-Put the coat on.-

He groaned, grabbing the offered coat. Gus propped himself beside him, in the nook against the scarica water drainpipe. It was where they played pirates as kids, and Shawn had caught the worst cold of his life. The sky was getting clear.

-I talked with Jules.- Gus said. -She's angry as Hell.-

-How angry?-

-"Kill you in a very excruciating way" angry.- He paused, licking his lips. Shawn did not like his face a bit. -She's...she's broken, Shawn. Really.-

-You should work on your support skills, Gus.-

-I'm serious. Have you seen. Well, I mean. Have you seen?-

Shawn shook his head. Gus was such a good friend he didn't even try to rebuke him. -Well, he's stable now. The bullet hit the Subclavian artery and the bone, and he's lost a lot of blood during surgery.-

-And that's a very bad thing.-

-Yeah. A very bad thing.-

Shawn took a long, long puff, trying to swallow the lump stuck in his throat.

-Gus...-

-You don't have to, Shawn. You should, but you don't have to.-

-What's that supposed to mean? Why are you and Dad being so, so nice? I prayed for ages to be left alone, and you do it now.-

Gus scowled. - What's the matter, Shawn?-

-Nothing. It's just awkward.-

-Shawn...-

- Just, don't talk to me like it's going to happen something horrible and irreparable, okay?-

-Okay. Sure, man.-

Then he shuffled, getting closer, and Shawn put his head on Gus's shoulder like a goddamn Regency heroine. They hugged in front of sunrise. It felt ridiculous, but they didn't care. And then it was cold.

-So, I suppose I should go back annoying you. And say the same to your father. And...-

-Thanks buddy.-

-Anytime.-

-Gus.-

-Mh-mh?-

-I think I've dropped some ashes on your Moncler.-