Hannibal sat on the hospital bed, swinging his legs back and forth, wearing a thin, open-backed hospital gown and pajama pants. The pants would be removed before surgery, leaving him exposed. The pre-op room was quiet except for the monitors and muffled conversations in the hall. The antiseptic smell clung to everything—a reminder of his current predicament.

He rubbed his hand over the stubble on his face. Maggie didn't let him shave this morning. Then he had to shower with that awful antibacterial (CHG)soap to disinfect his skin. All he was allowed to do was brush his teeth. His empty stomach growled audibly since he hadn't been allowed to eat or drink anything after midnight last night to avoid regurgitating into his lungs under anesthesia. "Of all the things to betray me."

A young nurse entered, pushing a small cart laden with wires, tubes, and other medical paraphernalia. She gave him a bright smile, one that looked too chipper for 0600 hours. "Good morning, Colonel Smith. I'm Jenny. I'll be getting you ready for surgery today."

"Well, Jenny," Hannibal drawled, leaning back on his elbows. "Let me apologize in advance for the sorry state of my jokes. I'm running on an empty stomach here."

She laughed softly. "No coffee either, I bet."

"Not a drop," he replied, feigning a mournful sigh. "And they say war is hell."

Jenny chuckled and gestured to his arm. "Let's start with your IV. Relax your hand for me."

Hannibal watched as she prepped the site, feeling the cold swipe of antiseptic on his skin. "You could've at least bought me breakfast before jabbing me with a needle."

Jenny grinned. "I'll keep that in mind for next time." She inserted the IV catheter into the vein on the back of his hand, taping it securely on the skin. "There we go. You're all set for fluids."

"Great," Hannibal quipped. "First date and I'm already hooked up."

Jenny shook her head, smiling as she connected the line to the saline bag and adjusted the drip. "Now for the leads." She attached adhesive electrodes to his chest and sides. The sticky adhesive itched.

"Feels like I'm being outfitted for a mission," he muttered, glancing at the wires trailing from his chest.

Jenny chuckled. "Well, in a way, you are. Mission: ankle recovery."

"I like my missions with fewer wires," he replied wryly.

Dr. Matheson entered the room. "How's he doing, Jenny?"

"Good so far, Doctor," she replied, finishing her task.

Matheson set his clipboard on the counter and approached Hannibal with a black marker. "Alright. You know the drill. Time to mark the ankle."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you don't want to play a guessing game in the OR, Doc?"

Matheson smirked and crouched down, drawing a bold arrow on Hannibal's left ankle with the word "YES" written above it. "Standard procedure. We want to be absolutely certain."

"Appreciate the caution," Hannibal said dryly. "But if you mess this up, I'm making you carry me everywhere on your back."

Jenny snorted as Matheson stood. "Noted. We double-check everything in the OR."

Another nurse entered, carrying a small tray. Jenny took it and turned to Hannibal. "One last thing. Since you're at risk for seizures, we're going to place a capped foley catheter before surgery."

Hannibal groaned dramatically. "Great. Just what every man dreams of. Go ahead, ruin my dignity."

Jenny gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'll make it quick, Colonel."

True to her word, the process was quick, but it didn't stop Hannibal from grumbling, trying to keep his mind off a beautiful woman messing with his penis. "You know, this hospital gown really completes the picture. Barely covers anything and impossible to tie on your own… It's a fashion statement, really."

Matheson chuckled. "You're handling this better than most."

"Well, Doc," Hannibal said, smirking, "I figure I've been through worse. But you better not let me wake up in this gown with a large red bow in the back."

Everyone laughed at his joke as they finished prepping him. Jenny checked his vitals one last time. "Your heart rate and blood pressure are slightly elevated, sir, but that's normal under the circumstances. You're good to go. The OR team will take over from here."

As the nurses wheeled him toward the operating room, Hannibal stared at the all-white ceiling. Surgery was another battle, another step forward. And if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was fight.

When the OR doors swung open, the bright lights and sterile smell hit him like a wave. He gripped the gurney. "Alright, Smith. Let's get this done," he muttered to himself.

The orderly lined the gurney beside the operating table and locked the wheels.

"Colonel Smith," a tall man in blue scrubs stepped into view. A surgical mask obscured most of his face. "I'm Dr. Hampton, your anesthesiologist. I'll be keeping an eye on you during the procedure."

Hannibal nodded. "Appreciate the introduction, Doc. Just don't let me wake up halfway through, alright? And keep me in one piece.

Hampton chuckled lightly. "That's the plan. Let's get you settled on the table first. Can you scoot over for us? If not, we can help you."

