A Sense of Family by Cass

Part four

The hours dragged on. Both of them watched the clock as its hands inched forward, bit by agonising bit.
The atmosphere was suffocating and unbearable as the tension and fear increased exponentially with the time that passed.
Then Mark appeared in the doorway.
It was the moment they had been both waiting for and dreading.
Their eyes were transfixed upon his face - he looked grey with fatigue and his eyes were haunted.
Steve wanted to tear his gaze away, terrified of what that expression signified, but he couldn't. It was like watching a train wreck. You didn't want to look, but equally, you couldn't bring yourself not to.
"Dad?" He heard his voice, but didn't recognise it. The long hours and the dreadful apprehension had rendered it hoarse and weak.
Mark swallowed visibly as he stepped further into the room, slight shudders wracking his sturdy frame. "His injuries were extensive," he reported, as he sank into a vacant seat, scrubbing trembling hands over his face. "Ruptured spleen, lacerated left kidney, abdominal wall contusions, five broken ribs, two of which had punctured his lung; there was massive internal bleeding … god, he was a mess."
"But … he's gonna be okay, right, dad?" ventured Steve, shakily. The litany of injuries made him feel sick. He couldn't equate the lengthy list with his bright, bubbly friend.
Mark took a ragged breath, then turned to face his son, his expression bleaker than before if that was possible. Steve's stomach did an immediate nosedive into his boots. "Steve … I'm sorry, son," he said, hollowly. "I can't tell you that."
The detective hitched in a breath, barely hearing Amanda's stricken gasp of "Oh no!" from beside him as the room suddenly closed in around him. "Wh … what?" he choked out. "No, dad … please …"
The older man's pale blue eyes were bright with tears as he regarded the detective. There was no hope in his expression, nothing for Steve to cling onto. "We … repaired and re-inflated the lung, removed his spleen, performed a partial nephrectomy - we had to take out his left kidney, son, it was totally destroyed - and stopped the bleeding … eventually. He also suffered a severe concussion and some whiplash. We're monitoring his other kidney and his liver function but … we had a hell of a time getting him stabilised. He'd lost so much blood by the time we got him into the OR …" His words trailed away as a memory flashed into his mind. "I don't know if we've saved him, or merely prolonged his life" A quiet sob tore out of him, quickly stifled, as he heard the phrase Jesse had used in relation to Steve when the latter had been shot a few years earlier. They hadn't held out much hope then, either, but thankfully, Jesse's surgical prowess and Steve's sheer perseverance had won out and, gradually, the detective's condition had improved. He had lived - still lived today thanks to their younger friend's extraordinary skill and Steve's determination to stay alive.
He so wanted to believe the same thing would happen this time.
But he was a pragmatist. It was a price he had paid spending his entire life trying to repair the terrible damage that the human body could sustain. He was a scientist and the scientist in him precluded wishful thinking. Instead, it told him that all they could do was hope.
It was too little.
"Dad …?"
Steve's voice, filled with horror, broke through his morbid introspection and he refocused his gaze on his son's haggard features.
"I don't know if we've done enough to save him," he managed, wincing as he committed the appalling words to the stunned silence that had fallen following his initial statement. "I … I don't know if I've done enough to save him."
He couldn't look at Steve any longer, couldn't bear to see the devastation on his face following this particular declaration. Instead, he lowered his hands - hands that had been buried wrist-deep in the chaos that had been Jesse's abdomen. The damage had been intimidating and incalculable - even to such an experienced surgeon as himself. Or perhaps that had more to do with the identity of the patient whose life he had been trying so hard to save.
Jesse …
There was no sound in the room now save for his son's ragged breathing and the quiet sobbing that was being wrenched from Amanda and he wished to god that he could take back the words that had caused them both so much pain.
He hated this.
He hated all of it.
But most of all he hated the cruel fate that would, before the night was over, undoubtedly snatch away the life that was so precious to them all.

Both Steve and Amanda expressed their desire to see Jesse, once he was out of recovery and Mark didn't have the heart or the willpower to refuse them.
Wearily, they trudged up to ICU, where Jesse had been ensconced.
The older doctor knew he didn't have to warn Amanda how the youngest member of their small clan would look. She was a doctor, albeit a pathologist. Besides, she and Jesse had been the ones to take care of Steve all those years before when Mark had been arrested for murder.
Steve, on the other hand …
As they rode the elevator, Mark tried to prepare the younger man for what they would find. He spoke about the leads that would seem as if they tethered Jesse to the bed on which he lay. He talked of the various pieces of equipment that would be present in the room, monitoring Jesse's condition and helping him to survive. He even tried to make Steve understand how different his friend would look; how the accident and the long, gruelling hours of surgery had taken their toll on him.
But Steve had switched off.
He was in automatic pilot.
After the initial, shattering prognosis, his mind had decided it didn't wish to deal with any more bad news. And despite what his dad had said - or rather what he hadn't said, he harboured a stubborn hope that refused to die
Jesse would make it.
He had to.
He couldn't leave them now.

Then they were inside the ICU and his first sight of his injured friend took his breath away.
Jesse was propped up at a 45o angle. He looked small and frail and impossibly lost amidst all the medical paraphernalia that was keeping him alive. One side of his mouth was distorted where the respirator tube fed into it, pushing a mixture of oxygen and air into his beleaguered lungs and snaking over one bared shoulder were the wires attached to the heart monitor, which beeped in a regular rhythm. They were clipped to the IV lines, administering saline, blood and medication to his devastated body. A drainage tube was taped to his chest, from which it was drawing forth pale, frothy, blood-like fluid and the bag into which his catheter drained was just visible beneath the edge of the sheet covering the slender form.
He didn't look like Jesse any more.
This was a pale, ghastly version, liberally dotted with darkening contusions.
Steve could clearly see the scar the seatbelt had left as it had slammed him back against his seat and a huge bruise marred the otherwise untouched face, the lurid red and purple a stark contrast to the chalk white skin, apart from the dark shadows painted under the tightly closed eyes.
He was so silent. So still. Not a hint of movement of any kind, even the long eyelashes that fanned out onto the high cheekbones remained immobile.
If Steve hadn't known better, he would have thought his friend dead. Only the incessant beeps and chimes from the equipment that practically swamped him indicated otherwise. The symphony of sound was counterpointed by the hiss of the ventilator as it rose and fell, faithfully performing the task for which it had been designed.
His eyes misted over and he took one unsteady breath as he stepped forward, reaching out one questing hand to ghost his fingers over the grey flesh. Jesse was cool to the touch, although he could feel the barest thrum of life penetrating the soft tissue.
"Dad?" he whispered, his voice barely registering in the leaden silence of the ICU.
Mark glanced up at him, as he finished his examination of their young friend. The grave expression on his face extinguished all of Steve's remaining hope.
"No …" he breathed, his fingers curling instinctively around one limp hand, as though he could imbue Jesse with his own strength. "No …"
"I'm sorry, Steve," Mark choked out. "I'm so sorry."
"No!" The denial sounded harsh and loud in the oppressive stillness. "No, he can't!"
Mark couldn't swallow past the constriction in his throat; could barely see for the tears that were threatening to blind him. Even as he strove to maintain his professional persona, the parent in him struggled to break free. One kid needed his comfort.
Another was dying.
"Mark?"
And there was the third. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision as he focused on Amanda. She was standing a little way behind Steve, almost as though she couldn't bear to get any closer to the pale, slender figure in the bed.
"Amanda … honey …"
"Can we stay with him?"
He felt his heart swell with pride at the quiet request. Amanda's face was burnished with tears and yet she stood, strong and proud, one hand clamped onto Steve's shoulder. He hadn't noticed that before. What he had mistaken for reticence on her part he now recognised as stubborn resilience in the face of an overwhelming loss.
"Amanda, Steve, you can't," he managed. "The rules …"
"Damn the rules!" Steve ground out. "This is Jesse we're talking about! If he's really going to … Someone has to stay. Someone has to remind him what he has to live for."
The merest hint of a smile touched Mark's face at the stubborn insistence. He was too tired to argue. And, truth be told, he agreed wholeheartedly with their sentiments. Someone should stay. Regardless of the '5 minute rule'. What was it going to harm? Jesse? Hardly likely. He was deeply unconscious, all of his bodily needs being fulfilled by machines. One person's presence in the room wasn't going to do anything to affect or alter that. It wasn't as if Steve would suddenly reach over and turn everything off. He would just sit, quietly, talking to his friend, begging him to live, reminding him that he had people who loved him, people who needed him.
And in that one instant, Mark realised he had made the decision not only about whether anyone could stay in the room but also the identity of that person.
"All right, Steve," he said, softly, aiming an apologetic look in Amanda's direction. "There's no need for you to leave. I'll clear it with the nursing staff."
The expression on the detective's face was one of relief, mingled with the fear of potential loss.
Amanda's face fell, but she took the decision calmly and bravely, as she relinquished her hold on the detective's shoulder and moved to lean over Jesse.
"We love you, Jesse," she whispered, seemingly unaware of the sob in her voice and the teardrop that slid from her cheek onto Jesse's in mute benediction as she planted a soft kiss onto the pale forehead. "Please get well." Clinging to his hand briefly she managed a smile for his benefit, even though he was oblivious to it. "Please, Jesse, honey. For us."

