Hostages by Cass

Part three

The young gunman replaced the receiver with a smile. The cop had thanked him! He'd done something right. He wasn't sure he cared for the superior tone of his voice, but hey, even that was okay. He didn't need them any more. He had his new friend. Everything was gonna be just fine now.
"Wish you'd wake up, Jesse," he mused to his unconscious companion. "It's lonely, ya know?" He smiled, suddenly. "But, hey, if you're not gonna talk, then I'll do it for the both of us. You can jus' nod or somethin' till I'm ready for you to join in and then you can tell me all about your mom. Bet she worked real hard, huh, Jesse? Yeah, bet she did. An' you helped her, right? Right - you're that kinda person. I can tell. Yeah, me too. I helped. Did everythin'I could. Got me a job when I was real young, helped the only way I knew how. Wasn't enough, though, man, ya know? Never had any money. Never had anything new. Had to go to goodwill - wear other's hand-me-downs. She just … stopped trying after my sister … well, ya know. Christmas was the worst. That's when she blew her brains out, Christmas Day, did I tell ya that? Yeah. Always remember the colours of Christmas, ya know? Green for the Christmas tree, gold for the tinsel and red - all over the bathroom walls and the tub. We never celebrated after that - well, didn't seem much point, somehow. No present, no turkey - just my mom drinkin' her way through more bourbon or whatever the hell she could find. She drank so much she never food shopped any more. Used to forget. Most times, had to do it myself when I could find the food stamps …"

Whilst Kyle was recounting the tragic tale of his short life to an oblivious Jesse, Amanda watched the surgeons attempt to save Mark's life. She stood alone in the observer's gallery, arms wrapped tightly around herself, trying desperately to hold back the omnipresent tears. Her gaze was riveted, not on the procedure itself, but on the beloved features of her dear friend. She could scarcely believe that all this was happening - had happened. She had spoken with Mark not a few hours before. He had called her from the bookstore, telling her that he was just picking up a book he had been waiting for. The shooting must have happened shortly after they had said their 'goodbyes'. Now he was fighting for his life, his features lax and still, almost completely obscured by the oxygen mask which was feeding life-giving air into his labouring lungs. The anaesthetist was monitoring him carefully, his gaze switching between the readings on the machines, the airflow and Mark himself.
The usual camaraderie between the operating surgeons was missing. In its stead was a strange, strained silence, punctuated only by the bleeps and clicks of the various equipment. The only words to be spoken were the occasional commands for surgical instruments, each one followed by a tension that was palpable.
The young pathologist was praying silently, holding her breath as each incision was made, only to release it as the surgeons carefully cut into Mark's ruined body, in their search for the bullet.
"How's his BP and pulse?" demanded one of them.
"He's doing okay," replied the anaesthetist. "Just don't hang around when you're in there. I don't want to keep him under for any longer than is necessary."
Amanda could feel her heart hammering in her chest. She was sure that it was beating so loud that it could be heard by the team in the OR. But they were concentrating too hard on their patient - their colleague. She admired their detachment. She wished she could feel the same but this was a man who was practically her second father; one of her dearest friends - and the prospect of losing him was all too real and chipped away constantly at her fast fading reserve.
An alarm sounded and Amanda suddenly lost the ability to breathe. Slapping her palms against the plexiglass observation window, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the events below her. Voices were abruptly issuing orders that she couldn't hear and there was frantic activity in the vicinity of Mark's chest. She couldn't see properly. Her breath was clouding up the glass and her vision was blurring. She could visualise what was going on, though and she had to fight down rising hysteria. "No, Mark!" she screamed, silently. "No, don't! God, please!"
A sob burst out of her, and she jammed a fist against her mouth, trying to still the ones that naturally followed. All the strength drained from her as the surgeons fought to hold on to the dying man, and an eternity seemed to pass in the space of a few moments.
Then it was over.
The lead surgeon - she couldn't even remember his name - stepped back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He glanced upward and slowly raised his hand, thump pointing upward.
The incipient hysteria turned to a bubble of relieved laughter, then she was crying in earnest, covering her face with her hands as she sank down below the glass.
He was alive!
Mark was alive!

