Father's Day part three

Two hours later he was alone again, trying and failing to get interested in the magazine that had been left on his bedside table. It was full of gossip about the stars, including some salacious rumours that he was pretty sure weren't true and would probably get the editors in trouble with a couple of agents and a big studio. Amanda had probably left it there, he reflected. She liked to pretend that she was above such things but secretly, she loved to read about the latest scandals. It was a passion they shared - which made for interesting conversation when she visited him, bursting as she was with the latest tales of who was going out with whom at the hospital.
Speaking of 'going out ' … He had started to entertain the notion of asking the pretty blonde nurse for a date. She had seemed so nice and she had winked at him when she had left the room. It had made him smile.
What was her name again?
Oh, right, Susan Hilliard.
He wondered whether she would accept. She had seemed to like him and he sensed a connection between the two of them. He hadn't dated anyone serious in a while, not since Kristy, anyway. He had really cared about the pretty psychic, enjoying her company and the way her eyes sparkled when she was animated about something. He had been convinced that they were made for each other and had even started making tentative plans for a future together when she had dropped her bombshell. She was moving away. She liked him a lot, but she couldn't deal with a serious relationship, not until she had exorcised the many ghosts that still dwelled within her mind.
He had been devastated at losing her, although he had hidden it as well as he could, given her mental abilities. They had shared a last, poignant evening together before she had boarded the bus out of town and he had bid her farewell with a heavy heart. His last view of her had been the back of her head as she settled into her seat on the vehicle whilst it rounded the corner of the bus station.
Since then there had been a couple of girls, but nothing serious. He hadn't been ready to risk his heart again after having it so thoroughly stomped on.
He couldn't seem to get Susan Hilliard out of his mind, however, although he had tried his best to do so. She had been the subject of one of his dreams the night before and he was beginning to look forward to her daily visits to his room, even if it was just to draw the blinds.
She did it so skilfully, though, just as she did everything else.
Sighing, he laid down the magazine, drifting lazily into a daydream about their first date, conveniently overlooking the fact that he hadn't actually asked her out yet.
His rather pleasant deliberations were rudely interrupted when the door opened. Instead of the pretty face he had rather hoped to see, however, someone else walked through the door, someone achingly, hauntingly familiar
"Jesse!"
Dane was grinning broadly at him, obviously delighted to see that he was awake, but Jesse could only stare at him in utter horror.
"I … I …" His voice dried up as his chest constricted and a hard, painful sob burst out instead. His heart was racing out of control, he could no longer breathe properly and uncontrollable shudders had started to wrack his slender frame. Eyes wide with unspeakable terror, he could only watch, helplessly, as each step brought the older man closer. The grey-blue eyes were clouded with concern and his lips were moving but Jesse couldn't hear anything above the roaring in his ears. He felt light-headed and sick and a bead of sweat trickled slowly down his neck, soaking into the top of his gown. Paralysed with fear, he closed his eyes, waiting for the touch of cold steel on his brow, praying that he wouldn't humiliate himself by voiding his bladder as the bullet entered his brain.
A tiny whimper broke free, before he could clamp his lips together to prevent it. He wouldn't beg. He wouldn't. But - oh god, he didn't want to die. He didn't want his life to end this way.
Would it hurt? He imagined the sound of the trigger cocking, the hammer falling back; was convinced that he heard the explosion as the bullet left the chamber and screwed his eyes shut even tighter. He didn't want to see this. He didn't.
Oh god …
Hands gripped his shoulders and he did cry out.
"No! Please!"
"Jesse!"
"No, please, please don't kill me. Please. Don't," he whimpered, before descending into harsh, wracking sobs that literally tore themselves out of him.
"Jesse!"
"I can't …" he moaned, rocking to and fro in an agony of defeat. "I can't. Please …"
"Jesse, it's Mark!"
Slowly - painfully slowly, the voice got through to him. He stilled for a moment, although he didn't open his eyes. He didn't dare. "M … Mark?"
The thready, reed-thin voice didn't even sound like Jesse, but it was a start.
"Jess? Look at me. It's Mark. It's all right. Everything's all right"
He had never disobeyed that voice, nor the man to whom it belonged. Not when it had really mattered, anyway. He didn't have it in him.
Mark represented safety. He represented home. Two things that Jesse very much needed at the moment.
Slowly, he cracked open his eyes.
Mark was seated on the bed in front of him. His hands were sitting squarely on each of Jesse's shoulders, his eyes full of concern and fear and caring.
Jesse wilted and as he did so, his head fell forward, coming to rest on his mentor's shoulder.
"Mark," he murmured in a long, drawn out sigh.
"It's all right, Jesse," The older man wound his arms loosely around his young protégé. "You're all right now."
Jesse believed him. It never even occurred to him to think otherwise. His heart was still pounding hard, though and he was gasping for breath in the aftermath of the terror that had gripped him. Violent tremors jolted him; he couldn't seem to stop them, as hard as he tried. "I … I …oh god …"
"Sssshhh." Mark's voice was barely a whisper. "Just relax, Jess. Breathe slowly, that's it. You can do it."
Gradually, under the older man's gentle ministrations, he was able to regain some semblance of control over his turbulent emotions, sufficient anyway that he suddenly felt horribly embarrassed and jerked out of the loose embrace.
"Oh! Mark! I … I'm sorry …"
His mentor smiled. "It's perfectly all right, Jess," he said, kindly. "How are you doing?"
Unable to meet that frank gaze and utterly mortified at having acted so irrationally that he had needed comforting by the man he admired above all others, Jesse's mumbled "'M fine," was barely audible.
Mark shook his head in fond indulgence. He knew exactly what was going through his friend's mind right now. "Jess, please look at me."
For a moment he thought that Jesse was going to refuse, then, slowly, deep blue eyes rose to meet his. As he had expected they were filled with shame and remorse.
"Jesse, it's okay," he insisted. "I promise you."
A wan smile touched the younger man's lips, but didn't stay. "I'm so sorry, Mark," he whispered. "I … I didn't mean to … I mean, I never intended … man, I don't know what I mean!"
A soft chuckle escaped at Jesse's inability to express himself in the wake of the realisation that he had been close to tears in his mentor's arms. "Jess, you had a panic attack." He kept his voice neutral in the hope that it would calm Jesse's fears and ease his humiliation. "You weren't thinking or acting rationally. It's normal."
"Normal?" The echo was low and harsh. "What's normal about reacting like that to my dad? He'll never want to see me again! Not after I treated him like public enemy number one!"
"Jesse, you didn't know what you were doing."
"That's no excuse!" he retorted, thickly. "I should have known better. I should have realised …"
"Realised what?" interjected Mark, as Jesse's tenuous self-control threatened to break once more, this time at the unintentional pain he had caused to his dad. "That Rashid did such a remarkable job of transforming himself into your father that you couldn't tell them apart? That you were terrorised by a man who, to all intents and purposes was your father? Give yourself a break, son. How were you to know that the man who just came into your room wasn't Rashid? You had no way of telling them apart and Dane will know and understand that."
"B … but I've hurt him," Jesse declared in a small, strangled voice. "I … I didn't mean to do that."
"He knows that, my friend," the older man said, gently. "It's going to take time for your mind to accept and trust what your eyes are seeing, but he's your father. He's not going to simply stop caring just because you were scared."
"But I should have been able to control it! Oh man, I'm such a coward," He ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Look at me! I can't stop shaking!"
"It's perfectly natural," Mark replied. "You had a panic attack, Jess, probably a flashback too. That would be enough to scare anyone. It certainly used to scare Steve."
"Steve?" Jesse regarded him in wide-eyed astonishment. "Steve had flashbacks?"
"After 'Nam, yes," Mark's lips thinned at the memory. "The things he saw out there …" He shuddered at what his son had shared with him all those years ago. "He never told me everything, I know, but what little there was was enough to give me a lot of sleepless nights and a few nightmares of my own - although don't you ever tell him that. So, you see, it's just a normal human reaction to an extreme situation. And that's what happened to you when you were held hostage. They were going to kill you, Jesse. And the man who was going to pull the trigger looked and sounded exactly like Dane even though you knew it wasn't. I'd be more surprised - and worried - if you hadn't panicked the first time you saw him."
"You … you would?" There was hope in the younger man's tone now, and the strain that had etched new lines in the boyish features had lessened. "Honest?"
Mark smiled at him. "Honest. Would I lie to you?"
Jesse appeared to give that question some serious consideration. Then he shook his head. "No, you wouldn't."
"Well, good. Now, what say you get some rest and I'll tell Dane that you're sleeping."
Jesse bit his lip. "Mark?"
"Yes?"
"I … I want to see him, honest. But … I'm not sure if I can without … you know."
"I know, my friend." The older man absent-mindedly stroked his moustache with one finger as he contemplated the problem. "Hmm … how about I come with him next time? Or Amanda, or Steve. That way you'll be certain that it is your father and not someone masquerading as him."
A tremulous smile appeared. "Okay," Jesse agreed. "I … I'd like that."
"Good." Slowly, Mark rose from the bed. "Get some sleep now, all right? I'll be back soon."
"Okay, Mark. Thanks."