"I can do it." Hannibal shifted his butt onto the table, ignoring the twinge in his left ankle and his sore muscles. Using his arms for leverage, he pushed himself sideways and swung his legs over. Each shift was a calculated effort to keep his IV lines and leads from tangling. Two nurses stood by to assist as he eased himself onto the cold mattress, suddenly shivering, wrapping his arms over his chest. "Can I have a blanket? It's like a freezer in here."

"Sure," one of the nurses said. She placed straps over his legs and torso, securing him in place. "We like to keep it chilly in here. Keeps the surgeons sharp."

Another nurse placed a warmed blanket over his legs and chest.

"We're going to connect your leads to the monitor now. Relax," the first nurse said.

The familiar beeping of the heart monitor filled the room as they attached the leads to the machine. Hannibal looked at the screen, noting the steady rhythm. "Looks like it's still working."

"Like a well-oiled machine," the nurse replied, adjusting his oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. "We're going to pre-oxygenate you now. This will ensure your blood is fully saturated before we administer the anesthesia and insert the breathing tube. Breathe normally."

"Are you sure this isn't a fancy way to shut me up?" he quipped.

The nurse standing nearby chuckled. "If it is, we're not admitting it."

As the cool oxygen filled his lungs with each inhale. Hannibal kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, trying to focus on breathing rather than the chill or the glaring surgical lights above him.

A nurse on his left moved the blanket aside. "Colonel, we're connecting your Foley catheter to a collection bag. You won't have to worry about anything during the procedure."

"Couldn't this wait until I was out?" Hannibal asked.

"I know it's not ideal, but it's necessary," the nurse replied.

He gritted his teeth, his pride bristling at the indignity. The catheter had been capped earlier, but knowing the bag was now part of the setup was a blow to his ego. He sighed inwardly. Above average and in full living color wasn't exactly how he'd wanted to make a lasting impression. "Put this on the list of things I hate about hospitals," he grumbled.

Dr. Hampton returned, holding up a syringe. "Alright, Colonel. This is Propofol. You'll feel a warm sensation in your arm, and then you'll drift off. We'll take good care of you."

Hannibal watched Hampton connect the syringe to his IV and push the plunger. A wave of warmth coursed up his arm, spreading through his chest. It wasn't unpleasant—more like sinking into a heated pool.

"Warm," he slurred sleepily. "You guys really know how to… get to…the point…"

"Sweet dreams, Colonel. We'll see you on the other side," was the last thing Hannibal heard before the OR faded into nothingness.

###

Hannibal's senses stirred sluggishly. His mind struggled to emerge from the fog of anesthesia. The world around him felt distant, muffled, and out of focus. Slowly, the beeping of a heart monitor pierced through the haze, steady and rhythmic. His eyelids weighed a ton, but he managed to crack them open, squinting against the harsh overhead lights.

The smell of antiseptic hit him first, followed by oxygen blowing gently under his nose from a canula. He blinked, and his vision slowly returned to reveal Maggie sitting at his bedside. She looked exhausted. This was nothing like the abruptness of waking from a seizure. He felt relaxed and content.

"Hey," he croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper, dry and raw from the breathing tube they used during surgery.

Maggie's head shot up. "John." She leaned closer, brushing her hand gently across his forehead. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

"Tired, but okay," he said, slurring his words. He took in the IV in his arm, the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger, and the blood pressure cuff wrapped around his bicep. "Guess the cavalry pulled me through."

Maggie smiled. "Yeah. The surgery went well. Dr. Matheson said it was textbook."

Hannibal shifted, wincing as a sharp pain radiated from his left ankle. "Feels like my foot's been run over."

"That's the pain meds wearing off," she explained, brushing his short hair back gently. "You've got an air cast on your ankle. It'll keep everything stabilized and help with weight bearing when you start therapy."

"Great," he grumbled, adjusting the cannula under his nose. "Another accessory to add to my growing collection."

Dr. Matheson appeared at the foot of the bed, holding a clipboard. "Colonel Smith, good to see you awake. The procedure went as planned. We removed the bone spur and stabilized the fracture. You'll need to take it easy for a few weeks, but this should set you on the right path."

Hannibal met his gaze. "So, I'll be running marathons by next week?"

Matheson chuckled. "Not quite, but with rehab, you'll be walking unassisted in no time."

Maggie's hand found his, her fingers warm and steady against his trembling ones. "One step at a time, remember?"

He glanced at her and laughed. "You and your steps, Maggie."