Jack was staring listlessly out of the window when the door opened and Amanda walked in.
Delighted and relieved that one of his friends had finally deigned to come and visit him, he failed to notice the expression on her face, instead, concentrating on the corridor outside as she closed the door.
"Where's Mark?" he asked, having expected to have his old mentor come see him, and disappointed that this hadn't been the case.
She bit her lip, trying to stem her tears. After Mark had led her out of Jesse's room, she hadn't been able to control her anguish any longer and had broken down, turning to sob inconsolably in his arms.
His whispered, broken words of comfort had barely penetrated the agony she felt at having seen for herself the desperate condition her young friend was in. She had managed to restrain herself in the room, fearing that any loss of control would be detrimental to any recovery that Jesse might make. The last thing he would need would be to hear them crying over him.
But she had just been kidding herself.
She knew that simply by looking at him.
His ashen complexion, the laboured breathing even with the help of the ventilator, the sunken cheeks … it was all indicative of someone close to death.
And she couldn't even bear to contemplate that possibility.
Yet she also couldn't deny what her own eyes and her knowledge of the human anatomy had told her.
Mark had re-entered the room after she had finally recovered and broken away from him, but not before he had dabbed her eyes tenderly with a huge, brightly coloured handkerchief he had extracted from his pocket. She had uttered a strangled laugh at it, remembering the last time she had seen it and its three equally lurid companions - when he and Jesse had been entertaining the kids in pediatrics …
"Amanda?"
Jack's voice suddenly broke in on her thoughts. "What?"
"I asked where Mark was," the dark-haired man said, sounding somewhat exasperated.
"He … he's with Jesse," she replied, in a low voice.
He winced at the name, immediately regretting the harsh tone he had used with his friend. Now he really looked at her he could detect the fresh tear tracks. "How … how is he?" He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to that question - feared he already did by the desolate expression on her face.
Amanda heard the hesitancy in his voice, knew how difficult it had been for him to ask and wished she could make things easier on him. But she couldn't. "He's in critical condition," she replied, unable to prevent the fresh sob that rose in her throat as she uttered the damning phrase. "He survived surgery but … his injuries were extensive. Jack. Mark … Mark doesn't think he'll last the night."
"Oh god!" he groaned, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. "I'm … I'm sorry, Amanda. I never … I never meant for this to happen."
"I know you didn't," she managed. "Sssh. It's all right," she went on, soothingly. Gentle fingers stroked his brow. "It's not your fault, Jack. You didn't do this."
"But … but I …"
"No. Listen to me. No-one made Jesse get into that car with you. He did it because he wanted to."
'If she only knew … ' he thought. 'I coerced him into it.' "Yeah, he wanted to help me," he said, aloud, pushing aside the remorse that was eating away at him. "And look where it got him."
"You didn't know what was going to happen," she persisted.
"No?" Dark brown eyes filled with anguish opened and bored into hers. "Amanda, I know what these people are capable of. I never should have … agreed to let him go with me. I should have made him stay behind."
"And do you really think you would have won that argument?" she asked, completely unaware of the irony of her statement - that Jesse had been trying to convince Jack not to do something so dangerous; that the friend with whom she was conversing so freely had all but forced the younger doctor into accompanying him. "Jack," she went on. "Maybe you don't know Jesse very well. He's … he's … well, let's just say that he could give Mark a run for his money in the 'stubborn' department."
"Yeah," he snorted, remembering how difficult it had been to win his case against his new friend. "I'd noticed that."
"So stop blaming yourself. If anyone's to blame, it's the people who tried to kill you."
"Except they didn't, did they?" he pointed out, acidly. "I escaped with barely a scratch."
"I wouldn't call a gunshot wound, a compound fracture of the leg and a hole in your side a 'scratch'," she said. "Jack, you were lucky to get out of there alive. You lost a lot of blood. It took them a while to stabilise you when they brought you in."
"Managed to wake up though, didn't I?" he countered, with a winning smile. "Even got to tell Steve what I knew of the guys who were after us."
"Yes, you did," she conceded. "And the police are here. They want to talk to you again. Get some descriptions and a little more information - are you ready for them?"
"Bring 'em on. I want whoever did this to us!" he growled, the smile fading away as he recalled the other victim of the collision. "I still think I got off lightly. Better than crush injuries and internal bleeding."
A fresh wave of emotion swept over the young pathologist at his words. Whilst they had been arguing Jack's guilt, she had been able to keep herself from thinking too much about Jesse. Now she had just been reminded once again of his condition - a condition that Mark had grimly predicted would probably worsen in the coming hours.
She wasn't ready for that. She would never be ready for it. Jesse was her friend, her confidante, her little brother. She couldn't picture her life without him in it. She didn't want to. Blinking away tears, she strove to concentrate on her other friend, but her thoughts continued to return to the ICU and the fragile, broken body that was interred there. That one brief glimpse of him had been sufficient to convince her of the veracity of Mark's statement.
He was going to die.

Miraculously, however, he survived the night, clinging tenaciously to the thin thread that was all that connected him to life, even as Steve hung onto one slender hand, capturing it firmly between both of his own.
The detective held a lonely night time vigil at his friend's bedside, watching as Jesse struggled to live, cheering his efforts, even as he talked to him, holding a one-sided conversation that encapsulated all the reasons why Jesse should stick around.
"You can't give up on me now, pal," he had said, staring down into the porcelain-like features, watching for any signs of life. "We've been through too much together. Who the hell am I gonna tease if you're not around? Dad? Amanda? Nah - they'd never go for it. They'd slap me down so fast … And who's gonna do the accounts at 'BBQ Bob's'? Huh? You know, if you don't pull out of this, it's gonna fall to me. And you really want that on your conscience? I mean, you know me - I hate paperwork. That's why I make Cheryl do it. And I hate accounts paperwork even more. You're good at that stuff. You understand it. It doesn't make any sense to me. All I know is that we make a profit and that's enough. And hey, without you there, who's gonna argue for the customers' right to good coffee, huh? You know if you leave, I'm just gonna stop buying the decent stuff. And you don't wanna be responsible for me alienating our customers, do ya? No, you can't leave, Jess. Besides … you're … you're my best friend. I know we don't talk about this stuff much - hell, we don't talk about it at all. We're guys. But just in case you don't know how much you mean to me … Jesse, please, don't give up, okay, buddy? I need you in my life. You're the best friend I've ever had and if I lost you now … just, just fight, huh? I know you can do it. You gotta fight this, prove dad wrong. Just this once. Hey, then we can gloat and prove to him that he isn't always right! You'd like that, wouldn't you? Jesse, just wake up and I promise I'll never yell at you again. Well, I'll try, all right? Jesse? Jess …"
There was no response to his desperate entreaties, but he was pretty sure that, on some level, Jesse had heard and understood him.
And perhaps his words had had an effect after all, because as dawn broke over LA, the soft ambient light filtering through the blinds, the shadow of death seemed to drift a little further away.