"How is he?" was the first question out of Dane's mouth as soon as Mark left the room, closing the door gently behind him.
The other man glanced back. Jesse was lying on his side, facing them. His eyes were closed but Mark didn't think he was actually asleep. "Let's talk somewhere else," he said, leading the way down the corridor.
Dane followed. Once at a safe distance, Mark stopped, turned and regarded him with a grim expression.
"What?" demanded the agent. "What is it?"
"He can't deal with seeing you right now," Mark said, solemnly. "He equates you with his ordeal."
"Well, I'd figured that out for myself!" Dane snapped, then immediately regretted his harsh words. "I'm sorry, Mark. I just … I wanted to see my son; talk to him, make sure he's okay. Is that so wrong?"
Mark smiled, sadly. "No, Dane. No, of course it's not wrong. It's only natural. I'd feel the same way. The problem is that he's reacting to you on a purely instinctual level right now. He's not rational. In his heart, he knows that it was you who walked through that door, but he's completely unable to distinguish between you and Rashid."
"That bastard really did a number on him," growled the agent, his face darkening at the mention of the assassin's name. "When I find him, I'm going to kill him. I swear it."
"Well, that's all well and good," said Mark, evenly. He empathised with the other man. Jesse wasn't even his flesh and blood and yet he had felt a completely uncharacteristic surge of hatred toward Rashid when he had walked in on the scene and witnessed the sheer terror that Jesse was experiencing. He had been forced to table his own feelings, however, in order to try to get through to his young friend and calm him down. "But it doesn't solve the immediate problem."
"How is Jesse going to be able to face me as his father instead of Rashid," said Dane, heavily. "Well? Any ideas?"
Mark nodded. "Yes, actually. Jesse agreed to it, too. I suggested that next time you visit him, one of us goes in with you. He trusts us - Steve, Amanda and me," he clarified. "You were the one whom Rashid impersonated, not us. He knows that none of us would let anything happen to him. I know it's not an ideal situation, Dane," he went on, seeing the other man's face fall at his words. "But we have to think of Jesse's needs right now. Not our own. Eventually, he will be able to tell the difference. Eventually, he'll come to terms with what happened to him. But it's still too recent, too raw. The man terrorised him and that's not something you get over right away, especially if you're not used to being in situations like that."
The agent swallowed, hard. "I know what you're saying. That it's different when you're in the business of putting your life at risk every day, as we do in the Company. Well, to a certain extent, that's true. You have to harden yourself, but you lose something in return. You lose a little bit of your soul, Mark, and you lose something of your humanity." He laughed, but it was a harsh, brittle sound. "Believe me, I know the way others look at me. They see someone without scruples, someone without a heart, who finds it as easy to kill as it is to breathe. And I have to admit that they have a point. But what they don't see is what's beneath that - the part of me that remains a father, first and foremost. The part that cares. And I care about Jesse. Make no mistake about that. He should never have had to go through something like this. He's not like me. He's a doctor. He saves lives, he doesn't take them. I do understand the effect this will have on him - on anyone who lives a normal life; who doesn't have to put their life at risk every day. It'll be difficult for him to accept, but he will. He's made of strong stuff, my son. I've seen it before - that whole Kesslar business. He'll get beyond this. I just hope he doesn't lose what makes him who he is in the process."

They tried again the next day.
Jesse was tense and nervous, but utterly determined to face the irrational fear that had overwhelmed him the previous day. He wasn't going to let Rashid ruin what he and his dad had built over the last few months. He wasn't going to let him win.
It was hard, though.
As the door opened, he stiffened, breaking out in a cold sweat as Mark entered. The older man had elected himself as Dane's 'chaperone' for the visit, aware that his young friend would need as much help as he could get with this. It was the least he could do after having felt so completely powerless through Jesse's captivity.
He smiled reassuringly at the younger doctor and Jesse tried his best to return the smile. It was difficult through gritted teeth.
Then Dane walked through the door.
Rationality went out of the window as Jesse's heart began to race and his chest tightened. He felt light-headed and sick and although the urge to flee was practically overwhelming, equally, he was so frozen with terror that he couldn't move. His eyes riveted on the man who looked like his father, a small whimper of distress burst out of him as the older man approached him.
Dane watched helplessly as his son exhibited all the signs of the hysteria that he had seen the day before and, despite the fact that he knew it wasn't directed at him personally but was caused by the memories of what he had endured at Rashid's hands, he couldn't prevent the anguish that swept through him.
Jesse recoiled even as the other man stopped several paces away from the bed, then he saw the hurt that clouded the older man's face.
"D …. Dad?" he choked out.
"Jess … " Dane's response was barely audible as he tried to force himself to leave. He couldn't bear to see what his presence was doing to his son. By the same token, he couldn't go without at least trying to talk to him. "Jess, I'm sorry."
The agony in the agent's voice broke through the terror that was holding Jesse in a firm grip. "D … dad, I …"
"No, son. Let me speak."
The younger man fell silent at the request. He doubted whether he could have strung a coherent sentence together anyway. He was shaking uncontrollably and his mouth felt as dry as sandpaper.
"I'm sorry, Jess," said Dane desperately. "I'm sorry we didn't get to you in time to stop that bastard doing what he did to you. This should never have happened to you and I promise, he's not going to get away with it. Jesse, I … I wish that it had been me. I would have done anything to prevent your suffering. I hope you know that."
"I … I do," murmured Jesse, appalled at the distress he was causing the other man. Dane's grey-blue eyes were awash with tears, although he was obviously fighting hard to keep them from falling. "D … dad, I … I'm sorry. I …"
"No, son," Dane interjected, shakily. "No. None of this is your fault. I did something many years ago which you're paying for now. It was justified at the time, but if I had that time to live over …"
"Don't!" Jesse exclaimed. "Dad, please! You … you did what was necessary. You did it for the right reasons. I … I know you did."
"Maybe." Dane closed his eyes, recalling the moment he shot Rashid's son; the regret at taking another life, combined with the anger at being duped. Had he known then that his actions then would almost cost his own son his life so many years later he didn't know if he would do the same thing.
But if he hadn't, the loss of life would have been incalculable. The choice had been stark, his orders intractable. 'Do everything within your power to accomplish your mission.' He was a Company man. He played by the rules.
And the rules had almost got Jesse killed.
"Dad …."
Without volition, Jesse's hand reached out toward him. Over the last few moments, without the young man even being aware of it, his panic had receded; the pain in his father's eyes banishing - for the time being at least - the fear that his face had engendered.
Rashid's eyes had always been unreadable, he realised now. Any emotion in them had been tempered by a coldness that had chilled him even as he had tried to tell himself he was imagining things.
This was his father. No-one could feign torment like this.
Besides, he felt a soul-deep connection to this man that he had not felt to Rashid even before he had discovered his true identity. He had wanted to feel it - whilst he had been under the illusion that he was on vacation with his father. But wanting something and feeling it for real were two entirely separate things.
"Dad, it's … it's all right," he said. His hand was still stretched out, begging the older man to take it. "Please …"
Hesitantly, Dane took a step forward, hope flaring when Jesse didn't flinch as he did so. Another step and he was only inches away. Jesse smiled tremulously.
"Jess …"
Suddenly the young man's hand was enclosed within both his own and he felt the warm wetness of tears as he sank onto the chair at the side of the bed.
Mark watched as the scenario played out, breathing a huge sigh of relief when Jesse reached out and Dane tentatively moved forward.
As Dane took his rightful place beside his son, the older man, knowing he was now superfluous to requirement, quietly left the room.

