A/N: To everyone that has reviewed and commented on this story, thank you so much! A special thank you to all the Guests and Readers and everyone I can't send a personal thank you.

Chapter 6

"Hello?"

"Where are you? I thought you were coming over," Mitch says over the phone, aggravation in his voice.

McCall looks around her dark living room, unable to see anything but the time glowing on the VCR. 9:17pm. When had it gotten so dark? She doesn't remember it being dark when she walked into her house and sat down in the nearest chair. Slumped is probably a more appropriate description, she had slumped into the chair with her purse strap still on her shoulder and her car keys still in her hands.

I have cancer.

Lymphoma.

From the moment she heard those words time has ceased to exist.

"Oh…yeah…sorry. I just…uh…I just lost track of time."

"Is everything okay?"

No, everything is not okay. But she can't say the words. Saying the words makes them real. Telling Mitch means she has to acknowledge them, face them, discuss them, and she doesn't have the energy for any of that. The tears she had shed in her car, parked in the McDonald's parking lot two blocks from the park so that Hunter wouldn't see her, had finally dried. She feared their return if she told Mitch.

"Yeah, I'm okay." Lie.

"Are you sure? You don't sound okay. Rick didn't get upset about our engagement, did he?"

"No, no, nothing like that." She pauses for a moment, searching her brain for the least committal comment. "It's just been a crazy week, you know. I guess I'm more tired than I thought."

"So how did he take the news?"

"Fine. You know, he was fine." Why am I lying to him? The truth is that she had forgotten.

I have cancer.

Lymphoma.

She had forgotten about their engagement. She had forgotten about their plans tonight. She had forgotten about Mitch.

"What did he say about being your 'man of honor'? Did he tell you you're crazy like I said he would?" Mitch chuckles as he asks.

McCall feels anger begin to bubble up. How dare he mock her right now? How dare he mock her relationship with Hunter?

"I haven't asked yet," she hisses. "Listen, I really am tired. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait! Don't hang up! I'll stop kidding you about the 'man of honor' thing. He's your best friend, I get it. I'll leave it alone. You can choose whomever you want to stand up with you. Of course you can."

McCall can hear the sincerity in his voice and mentally chastises herself. What am I doing? I'm lying to him, and he's the one apologizing.

Taking a deep breath, she wills herself to relax. "I…uh…again, I'm sorry about tonight. I'll make it up to you tomorrow."

XXXXX

The chemotherapy treatment center smells like industrial detergent and latex gloves. There's an obvious attempt at tranquility, with soothing music piped throughout the room, large plush recliners and potted plants haphazardly arranged along the far wall and in each corner. He supposes the soft green walls and framed photographs of oceans and forests hanging from them are meant to be calming, but all Hunter sees is that someone couldn't decide which nature theme to use. The picture directly opposite his assigned recliner is a beach scene — sandy footprints leading to the white foaming edge of the wave. If he wanted a beach view he could be lounging in his bed at home instead of staring at the static print with a giant needle stuck in his arm and the annoying pumping resonance of the IV. The picture mocks him. You can try to make your life your own, but in the end you aren't really the one calling the shots.

It feels like he has been inside this torture chamber deceptively called a treatment center for an eternity. He had been told to expect this to be a long day, but he didn't realize just how much of it was going to be sitting and waiting. The actual chemotherapy has finally begun, and now there is more sitting and waiting.

McCall had wanted to come with him today. Maybe he should have let her. She would be bored to tears, but she would also have been a great distraction. They hadn't spoken much over the two weeks since he had told her. He preferred things to be business as usual, and she seemed to not know how to bring it up. The problem is, when he is home at night all alone his mind starts to wonder. He misses Rachel without question, but the relationship was new and he's convinced himself that he misses what might have been more than anything else. But he can't admit this to McCall — she'd give him a big fat "I told you so."

He had wanted to talk to McCall last night, but after spending most of the day trying to convince her that he didn't need her handholding he just couldn't.

"Let me come with you tomorrow, I have plenty of comp-time I can use. I can bring some magazines, kick your butt in gin rummy. I'm an expert at wasting time. If you have time to waste, I'm your gal," she had said yesterday as they were leaving the scene of their newest case. A probable suicide, but the due-diligence needed to be done all the same.

"You can't — you just got a new case," he countered, thankful for the excuse and thankful that it is most likely a quick close since she will be working it mostly solo.

"Why don't you let me worry about that? Charlie would back me up, you know he would."

"It's my case, too, so I have to worry about it. Lookit, it's no big deal."

"No big deal? Hunter! It's chemo!"

"You really think I forgot that?" he said it more harshly than he had meant, and McCall had recoiled to the far corner of the passenger side of the car like a scolded child. He had been deflecting this conversation for hours and quite frankly he was worn out.

He ran his hand through his hair, cursing himself for taking out his frustration on her. "I appreciate you—"

"It's okay," she said, holding her left hand up.

She didn't bring it up again. When they left the precinct together that evening, she lingered a little longer than normal in the parking lot — not actually saying anything, but he knew she was giving him an opportunity to change his mind.

