Pete had pulled into his usual parking space, but he had not yet turned off the car. He seriously considered pulling back out and leaving. He wasn't supposed to be talking to Ed; a fact that Ed knew as well as Pete. Technically, they could talk about Ed's status as a training officer. That was an entirely different matter than the incident in the station hallway. Pete had lost any sense of peace he got from the drive home. Suddenly, he had a headache to go with the pain in his stomach and Ed Wells was sitting between Pete and his medicine.
With a sigh, Pete turned off the car and removed the key from the ignition. He was about to put the key ring In his pocket, when something caught the light and reflected it back at him. It was the medal of St. Michael, the patron saint of police officers. Pete wasn't the type to put faith in medals and such, but his mother had given it to him when he graduated from the Academy. Instead of wearing it on a chain around his neck, he kept it on his keyring. He spared a glance heavenward as he got out of his car. "Hey Mike? Can you distract God for me?" Whether he was asking help in getting God to find someone else to toy with or asking St. Michael to distract God so he didn't see what Pete might do, was open to interpretation.
Ed stood as Pete walked slowly towards the staircase. All Pete wanted was to go inside, take some pain medication and wait for Jim to bring the pizza. He kept his focus on the stairs; deliberately not looking at Ed. As he passed Wells, he spoke softly, "Go home Ed." Wells reached out and gave a small tug on Pete's shoulder. It was enough to force Pete to look at him.
"No. We're going to talk about it now." The emphasis on "now" showed Pete how desperate Ed was; it also rubbed Pete the wrong way. The last thing Pete wanted was for this to turn into something ugly.
"Please Ed. Go home." Pete was halfway up the small staircase, when Ed rushed past him. Ed was blocking Pete from getting to his apartment. Once more, Pete cast a less than respectable prayer to St. Michael, asking for patience; it was a commodity that Pete had very little of.
"You're the key to all of this trouble. Why couldn't you do your job and stop bothering me about mine?" Ed wasn't well known for his logic.
"At the risk of starting an argument that I am not in the mood for, let me point something out to you. It is my job to chase after you when you aren't doing your job properly. Now, Go Home." Pete brushed past Ed. He was rapidly losing what little patience he had.
Unfortunately, Ed seemed intent on starting a fight instead of leaving. He grabbed Pete's left bicep and jerked it back, knocking him off balance. It was only by luck that Pete was able to grab the railing and keep himself from falling down the stairs. Pete righted himself up and he stood, fists clenched, glaring down at Ed.
"Go Home Now! We aren't on duty nor are we in uniform. Push me, and I will knock you clear to the moon and back. Understand?" Standing as close as they were, the difference in height seemed even larger than the four inches or so that separated them in size.
"Back off Malloy." It was obvious that Ed wasn't in control of his emotions, anger included. He reached up, put his hands on Pete's chest and pushed him backward. Malloy took a step back to right himself as Ed swung a fist at Pete's jaw. Using his left arm to block the fist, Pete easily fended off the attack. He was beginning to think that Ed had been drinking.
"I don't want to hit you Ed. Us fighting isn't going to solve anything." Pete moved up to the next to the last step to the landing outside his apartment, distancing himself from Wells. It took all the self-control he had to keep from belting Ed. Oh, how he wanted to.
"You're trying to get me fired. You act all high and mighty, but you won't hesitate to stab one of us in the back. Come on Malloy, fight me fairly." Pete shook his head and turned to take the last step onto the landing. If there was one thing he definitely shouldn't do, it was hitting Wells.
Pete was halfway to his door when Ed lunged at his back, slamming him into the door. He hit his head on the door frame and the door knob connected with his already sore stomach. Pete righted himself and did the only thing he could do; he rammed his right fist into Ed's soft belly.
Wells doubled over and fell to his knees.
"Stay down. You're in enough trouble already. Do you really want to risk one of my neighbors reporting this?" Pete reached up to check his forehead; there was blood on his fingers. How was he going to explain that? Pete didn't want anyone to find out about this, but the blood was evidence that he was hit. There wasn't, however, a mark on Wells. A parish priest Pete knew while growing up had once told him; "Always hit them in the soft parts. That way, you don't leave any marks or break your hand." It wasn't the holiest thing to tell a ten year old, but it was good advice.
Ed was still on his knees, gasping for breath, when Jim showed up with the pizza. Reed's attention went from Ed to Pete. He saw the trickle of blood on his partner's forehead and pretty much figured out what had happened. Pete would never start a fight with another officer, besides; Ed's presence here was proof that he instigated the confrontation.