"But I want to go home!"
"And you know why you can't!"
"He's not after me any more! I've been here for six days and he hasn't tried anything!"
"What makes you think he won't try it once you're out of the hospital? No, Jesse. It's too dangerous. Here, there's a guard on your door …"
"Which Steve says is gonna be removed, because nothing's happened in nearly a week," groused the young doctor.
Dane sighed. They had been arguing over this for the last two days, on and off. Now that he was fully recovered - physically, at least, Jesse was demanding to be released from the hospital. Dane had other ideas. He knew Rashid. He knew that the man wasn't just going to give up. Just because he hadn't tried anything since Jesse had been hospitalised didn't mean he wasn't out there, somewhere, awaiting his next opportunity. The kidnap had been intricately planned over many years. He would need time to come up with something else and Dane knew he was perfectly capable of doing that in the space of seven days.
He wanted Jesse safe and right at the moment, he was safe in the hospital, with a guard on the door, preventing all but the necessary medical personnel and his friends from reaching him.
Unfortunately, Jesse was being obstinate. Dane figured he must have inherited that particular personality flaw from his mom. She was the most stubborn woman he had ever met - it had been a large part of what had attracted him to her in the first place. Not that it had made their relationship easy but at least it had never been boring.
Now, studying his son, who was seated upright in his bed, arms folded across his chest, glowering at him, he had to admit that Jesse reminded him more than ever of his ex-wife and the life he could have had had he been able to stay with them.
It certainly wouldn't have been quiet, that was for sure.
But Jesse had made a valid point. Steve had reluctantly informed them both earlier that day that the guards who had diligently remained outside Jesse's room for the past few days had been called off by his Captain, who had cited lack of manpower as one of his reasons. All of them were aware, however, of the reality of the situation. The man couldn't justify keeping valuable cops on 'babysitting duty' when he had a an entire city to protect - not when the threat seemed to have been nullified.
He sighed deeply. He wasn't going to win this argument. Jesse was recovered. He needed some recuperation time but he would be fit and well enough to return to work within another week or so and it was unfair to keep him from doing what he did just because Dane was terrified Rashid would come after him again.
But he knew his adversary. Rashid would return. And next time there would be no mistakes. The next time, he would kill Jesse.
"Well?" demanded the younger man, his petulant voice breaking into Dane's gloomy deliberations. "Are you gonna let me go home or am I gonna have to get Steve?"
Dane shot the younger man a quizzical look. "What?"
"I could have him arrest you for … for … I dunno, impeding justice or something!"
Dane couldn't help it. He sniggered. "'Impeding justice'?" he echoed, incredulously. "Jesse, come on!"
The blue eyes were smouldering with indignation. "Well … well, I could always get him to just handcuff you!" he retorted. "Or, better yet, he could fight you!"
"And you think he'd win?"
"Well … I …" Jesse's voice trailed away as he recalled the last time the two men had encountered one another in an 'altercation'. Steve had definitely come off the worse for wear on that occasion. "Well, last time he wasn't ready for you!" he went on, haughtily. "This time he will be!"
"I know lots of tricks, Jess," said Dane, narrowing his eyes, although he was hard pressed to keep from laughing at his son's sheer bull-headedness, however much he admired the younger man's faith in his friend. "I've had a lot of time to practise them, too."
Jesse mirrored his expression. "Yeah?" he challenged him. "Well, I'm a doctor! I know where to stick syringes and rectal probes!"
As soon as the words left his mouth, Jesse felt himself blush. He couldn't believe he had just threatened his own father with a rectal probe!
Dane, meanwhile, was losing his battle with his emotions. And the horrified expression on Jesse's face as he realised what he had just said finished it. Throwing his head back, he roared with laughter.
"Jesse …"
The argument may have continued unabated for some time had they not been interrupted by Mark.
"Well?" he demanded as he entered the room. "Is Jesse going home or are we going to confine him to the hospital for the conceivable future, Dane?" he enquired with a grin as he closed the door.
Dane cleared his face and turned to the other man. "Mark, let me ask you something. Has my son always been this wilful or is it something he's learned since becoming a doctor?"
Mark frowned, stroking his moustache as he considered the question. "Well, I'm not sure, Dane." He said, soberly. "It seems to me that he does have a habit of jumping in where angels fear to tread despite the warnings that Steve, Amanda and myself often give him. So I suppose he must have been like this for a while. He's giving you some trouble, is he?"
"'He' is still in the room!" came the rather pointed reminder from the bed.
Dane turned back to his somewhat exasperated son. "Oh, right," he said, mildly. "Yes, so you are, Jess. Well, it seems to me that Mark has just as much trouble with you as I've been having. You know, I don't know where you get it from. You should respect your elders."
"I would if they talked any sense," muttered Jesse, rebelliously.
Mark snorted inelegantly at this. Dane, meanwhile, had to turn away as his own lips twitched.
"Well, if we're going to discharge him, then it might be a good idea if you both come back to the beach house with us," the older doctor suggested.
Jesse shook his head. "Oh no, Mark," he said, emphatically. "No, I'm not gonna put you out."
"You wouldn't be 'putting me out, Jess," Mark insisted. I'd enjoy having you both there. Besides, it saves on hotel bills for your father."
"He has a point, son," said Dane, having got himself under tenuous control once more.
Jesse looked from one to the other. He was all set to fight them on this but the resolute expressions on both faces deterred him somewhat. Besides, he had won one victory. He was going to be released. He could allow them this. They wouldn't stay long though - maybe a couple of days. He really didn't want to impose on Mark and Steve's hospitality any longer than absolutely necessary, not when had a perfectly good apartment of his own. It might only have one bedroom and a rather lumpy sofa, but it was his.
"Okay," he conceded, grudgingly. "Okay, just for a couple of days. Then I'm going home. And dad can come stay with me."
Dane and Mark exchanged grins. They had got their way. And they would both work on persuading the younger man to stay a little longer. Mark wanted to keep an eye on both of them and where better to do that than his own home? Meanwhile, Dane had no desire to sleep on Jesse's couch It was short and lumpy and uncomfortable.

Later that same day saw another disagreement erupt between the two Travises.
"I'm not going to bed."
"But, Jesse, you've only been out of hospital a few hours!"
"So? I feel fine!"
"Well, you don't look fine. You look pale and tired."
"That's because I've been out of the sun for a week. My tan's faded."
"You don't have a tan."
"Exactly!"
A discreet cough from the doorway forced an abrupt end to the escalating dispute and they both turned to find Steve leaning on the doorframe, arms folded, an amused smile playing about his mouth. "Hi, guys," he said, moving further into the room. "Is this a private argument or can anyone join in?"
"It isn't an argument," Jesse protested, somewhat huffily. "We were talking."
Steve eyed him dubiously. "It sounded like an argument to me,"
"Well, it wasn't."
The detective shrugged dismissively. "Okay. Anyway, I just came to tell you both that dad called. He's been held up at the hospital. He'll be here later. But if you guys are hungry, I can cook."
"No!" Jesse's eyes were wide with horror at the suggestion. "I … I mean, no, that's okay," he tempered, as he was speared with a mildly aggravated look. "Uh … we'll wait for Mark. It's only fair. It is his house, after all. Might as well eat together."
The obviously fake smile didn't fool Steve for a moment. He was well aware of Jesse's distaste for what he personally served up in the way of dinner. The young doctor had done nothing but moan the last time Steve had cooked, preferring Mark's much more exotic dishes. Personally, Steve had a distinct aversion to eating food that was staring up at him with one eye.
He let the inferred insult go this time, however. Jesse was still recovering from his kidnap and resulting injuries. He'd wait till he was well again before sparring with him. Besides, it looked like Dane had got in there first.
"Okay," he said. Then, because he couldn't resist it, he added, "You know, you should listen to your dad, Jess. You do look pale. Maybe you should get some rest before dinner."
The look of hurt betrayal this remark provoked prompted a surge of laughter which he tried manfully to restrain and he left the room quickly before it broke through.