Cheryl Banks had been to question Jack, together with another cop who looked vaguely familiar but whom the dark-haired doctor couldn't quite place. They took his statement, went over it with him then double checked to ensure that they had all the information.
"I think that'll be it for now," Cheryl said, rising from her seat and indicating with a brief flick of her head to the other detective to do the same. "If we need anything else we'll come back.
"I'll be here," responded Jack, jovially, indicating his heavily bandaged arm and wincing as a sliver of pain ran the length of his side.
Cheryl smirked at him. "I'll remember that."
As she and her partner made for the door, Jack struggled to recall where he had seen the guy before. His mind was fuzzy - partly due to the medication that was being administered via his IV line - which he had inadvertently ripped from his hand during the night when he had awoken with a start, shooting up in bed to sit, hunched over and unable to catch his breath.
A nurse had appeared at his side moments later, her calming voice soothing him as she coaxed him to lay down, running a gentle hand across his brow. He had managed a wavering smile before he had drifted back to sleep.
Now he couldn't recall the nightmare that had frightened him so Just vague images remained - pain, the feeling of being suffocated and an overwhelming need to escape.
He suspected that it was linked to the time he had spent trapped in his car, but didn't care to delve too deeply into it.
His car.
He had spent a small fortune on the vehicle; had had it fitted out with all the latest expensive gadgets; now it was just so much junk.
He knew he should start working on the insurance claim, but there didn't seem much point in hurrying. He wasn't going to be driving anything soon. Not with a busted leg and an arm with a bullet hole in it.
Leaning back against the pillows stacked behind him, he gazed languidly out of the window. It was a beautiful day.
Just the kind of day to be taking a drive in his car with a beautiful woman at his side.
Instead, he was stuck in here for the foreseeable future,
Life just wasn't fair.

He was still lying there, staring aimlessly out of the window, bemoaning his lot, when a gentle tap at the door preceded Amanda's entrance into the room. She looked tired, he noted, with a surge of guilt and her normally coiffured look was slightly less than perfect. But she was smiling, and the despair of the previous day, which had hung around her like a shroud, had dissipated. He studied her, expectantly.
"Jesse's condition has improved," she told him, without preamble, taking a seat in the chair next to his bed. Her eyes shone with relief, and she offered him a tremulous smile. "He's hanging on. I … I think he's going to be all right."
He couldn't help but grin at her hopeful optimism. "Tough little guy, isn't he?"
"Oh you have no idea," she retorted. "I told you he was stubborn."
"Yes," he agreed. "You did."
Silence fell between them, an awkward hush that seemed to fill the room. His heart pounded in his chest and pain flared - a pain that had nothing to do with his injuries.
"Uh … I .. I never - I didn't intend for any of this to happen," he said, in a low voice. He didn't know what had changed between them since the day before, but something obviously had. She couldn't quite meet his eyes and she seemed distant and preoccupied. It could have been that she was distracted by thoughts of her other friend, but somehow, he doubted it.
"I know," she said, although her deep sigh and the way she compressed her lips indicated otherwise.
"Amanda?"
Finally her gaze came to rest on his face. He didn't like what he saw in her deep hazel eyes. Doubt, anger, an expression of wounded betrayal. "Jack," she began. "Last night … you were a little delirious. I … I came to see you but I don't think you realised I was here. If you had done, then you .. I don't think you would have said what you did."
"What?" he demanded, suddenly alarmed. He didn't remember much of the previous night, only the remnants of the nightmare that had assaulted him. "What did I say?"
She hesitated. It was quite clear that she didn't want to be having this conversation. In fact, he was becoming increasingly aware that she wanted to be anywhere but here. "You were mumbling something," she told him. "You said something about Jesse … or at least you thought you were talking to him."
A shiver ran the length of his spine. He didn't like the way this conversation was headed; already had a pretty good idea of what she was going to say, even though he didn't remember her being in his room last night. "What?" he forced out. "What did I say?"
"You were trying to persuade him to go with you to the warehouse, Jack," she said. She had focused her gaze on the window and her voice was faltering as she uttered the damning words. "You … he didn't beg you to let him go, did he? You didn't 'agree' to let him accompany you. He tried to dissuade you from going and you practically strong-armed him into it. You played on his good nature, Jack. You played on his friendship and his loyalty. How could you do that?"
He swallowed - hard. The last thing he had wanted was to look bad in Amanda's eyes. He had wanted her to see the best in him. It had been that way for some time - ever since he had left. He had found his thoughts straying more and more to the beautiful pathologist, lamenting the fact that he hadn't had the guts to tell her how he had felt before leaving; but knowing that he couldn't when she fell in love with Colin Livingstone and they married. It had almost ripped his heart out. It was one of the reasons he had eagerly accepted the new job in Colorado, burying himself in his work and a fairly decadent lifestyle with women hanging off arm and practically every word.
They had exchanged phone calls and letters over the years and his feelings had not only not died, they had intensified. It had shattered him when she had mentioned her new boyfriend, Ron Wagner. Then Ron had left for England and he had wondered if he now stood a chance. He had left it another couple of years before considering coming back, renewing their friendship and perhaps taking it further, almost ruining it on that first day, when he had held her in his arms, unable to resist the feel of her against him - which he had then quickly covered by feigning awkwardness even as she looked discomfited.
In as much as Jesse Travis had been a challenger for his place with Mark and Steve, Jack had never seriously considered him a rival for Amanda's affections. Sure, she loved the little guy. She even doted on him occasionally; at other times teasing him mercilessly. But theirs was more of a sibling relationship and it had soon become obvious to him that both felt comfortable in those roles.
It had been the one bright spot - until he had become friends with Jesse and learned how decent and loyal a friend he was.
And he had indeed taken advantage of that loyalty, placing Jesse's life in danger in the process.
And Amanda was very protective of her family - particularly Jesse. Like a mother bear with an injured cub she was dangerous when crossed and unwittingly he had incurred her wrath.
It was also entirely probable that he had earned her rancour too.
"Amanda …"
She shook her head. "No, Jack. Please. Nothing can excuse what you did. It was wrong. I just … I don't feel I know you any more. Something's changed since you've been away."
"No," he wanted to say. "Nothing's changed. I'm still the same person I've always been. Maybe that's the problem. I haven't changed. You have." But he didn't want to shatter her illusions any more than they'd been shattered already. So instead, he just nodded, saying, disconsolately, "Yeah, maybe so. I'm sorry."
"I wish I could believe that," came the response. "But I get the feeling that you're more sorry you've been found out than about what you've done."
"No!" he exclaimed, even whilst admitting privately that she was partly right. "No, Amanda. I really am sorry that Jesse got hurt. It was never in the game plan. I would never do anything to deliberately hurt any of my friends."
"Then he is your friend?"
"Of course he is! Why would you ask that?"
She sighed. "Because you were so resentful of him when you first arrived back," she pointed out. "You weren't exactly nice to him Jack."
"No," he confessed. "No, I wasn't. But it changed. I promise. He's a nice guy, Amanda." "And he practically worships you all." "And I'm a nice guy, too. Just … give me a chance."
"I'm … I'm not sure I should."
She was wavering. He heaved a silent sigh of relief. She never could stay mad at him for long. He had to try and convince her that he truly hadn't meant for any of this to happen; that he had just wanted Jesse along because … because … why had he wanted Jesse along? "I was a little scared," he murmured, shocked at this revelation.
"What?"
"I didn't wanna go by myself," he explained. "I … it's years since I've had to deal with the Mob, ya know? I've been away from it for so long. I just - I didn't wanna do this alone - probably because I knew the dangers involved. But I gotta be honest with you. I never really thought we'd be caught, or followed. I guess - I wanted Jesse along because he seems to lead a charmed life and I figured even if by some miracle, they got me, then he would get out of this okay. He could tell you guys what had happened."
"You were scared?" Trust Amanda to latch onto that part of his confession. He hadn't meant to say that aloud. It didn't exactly fit his image.
"Well, just a little," he said, indicating how much by using his finger and thumb.
A hesitant smile appeared on the pathologist's face. "Oh, that much, huh?" she teased.
"Yeah."
She shook her head with fond indulgence. "Oh Jack," she sighed. "What are we going to do with you?"
He grinned up at her, confident now that her anger at and disappointment in him had drained away - at least for now. "Oh, I don't know," he said. "Kiss me."
Fortunately he hadn't said that last part aloud, although tiny frown lines puckered the skin at the bridge of her nose as she stared at him - almost as though she was reading his mind.
He hoped she wasn't - because the depth of his feelings for her was shocking enough to him.