Matheson glanced at the monitors, jotting down notes. "We'll keep you overnight for observation. With your history of seizures, we want to make sure you're stable."

Hannibal frowned slightly. "More wires, more monitors. You sure this isn't overkill?"

"It's standard procedure," Matheson replied. "And given your medical history, it's the safest option. We'll manage your pain with IV meds and transition to oral meds in a day or two."

Hannibal sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "Guess that's doctor talk for sit tight."

"Exactly." Matheson grinned. "Rest is as important as the surgery itself."

As Matheson left to check on another patient, Maggie pulled the blanket over Hannibal's shoulders. "You're stuck with me, so no arguments."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, his eyelids drooping again. The fatigue was impossible to fight, pulling him back under. "Just… don't let them poke me with any more needles."

Maggie chuckled. "I'll do my best."

As Hannibal drifted off, the steady beeping heart monitor faded into the background. He felt her hand still resting on his, reminding him he wasn't fighting this battle alone.

###

Hannibal had been relegated to taking it easy, either on the couch or in the recliner, with his foot elevated on a pillow and covered every hour for fifteen minutes with an icepack to reduce the swelling under Maggie's watchful eye. He hated doing nothing except watching boring television shows. While reading was a better activity, the romance books in Maggie's collection were even more boring with the romance part sadly lacking. He'd rather read a good action story any day. He hated sitting still.

A week after surgery, Hannibal sat on the padded exam table in Maggie's clinic, his left leg propped up on a pillow. The air cast had been removed earlier and placed on a nearby counter, leaving his ankle exposed to the air. He flexed his toes slightly, testing their movement, but the residual stiffness and ache told him to stop.

Maggie placed a tray of sterile instruments on the stainless-steel table next to the exam table. "Alright, John. It's time to remove the sutures. Ready?"

He raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly. "Do I have a choice?"

"Not really," she replied, sitting on a rolling stool and snapping on a pair of surgical gloves.

Hannibal leaned back on his elbows. "I don't remember polite being part of your bedside manner. I thought I'd tough it out, and the sutures dissolve on their own."

Maggie rolled her eyes and positioned his foot under the bright overhead light. "Lucky for you, I don't take orders from my patients. Don't worry. This part's easy." She waited a beat. "As for being polite, I save that for my paying patients. You get the deluxe treatment."

Hannibal snorted. "Lucky me."

She carefully peeled back the dressing, revealing the thin line of sutures along the incisions on both sides of his ankle.

The tug of the sutures being removed was mildly uncomfortable, but Hannibal barely felt it.

"How does it look, Maggie?" Hannibal asked.

"Like you've been behaving for once," she said lightly. "The incisions are healing beautifully. No redness, no swelling. Dr. Matheson will be pleased." She set the used instruments aside and covered the site with fresh dressing, securing it with medical tape. "Don't get too comfortable. I want to take a closer look at what's going on inside your ankle."

Hannibal sighed, his patience wearing thin. "You know, this is starting to feel like a hobby of yours. You really know how to show a guy a good time."

Maggie removed her gloves and tossed them in the biohazard bin. "Only because you're such an entertaining patient." She moved the portable X-ray machine over to the bed, positioned his foot under the camera head, and draped a lead apron over his groin. "We got to protect those important parts. Hold still for me. This won't take long."

Hannibal rolled his eyes. "You say that every time, but somehow, it always feels like forever."

Maggie laughed. "Stop complaining."

"Okay. Next time, can we do this over a steak dinner? Feels like all I do these days is sit around and get poked and prodded."

I'll pencil you in." Maggie stepped behind the protective shield. The machine emitted a low hum as the X-ray captured the necessary images. Once finished, she removed the film and slid it into the lightbox.

Hannibal leaned forward, trying to see the image. "Well?"

Maggie looked at him and smiled. "The fracture is healing nicely. The bone spur removal has relieved the pressure on the joint. There's less irritation in the surrounding tissue. Overall, things are progressing well."

He released a slow breath. "That's something, at least. So, what's the next move? Am I ready for the Olympics?"

Maggie shook her head. "Not quite. I'll send this to Dr. Matheson for review, but based on what I'm seeing, I'd say you're ready to start weight-bearing therapy," Maggie replied.

Hannibal arched a brow. "More time with Mark and his torture machines?"

Maggie patted his arm with mock sympathy. "Better start bracing yourself."

"Well, no point in dragging my feet—literally." Hannibal smiled. "Let's get to it."

"Mark will be here tomorrow to help you get started," Maggie patted his knee. "Take it one step at a time."