By the time Mark got home, Jesse had proved his father right by falling asleep on the couch. Curled up in one corner, he was half concealed beneath the large, multi-coloured rug that Steve had carelessly thrown over him, oblivious to the animated conversation going on between the his father and the detective.
"When did he conk out?" Mark asked, with a fond smile, keeping his voice low in deference to his slumbering guest.
"About two hours ago," replied Dane. He cast the slumbering young man a long-suffering look. "He told me he wasn't tired."
Mark's grin widened. "Ah, I see." He was well aware of Jesse's stubborn nature. He had also been subject to that same young man's objections about the need for sleep the last time he had required serious medical attention. Jesse had later been quite mortified to discover that he had practically fallen unconscious into his dinner and that Steve and Mark had carried him to bed. It was still a source of much amusement in the Sloan household. "So should we wake him for dinner, d'you think?"
Steve sniggered. "I don't think you'll have any choice, as soon as you start cooking his nose'll lead him to the food before he even wakes up!"
Dane shook his head in bewilderment. "You know, I honestly don't know where he puts it all," he said. "He had a huge appetite when he was younger. But then, he was a child. He had a very high metabolism."
"I don't think it's changed much," muttered Steve, somewhat ruefully.
"It doesn't help that young doctors tend to live on a diet of candy bars and caffeine," mused Mark. Shrugging his jacket off, he made his way toward the kitchen, intent on preparing something wholesome and not too fancy in consideration of his patient's still delicate stomach. The shrill sound of the phone stopped him halfway there.
"Mark Sloan," he said, as he picked up the receiver.
"Dr Sloan." The voice was horribly familiar and Mark felt his blood run cold as he recognised it.
"Rashid."
"That is right," replied the other man, smoothly. "I would like to speak to Dane Travis. I know he's there."
"Mark? Give me the phone."
The older man's eyes widened in astonishment at Dane's silent appearance beside him, before wordlessly handing him the instrument and stepping back, to stand beside Steve, who had also risen from his seat at the sound of Rashid's name.
"What do you want, Rashid?" demanded Dane, harshly.
"What, no pleasantries? No 'how are you'?" mocked the other man.
"I don't have anything to say to you except that when I see you, I'm going to kill you for what you did to Jesse."
"But I didn't do anything to him," was the calm response. "Not when he was a captive, at least."
"You kidnapped him!" ground out the agent. "You shot him when he escaped from you!"
"I did," came the smooth admission. "And did you ever wonder how he escaped, Travis? Did you wonder how I failed so spectacularly? Did it never occur to you that when I was about to shoot him in the head and my gun jammed that perhaps that was no accident?"
"What?" Dane suddenly couldn't breathe. This was the first he'd heard about what Jesse had actually been through. The young man had said only that he had escaped. He hadn't given them the details of how.
"I wanted him to run," the other man went on. "So that you and all your friends would assume that he was safe. I even made sure that he made it out of the forest alive. Did you ever wonder who the old man was? The man who came to your son's rescue? Who kept him alive without giving him any medical attention until you got there? You people were so pathetically grateful that he was alive that you didn't even give any thought to the fact that the old man had not even tended his wound. You are weak, agent Travis. And that makes you vulnerable."
"I … I don't … that was you?" Dane was furious with himself. He should have known. Rashid was a master of disguise and everything he said was true. Not one of them had questioned the validity of the old man's identity, instead taking him at face value because he had, to all intents and purposes, saved Jesse's life. "You bastard! Why? Why would you do that? What did you hope to gain?"
"That was all part of my plan, agent Travis," replied Rashid. "Everything was part of my plan. The boy discovered who we were - just as I wanted him to. Oh, he tried very hard not to reveal what he knew but … Jesse is a very bad liar. He would never make it in your business - or mine. But it pleased me to keep up the charade, to allow him to believe I didn't suspect he knew and to watch whilst he tied himself in knots. From that I derived great pleasure."
"You sick …"
"And then came the first payoff. You believed there was a deadline. You suffered at the thought of your son being killed. And then you thought you miraculously had back that which you had lost. I wanted to give you time to become accustomed to that before carrying out the next part of my plan."
Dane swallowed. He felt sick as a terrible sense of foreboding started to overwhelm him. "What have you done?" he choked out.
"You really should be more careful which medical personnel are allowed into your son's room." The malicious glee in Rashid's voice grated on Dane's nerves.
"What have you done?" he repeated.
"You should get your Dr Sloan to check the medical personnel records. He may find that one of the male nurses is missing," Rashid maddeningly refused to answer the question directly. "Such a shame. Such a waste of life. They will never find him, I fear. But I digress. You are so eager to find out what it is I have done to your son? Check his blood, agent Travis. You will find that it is contaminated by a rare poison which a chemist of my acquaintance devised. It has been tested on several human subjects over the last few years and all of them have exhibited some quite extraordinary symptoms. It becomes apparent over a 72 hour period. At first he will feel well; more than well, actually. He will feel invigorated; rejuvenated. Then he will become gradually weaker and weaker. There will be blinding headaches followed by severe stomach spasms and possibly convulsions. They are quite excruciating, I understand. There may be other side effects too. Each one of our guinea pigs displayed a different variety, but I think I will let you discover them on your own. It is far more entertaining and I wouldn't want to take all the fun out of it. The last two stages, however, are coma and then death."
"What?" Dane could barely speak, sickened by the litany of symptoms. He cast an anguished glance back at Jesse, who was sleeping so peacefully on the couch, looking for all the world like the innocent little boy he had left so many years ago. He was blissfully unaware of the fate which apparently awaited him. "No!"
"You see, agent Travis, I have waited a long time for this." Rashid laughed. It was a raw, ugly sound. "I told you that I intended to win the game we are playing. Keeping your son a prisoner and then killing him was never the true objective. That was simply a means to an end. One more way to make you both suffer. The way I have suffered since you murdered my son."
"You won't get away with this!" Dane didn't even recognise his own voice. It sounded broken and hollow.
"But I already have." Rashid was triumphant. "The drug is well-established in his bloodstream. Even now it is attacking his nervous system and his healthy blood cells. He will suffer a great deal, agent Travis. He will be in tremendous pain. It will not be pretty - for either of you."
"You sorry son of a bitch!" Dane choked out, unconsciously tightening his grip on the telephone - almost as though it was Rashid's neck. "Isn't it enough that you made him practically incapable of looking at me without seeing you? What the hell has he ever done to deserve this?"
"He is your son," responded the other man, icily, as though that explained everything; which, unfortunately, it did. "Making you endure unimaginable torture was my primary focus. His pain is merely a bonus."
"You …!"
"Goodbye, agent Travis," the assassin interjected as Dane struggled for something to say that would eloquently express his white hot fury at the other man. "Say goodbye to Jesse for me. It has been a pleasure."

Dane didn't replace the receiver right away. Instead, he stared at it, numbly, his mind refusing to accept what he had just been told, even as his heart screamed at him that it was true.
"Dane?"
Mark's gentle voice was the catalyst for an eruption of conflicting emotions. Rage, horror, desperation and complete and utter despair.
It all crystallised into one action as Dane let out an inarticulate roar and threw the phone to the other side of the room, where it slammed against the wall and smashed into several small pieces.
"My god! Dane!"
Steve's outraged exclamation combined with that of his father's gasp as the appalled doctor stared at his obliterated telephone.
"Dane, what …?"
Before he could say another word, Dane had grabbed Mark by one arm, and, with a curt motion of his head, indicated to Steve to follow him.
Not knowing quite what else to do, the stunned detective did so as Mark allowed himself to be virtually dragged out of the living area and outside.
"All right, Dane, what the hell's going on?" demanded Steve, once the agent had closed the door, glancing warily at his son before doing so.
Dane turned to them. His eyes were alight with a burning fury the likes of which neither of them had ever seen. His entire face was contorted with it. And yet there was something more - something even more powerful, even more basic - a devastation that was devouring his very soul.
"What?" Mark gripped his arm, even as Dane turned him loose. His fingers tightened on the other man's biceps, dreading what the other man was about to say and yet unable to endure not knowing. "Tell us, man! Just tell us!"
"Jesse …" The agent's voice was little more than a low groan. He could barely speak past the anguish that was devouring him. "Jesse …. He poisoned Jesse, Mark. He poisoned my son!"
"What?" Suddenly, Mark's throat went dry and he glanced inadvertently back at the house, inside where the young man whom they were discussing unsuspectingly slumbered on. "What do you mean, 'he poisoned him, Dane? What with?"
Dane could barely breathe. There was a buzzing in his ears and a surge of animalistic hatred churning inside his stomach. He wanted to hurt something - correction. He wanted to hurt Rashid. He wanted to tear the man limb from limb … slowly. He wanted to watch him cry out in agony, hear him scream. But he couldn't leave Jesse. Not now. Not when … "Oh my god," he moaned, scrubbing a shaky hand across his brow. He met Mark's eyes and the older man was shocked at what he saw. The raw, naked pain on the agent's face was terrible to behold.
"Mark, I …"
"Dane, it's all right. Just tell us. What exactly did he say?"
The matter of fact tone of Mark's voice got through where nothing else could and he sank onto the wall at the side of the house, trying to regain some of his composure. Taking several deep, calming breaths, he dug deep inside for the strength to say what he needed to tell them, all the while very aware of the fact that every second was a second less left of Jesse's life. Then, his voice shaking with the emotions that were raging inside of him, he told them what they needed to know.

"Christ, it can't be true." Steve was aghast when Dane finally finished relaying to them what Rashid had informed him.
Mark's mouth was set in a grim, resolute line. "Well, there's only one way to find out," he reasoned, turning to go back inside the house.
""Wait." Dane prevented him from going any further by the simple expedient of putting his hand on the older man's arm. "What are you going to do?"
"Take a sample of Jesse's blood, of course," the other man said. "I'll get Amanda to test it. Then we'll know for sure. Steve? Can you call her?"
The detective nodded, his face white with the shock of what he had just heard and the implications it had for his friend. He punched in the pathologist's number on his cellphone with trembling fingers.
"Mark?"
The doctor paused with his hand on the door, half-turning to glance back at the stricken father. "Dane, whatever it is, we'll find out," he promised. "I am not going to just stand by and watch Jesse die."
The agent nodded mutely, letting Mark go. A moment later, having made his call to Amanda, Steve followed him, holding the door open for the other man. "You coming?" he asked, gruffly.
Dane shook his head. He needed some time to regroup before he faced his son again, despite the fact that Jesse was currently oblivious to the earth-shattering news his friends were all party to. "I … I'll be in in a minute," he said, in a low, strained voice. "I … I just need some time."
Steve nodded in understanding. "Yeah. Don't we all?"
The irony of Dane's statement was not lost on either of them. Time had once again become a precious commodity for them all - not least Jesse. The thought sent a shudder through the older man. He could barely believe that he was being forced to face this a second time. He didn't even want to contemplate the ordeal which his son was about to face if the blood tests proved that he had indeed been poisoned - and he had no doubt that Rashid was telling the truth. It was a heinous, evil thing to do - and it was just his style.
He only hoped that they could find an antidote. They had to. There was no other choice.

