He woke from a drugged up dream about waves and cheerful babies going under, oblivious to the danger until suddenly they were just gone. He'd go after them but they were bound by cable ties and guarded by a slithering, dark sea monster with soulless eyes.

"Easy, man, you're going to rip out your line," Trucker said, his voice muffled, suddenly beside him in the water to stop him from tugging on a surfboard leash attached to his wrist instead of his ankle.

Priestly blinked at him, and the hospital room came into focus, the ocean fading away with the bright light of day streaming in through the slatted blinds. "Truck," he sighed in relief, his heart racing.

"Nightmare?" Trucker asked, watching him, his expression unreadable. What the hell was up with everyone wearing masks and gloves and scrubs? He was afraid to ask.

"Yeah, man," Priestly sighed, lifting his good arm, the one with the IV, and rubbed his aching head. "What time is it?"

Trucker checked the cheap watch he wore. "Just after nine."

He sighed again. Jesus. What the hell had he done? Priestly looked around, still feeling the ache on his left side. He tried to lift his right arm to check the damage, but it felt like lead and his shoulder protested.

"How 'bout some ice chips?" Trucker offered, holding up a cup and giving it a rattle. "Nurse thought you'd be waking up soon, and she said the doctor has to okay anything else."

"Okay," Priestly replied softly, not knowing how to tell Trucker he was sorry for fucking things up. Feeling like an idiot, he accepted the spoonful of ice chips Trucker fed him, feeling his face grow hot.

"You okay?" Trucker asked, watching him closely. "You're looking flushed."

"I'm sorry, man," Priestly told him miserably around the melting ice chips. Trucker apparently sensed he wasn't finished and just waited. "I just…" he stared up at the ceiling, trying to find the words. "I fucked up."

"What do you mean?" Trucker asked.

"The grill," he winced. "Shit, I just wasn't thinking, you know? I mean, I was thinking. I was thinking about Lily and Mikey, and I–″

"Hey, man," Trucker answered softly, dropping a hand to his arm. "The grill will still be there. Jude's there now, and she and Davis, Chuck and Rawley are going to work out a schedule to cover until you're able to go back."

"Yeah, but…" Priestly trailed off. He was sore, and he was tired. Maybe there was no point in rehashing it. Trucker was a firm believer in 'what's done is done'. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

Trucker nodded. "I know," he said. He gave Priestly an earnest look. "But it's really hard to see a reason why you should be when that little girl is back with her folks today."

The corner of his mouth turned up just a little. "Awesome," he whispered. He closed his eyes, sleep dragging at him again.

"Yeah," Trucker whispered as he touched Priestly's forehead by way of goodbye.

%*%

The next time he woke, he was able to ask the nurse why everyone was wearing masks. The guilt Trucker had tried to assuage roared back full force as the masked woman gently explained his injuries and the immediate future risks. Fuck. Fuck.

He wasn't sorry for what he'd done. He could never be sorry. He kept seeing Missy's scared face, wild eyes. The understanding he'd seen in those young eyes as he'd leaned into the truck to work on the cable ties…the fact that she'd somehow grasped exactly what kind of trouble she was in, it had shaken him down deep somewhere. She could be his Lily Bee, only older and blue-eyed. There hadn't been any other option, at least not any he could see. But now everyone around him was paying the price, and not one of them had been given a choice. It was impossible to reconcile his relief that Missy was okay, back with her family, with the rotten hand he'd dealt everyone else around him.

When Zo came in later, she sensed his mood if not the reason for it. He fought a reluctant smile as she watched the door for nurses while massaging fragrant oils into his good arm, stroking up toward his armpit, careful not to jar his IV. Her stuff might be a little woo woo, but it usually worked, so he didn't argue as she explained the mixture would help to strengthen his immune system.

"You'll be better than ever," she teased as he relaxed into the mini-massage she was giving him. "And if you'll allow me, I'll instruct Jude on how to give you the full body version. It's what you really need, but you're in no shape for it now."