Hannibal laughed. "That really has become your favorite line."

"Because it is true."

###

The next day, Hannibal stood between the parallel bars in Maggie's spare bedroom with the air cast firmly strapped around his ankle. He gripped the wooden bars as Mark Andrews stood nearby with his easygoing grin.

"Alright, Hannibal." Mark set a pair of resistance bands next to two light barbells on a nearby chair. "We're starting with basic weight-bearing exercises. The goal is to get your muscles working again. Small steps. Today's the day we start putting that leg to work. That bone spur is history. No more excuses."

Hannibal rolled his eyes. "Excuses? I'm wearing an air cast, Mark. What more do you want?"

"Progress and patience," Mark shot back. "You want to get rid of that limp, don't you?"

Fine. Lead the way." Hannibal adjusted his stance, tightening his hands around the bars. "What's first?"

"Start with this. Shift your weight evenly, and focus on engaging your left leg." Mark demonstrated a simple movement, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while holding the bars for support. "Your turn. Keep the motion steady, and don't rush it."

Hannibal copied Mark's movement, which was stiff and difficult at first. The air cast supported his healing ankle, but his left leg felt weak, and his muscles struggled to keep up. He'd spent too much time focusing on the ankle to make any real progress in their sessions before the surgery.

"Good," Mark said encouragingly. "Now try lifting your left foot slightly with each shift. Small movements. Engage your thigh muscles to compensate. Don't overdo it."

The first attempt was clumsy. His foot barely cleared the floor. Sweat rolled down his face as he concentrated, each movement requiring more effort than he wanted to admit. His frustration flared, but he pushed it down, focusing on Mark's instructions. Gradually, the movement became smoother and more natural, each lift steadier than the last.

"Not bad." Mark nodded approvingly. "Now, try walking the length of the bars. Remember, slow and steady."

Hannibal exhaled sharply, tightening his grip as he took his first step. The air cast kept his ankle stable, but the movement sent a dull ache through his leg. By the time he reached the end of the bars, his arms and shoulders felt like lead weights.

"Hell of a workout," he muttered, leaning against the bars.

Mark grinned. "You're doing better than you think. Keep this up, and we'll have you kicking down doors in no time."

Hannibal chuckled, shaking his head. "One step at a time, right?"

"Exactly," Mark replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now, turn around, do another pass."

Maggie hovered nearby with her arms crossed. "You're doing great, John. Keep at it."

After several rounds, Hannibal managed a smooth weight shift with a proper lift of his left foot. He exhaled, gripping the bars tightly.

"Good." Mark handed him a water bottle. "You'll get there…

"One step at a time," Maggie interjected.

Hannibal laughed and took the water bottle, taking a huge drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah, one step at a time. You two really need to start a band."

As they worked through the exercises, Maggie watched from her perch near the door with a faint smile on her lips. She caught Hannibal's eyes and mouthed, "I love you." That was all the encouragement he needed to keep going.

###

The morning air was crisp as Hannibal adjusted his grip on the cane and stepped off the porch. The late autumn sun cast long shadows across the porch. He glanced toward the sheriff's cruiser idling in the gravel driveway. Hank Thompson, his friend and the Bad Rock sheriff leaned against the hood with an easygoing grin and arms crossed over his chest.

"Are you sure about this, Hank?" Hannibal asked, pulling his jacket tighter around him.

Hank chuckled, opening the passenger door. "Just a routine patrol, Hannibal. No drug busts, no high-speed chases, no cartel shootouts. Only fresh air, sunshine, and a change of scenery."

Hannibal smiled as he eased into the seat. "As long as you don't have any old warrants out for me."

Hank patted the dashboard as he slid in behind the wheel. "Not anymore. Tossed those out three years ago." He threw the cruiser into gear, and they pulled onto the main road.

The town of Bad Rock was a quiet collection of brick storefronts, old-fashioned gas stations, and a diner with a neon COFFEE & PIE sign flickering in the window. A couple of kids on BMX bikes waved as Hank passed, and he tipped his hat in return.

Hannibal propped his elbow through the open window, watching the world move at a slow, steady pace—so different from what he was used to. The years of constant battles and firefights had conditioned him to anticipate danger at every turn. Even now, he found himself scanning rooftops, alleyways, and side streets. Old habits died hard.

"You keep looking like that, and the people around here are gonna think I picked up a fugitive," Hank quipped.

Hannibal grinned. "Force of habit."