Amanda eyed the telephone through tear-blurred eyes. This was a call that she didn't want to make.
It was now mid morning. She had been up all night, running the blood which Mark had extracted from Jesse's arm through a variety of tests, repeating some of them to ensure their validity.
The result was unequivocal. An unknown substance was flowing through Jesse's veins, a biological agent which was designed to work against the body, causing mass breakdown of the central nervous system.
Unfortunately, that was all Toxicology had been had been able to say with any degree of certainty and even that was open to debate. They had been unable to provide a definitive answer as to its origin, its components or its eventual level of contamination. It was like nothing they had ever seen before. The cells were multiplying and mutating even as they studied them and it was impossible to determine what kind of symptoms they would cause, although the technicians she had asked to perform the test agreed that any and all of the list provided to her by Mark from his conversation with Dane were possible.
What they had determined, beyond a reasonable doubt, was that eventually, this biological agent would kill Jesse - and they couldn't see his road to that eventual demise being anything other than appallingly unpleasant.
They had promised that they would work on trying to develop some kind of treatment, but the constant mutation of the cells in the compound rendered their task virtually impossible.
Amanda had returned to the path lab practically sick with grief. Whilst she and the lab technicians had been engaged in running the analysis, she had tried very hard not to think about whose blood was under the microscope. But it had proven impossible. As impossible now as it had been eighteen months earlier when Jesse had been stricken with the deadly, mutant smallpox virus. Then, at least, there had been an antidote. The only problem had been locating it in time to save his life.
This time there would be no last-minute rescues.
This time he had been deliberately infected and there was no known cure.
She now had the agonising task of calling the beach house, to give them the news they so desperately did not want to hear.

Jesse knew nothing of any of this, of course. He had been asleep when Mark had drawn his blood, barely even stirring as the older doctor inserted the hypodermic into his arm. It had been Steve who had gentled him back into slumber as a quiet whimper escaped him. Dane had simply stood nearby, completely unable to approach his son; immersed in guilt and anguish at what Jesse had already endured and was now to be forced to undergo.
When the young man finally did awake, feeling more refreshed and alive than he had felt for a long time, his first question had been when dinner was and what they were having, his face falling at the prospect of waiting whilst Mark, with a heavy heart, set about preparing something to tempt his young friend's appetite.
The resultant meal was a new lesson in torture for the other three men, although Jesse devoured everything on his plate, complimenting Mark on his cooking and begging for more. He seemed to be enjoying a new lease on life and, recalling the symptoms that Rashid had outlined, they were all forced to conclude that the agent injected into his bloodstream was already at work, allowing him to feel newly invigorated - a cruel irony considering what lay in store for him.
Mark, Dane and Steve, however, discovered that everything tasted like sawdust. It was an exquisite kind of agony to sit at the table and watch whilst Jesse exhibited these first indicators, especially as they were presently utterly powerless to prevent it.
After dinner, Jesse and Steve had engaged in a little friendly rivalry over the football game on ESPN, the outcome of which both actually cared little about. It was something in which they indulged themselves every so often, placing fake bets on how many times the quarterbacks would be sacked, which running back would score most touchdowns and the eventual score. It was a way to let off a little steam and behave like big kids.
It was a bittersweet source of amusement for the detective, who found his gaze somewhat inevitably and almost constantly drifting toward his best friend as the game progressed. Jesse seemed hale and hearty, seemingly having regained his normal exuberance. He bounced with glee when his quarterback ran for a touchdown in the third quarter and thrust his fist in the air triumphantly when Steve's offense didn't make the requisite 10 yards and was forced to punt shortly thereafter.
Steve felt very much like crying.
His words to Amanda during the whole smallpox debacle drifted back to him at one point. "I don't know how to chase germs, but I do know how to find a killer …' and as he snuck another swift glance at his excited companion, whose team were now leading 35-15, he made his decision.
He didn't care if Rashid was the best assassin in the world with the biggest fortune.
He was going to find him and he was going to force him to tell them how to cure Jesse.