"Let you convince my wife to rub me up and down in the name of health? Sign me up," he joked. Zo laughed, but sobered again quickly.

"You're hurting," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed, pretending he didn't know what she was getting at. "Must be time for more painkillers."

She just continued massaging and explained that what she was doing was draining his lymph nodes, which was really the true benefit of massage. It kept the bad stuff moving toward the exits, basically, and kept the good stuff racing around on patrol. Priestly grinned at her imagery.

"You should have been a nurse, Zo," he mumbled, half asleep under her ministrations.

"I thought about it. Studied for it," she added in her usual musing way. "But the war taught me that I had no stomach for it. Healing is good, and I still enjoy making my efforts. But I realized a long time ago I didn't have the ability to remain detached from what I'd run into with field medicine. I can't separate myself properly from people. Self preservation, I suppose," she said.

He chewed on that as she finished with him, closing the shoulder snaps on his hospital gown. Sometimes meeting one of Zo's soul gazes (as he called them) was just too hard. Thankfully, because she was Zo, when he broke the eye contact, she didn't object or try to pull him back in. She just smiled gently and rubbed his temple.

"Priestly, whatever it is that's bothering you, I hope you'll talk to me or Trucker or someone about it," she said in her usual gentle, nagging way. If he thought Trucker had mastered the art of subtle guidance, Zo was the ninja nagging champion.

Problem was, he'd told Trucker exactly how he felt already. It hadn't made one bit of difference, because it couldn't magically restore him to health and get him back to the responsibilities he'd signed up for five years ago. Whether Trucker admitted it or not, he was letting his partner down, his crew down, and his family down. It didn't much matter if they understood or if they forgave him. He didn't forgive himself.

*%*

One week later…

"Jude, can you help us out front?" Diego, a happy-go-lucky high school kid who wore a perpetual grin, called into the back room.

She took a deep breath. She had no idea how Priestly did this every day, six days a week. No idea. She was fine with pitching in during rushes, but she'd never realized what a full day open to close at the grill actually meant. It was just another area in which she'd been taking him for granted. He made it look easy, even when he was clearly stressed out. It wasn't easy. They were running out of clean dishes, they were about to run out of prepped veggies, and the food order had to be in by seven if they wanted to be able to serve anything next week.

Trouble was, word had gotten around about Priestly and customers were flooding through the grill in a constant stream. God bless them, she knew what it was about. Money. They thought they were helping. They were helping, because anything that helped the grill's bottom line helped their bank account, and everyone guessed correctly that there would be co-pays to be met, physical therapy bills, and, she'd recently learned, even the possibility of a frivolous lawsuit from Greg Clarkson's family. They could make the argument that Priestly's actions had killed their son, and it was actually possible that with the right attorney, they'd win.

There had been no notice of any actual actions filed, but the calls she was fielding at the grill (from reporters, from attorneys wanting to either sue Clarkson's family for Priestly's injuries or discuss the possibility of suit against them from Clarkson's family, from book editors, and from movie studios) were making it extra impossible to get through the day. And it wasn't like she could just ignore the phone, because some of the callers were actually trying to do business with the grill. Go figure!

She complained about the calls as she delivered a fresh bin of sandwich rolls to Diego and grabbed the various pages she needed to figure out the food order. Diego flashed her a grateful smile and grabbed several rolls, plopping them face down on the grill for Gabriel before heading to the register to take care of the patrons waiting there.

"Sorry, guys, things are a little crazy without our Commander-in-Chief."

Jude grinned at his nickname for Priestly, startled at Davis' voice behind her.

"Hey, Jude," he sang, as he always liked to do. Her standard response was to roll her eyes at his teasing and retort,

"Get some new material!"

This time, though, she just grinned widely at him. "Please tell me you're here to help."

"I am," he nodded. "Any particular urgency or just help where help appears needed?"

"Dishes," she pointed to the back room, laughing as he jokingly asked,

"Anything else urgent?"