Steve was dozing on the chair at Jesse's bedside when he became aware of movement in the room. Dragging open eyelids that appeared glued to his face, he peered into his sunlit surroundings. "Jesse?" he croaked.
"No, sorry, Steve. I'm afraid it's only me," a warm, familiar voice answered him.
"Oh - hi, dad," he said, around a yawn, as he rubbed his eyes with his fists then focused blearily on the older man, who was bustling around his patient, checking his vitals. "How's he doing?"
His father looked grey with fatigue, the detective noted. He wondered if the older man had actually had any sleep since performing surgery on their young friend.
"He's doing a little better," Mark reported, neutrally. "His vitals have picked up a little and he's breathing a little better."
"Better enough to be taken off that thing?" asked Steve with a hint of distaste in his voice. He remembered what it was like to be hooked up to a ventilator - it was uncomfortable, it was unpleasant and he shuddered as he imagined Jesse waking up to find himself attached to it.
"Let's not jump the gun just yet, son," Mark cautioned him, his expression grave. "I said he was improving. I didn't say anything about him being able to breathe on his own yet."
"B … but I thought …"
"Son, Jesse has a hard road to travel," the older man cut in over the detective's protests. "I'm not even sure that he's going to come out of this okay. His body sustained severe trauma and then had to undergo hours of gruelling surgery. I … I don't know if we did enough to save him. Just because he's improved a little doesn't mean he's getting better. There are still a hundred things that could go wrong. Post operative infection, further internal bleeding, or the trauma may simply prove too much for his body to withstand and he may yet succumb to his injuries. I can't tell you that he's going to be all right. I wish I could, dammit. But I can't."
Steve heard the agony lacing the older man's words. He understood and empathised with the anguish his father felt, but he couldn't simply accept that his friend may yet leave them. It was too much to bear after the hope that the early morning had engendered. He shook his head in defiance. "No," he grated out. "No, he's gonna be okay, dad. He's tough. You know that. He'll make it. He has to."
Mark closed his eyes momentarily at the mingled distress and determination in Steve's voice. He wanted to believe, too. He wanted to have faith in his young friend's capacity for living. But he was a doctor, a scientist and he had to recognize that simple faith sometimes wasn't enough.
The strenuous hours of surgery had taken its toll on him, he knew and he should have gone home for the night, to rest. But he hadn't been able to drag himself away from the hospital. What if Jesse had taken a turn for the worse and he hadn't been here? There was no way he would have reached Community General in time to do any good had that occurred. Any deterioration would happen quickly and would prove fatal. He had needed to be close by just in case … although with all his skill and knowledge, the chances of him being able to do anything about it would have been minimal. But at least he would have been there for Jesse as he left this world. If that was all he could do for him, then it would have had to be enough.
Fortunately, that hadn't happened and he had consumed coffee after coffee in the doctors' lounge, trying to keep himself awake, for nothing. But he couldn't afford to hope - not just yet. Not until he was convinced that Jesse was going to recover.
And he wasn't. Not yet.

But if he was exhausted, then how must Steve feel, he wondered. He studied his offspring appraisingly, not liking what he saw. Steve looked pale and drawn, the vivid blue eyes clouded with misery. He was holding himself stiffly, having dozed during the night at an odd angle in the uncomfortable chair beside the bed. The older man shook his head. "You should go home, get some sleep, Steve." Even as he uttered it, however, Mark knew that it was a futile suggestion. Prising Steve away from Jesse's side whilst he remained in such danger was going to be an impossible task. It would be easier, he realised, to stand on the beach outside his home and hold back the tide.
"I'm not going anywhere," stated the detective - just as his father had expected. There was an air of petulance in his voice, however, which reminded Mark for a moment of the little boy he had raised and the recollection elicited a softening of his bleak expression.
"What?" demanded Steve, his eyes brimming with renewed hope as he completely misinterpreted the look. "Dad? Is Jesse gonna be okay after all?"
Damn!
The very last thing he had wanted had been to inflict further pain on his son, but that was what one careless moment was going to cost.
"Steve …"
"What? Dad, you looked …. I thought …" His words trailed away as the brief spark of optimism that had kindled was equally as swiftly doused at the grave timbre of his father's voice and an irrational and totally unexpected spark of resentment flared. "Dad, please. I don't think I can take much more."
"I know, son, and I'm sorry," Mark apologised. He moved around the bed to place a comforting hand on one broad shoulder. "I was just remembering when you were a little boy …"
"And that made you look like you did?" Steve countered, grumpily, looking up at him. "Funny, all I remember from then is how exasperated you always seemed to be at Carol and me."
A wistful smile accompanied the words and Mark couldn't resist a fond chuckle. "Oh, I was," he acknowledged. "But despite your antics and despite all the white hair you and your sister managed to give me, I have always been proud of you. You're a good man, Steve Sloan and an even better friend."
Steve's eyes narrowed. "I sense a 'but' in there," he accused his father. "It's your way of telling me I should know when I'm beaten and go home and get some rest, isn't it?"
"When did you get so smart?" mourned Mark, good-naturedly.
Steve snorted. "You've gotta be kidding me! With you as my father how could I be anything but? Do you know what it's like trying to keep up with you?"
"I can't help it if I'm brilliant," preened Mark, his eyes twinkling.
"Right," came the dry retort. "And eccentric - your words, dad. Not mine."
A memory leapt into Mark's mind - of Jesse sitting beside him on the steps at the beach house, demanding to know if he had a sign painted on his forehead which read 'stupid'. Mark had gentled his friend's concerns over his newfound romance with the psychic, Christie and had then asked if he could accompany him to the next 'Psychic Friends' TV session, citing the fact that he was eccentric. The recollection was a happy one. Jesse hadn't been at Community General very long then but already he had managed to become an important part of their lives.
Mark sighed wearily as his eyes strayed toward the inert figure of the young doctor. How could he have known then that years later he would have to watch twice in too short a period of time as Jesse fought for his life?
It was so unfair.