Mark and Dane didn't sleep that night. After Jesse finally drifted off on the couch again, clutching several twenty dollar bills, courtesy of his winning bet with Steve, the detective abruptly left. Mark followed his departure with a fond smile, well aware that his son couldn't just sit around whilst Jesse's health deteriorated and he suffered unimaginable horrors as the toxin manifested itself . Steve was a cop - and a good one. He was going to do his utmost to discover where the assassin was.
Mark was also desperate to ascertain that information.
As they watched the sun ascend slowly over the hills to the east, casting its warm glow over the frosted sepia stone, he glanced at Dane.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yes," said the other man, dully. His eyes were leaden, his skin tinged with grey, his countenance full of hopelessness. "It's no good, Mark. You know what Amanda's going to find."
"Even if she does, it doesn't mean we just have to give up!" insisted the older man, keeping his voice deliberately low in order not to awaken the other occupant of the room. "Think, man. What would Rashid do now?"
Dane shook his head miserably. "Apart from gloat?"
Mark frowned at the response, fingering his moustache thoughtfully. "Gloat?" he echoed. "That's right. That's what he would do. And that's how we find him."
Dane stared at him as if he'd gone mad. "What?"
Mark turned to face him, his eyes alight with the first hope he had felt in many hours. "Think man! Rashid isn't going to just fade into the background. Not now. Not when he's so near his goal. He would want to see it to its resolution. To its bitter end."
"I … I don't …"
"He's watching us!" Mark clarified, his gaze returning to the window, scanning their surroundings as though he could see the other man peering in at them. "He has to be! His goal was to make you suffer. But that won't be enough to satisfy him. Not after everything he's gone through to put this plan together. He wants to see you go through purgatory. And he can only do that if he's close by. I'm calling Steve."
With that, he whirled on his heel and strode across to the phone, before belatedly recalling that his guest had destroyed it the night before. Fortunately, they had managed to clear up the evidence of its destruction before Jesse had awoken. With a muffled curse, he reached instead for his cellphone, inadvertently disturbing his young friend.
"Wh … wassat?" came the drowsy mumble.
"It's all right, Jess," he said, softly, laying a gentle hand on the blond head, unwittingly holding his breath as he felt the younger man's skin before exhaling when he found that it was a normal temperature. "Go back to sleep, son."
Obediently, Jesse settled, tugging the blanket more securely round him as he snuggled further into the cushions that surrounded him.
"How's he doing?"
Mark shot a reassuring smile in Dane's direction. "He's all right - so far," he said, as he started to punch in Steve's number.
Before he could complete the process, however, the cellphone rang. Recognising the number on the display immediately, he moved away from the couch and wandered toward the kitchen, vaguely aware of Dane following him as he did so.
"Amanda?" he said, as he answered the call. His throat tightened as he prepared to utter the next words. "How did you do?"
Dane watched his companion as he listened to the voice at the other end. The other man's face offered no clues beyond a tightening of the jaw and a curt nod. The agent steeled himself for what was to come. "Well?" he demanded as Mark broke the connection.
"It's been confirmed." Mark's distress was palpable in the timbre of his voice. "There's an unknown toxin in Jesse's blood."
Dane swallowed. "And?" he prompted.
"They're working on finding something to counteract it."
The agent nodded, fresh pain clutching at his heart as he digested the other man's words. "I see," he said. "Mark, how limited are their chances of success? Really?"
Mark hesitated a moment before answering. He so desperately wanted to give Dane some hope, but knew that wouldn't be fair to him. He deserved no less than the truth, however unpleasant it might be. "I … can't give you the odds," he said, at length, unaware that he was clenching his fists so tightly that he was in danger of drawing blood. "But it's not looking good."
"I see." The dark smudges beneath the agent's eyes looked more pronounced in the early morning sunlight that was streaming through the kitchen windows, the twitch in his cheek the only outward sign of his emotions. The man was closing off - as though his turmoil was too vast to be released. "So Rashid has won."
Frustration and anguish vied for prominence. "Dammit, man," Mark snapped. "This isn't some kind of contest! This is Jesse's life!"
"I'm well aware of that," came the icy response and Mark immediately regretted his outburst. Of course Dane was aware of it.
"I'm sorry," he said, quietly. "I didn't mean …"
"No, Mark, it's all right." Dane cut him off. "You're right. This isn't some game. This is my son and that sorry son of a bitch is killing him."
Mark smiled wanly, then bowed his head as a wave of despair stole over him. "We have to tell him," he murmured.
"Tell him what? That he's been injected with some deadly agent? That he's going to die - horribly? No."
The refusal was soft but vehement and Mark's head shot up to study his companion in astonishment. "But …"
"I'm not telling him, Mark," insisted Dane, forestalling the protest. "And neither are you."
"He has to know," the older man insisted. "Dane, he's going to get sick. Very sick. That's the only other thing the lab techs could tell Amanda. How are we going to explain that to him?"
"I think you just did."
The unexpected voice startled both men and two heads whipped around as one in the direction from whence it came.
Jesse stood in the doorway, his hands gripping the frame as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes were blazing; twin pools of molten cobalt in a face otherwise devoid of all colour.
"Jesse …" Mark gasped.
The younger man ignored his mentor, instead fixing that steely gaze directly on his father. "What gives you the right …" he began, in a quiet, deadly voice, faltering for a moment as it broke on the last word. He inhaled deeply and tried again. "What gives you the right to decide things for me? How dare you?"
"Jesse …" Dane took a step toward him, wincing as his son took a step back in response. "Jess, look …"
"No, you look!" Jesse interrupted, angrily. "How dare you? How dare you do this? You have no right to keep things from me - not when they concern my life! I heard you …"
"How much did you hear?" interjected Mark, softly, flinching as that furious gaze was re-directed toward him. "Jesse, I'm sorry …"
The younger man's face softened slightly as he studied his mentor. "It's okay, Mark. I know you only had my best interests at heart and you were gonna tell me, right?" He received a mute nod and half-smiled. "Yeah," he went on, bleakly. "I know you wouldn't want to keep me in the dark. But you …"
"Now, look, Jess," Dane began as his son's attention returned to him, the smile fading as fast as it had appeared. "I just thought you had been through enough. You didn't need to know about this. Not until it was absolutely necessary."
"Oh?" The venom in the word stunned both men. "And when would that have been, huh? When I was about to die - 'horribly'?"
That told them just how much Jesse had heard and Mark found himself wishing that they'd conducted their conversation elsewhere - anywhere but there. He had wanted to tell Jesse what had been done to him and what he may expect, yes. But not this way. Not in such a stark and brutal fashion. His young friend should have been informed of the situation in a much better way - even though he couldn't, for the life in him, envisage a scenario where the news wouldn't devastate him.
"Jesse …"
"Don't," the young doctor held up a hand, stilling whatever his father had been about to say. "Just … just don't. I can't believe you, dad," he went on, thickly. "You're so big on us communicating, so damned keen to build some kind of bond between us and then the first chance you get you act like some kind of authoritarian. Well, you're several years too late! I did okay without you for all that time. I can do it again. I don't need you telling me what to do. In fact, I don't need you at all. Just … just leave me alone. I .. I can't deal with you right now."
With that, he turned abruptly away, stumbling back into the living area, but not before Mark had seen the treacherous gleam of tears. His young friend was hurting - badly. He had been kidnapped, terrorised and shot. He still had nightmares about his capture - although he was completely unaware that Mark knew about them. And, despite their attempts to bridge the chasm between them, made even wider by Rashid's impersonation of him, he and Dane were further apart than ever. Evidenced by his outburst, fuelled partly by anger and partly, Mark knew, by fear
And now this new burden had been placed upon those slender shoulders. It was too much to ask one person to endure.
With an apologetic glance at Dane, who was rigid with shock, his face drained of colour, Mark hurried after the younger man.
He found him slumped over on the sofa, his hands hanging loosely between his legs, blond head hanging down, looking the picture of dejection.
"Jesse?"
"I … I can't do it any more, Mark. I just … I can't."
The quiet, quivering confession tore at the older man's heart. Striving to maintain his own turmoil at what Jesse was going through, he settled himself on the couch beside him, just far enough away so he didn't feel crowded. "I'm sorry, Jess," he said, softly. "I wish you'd found out under different circumstances."
"What … what is it?"
Mark took a deep breath. "We don't know," he admitted. "Rashid contacted us yesterday. He was at the hospital. We think he posed as a male nurse. We're pretty sure that he killed the man he impersonated."
"Oh god …"
Mark forced himself to remain pragmatic - outwardly at least. Jesse was only just managing to hold it together. He wouldn't be able to cope with sympathy. Not right now. "It's not your fault, Jess," he went on, firmly. "The man is a murderer. He goes after what he wants regardless of who gets in the way."
"Oh man, I must've been standing still too long, then."
As a joke it fell dismally flat and Mark couldn't fail to detect the tremor in Jesse's voice as he uttered the bleak observation. He sighed, heavily.
"Mark?"
"Yes, Jesse."
The blond head lifted, blue eyes locking with his. "What's gonna happen to me?" he asked, in a small, scared voice.
Mark shook his head, sadly. "We're not sure, Jess," he replied. "It could be any number of things."
"Maybe … maybe you'd just better tell me what Rashid said."
The older man hesitated for a brief moment. On the one hand, he was reluctant to relate the details of the horrific symptoms, whilst on the other he acknowledged that it was only fair that Jesse should know what to expect. Taking a deep, sustaining breath, he began, outlining everything they knew about the effects of the toxin. By the time he was finished, Jesse's face was even paler than before - something Mark hadn't actually thought possible. "Jess?" he prompted, tentatively when, after several seconds, Jesse didn't say anything. "Talk to me."
"What d'you want me to say, Mark?" Jesse asked, quietly. "I … I guess I didn't get away from him after all, did I?"
"Jesse …"
"No, it's okay" he went on. "Man, he really hates my dad, doesn't he?"
"Yes," agreed Mark, heavily. "Yes, he does. And how about you, Jess? How do you feel about him?"
"What, Rashid or my dad?" Jesse shrugged helplessly. "I … I'm so mad with him - my dad. You know? He had no right to keep something like this from me. No right at all."
"He was trying to protect you, Jesse."
Blue eyes flashed with anger. "Well, it's a little late, don'tcha think?"
"Jess …"
"I … I'm sorry. I … didn't mean to yell at you."
Mark's throat constricted. His friend sounded so utterly lost. "Jesse, he loves you," he insisted. Then he frowned, thoughtfully. "Is that the only reason you're mad with him?"
The younger man sighed. Mark was too perceptive by far. "I … guess not," he admitted, reluctantly. "I guess … I resent being the target for something my dad did so long ago. I just … it's not fair, you know?"
The older man really couldn't disagree with that. "No, no, it isn't."
"So, what do we do now?" Jesse went on, gamely. "Where do we go from here?"
"Amanda and the technicians from Toxicology are trying to come up with an antidote," Mark replied.
"And how likely is it that they'll find one?"
"Not very."
"Right." Then, "Maybe … maybe they got it wrong?" the young man offered, hopefully. "Maybe she had the wrong blood or … it could have been contaminated at the hospital after … when did you take it anyway?"
Mark had been rather hoping this question wouldn't come up. "Um … when you were asleep yesterday," he admitted.
"You took it without my knowledge?"
The slight edge to his protégé's voice told Mark he'd better be very careful about how he proceeded in the next few minutes, or he might find himself on the receiving end of the same fury that had been directed at Dane. And Jesse needed them both too much in the coming hours for him to risk alienating the younger man. "I'm sorry, Jesse, it was wrong, I know that. But at that point we didn't know for sure that Rashid was lying or not. I didn't see much point in subjecting you to any more hardship until we were certain of our findings. You deserved an evening free from worry."
Jesse didn't respond to this straight away. He appreciated the concern, but he was upset that even Mark had not thought fit to consult him on the matter of his own health before taking such a big step. "I … okay," he said, a little uncertainly. "But …"
"I am sorry, Jess," Mark insisted, softly. "It was wrong of me."
"You already said that," the younger man reminded him, staring unseeingly at the fireplace.
"And I shall keep on saying it - until you forgive me."
Jesse heaved a huge sigh. Actually, he wasn't so much annoyed with his mentor as disappointed, and even that was fading as he remembered what a great evening it had been. He certainly wouldn't have had so much fun had he been aware of the threat that hung over him and it definitely explained the somewhat strained atmosphere that he had noticed, but attributed to the fact that everyone around him was still worried that Rashid would somehow get to him. It was somehow ironic that instead, his friends had been more concerned because the threat had already been carried out.
"Jesse, are you all right?"
Absurdly, he wanted to laugh at this seemingly innocuous question. "Yeah," he replied. "I'm just fine."
"No aches or pains anywhere?"
A chill ran the length of his spine as he realised the import of the question. "I … no. No, not yet."
He wished he hadn't asked for the details of what the toxin would do to him. Now he was just waiting for something to happen. He wondered whether it would be as bad as Mark had indicated or if he would escape the worst of the symptoms and how long it would last. A 72 hour time period wasn't long enough to find an antidote; on the other hand, it was too long to suffer from the terrible pain that had been predicted.
"I … maybe he was lying," he murmured. "Maybe that wasn't even my blood."
A warm hand landed on his arm and squeezed gently. "Jesse, Amanda never let it out of her sight from the moment she left here until she got to the lab. And then she watched the technicians like a hawk. But, if it will make you feel any … if it will convince you, then we can take another sample and I will take it personally and watch them test it." Mark was humouring him, he knew. He hated to be humoured. But he couldn't summon up the impetus to get irritated about it.
He nodded. "Okay."
"You want me to do it?"
Mark sounded surprised, as though he hadn't expected his suggestion to be taken seriously. Jesse looked up at him. "Why not?" he demanded, a little querulously. "What have I got to lose? I mean, if it really is contaminated by this toxin, then I'm gonna die anyway, right? And if it's not, then - hey, we'll know I'm right and Rashid was lying through his teeth."
Mark studied him for a long moment - long enough that Jesse began to feel like a bug under a microscope. It was a feeling he'd never experienced around his mentor before and he didn't like it.
"Quit staring at me," he grouched. "It's not like I'm gonna disappear in the next ten minutes."
"All right." Mark kept his tone neutral, not sure how to deal with his friend whilst he was in this strange mood. Then again, he suspected that Jesse's emotions were in such turmoil that he wasn't sure what to say or how to react to anything and anger was probably the best option right now. "I … er .. I'll go get my bag."
As he was about to rise, he felt a tug on his sleeve. A memory surfaced - of a happier time, when the only thing troubling his young friend had been whether the nice girl he liked had been lying to him. He glanced down, to find a face filled with remorse looking up at him.
"Mark, I'm sorry," Jesse whispered. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
The older man patted the hand that had such a firm grip on his shirt. "It's all right, my friend," he replied. "I understand, really. This is a lot to face. But - Jesse, we're going to face it together. You're not going to be alone. I promise you."
A forlorn half-smile appeared. "Yeah. I know."
"If you really want to do something to make amends though, you could make up with your dad," continued the wily doctor. "You're going to need him, Jesse. And he did only have your best interests at heart you know."
"I … I guess."
"So whilst I'm gone, you'll talk to him?"
Jesse heaved a sigh which seemed too big to come from his body. "Okay," he acquiesced. "But I can't promise anything."
Mark grinned at him. "Well, it's a start," he said. "Now, I'll just go get my bag and then we'll see about doing another test. Okay?"
"Okay."