They drove in comfortable silence for the next twenty minutes, the cruiser rolling past wide-open fields, barns, and winding dirt roads leading to distant properties. Eventually, Hank pulled onto a gravel path leading toward an old farmstead with a makeshift gun range set up in the clearing beyond the barn. Stacked hay bales served as backstops, with metal silhouette targets arranged at various distances. A few were already peppered with holes.

Hannibal recognized it instantly. "Are you still using this range?"

"Sure am," Hank said, putting the car in park. "You helped me build it. I figured we'd stop for a bit. Thought you might like to stretch your legs… maybe put some rounds downrange."

Hannibal arched a brow, glancing at Hank's service revolver, a Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357 Magnum, resting on the dashboard.

"Are you trying to get me killed?" Hannibal asked dryly. "Maggie finds out, she'll flay me alive."

"She doesn't need to find out," Hank said, stepping out and motioning for Hannibal to follow.

Hannibal hesitated a moment. It had been months since he'd fired a weapon. His right hand was steadier than it had been, but the muscle tremors came and went. His grip strength had improved, but would it hold steady enough?

"Here," Hank said, holding out a smaller Colt Detective Special, chambered in .38 Special. "Figured this might be a better fit for you today. Lighter frame, easier to manage."

Hannibal rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the weight of the revolver in his hand. The cool steel felt familiar, comforting, even.

Hank stepped back. "Take your time. No rush. See how it feels."

Hannibal exhaled, steadying his stance. He spread his feet slightly, bracing for balance. Lifting the revolver, he lined up the iron sights on the nearest metal target—a torso silhouette about 15 yards away.

His finger slid onto the trigger, applying slow, deliberate pressure.

Bang!

The shot rang out, and the recoil jolted his wrist slightly, but his grip held. The round struck the silhouette's center mass, leaving a visible mark.

Hank let out a low whistle. "Damn, Hannibal. Looks like you still got it."

Hannibal adjusted his grip, tightening it ever so slightly. The weight of the revolver felt good, like an old friend he hadn't seen in a while. He fired again.

Bang!

Another hit.

His breathing evened out, his body falling into the familiar rhythm of shooting. He squeezed off a third round, then a fourth, each finding its mark.

For the first time in months, he felt like himself.

Hannibal lowered the gun, shaking out the cramping in his fingers. His hand trembled, but not nearly as bad as he expected.

Hank clapped him on the back. "I'd say you're still a damn fine shot."

Hannibal chuckled, unloading the last round and slipping it into his jacket pocket before setting the revolver down. "That's enough for today," he admitted, stretching out his hand, testing the lingering tremor. "I don't want to push it."

Hank nodded. "Fair enough. Let's get you home before we both end up on Maggie's bad side, and you know what that's like."

"I sure do."

By the time they pulled into the driveway, the sun was setting, casting deep orange streaks across the sky.

As Hannibal stepped out of the cruiser, he caught a whiff of spent gunpowder on his clothes. He hoped she wouldn't notice.

Maggie stepped onto the porch with her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed like a sniper lining up a shot.

Hannibal barely had time to process her expression before he reached into his pocket for his gloves—only for something small and metallic to slip free.

A single .38 Special round hit the wooden planks of the porch with a soft clink.

Hannibal froze.

Hank, standing behind him, muttered, "Well… hell."

Maggie looked at the round then Hannibal's guilty expression. "Tell me why you smell like gunpowder, John?"

Hannibal considered his options. He had none and turned to Hank. "You better go."

Hank grinned. "Yeah, I think I will." He was back in his cruiser and pulling out of the driveway in record time, leaving Hannibal alone to face the wrath of an army-trained doctor who knew her way around scalpels and temper control.

Maggie picked up the bullet, rolling it between her fingers. "Shooting, John?"

Hannibal scratched the back of his head. "I mean, technically, I was…ahhh…testing my grip strength."

Maggie's eyes narrowed. "And the tremors? What if you had a seizure with a loaded weapon in your hands? What if you lost control? What if you dropped it with the hammer cocked back?"

Hannibal sighed, rubbing his temple. "Maggie, I was careful. I wouldn't have done it if I thought—"

"That's the problem, John!" she snapped. "You don't always get a choice! You can't predict when something might go wrong!"

He held up his hands in mock surrender with his cane hooked around his thumb. "Alright, alright. I get it. It won't happen again."

Maggie studied him for a long moment before tossing the bullet back to him. He caught it easily, his reflexes still sharp despite everything he'd been through.

"You're damn right it won't," she muttered. "Now get inside before I make you wish Hank had driven you straight to the hospital instead."

Hannibal, knowing better than to argue with an angry Maggie Sullivan, did exactly as he was told.