Steve categorically refused to go home, despite Mark's entreaties and, knowing when he was defeated, the older doctor reluctantly left his son and their friend to do his rounds. He didn't seem to stray far, however, managing to get back to the ICU several times during the day.
Amanda came by, too, sacrificing her lunch to spend some time with Jesse. Whilst there, she raised the question of Jack's condition with Steve.
"He's hurting, Steve," she told him, sadly. "He doesn't think he has any friends left any more."
"He doesn't," came the icy response.
"Steve …"
"No." He held up a hand as he over-rode her objections. "Ever since he came back, things have been tense between us. I don't know why that is. Maybe he's changed or maybe I've changed. Or perhaps the problem is he hasn't changed - at all. I don't know. It could even be that maybe we were never such close friends in the first place. All I know is that I'm so mad at him right now that if I saw him, I'd only say something I'd regret. Worse, I'd say something I didn't regret."
"Steve, this isn't all his fault," she temporised. "Jesse went with him - no-one forced him into going."
He speared her with a look. "Didn't they?" he countered. "You told me that Jack as much as admitted that he coerced Jesse into going to that warehouse. And don't tell me that he didn't know what was going to happen once they got there, Amanda. They were dealing with things they had no business meddling in and Jesse usually knows better than that. He did it because he saw a friend who needed him and Jack played on that."
She sighed. "I know, but …"
"Don't try to make excuses for him, Amanda. What Jack did was wrong. You know, it, I know it, hell, he knows it and he knew it at the time. He could still cost Jesse his life, and I'll never forgive him for that."
"Jesse's not exactly blameless in all of this, you know, Steve," she pointed out. "You know he can't resist a mystery. He's like your dad."
"Yeah, and like my dad he knows what's too dangerous … no, I take that back. In some ways he's a little more sensible than my dad, or at least has more self-preservation. There's practically nothing that Mark Sloan won't do to get involved in something."
"You're too protective of him," she sighed.
"And you're not?" he retorted. "Yeah, okay, I am. And I know that he's all grown up and everything and he's perfectly capable of making his own decisions but … I can't help it, Amanda. He's not just my best friend; he's like … he's family, you know? I just hate it when something happens to him - especially something I could have prevented."
The pathologist stared at him incredulously. "Oh, please don't tell me you're blaming yourself for all of this? Steve, you can't …"
"I do," he admitted, in a low voice. "I can't help it. I tried so hard to keep him out of this - to keep you all out. Course, my dad soon talked his way onto the case, but at least he knew better than to dig around on his own. Jack on the other hand …" He scrubbed trembling hands over his face, feeling two-days worth growth of stubble beneath his fingertips. "I can't forgive him, Amanda," he whispered. "I can't. I hate him for what he's done. I wish he'd never come back. I wish … god, I almost wish he'd died instead of …"
"Jesse isn't dead," she hissed, heatedly. "And he's not going to die!"
"I wish I could believe that." He sounded devoid of hope. It shocked her to the core. She would never have believed it of him. Especially not in regard to Jesse. "But dad says …"
"Your dad's a brilliant doctor, but even he can't know everything," she interjected, firmly. "Jesse's got an incredibly strong stubborn streak, you know that. He's hung on so far, hasn't he?"
"Well, yes," he admitted. "But …"
"And he'll keep hanging on," she went on. "He's not going to leave us, Steve. Not now. He's going to be all right."
He smiled shakily. "Can you promise me that?"
She hesitated a moment before responding. "No," she replied, softly. "But please have faith in him. I know I do."

Voices.
Voices in the darkness.
Chattering away incessantly.
He couldn't decipher what they were saying although they sounded mad.
He wished they would leave him alone.
The cold, dark, empty places beckoned and he was so tired.
Still, they continued.
Chattering away like a million cicadas in a rainforest.
They were irritating and yet strangely comforting.
Then they faded away.
And he sank gratefully back into the abyss once more.

"So, where's Steve?" asked Jack, as Amanda stepped into his room a little later that day. "I haven't seen him in a while."
Amanda winced, trying desperately to come up with a plausible explanation for the detective's absence. She couldn't very well admit to Jack that the other man held him almost wholly responsibly for Jesse's injuries and current condition nor that he had expressed the wish that Jack had stayed out of their lives for good. "Um well … you know. He's very busy," she floundered, lying through her teeth. Steve hadn't even been home to change clothes since Jesse had been brought in. He had looked like hell when she had found him in the ICU earlier. "He's … he's working on the case, and …"
"Don't lie to me, Amanda," Jack interjected, in a heavy voice. He hung his head as he realised the truth. "Steve hasn't left here, has he? He's still in ICU. That's why his partner had someone else with her. He's been taken off the case because he's too close."
"Um, well …"
"He hates me, doesn't he?" the young man went on, gloomily. "He hates me for what's happened to Jesse."
"No! No, he doesn't hate you!" she countered, quickly. "He's just … a little angry right now. He'll get over it."
He smiled, humourlessly. "I doubt it."
"Jack …"
"No, no. It's okay, Amanda. I understand. Really I do. Things have been … weird between us since I came back. He's never been too happy about my background - although that's not exactly something I could do anything about. It was the family I was born into. But when it started encroaching on the lives of others he cared about …." His voice trailed away as he was forced to acknowledge that he and the detective may never regain what had been lost. That perhaps it had never really been there to begin with. "He and Jesse are close," he went on, contemplatively. "Really close. I see that. Jesse's the little brother Steve always wanted but never got. I've seen how they are together. They bicker and fight, but when the chips are down … you know, Steve's always been this 'by the book', straightlaced, straight-as-an-arrow cop. He needed someone to lighten him up and he lets the little guy do that. I never could."
"Yours is an entirely different personality to Jesse's," Amanda pointed out, gently. "But, Jack, you are his friend."
He sighed, resignedly. "Maybe. Maybe not," he hedged. "But Jesse's family. You know what I mean?"
Unfortunately, she did, and she couldn't really deny it. She had lied so much to him today in order to protect his feelings. It had become a habit with her just lately - especially where Jack was involved. It wasn't a facet of her character she particularly approved of, either. Lying never did anyone any good. Particularly when the other person knew what you were doing and called you on it. "I'm sorry, Jack," she said, contritely. "I didn't mean …"
"Hey, don't sweat it," he interjected, forcing a smile as he covered her hand with his own. "You were only trying to spare my feelings. I appreciate it. Really."
"Well, I just didn't want you to think that he hates you," she said. "I'm pretty sure he doesn't."
"But he is mad," he insisted.
She nodded. "Oh yes."