Jesse wandered toward the kitchen after Mark had departed with another sample of blood and extracted a further promise that he would talk to his dad. However, once his mentor had left, the young doctor began having serious doubts about his ability to keep his word.
Still, he had never reneged on a promise - especially to Mark. He owed him so much - his career, his friends, even his life. Had Mark not solved the mystery of who had stolen the smallpox virus a few months before, Jesse would have been dead by now.
He shivered as he recollected how quickly it had debilitated him, overtaking his immune system and rendering him helpless beneath its deadly assault. He didn't remember much of the few days following. The antigen had apparently brought him back from the brink of death but his body had needed time to recover.
Mark had given him that time at the beach house, he remembered, with a sad smile. The older man had tended to him, nursing him back to health with a patience Jesse had only ever previously witnessed secondhand with his mentor's patients at Community General.
He didn't know what he would have done without his friends during that period. They had saved him from dying and then, once he was ambulatory, saved him from boredom. Steve had even let him watch his pay-per-view without expecting payment.
He had had good friends before - Rick Brooks had been his best buddy in college and they were still close - but none of them came close to what he had with Mark, Amanda and Steve. They were like a family - something he had been sadly lacking for too many years. And this family had welcomed him with open arms, making him feel safe and valued.
His real family, on the other hand, had been torn apart when his dad had upped and left. And despite what they had regained over the last few months since he had discovered Dane's true vocation, the deep, emotional attachment had yet to be re-established.
His dad loved him. He knew that. And, despite appearances to the contrary, he loved his dad. Still, there was a distance between them which he suspected might never be closed.
But Dane Travis hadn't deserved the animosity he had demonstrated earlier. He had been mean and spiteful and he deeply regretted the hurt it had caused - to both of them.
Squaring his shoulders, and trying his best to keep from thinking about the reason for Mark's absence, he stepped through the door, realising as he did so that he was no longer doing this for Mark. He was doing it for his father.

Dane was just putting his cellphone back in his jacket pocket when Jesse walked into the kitchen. The older man eyed his son warily and Jesse felt a wave of remorse run through him together with a little fear. Had he totally alienated his father?
"Jesse, I'm sorry."
"No, dad, I'm sorry."
The older man smiled thinly. "Forget it."
"No, I can't," said Jesse. "You didn't deserve what I said to you. You were only looking out for me. That's what fathers do for their sons. I may not have agreed with it, but I should have respected your reasons."
Dane raised an eyebrow. "Even if you don't like my methods?" he enquired, dryly.
Jesse nodded. "Even then."
A moment's silence fell. It was uncomfortable and oppressive. They both wanted to say so much, and yet, conversely, neither of them knew what to say next. It was Dane who finally broke it.
"Listen, Jess, I … I have to go."
Caught off-guard, the younger man could only stare at his father in stunned surprise. "What?"
"I … I have something I need to do," explained Dane, somewhat cryptically.
"Something more important than staying here with me and talking this through?" Jesse couldn't quite keep the rising bitterness from his voice.
Swallowing hard, Dane nodded. "I … I'll be back," he promised.
"When?"
"I .. I'm not sure." The agent moved forward, closing the gap between them physically if not emotionally. Reaching out, he placed a hand on his son's shoulder, grasping it tightly. "I'm not abandoning you, son," he said, thickly. "Not again."
"Promise?" Jesse heard the quiver in his own voice and immediately hated it.
"I promise."
With a another quick squeeze of the younger man's shoulder, the older man picked up his coat and walked past him, toward the door.
If Jesse had turned around he would have seen the way his father hesitated once he reached it, his eyes misting over as he studied the younger man. But he was too wrapped up in his own misery and therefore missed it.
By the time he did turn, Dane was gone.