It's five 'til four in the afternoon when he finally walks out of the treatment center. The sun warms his ice-cold muscles. He had been there for eight hours, only half of them where his actual treatment. Four hours of waiting, paper work, waiting, blood tests, and more waiting, and then, four hours of poison being pumped into his bloodstream. He had expected to feel something — pain, tingling, burning, he wasn't sure what — but something. Instead, he felt fine, like it was any other day. His plan, with the assumption that he would be ill or tired, was to go home, but now home seems boring and lonely. After spending eight hours bored and lonely already, he finds himself driving to the precinct. A few hours of work, and a squad room full of familiar people, is much more appealing.

"Hey there, what are doing? Why aren't you at home?" McCall asks, approaching him. She squeezes his shoulder as she leans against the edge of his desk.

"Working."

"You should be resting."

"I've been sitting on my ass all day, and I'm not tired. So here I am. Wrap up that suicide yet?" His tone isn't rude, but it's clear that he means business.

McCall plays along, crossing her arms in front of her, but does not budge from her post. "It wasn't a suicide."

At this he sits back in his chair, really focusing on her for the first time. She looks like she's had a long day, the absence of lipstick and the fatigue in her eyes an indication that she's been pounding the pavement most of the day. "How's that?"

"Fingerprints were found on her neck. And the noose she was hanging from was hiding extensive bruising. Bruises caused by fingers, not rope. That's where I've been all afternoon — interviewing her friends."

"Find out anything useful?"

"A nasty divorce and custody battle over her son earlier this year. She got the kid, half of everything and child support. I'm having a backgrounder run on her ex."

"Good, good work."

"Listen, I was just stopping by to check my messages and clock out. I gotta get home and change. Mitch's department is hosting a gala tonight for some big shot historian. Do you need anything before I go?"

"Get outta here."

"How did it go today?" McCall's voice is almost a whisper, making their closeness suddenly feel intimate.

"It went okay. Not bad really." Hunter makes eye contact with her, willing her to believe him. "Now go. Shoo. See ya."

She manages a giggle as he nudges her hip with his elbow. "Good night," she calls out as she walks away.

XXXXX

Whew, a full day's work done in four hours. Hunter feels better now that he's cleared the stack of files off his desk. He had felt guilty yesterday, leaving with so much work needing to be done but he had not been able to concentrate. Now that his first round of chemo is over and he isn't feeling near as terrible as he feared, his spirits are lifted.

The parking lot is dark and quiet as he walks to his car, but it was bustling when he had arrived this afternoon and his car is parked in the very last row. Fatigue is beginning to take a grip on him. He had felt it as he was signing off on his last report; and now the gentle pounding just behind his eyes is rapidly increasing. It has been a long day, after all, and the apple and peanut butter he'd eaten at his desk for a so-called dinner is not enough sustenance.

The first wave of nausea hits him like a sucker punch to the chest, causing him to stumble into the spare tire on the back of a Jeep. Taking deep breaths and leaning against the Jeep for support, he struggles to maintain him composure. It feels like miles between him and his car, but eventually the world stops spinning and the urge to gag recedes. He finally makes it to his car and with trembling hands unlocks the door and slides himself into the driver's seat. His now sweaty clothes trapped between the seat and his body makes him shake with chills. The nausea returns and he prays he doesn't lose his dinner in the car; he sure as hell doesn't want to have to clean up the mess. After waiting for he has no idea how long for his stomach to get off this roller coaster ride, he does the only thing he knows to do.

XXXXX

McCall has been looking forward to this soiree with Mitch for weeks. She bought a new dress — a fitted, cocktail length dress made entirely of navy-colored lace and a boat-style neckline. Her hair is pinned up, showing off her shoulders and the delicate edging of the lace. Dressing up is always fun, but the way Mitch has been looking at her all night makes her heart flutter and her cheeks blush.

"Congratulations! Dee Dee, this ring is gorgeous!" gushes one of Mitch's fellow professors, an art historian who likes to wear vintage art as well as teach it. The sixty-year-woman, with oversized cat-eye glasses and an elaborate necklace showing off a collection of ivory cameo lockets, takes hold of McCall's left hand and holds it up until the diamonds catch the light just right.

"Thank you, Evelyn," McCall says with a broad smile, glancing at Mitch across the room. He's sitting at their table with several other men who appear to be in a heated debate, but she catches him watching her instead. Her heart flutters again. "We are very happy. Mitch did good, didn't he?" She has met Evelyn several times at various functions and took a liking to her immediately. Several other women in their vicinity, mostly wives of other professors and administrators, offer words of congratulations and warm wishes as well.

This is only the second time she has worn her engagement ring outside of her house since Mitch proposed nearly three weeks ago — the first time had been at dinner at her parent's house when she and Mitch told them about their big news. It feels good to show it off, to freely talk about his romantic proposal and wedding plans and happiness.

"Oh, he did very well, indeed! How is the wedding planning proceeding? Please tell me what I must do to get my name on the guest list." Evelyn squeezes McCall's hand twice before letting it go.

"Nothing to worry about, Evelyn, you and Teddy are already at the top of the list," McCall responds smiling. "So mark your calendar for the last weekend in March."

"March! How lovely!"

"Excuse me ladies." Mitch interrupts the wedding discussion and presses McCall's patent leather clutch into her abdomen. "Darling, your purse is vibrating."

...to be continued...