Steve sat, contemplating his friend. Jesse hadn't moved since being placed in the bed the day before. Only the gentle, undulating motion of his chest rising up and down as the ventilator forced him to breathe attested to the fact that he was even alive.
Since his heated discussion with Amanda, Steve had been allowing his guilt to fester. Despite the fact that he had done everything possible to ensure that his friends remained away from the murder case, he still felt responsible for allowing Jesse to even get close to the people who had done this to him. He knew it was irrational; knew that there wasn't a damned thing he would have been able to do to stop it, but nevertheless, remorse was eating away at him, exacerbating the ulcer he was sure had started to form in the pit of his stomach.
Then there was the fact that the last time he had spoken to his young friend, he had been yelling at him.
"Jesse! Where the hell are you!"
"Uh … Steve, we need help!"
"I repeat - where the hell are you?"
The words replayed on an endless loop in his mind, taunting him with their cruelty. He had been so angry - livid in fact, at both of them. When he had answered his cell and heard Jesse's voice, the only thing that had been on his mind had been tearing him off a strip, to be followed by ordering him never to interfere in an investigation of his ever again. So intent had he been on his own wrath that he had failed to notice the panic in Jesse's voice until it had been far, far too late. Then he had heard the sickening, bone-crunching sound of the wreck and the thin cry as the vehicle buckled, trapping his friend beneath piles of twisted metal.
He had arrived on the scene moments after they had freed his two friends from the remains of Jack's car. There had been blood everywhere - mostly, he found out later, Jesse's. His friend had already been loaded into an ambulance and it was pulling away. He had barely stopped to ascertain what had happened or why -although the mangled steel had born silent testament to the efforts the rescue services had made to extract the two men - before jumping back into his own car and speeding after the fleeing emergency vehicle.
He had tried to get there sooner - his only desire at that point to find out if Jesse was okay even as horrific images of what may be had consumed him. But the accident had held up the rest of the traffic and he had literally had to fight his way through, anguish and outrage vying for prominence as impediment after impediment blocked his way.
He had arrived at Community General barely scant seconds after the ambulance.
Then he had been forced to watch as the fight for Jesse's life was waged in the trauma room. He remembered squeezing one styrofoam cup so hard during the time when Jesse flatlined that it burst and hot coffee spewed out all over his hand. He had barely felt the pain, eclipsed as it was by the agony in his heart.
He was shaking, he realised.
He didn't know whether it was from the memories or his exhaustion.
But he couldn't go home. He couldn't leave. He had to make sure that his friend lived.
Because, despite what he had said to Amanda and regardless of how incensed he was at Jack's manipulation, this was almost entirely his fault.
And if Jesse died he would never, ever forgive himself.

Another long night and equally interminable day had passed in ICU.
Steve, on the verge of collapse, had been strong-armed into getting some rest by Mark - and the older man's patented method of forcing recalcitrant young men into sleeping, sedatives disguised as pankillers, taken for the blinding headache of which Steve had complained.
As he had watched his son's eyelids droop, the older man had discreetly helped him from his seat next to Jesse and into a wheelchair, than had taken the gently snoring detective to an on-call room, where he and Amanda, who had been in on the plan, had manoeuvred him into the bed, tucked him in and turned off the light.
As Amanda had opened the door and the shaft of light from the hallway had fallen on the drugged man, illuminating his face, any remorse Mark may have felt at his actions had faded away.
The new lines of strain etched in Steve's finely chiselled features and the dark shadows residing underneath his shuttered eyelids were indicative of the strain he had been under. He had looked - as Amanda had described to Mark earlier after leaving Jack's room - 'like hell'.
So Mark wasn't at all sorry for what he had done. If it meant Steve could get some respite from the demons haunting him and his ever constant worry about Jesse, then it was worth all the yelling that Steve would do later.
He hadn't been disappointed. The younger Sloan had been outraged when he had finally awoken. Groggy and disoriented at first, he had soon figured out what had transpired and had gone in search of the culprit.
He hadn't had to look too far. His dad had been keeping the vigil from which he had been forcibly - and deviously removed hours before.
He had huffed and glowered in silent reproach as he had taken up his position at the other side of Jesse's bed - knowing better than to instigate an argument in the confines of the ICU. In fact, had he not known how deeply concerned his father still was over their young friend and how much he cared about Jesse's welfare, Steve would have suspected him of hiding out there on purpose so he didn't get the lecture he so deserved.
For his part, Mark had been mildly amused by the dark looks his son had shot him. He certainly hadn't planned on their next encounter being at Jesse's bedside but at least their surroundings prevented Steve from unleashing the storm of indignation he was being forced to bottle up. In fact, he hadn't been able to say much beyond a hissed, "I can't believe you did that! To me!"
Eventually, though, Mark had to leave. The hospital hadn't stopped running and he still had a job to do.
He was back within hours, to find Steve sitting exactly where he had left him, sprawled awkwardly in the chair, legs akimbo, head tilted to one side, one arm dangling down by his side, the other resting on the bed, his hand covering Jesse's.
Smiling in fond indulgence, the surgeon closed the door with a quiet 'click' and made his way to Jesse's side, scrutinising his young friend carefully.
He looked a little better. His colour was still a ghastly white and the livid bruises on his face only accentuated his gaunt features. But something had changed - something indefinable, something that told him that Jesse now had a fighting chance of surviving.

The long shadows deepened as night drew in again. Apart from the regulated hissing of the respirator and the gentle beeping sounds from the equipment surrounding Jesse's bedside, all was quiet.
Steve had returned to staring at his friend, biting his lip against the pain that consumed him - the pain of regret; the agony of guilt. He could barely see the younger man's slender form through the veil of moisture in his eyes and he scrubbed his fingers over them irritably. He was tired. That was all. His eyes always watered when he was tired.
Blinking rapidly, he cleared the film that the scrubbing motion had left in its wake and peered down once more, only to inhale sharply.
Long dark eyelashes were fluttering feebly on the ashen cheeks and even as he watched, Steve thought he could see the tiniest sliver of blue peeking out from behind Jesse's eyelids.
"Come on, Jess," he whispered, barely able to breathe as joy surged through him. "Come on, pal, wake up."
Mark entered the room to hear the words and felt a jolt of anticipation at the tone in his son's voice.
He sounded almost … excited.
"Steve?" he said, softly.
The detective raised tear-filled eyes to look at him. "He's waking up, dad," he said, through the most genuine smile Mark had seen in days. "I think he's waking up."

The first thing Jesse knew was the soft murmur of voices. They sounded comforting and familiar and not strident like earlier.
Then he became aware of the touch on his hand. It was warm and it squeezed his flesh gently, whilst one of the voices urged him to wake up.
"Thought that's what I was doing," ran through his mind.
Then he lurched fully into consciousness with a choking gasp.
He couldn't breathe!
There was something lodged in his throat and he couldn't breathe!
Oh god, he was going to be sick …
He began struggling to displace the object that was causing him so much discomfort; gagging and choking, he was oblivious to the tears streaming down his cheeks and only peripherally aware of the other voice warning him to calm down.
He arched upward and pain exploded in his abdomen and chest, wrenching another stifled cry from him. It sliced deeply, threatening to cleave him in two before his body, unable to withstand the punishment he was unintentionally inflicting upon it so soon after awakening, shut down and the black veil of unconsciousness descended once more.

Steve stared helplessly at his father as Jesse succumbed once more to oblivion, shock and distress supplanting the delight and anticipation that had been there before. "Wh … what?" he demanded. "Dad?"
Incredibly, Mark smiled. "It's all right, Steve," he reassured him. "It's a good thing."
The detective stared at him as though he'd just gone insane. "It is? But … he seemed so …"
"He's fighting the ventilator, son," the older man told him, sagely. "It means he wants to breathe on his own."
"He does?" Suddenly, his father's form wavered and blurred as tears of relief clouded his eyes. "Then he's gonna be okay?"
"I'd say his chances have improved significantly," Mark said, in a guarded tone. "But let's not ask too much of him all at once, Steve. Okay?"