Mark returned to the beach house a few hours later. He and Amanda had run through every conceivable test, checking and re-checking their results. Each time it was the same. Each time it told them, unequivocally, that Jesse's blood was laden with a substance that would eventually kill him.
He squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off an incipient headache borne of too many recent sleepless nights and worry, then quietly closed the door behind him and stepped into the living area.
Jesse was seated on the edge of the couch, his arms wrapped around his abdomen. He was rocking slowly backward and forward, his face tinged with a greenish hue. He looked ghastly.
Cursing under his breath, Mark hurried across the room toward him. "Jesse, what is it!" he demanded, urgently. "Are you sick?"
"No," came the strained response. It sounded as though he was speaking through gritted teeth. "I mean, yes. I mean … I don't know. I feel weird."
"Weird?" Mark echoed. His own heart was hammering in his chest at the implications of what he was seeing. "Weird as in what way?"
"I don't know," mumbled the younger man. "I just … oh god …"
Without warning, he doubled up in agony, the motion so sudden that he almost fell off the couch, only Mark's prompt thinking as he fell to his knees and grabbed him preventing him from doing so. Jesse's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his expression a mask of pain. A strangled sob broke free as the spasm ripped through him, practically cleaving him in two.
It seemed to last an eternity but in reality continued for only a few seconds. Mark clung onto him, completely unable to do anything to help, fear and anguish clutching at his heart.
It had begun.
At length, the agony receded, enough so that Jesse could breathe again, harsh, heavy gasps which seemed overloud in the quiet of the living room.
"Jess?"
The blond head had fallen forward to come to rest on the older man's shoulder, tousled hair obscuring his face from Mark's view. After a few seconds, however, Jesse moved slightly, cautiously leaning away from him. The sickly looking features were streaked with tears of pain, but he managed a watery smile as he met Mark's anxious gaze.
"I … I'm okay," he managed, roughly.
Mark knew that wasn't true. His friend was very far from 'okay'. This sudden attack signified the onset of the symptoms that Rashid had described in such gleeful detail. "Jesse, I …"
Raising a stilling hand, Jesse forestalled whatever it was his mentor was about to say. "It … it's okay, Mark. I … I'm okay now. Really."
The raspy quality of his voice hurt Mark's ears, but what distressed him more was Jesse's incessant need to pretend that everything was all right, to spare his friends from feeling bad about what was happening to him.
He had been the same way the last time he had been really sick.
The older doctor sighed heavily. "All right," he conceded. "If you're sure."
"'M' sure."
Reluctantly letting go of the younger man, Mark glanced around, suddenly realising that they were alone. "Where's your dad?" he asked.
Jesse managed a wobbly smile. "He … he left," he replied.
"What?" Mark couldn't believe it. He had left the two of them alone so they could resolve their differences and Dane had gone? "What happened?"
The slender shoulders lifted in a minute shrug. "He … he said he had to go," Jesse told him. "I .. I did apologise, Mark. Honest. I was trying so … so hard. I …" the unsteady voice trailed away and Mark felt a surge of anger toward the agent. How could he do this to Jesse? How could he just leave when he knew only too well what was going to happen?
He bit back the caustic comment that wanted to emerge, instead, going for reassurance. "I know you were, Jess," he said. "I'm sure he didn't want to go."
"Maybe he just didn't wanna stick around and see me get sick," came the subdued response. "He … he's not you, Mark. We .. we don't have the kind of relationship that you and Steve have."
Mark's heart broke at the inadvertent confession. He was pretty sure that Jesse hadn't intended to make his feelings quite so clear. The older man knew only too well how much his protégé looked up to him. Jesse would do practically anything for him and Mark had actually gone so far as to capitalise on that devotion once or twice, something he had felt a twinge of conscience about later but which had seemed right at the time.
Jesse, for all his independent nature and vibrant personality, had a deep seated need for love and affection; more, he had craved a father. That much had become evident during the time he had spent at the beach house just over a year before. Since arriving at Community General, Mark had increasingly fulfilled that role for him, even though the man himself had not been conscious of this for a lot of the time, only becoming aware of his elevated function in his young protégé's life in recent months. But Jesse had never before voiced so plainly the huge esteem in which he held his mentor and it sent a chill through Mark that he did so now. It meant his defences were down; weakened by what he had gone through at Rashid's hands and by the manifestation of the symptoms of the toxin.
But Dane did love his son. That much Mark knew. No-one could have simulated the kind of anguish that the agent had revealed when he had thought Jesse dead, or when they had received the call from Rashid. The man had been wracked with grief and fury at having the most precious thing in his life ripped away from him.
Mark would have felt the same way had Steve been the target of some madman out for revenge. Indeed, he did feel the same way and Jesse wasn't even his.
Just someone about whom he cared as much as if he was his own flesh and blood.
"Dane loves you, Jesse," he said, as he silently reflected all of this. "Never doubt that. If he's had to go somewhere then it's because he needs to do something to stop what's happening to you."
"How?" countered the young doctor, miserably. "What's he gonna do, Mark? He can't fight this with a gun or by going on some covert mission. And … and you can't either, can you? You … you didn't find a cure at the hospital?"
Mark shook his head. "No," he admitted. "No, I didn't. But that doesn't mean we're just going to give up, my friend. You know that, don't you?"
Jesse nodded, his face the picture of dejection. "Yeah," he said, on a long, drawn out sigh. "Yeah, I know."
Mark sighed. Jesse sounded so defeated - almost like he'd given up already. That wasn't like his young friend, but then, he was also a doctor. He knew the odds of survival for something like this must be very slim. He also knew, though, that none of them would give up trying - not until they absolutely had to.
"Don't give up hope, Jess," he pleaded. "You know that we're doing everything we can and we're not going to stop."
Jesse nodded. "I know," he whispered. "I know that, Mark. And - I appreciate it. Honest. But, be truthful, how much time do you think it will take to find an antidote from scratch? Rashid knew what he was doing. I have to face that. It was dumb to think that his whole speech to my dad had been a lie. I lived with the guy for three days. I know what he's capable of. I was just fooling myself."
A huge lump came into Mark's throat at the pragmatic words. Jesse then grinned at him lopsidedly and it was all he could do not to reach out and envelop the younger man in his arms, offering all the scant protection that action would afford. But he didn't. Instead he extended his hand towards the young doctor's brow, gentle fingers checking on his temperature.
As he feared, the skin was warmer than it should be, although not overly hot - yet. The unhealthy pallor had not abated in the slightest, however. In fact, it seemed slightly worse.
"I must look pretty bad for you to frown like that," Jesse observed a little wryly as Mark sat back.
"I'm not frowning," Mark countered. "I'm just exercising my facial muscles."
The young doctor snorted inelegantly. "Right."
"Look, Jesse, I just need to contact Steve," Mark went on. "Will you be … I mean, can I leave you alone for just a couple of minutes? I'm not going far."
The younger man shrugged. "Sure," he replied. "I … guess you don't want to me to hear your conversation, huh?"
Jesse had always been far too perceptive for his own good, mused Mark, grimly. "Yes," he admitted. "But I won't be long."
"Okay."

"Anything?"
Cinnamon glanced up from her computer as Dane stormed into her house. She bit back the retort she wanted to make about it being polite to knock first, and smiled instead. "Yes, a little," she replied. "I've located a couple of possibles and I have a call in to one of them. I'm waiting for them to get back to me. I'm still searching for others."
Dane didn't stop moving. Using the pale pink and blue oriental rug as a measure, he paced to and fro along its length, running his fingers nervously through his hair, before thrusting his hands into his pants pockets then extracting them again to run them through his hair once more.
"You know, I'm not going to get this done any faster if you wear a hole in that rug," she told him, dryly. "Why don't you get yourself a drink and sit down?"
"I can't," he replied. His tone was brusque, but she knew his rancour wasn't directed toward her. He was an impatient man - always had been. Being in the field had been an effort for him at first because of it. Learning to curb that character flaw had made him a better agent, teaching him the rigid control that had then become so much a part of his makeup - until he and his son had re-established contact once again.
From that first telephone call, Dane had started to change. Cinnamon had not truly appreciated the depth of love that her friend felt for his only child until that moment, although she had been aware of the pain it had caused him to leave his family - a subject that had always been out of bounds. Suddenly, there had been a light in his eyes that had never dwelt there before when speaking about his boy - something he had done more and more frequently. He would tell her how proud he was of Jesse, how thrilled he was with the career path the younger man had chosen and what it meant to him that his son had invited him back into his life again after so many years apart.
She didn't know the details of their estrangement. Dane had never divulged this particular information. But it had made her happy to see her friend - so jaded by past mistakes and the road down which his profession had so irrevocably taken him - come alive once more.
It had all almost ended, of course. Greg Kesslar's son coming after him through Jesse had scared the older Travis. It had triggered every protective instinct he had for his son, forcing him to subdue the younger man and practically kidnap him, secreting him at Cinnamon's home out of harm's way.
The resultant revelation by her friend to his son had almost ripped them apart again, but Jesse's shame at the way he had treated his dad and his own generous heart had done much to heal the rift between them.
And now Jesse was in danger again.
And this time the enemy was much smarter, much more dangerous. Much more determined.
"It will be okay," she tried to reassure him now, squinting as she concentrated on her computer screen. She was running an extensive search, and unfortunately, it was taking its own sweet time.
Time they didn't have.
Time Jesse didn't have.
"How can you say that?" he growled, from behind her, pausing a moment to look over her shoulder before grunting with frustration and resuming his frenetic movements. "He's dying, Cinnamon ! My god, I can't do anything to stop what he's going to go through! How could I have allowed it to come to this? How? When am I going to learn that it's better to stay away from him, to break off all contact?"
"And that will make you love him less?" she countered. "Dane, he's your son. Nothing is going to change that. Even had you stayed out of contact with him all these years, do you really believe that Rashid would have left him alone? You can't simply turn off your feelings for him. And that man knows that. He had a son …"
"You don't have to remind me of that!"
"I know," she went on, unperturbed by his terse interruption. "But he understands how it feels to have his only child taken from him. You may have been alienated from Jesse for years, but that doesn't mean that you don't harbour feelings for him. A father's love is something Rashid understands and he was always going to take advantage of that."
"I … I guess so," he floundered. "But … my god, Cinnamon , if I had tried a little harder to hide my connection with him …"
"He had a lot of technology at his disposal, Dane," she observed. "He would have found out. And the only difference in all of this would have been that the bad feelings between the two of you would not have allowed you to be there for him."
"And what use am I to him?" he demanded. "I'm not a doctor! I can't help him physically. I can only stand there and watch whilst he suffers and dies!"
Cinnamon sighed heavily. Despite his admittedly high intelligence level, she sometimes wondered if her partner had any common sense at all. "You can be there for him emotionally," she said, with infinite patience. "That's what he needs right now, Dane. He needs you as his father. He doesn't need a doctor - a doctor can't do anything, anyway. He doesn't need you there as agent Travis, either. He needs you there to be there for him. He needs a dad."
Her words struck home. Sudden and enormous guilt overwhelmed Dane. He had left Jesse. He had left his child when he most needed him. God, what had he been thinking?
"Cinnamon …"
Almost as though she knew what he was thinking - and it occurred to him that she very well might. After all, they had known each other for a very long time - Cinnamon only said one word to him. "Go."

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