Chapter 7

Steve didn't want to talk to Mark, to Oscar - or to anybody. He'd specifically sought out the tiny vestments room off of the hospital chapel so he could gather his thoughts - by himself - and not have to voice them to anyone, at least for a little while. Becca was with the nurses who knew her best (her 'favorites' out of the rotation) and Jaime was about to go under the knife of the same man who had once held a gun to her head. Steve was terrified, angry and nearly overwrought with grief; healthy or not, he just wanted to be alone, if only for a few minutes.

The voice that sought him out was probably the last one on the planet he wanted - or expected - to hear. ''Steve? One of the nurses saw you come in. We need to talk.''

Michael. Steve's first instinct was anger. Had Michael really just come looking for him to taunt and torment him some more, while Jaime needed his help so desperately? Then fear struck him like an icy knife straight through his heart. If he was here instead of in OR-1, something was terribly wrong. ''She's dead...isn't she?'' Steve asked, without turning around. ''Jaime's...dead...''

''No,'' Michael hurried to try and explain. ''I won't lie to you; Jaime's in worse shape than when they brought her in but -''

''But then...shouldn't you be with her? Getting her ready for...whatever it is you do?''

''Corinth, his team and my team are doing the initial prep work; they're fully capable. I made sure of it, or I wouldn't be here.''

Steve's emotions swung back to fierce anger. ''Why are you here, Michael?'' he seethed. ''Did you come up with a little more salt you wanted to rub in my wounds? Just needed to get in one more dig?''

''No.''

Steve wondered if there was a scalpel about to be firmly planted in his back. He still couldn't bring himself to turn around, but his eyes scanned the room for anything he might use to defend himself, if need be.

''The lamp might be most effective,'' Michael told him quietly, ''but you don't need it. I'm not here to make threats or even throw more insults your way. Do you have any questions for me, before I get started in there?''

Steve had a hell of a lot of questions (and more than a few things to say) but most of them weren't about Jaime's current condition or her surgery - and this simply wasn't the time or the place. Finally, he turned around. The effect - the outward change in Michael - was startling. If Steve hadn't known better, he'd have sworn he was looking at the physician - the surgeon - who'd saved Jaime's life (and his own) less than two years earlier, instead of someone who'd worn a prison jumpsuit only that morning.

As difficult as it was (for both of them), Michael met Steve's eyes without flinching. ''I'll do my best for her; I want you to know that,'' he told Steve. ''What I said this morning...it has no bearing when I step into that OR. I'm not going in there to hurt Jaime - or you.''

''I appreciate...that you're here,'' Steve said with great difficulty. Mudslinging, anger, hatred...they could come later (and probably would). Jaime was all that mattered now. In the most incongruous setting possible, given what had happened between them, surgeon and frantic husband sat down in the chapel and began to talk. Michael explained that Jaime's vital signs were low - dangerously low - but that was to be expected, given what had happened to her. The fact that she'd been able to hear and respond to at least the simple command to blink was encouraging, even though that response had gradually faded away as she'd reached the OR.

The bullet had indeed been shielded from the interior of her brain by the largest bionic component in her head; a small blessing, but it had likely saved her life. Michael went on to tell Steve that although there had been clear tissue damage and probably severe concussive injury to the area directly surrounding the component, there was plenty of reason to remain hopeful. The brain tissue that couldn't be saved could most likely be regenerated. He had made great strides in his research, even since Jaime's original regeneration surgery. The major portion of repair and reconstruction (and yes, regeneration) would come later (but still in the very near future). Today, he would save her life and enable her to at least wake fully conscious, aware and able to speak - and hold her daughter in her arms. These were his goals...and when Michael Marchetti set out with a goal, he never fell short. Even Steve had to acknowledge that (to himself, at least).

Before Michael left the chapel to head back into OR-1, the surgeon and the husband awkwardly but firmly shook hands.

Rudy was too sick to get out of bed...but just strong enough to be cantankerous. Physicians often make the worst patients and that was definitely proving to be the case here. Trouble was, his instincts were screaming. Something was going on at his hospital or with Steve or Jaime because suddenly no one was quite meeting his eyes and his questions about why he couldn't be transferred 'home' were being passed over...and going unanswered. He'd had cardiac incidents before and been treated quite successfully at National Medical. What was going on that they didn't want him to know about? Their avoidance made him all the more determined to find out.

Oscar sat up in the theater for OR-1 long enough to see Michael make his way in and step up to the table beside Jaime - then (like it or not) he still had a job to do. Too many jobs to begin to count, actually, but like Mark had suggested, Oscar would approach just one step at a time, in order of urgency. The hospital, with Rudy out of commission and off the grounds entirely, was on Oscar's shoulders but seemed for the moment to be running smoothly. Steve was in the nursery, apparently needing the closeness to Jaime that holding their daughter could at least start to bring him; Mark hovered close to Steve's side. There was nothing Oscar could do to help his friends...except his own job.

The most urgent matter that Oscar could attend to, that kept him from feeling completely helpless himself, was that there was a shooter out there. He had just sat down behind Rudy's desk to try and collect his thoughts and shift gears when the report from Ballistics was delivered by OSI messenger, much sooner than he'd expected. A single (mangled) bullet had been discovered on the carpet when the medics had lifted Jaime onto the stretcher - and the tests had been completed. Oscar scanned the report and then called Ballistics himself to ensure there'd been no mistake. There hadn't. The tests came back so rapidly because the bullet was quite easily identifiable.

Jaime had been shot with a Government-issued service weapon.