Deeply engrossed in the files she had accumulated on Sorrano and his associates, Cheryl was oblivious to the presence of someone behind her until a hand reached down to snag one of the folders and she nearly leapt out of her skin.
"Steve!" she exclaimed as the man perched himself on the corner of her desk, perusing the information in the notes. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were pretty much camped out at Jesse's bedside."
"I was," he responded, absently, seemingly riveted by what he was reading. "He's doing better."
"So you thought you'd come here and get yourself re-acquainted with an investigation which you're no longer a part of?"
"Hey, this was my investigation to start with!" he countered.
"And the Captain removed you from it when it became personal," she reminded him, reasonably.
He glowered at her. "Yeah, and don't think I was happy about that."
"I never thought you were," she replied, in an even voice. "But …"
"But now you're wondering why I'm here and you're going to warn me that if the Captain finds out he'll have my hide?" he speculated.
She grinned at him. "Something like that, yeah."
"Don't worry about it," he said, dismissively. "I'll deal with the captain. Cheryl, I can't just sit by and let someone else do all the work on this. This was my case to begin with and only the fact that I thought my friend was gonna die kept me from insisting on being kept on it."
"And now?"
"Now he's not," he said, a lot more confidently than he felt. His father's cautionary words after Jesse's initial awakening still rang in his mind. But he had faith in his friend. Jesse had commenced his journey back to them and nothing would stop him now. Jesse was nothing if not tenacious, after all. Nope, he was going to be fine. Just fine. Steve was sure of it. Well, he was pretty damned sure.
Okay, maybe he was only hoping. But he was feeling a lot better about the situation than he had 48 hours earlier and that was something, wasn't it?
"So you're back," said Cheryl, flatly.
"Yeah," he replied. "I'm back."
"Steve, the captain's not just gonna let you return to the investigation just like that," his partner pointed out, with a heavy sigh. "Regardless of whether Jesse is recovering, this is still personal for you."
"Damned right it's personal!" he grated out, in an echo of the words he had used to Amanda when they had been awaiting word on Jesse's surgery. "And if you think I'm gonna let anyone stop me from finding the bastards who did this to Jesse, then you obviously don't know me as well as I thought you did."
"Hey, calm down, partner," urged the young woman, holding up her hands in a placatory gesture. "I'm on your side, remember? And as for not knowing you - well, I have to tell you - you just made me $20 richer. Someone bet me that you wouldn't be back so soon. Glad to see I was proved right, after all!"
That elicited a wry grin. He never could stay mad at Cheryl. Her calming influence complemented his occasional hot-headed demeanour - especially when a case got too close to his family. They made a good team. "So, where's your other partner?" he queried, glancing around as though he expected the other man to spring up from underneath the desk at any moment.
"Oh, he's chasing down a lead on the cops Jack said he saw," she said. She frowned. "It's funny - he hasn't managed to come up with anything yet. Maybe these guys are too well hidden. Or maybe they were lying when they said they were cops."
He grunted, returning to his scrutiny of the folder he still held. It yielded nothing he didn't already know - or at least suspect. And he was beginning to have other suspicions - about the cops. As angry as he might be at Jack right now, he didn't doubt the veracity of the other man's statement. Neither did he think that 'Taylor' had been lying about what he was, although he may have been using another name.
If Cheryl's temporary partner had been unable to find anything on the guy and his accomplices then there was a very good reason and he couldn't help wondering if it wasn't that they couldn't be found but that the cop wasn't exactly trying very hard to locate them.
And that had implications that he didn't even want to consider.
Deciding that now he was back, he would start working on that end of things - see what he could uncover from Jack's description of the guys at the warehouse, he cast his partner a sly glance. "Hope you haven't got too comfortable with your new partner," he said, casually.
She uttered a snort of derisive laughter. "Now how could I be comfortable with anyone but you?" she replied. "After all, who could compare to the great Steve Sloan?"
He smirked. "Who indeed?"

Jack looked up from the magazine he had been reading as someone entered the room. His jaw dropped at the identity of his visitor.
"Steve!"
"Jack." The detective's voice was cold and aloof and there was no trace of friendliness in the blue eyes, which glinted like hard steel.
"I … er … come in."
"I'll get straight to the point," Steve said, without preamble. "I want to know everything you told detectives Banks and Haidler."
"Uh … okay." The dark-haired man wasn't sure how to deal with this Steve Sloan. The other man hadn't even asked about him and that rankled. He and Steve may never have been busom buddies, but they had shared a friendship, once upon a time. Not for the first time, he now wondered if he had been over-estimated the depth of that friendship. Perhaps all they had ever really had in common was Mark - and Amanda. Perhaps there had never really been any friendship at all.
"I know you gave them a description of the man you named as 'Taylor'," Steve went on, in a businesslike tone. "I have a sketch that the police artist drew. But I want to know anything else you can tell me about him."
"I … right. Why?" he asked, curiously. "Didn't your partners tell you? And … I thought you weren't on this case any more?"
"I am now," responded Steve, curtly. "The details, Jack. I'm in a hurry."
Jack sighed heavily, shooting the other man a sulky look. "Okay, okay," he grumbled. "Well, he was about six foot, tall, thin, he had a beard, glasses and a sidekick called Carl. But I'm not sure if Carl was a cop - he looked more like muscle to me."
"Yeah, well, you'd know," observed the detective, caustically, scribbling the details down in a small notebook he had extracted from his jacket pocket. "Anything else?"
Jack shook his head. "That's about it," he said. "He was dressed smartly - expensively, you know? Looked like he had money."
"Well, if he's been squeezing Mob money then that's hardly surprising, is it?" came the sardonic response. "What I can't understand is how he and his cronies have managed to survive so long without being taken out by a mob hitman."
"Maybe they're just lucky?" mused the doctor, idly.
"Maybe. Or maybe there's more than payoffs going on here," said Steve. He snapped his notebook shut and turned, intending to leave.
"Steve?"
"What?" he replied, half turning as he reached the door.
"How's Jesse doing?"
The detective felt his gut twist at the other man's innocently phrased question. He had forced himself to come here to see Jack, only able to keep the antagonism he felt toward the other man under control because procuring the information from him would help in his quest to find who had almost killed his best friend. But Jack's words had added fuel to his burning rage, triggering its resurgence to a white heat that engulfed all reason. "How's Jesse?" he snarled, his face contorting with fury as he rounded on Jack. "How is he? He's on life support, thanks for asking, Jack. That's how he is. He's been in a coma for three days. He still might die. Is that what you wanna hear? That because of your irresponsibility, because of your stupidity, I might lose the best friend I ever had? Are you happy now?"
"Steve …"
He held up a restraining hand, fighting to rein in his wayward emotions. He was still exhausted and running on empty - his reserves being fuelled only by adrenalin and the aching need to solve this case so he could do something for Jesse, instead of sitting uselessly at his side, watching as he faded away. "I don't wanna hear it," he grated out. "Don't give me your excuses, Jack, because they won't wash. Not this time. This time, you've gone too far."
Before Jack could even voice a word of protest or offer an apology, Steve wrenched open the door and stalked down the corridor, the blind clattering against the window the only sound to disturb the silence in the room.