"Are you okay, Partner?" He noticed that Pete was breathing heavy, but he seemed more angry than winded. Pete nodded then he took a step towards Ed, offering him a hand getting up. That move surprised both Jim and Ed, but Pete wanted this over.
"I don't need your help." Ed was slowly getting to his feet by himself. Neither Jim nor Pete were sure what Wells would do. The partners struck identical poses, bracing themselves in case Ed tried to attack Pete again.
"My dinner is here. Go home Ed." Pete had noticed a few neighbors watching what was happening. The best thing to do was to get Ed away from here before a black and white showed up. "Leave. Attacking me isn't going to change things."
"You started it. You can stop it. Keep pushing and I'll lose my job." Ed was definitely not thinking straight. He had clenched his fists as he moved closer to Pete. Reed instantly moved to intervene if Ed tried anything.
"Even if I wanted to, I couldn't stop what's going to happen. If you lose your job it will be because you let that kid get your gun. Don't blame me for that." Pete stooped down to pick up his key ring; he knew that Jim would protect him if Ed tried anything. He did hope that Jim's help wasn't necessary; he didn't want the pizza dropped. Pete unlocked the door and went into his apartment. Reed followed, practically slamming the door in Ed's face. The click of the dead-bolt was lost amid Ed's pounding on the door.
Pete took a seat as soon as he could, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. As Jim set the pizza down on the coffee table he saw something that worried him; Pete wasn't making any attempt to hide the pain that he was in. Jim left the unopened pizza and disappeared down the hall. He returned with a wet washcloth and the pain medication he found on a dresser in the bedroom. Pete took the wet washcloth when it was shoved in his hand. Eyes still closed, he held the cloth to his temple and muttered a thank you. Jim went and got two plates and one bottle of soda.
"Hold out your hands." Jim read the label on the bottle, electing to give Pete two pills instead of the one he knew his friend would probably take.
"Why?" Pete asked, even as he held out his hands. He opened his eyes, expecting to be holding a beer in one hand; he was pretty sure he knew what Jim had put into his other open hand. Pete downed both pills with the soda Jim had provided. He grumbled, but that was because Jim hadn't given him a beer.
"Soda?" Jim moved the beers out of Pete's reach. "Damn. Hand me a piece of pizza. I can have that, can't I, Mother?" He took the piece of pizza and a folded paper towel from Jim's hand. A folded paper towel? Pete wondered if Jim was born domesticated or if that was Jean's doing.
They ate and watched the game without talking. Jim had a whole pile of questions, but he wanted to give the pain medication time to work before he pestered Pete. During a commercial, Jim asked the question he wanted an answer to most of all.
"How many times did you hit him?" At least, Jim was laughing. "He looked like a fish gasping for air."
"Once." Pete laughed and shrugged his shoulders. One punch was all he needed. In order to get clearance to return to work after he was shot, Pete spent a lot of time swimming to build up his lung capacity and strengthen his chest muscles. This exercise had resulted in an increase in total upper body strength.
For the next forty-five minutes, Pete, in between innings, told Jim all that happened with Ed. Three pieces of pizza and two Tylenol with Codeines later, Pete was asleep. Jim saw no reason to leave; Jean wouldn't let him ignore her family in order to watch the end of the game. He was finishing up his fifth piece of pizza when the phone rang. He rushed to answer it before the ringing woke Pete up.
The caller was a woman who wouldn't leave her name. She said she would call Pete tomorrow. Curious, Jim didn't recognize the voice.
Pete woke up during the bottom of the seventh inning. The Dodgers were barely holding onto a one run lead. The game was getting good when Jim cleared his throat. Pete shook his head, knowing full well what that sound meant.
"Can't it wait until the end of the inning? I already missed a lot of the game." Instead of asking Jim what he wanted to talk about, Pete sent him to get them both some ice cream. Who knows? Ice cream has been known to distract his partner before.
"Pete?" Jim set the bowl of ice cream in front of his friend. "Maybe you should call Mac."
"Why? I'm sure he's already watching the game." He knew what Jim wanted him to call Mac about; right now, he didn't want to deal with it. Regulations required him to report what happened earlier.
"Keep my ice cream cold." Pete went to use the phone on the kitchen wall. He finished dialing and held onto the hope that Mac wouldn't be there. Two rings later…
"Hello. MacDonald residence."