"'Fraid not. I have to get the food order in by seven, so I can't help you." Secretly, she was glad. She hated dishes. At home, she and Priestly often made a game out of figuring out who was going to do them. Unfortunately, she usually lost whatever game they cooked up.

By the time she finished the food order, the current rush of patrons had slowed to a steady trickle and Piper had arrived for her shift. Jude thanked God silently and Piper right out loud that she still wanted to come in instead of being a lady of leisure, as Noah jokingly referred to it.

Piper smiled. "How's Priestly?"

"So far, so good. They've got him up walking around and they said his incision looks good. The stitches in his hand came out yesterday and staples along the incision come out tomorrow. And he's been tolerating the physical therapy for his shoulder and his elbow pretty well, too."

"Any sort of release date yet?" She asked, tying on a waist apron.

"Not yet. He was running a low grade fever last night, which had everyone all kinds of freaked out, me included. His temperature was normal this morning, though."

"Good," Piper said, grinning at Diego as he turned to wink hello at her. The younger kid had a flirty, fun sort of relationship with her. He knew she was with Noah, but they bickered and bantered back and forth like an old married couple, charming the customers the same way Trucker said Priestly and Sally once had, though of course, the age gap was wider with the latter pair.

By the time they closed up shop on yet another day, Jude thought she'd fall asleep standing up, but she still had to help with the cleanup and prep for tomorrow. As she began to rub hot, soapy water across the floor, she noticed Davis messing around on the laptop.

"What're you up to over there?" she called out.

He grinned in the bluish light, all the brighter now because the main house lights were off. "I'm fixing your phone."

She gave him a puzzled look. "What?" She mopped her way over to him, peering over his shoulder at a bunch of nonsense on the laptop's black and white operating system screen.

"You said you were getting a bunch of nuisance calls, right?"

"Yeah," she said warily.

"I'm fixing that," Davis said.

"How?" she asked, nearing outright alarm.

"Call the house phone from your cell."

She did as he asked. The grill's phone picked up at one ring. She heard Davis' cheerful voice intone the following:

"Hey. You've reached the Beach City Grill. We're open 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. every day except Monday. If you want to place an order, press '1'. For directions to the grill, press '2'. For anything else, press '3'."

With a suspicious look, Jude pressed '3'. Davis' voice went flat and hard. "This is a business. It is not the time nor the place to request interviews, make sales pitches, or chase ambulances. If you still wish to do any of those things, you can leave a message which, at our option, we may or may not return. Please note that remaining on this line after the tone implies your consent to be transferred to our 1-900 number. There will be a three second grace period before charges begin. At the end of the grace period, you will hear a tone and can begin leaving your message. Remaining on the line after the tone implies your consent to be charged at the rate of $3.95 per minute on your monthly phone bill. A one minute minimum charge will apply." Davis rattled off some legalese about California pay per call laws and then the tone sounded, followed by the sound of dialing. Jude quickly hung up.

Jude gave him a worried look. "That won't really happen will it? The charge?"

"It absolutely will," he answered. "And anyone stupid enough to be on the line after the second tone will be billed."

"But will we get into trouble?" She asked.

"Perfectly legal," Davis assured her.

"But weren't you hacking?" Her dubiousness made Davis roar with laughter.

"No, ma'am. All I did was use the grill's phone bill information to set up the pay per minute line. And then I changed the grill's automatic payment information to come out of one of my accounts. After a month, I figure we can discontinue that service, and I can revert you back to your old payment method."

"I can't let you do that," she shook her head.

Davis winked at her. "Yeah, you can. This is coming out of my ill gotten gains account, if you catch my drift."

She didn't ask, and he didn't elaborate. She just opted to adopt the 'don't ask, don't tell' rule and went on mopping. She tried not to wonder how they would get through the next couple years, with Priestly likely to be teetering on a tightrope over a pit of catastrophic illness. And no net in sight.