"So what have you found out?" Cheryl enquired as Steve strode back into the precinct a few hours later, a murderous look on his haggard face.
"I've found out that your 'other' partner has been sitting on evidence," he announced grimly.
Her eyes widened. "You're kidding!"
"Unfortunately not." He threw himself into the chair opposite her and tossed a file toward her. "Read that."
Reaching for the folder, she complied, her own expression growing thunderous as she did so. "Taylor is a member of the Organised Crime division," she read out, stonily. "Just as we suspected."
"Yeah," said Steve. "Read on."
"He's been under suspicion for some time for taking kickbacks," she continued. "But no-one has ever been able to prove anything. My god, how? I mean, the guy obviously lives well above his means. Didn't Jack say that he was well-dressed?"
"That may well be," Steve allowed. "But he lives in a modest house in a modest neighbourhood and there's no sign on the inside that he has cash to burn."
"Then what does he do with it all - aside from invest in good suits?"
The other detective shrugged. "Swiss bank account?" he conjectured. "Maybe he has another house somewhere under another name. We're not dealing with an idiot here, Cheryl. This guy and his associates are clever. They're not gonna make their lifestyle obvious. And despite the suspicions, no-one has ever been able to prove that they're on the take - or rather that they're actually squeezing money from the Mob. What I want to know is how come they haven't been taken down by a hitman before now? What the hell do they have that keeps them alive?"
"Maybe they're not only squeezing the Mob," she mused, thoughtfully. "Maybe they're actually on the take as well."
Steve frowned as he considered this. The conclusion matching the one he had reached himself a little earlier. "I think that's what's going on. So they're squeezing some factions of the Mob for money using information they've gathered on them, whilst they're protected by others because they supply them with information. That's some business they've got going there."
"And it looks like Haidler is involved in it," she said, darkly. She was annoyed with herself for letting the other man handle that part of the investigation without questioning the length of time it was taking him to find the information they required.
Steve - sensitive to his partner's mood, mainly because he would have felt the same way in her shoes, reached out to place a hand on hers. "Hey, don't beat yourself up about this," he admonished her gently. "You've been under pressure to solve this. What I don't understand is how we managed to hold onto this case in the first place."
"Organised Crime is under-staffed," she told him, smiling wanly at him, appreciating his attempts to absolve her of the blame she was laying on herself. "But you're right. I'm surprised that Taylor and his cronies haven't jumped on this - tried to take it out of out hands. Then again, if they've managed to buy Haidler or if he was a plant in the first place, they didn't need to, did they?"
"Well, that's gonna change now I'm back," he pointed out, grimly. "We'd better watch our backs."

He was back at the hospital as soon as his shift ended - after a little detour to the Captain's office.
The man had reamed him out for insinuating himself back onto a case he had no part of any more, voicing quite valid objections and concerns about his ability to perform objectively. Steve had reasoned that it hadn't stopped him previously and the other man had had to concede that particular point, but he hadn't been happy to just let him back without a good reason.
The detective had given him one. "We suspect Haidler is working with the guys who are behind this," he told him, coolly. "He sat on evidence for three days and it was only when I came back and did some digging that I found out the truth. This 'Taylor' that Jack and Jesse saw shaking down Sorrano is from Organised Crime. He has accomplices - probably more of his colleagues. We don't know how far this corruption goes but Haidler is definitely involved - even if it was only recently. Maybe they bought him off when he got too close. Maybe he was a plant. We don't know. All we do know at this stage is that there's some major dirty dealings going on in the department and we have to find some way to get to those responsible for it."
"You don't know the identity of the guys who shot at your friends?" the other man asked him, his brow creased in a worried frown - corruption in the department was nothing new, but it didn't mean he had to just accept it. Trouble was, they also had no idea how far up the chain it went.
"We can't be certain if it was Taylor or if it was Sorrano," Steve responded. "I suspect it was Taylor, but Jack's statement says there was no plate on the SUV and so tracing it's gonna be damned difficult."
"If not impossible," the other man sighed, heavily. "Forensics come up with anything from your friend's car?"
"A few paint scratches," Steve said. "We need to link them to something, though and an SUV isn't exactly one of a kind in LA. Besides, what's the betting it's either already had a paint job, or become so much scrap metal by now?"
The Captain rubbed weary hands over his craggy face. "This just gets better and better," he said, dryly. "Corruption in Organised Crime - which could go all the way up to the top as far as we know. No clues on who shot at your friends except for what you suspect and no evidence to link these guys to anything apart from your friend's statement - and he was suffering from concussion at the time. The DA's office is gonna want more than that, Steve."
"I know." Steve's growing frustration was evident from his tone and the way he was clenching and unclenching his fists. His superior noted the gauntness of his features as well. It was obvious he hadn't been sleeping well - if at all - since the accident that had almost claimed his friend's life. He didn't know how the detective was managing to remain upright, let alone awake. He needed sleep and some time off. Unfortunately he wasn't in a position to give him either - not with this new knowledge. They needed him on the job and he suspected that the man himself needed to be here, doing something to keep his mind off the fact that his friend may very well yet die.
"Look, go home," he said, moderating his tone somewhat and almost smiling. "Get some rest. Come back tomorrow and get together with Banks and see if you can't get a fresh perspective. You're exhausted, detective," he had continued, raising a hand to forestall the protest that Steve had been about to make "And you're not gonna do any good to anyone if you collapse on the job."
Reluctantly, Steve had been forced to agree.
But that didn't stop him from dropping by Community General on his way home.

Mark entered Jack's room to find the younger doctor gazing unseeingly at a book. He wasn't reading it, that much was evident. His expression was dark and brooding. It reminded him very much of his own son.
Jack glanced up as the door closed and was startled to find himself staring at his old mentor. "Where the hell have you been?" ran through his mind, but he thought better of blurting it out, wary of receiving the same reception from the father that he had got from the son. "Hey, Mark," he said, instead, his voice guarded and tired.
"Jack," came the warm response as Mark approached the bed. "Well, you're looking a lot better."
"Thanks."
An awkward silence fell, then, as the older doctor made to speak, Jack plunged ahead, discovering he could hold in his feelings no longer. "Why haven't you been to see me before now?" he demanded, wincing a little at the way his words sounded - whiny and petulant. "It's not like you didn't know where I was."
The older doctor frowned. "But I have been to see you," he replied. "Perhaps you don't remember. You were asleep for most of the time. But I haven't forgotten you, Jack. How could you think that I would?"
The dark-haired man flinched at the reproachful note in his mentor's voice, not even considering questioning the veracity of his statement. Mark Sloan wouldn't lie to him about something like that. Slumping a little in the bed, he shot his friend an apologetic look. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I guess I must be a little on edge right now."
Mark smiled at him, indicating that all was forgiven. "Well, that's allowable," he said. "After all, you've been through quite an ordeal."
"Yeah," he sighed. Then. "How's Jesse?"
The clear blue eyes clouded at the mention of the younger man and Mark hung his head. "He's doing a little better," he said, guardedly. "He's still not out of the woods, though."
"He's … he's gonna be okay though. Right?"
The other man heaved a huge sigh as he settled himself on the edge of Jack's bed. "I don't know," he replied, honestly. "Jack, he sustained severe internal injuries and then had to undergo hours of gruelling surgery. You know what a toll that can take on the body."
"I … yeah. But … he's still here, right? I mean, that's a hopeful sign."
A quizzical smile briefly touched the edges of Mark's lips. "Whatever happened to Jack Stewart, pragmatist?" he wondered aloud.
"Oh, he's still around," Jack responded, with his own brief grin. "It's just different when it's someone you actually give a damn about."
"It certainly is," agreed Mark, in a heavy voice.
"So - you think he's gonna make it? Honestly, Mark? Just - give me the facts."
"I thought Amanda had already done that," said Mark, skilfully evading the question - which was one he had been asking himself over the last few days; one for which he had yet to provide a satisfactory answer.
To his surprise, Jack Stewart blushed at the mention of the beautiful pathologist. "Ah! So that's where the land lies! I suspected as much!" "Jack?" he prompted. "Jack? Are you in there?"
"Huh? What?"
"Earth to Jack!" Mark teased him. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
He knows! Jack could see it in the all too perceptive gaze that was raking over him; in the knowing grin on the kindly face and he felt his face burn with humiliation. "Uh … I … er … no. No, nothing!"
The other man chuckled. "All right," he said, amiably. "All in good time. Now, I really have to be going. I have rounds."
"Mark?" Jack snagged the older man's sleeve as he made to rise. "Tell Jesse … would you tell Jesse that I'm sorry, okay? Tell him he's gotta make it."
Patting the hand that was clutching at him so feverishly, Mark nodded. "I'll tell him, Jack," he said. "Don't worry."

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