" … and then she died. Now there's just me. S'better that way. Don't have no-one who relies on me to get them their next meal. Don't have to wander round the apartment searchin' for booze so I can throw it out … she hated that I did that, ya know? Tried to stab me once - with a pair of scissors she had handy. Came at me. Got a great scar along my ribs. Wanna see? Nah, course ya don't. You're a doctor. Ain't nothin' gonna faze you. I just wish she coulda seen what she was doin' to herself, ya know? She was real pretty once, Jesse. Real pretty. My sister get her looks from my mom - till she had them taken away by those guys. Never found 'em, ya know? They got away with what they did. They killed my sister and they took my mom away from me too. But I'm better alone. I just wish …"
Kyle's voice trailed away as his memories overwhelmed him. He had been talking non stop for almost two hours, recounting all the important events in his life, with a few asides about the rare happy times his family had spent before everything had fallen apart. Now he lapsed into silent deliberation, completely unaware that his captive had regained consciousness a little a while before and had spent the last forty minutes listening with growing horror and distress to his captor's appalling tale.
It had nearly broken Jesse's heart to hear how Kyle had struggled to try to make ends meet whilst his mom, completely destroyed by the suicide of her only daughter - a child upon whom she had obviously doted - found solace in the bottom of one whisky bottle after another. He attempted to picture the young child Kyle must have been - he wasn't exactly very old now - trying desperately to care for his mom, hold down some kind of job and do everything his mom should have been doing; and all the while he was prowling the apartment looking for her alcohol so that he could dispose of it, in the futile hope that she wouldn't just go right out and replace what he had discarded.
The young doctor may have had it tough - with one parent deserting him for another family and the other neglecting him in favour of her career, but at least he had never wondered where his next meal had been coming from. Their freezer had always been well stocked, although he had existed solely on sandwiches for a while until he had begun experimenting with food and preparing nicer, more nutritional meals. His mom had never complained about them on the rare occasions she had arrived home before he had gone to bed. She hadn't exactly praised him for his culinary skills, but she had never turned them down and she was pretty selective about what she ate.
He had never wanted for clothes or gadgets either. His mom had given him a healthy allowance, her only proviso being to spend it wisely - and he had. He had bought only the best and sturdiest clothes - things that would last a long time. It wasn't like he was going to grow much, he had reasoned. He had always been small for his age. It was another reason he had ensured that everything was made to last. It had to survive the occasional rough treatment when he was unable to stay out of the way of the various bullies through his school career.
Christmas had never been much fun in their house either. At least he and Kyle had that in common - together with wayward dads. Oh sure, his mom had always ensured that there was a huge tree and it had been extravagantly and tastefully dressed with huge garlands of tinsel and matching baubles, the whole effect completed by extensive strings of lights.
Jesse had loved sitting by the tree at night, when the entire house was darkened and he could watch the little tiny lanterns twinkle their rainbow hues, making the huge living room look smaller and more intimate and even a little like a fairy grotto.
The huge mound of presents beneath the tree had always been a source of tremendous excitement and an enthusiastic young Jesse and his parents had spent entire Christmas day mornings tearing wrappings off and exclaiming with delight and surprise over what they had received. It had been his favourite holiday - until his dad left. That was the day Christmas shut up shop at his home. The tree had been some kind of symbol to lost hope and fading dreams. The spirit of Christmas had died, leaving just a memory in her wake. The large, gaily coloured boxes beneath the tree in those years afterwards were opened alone; his mom deciding that the holiday season was best spent alone on world cruise after cruise. Jesse had become accustomed to spending the most thrilling day of the year in the company of a maid and a nanny. They had tried their best, he knew, but they couldn't compensate for the loss of the two people he loved most in the world.
He had been lucky to get a card from his dad. It was as if he had completely forgotten about his son and the relationship the two of them had shared. It had hurt the young Jesse deeply, as had his mom's absences, but, he reasoned, he had had a beautiful home; he had never gone hungry; he had dressed well and he had never wanted for anything - except maybe a goodnight kiss from a loving parent or a familiar face in the crowd at the school plays or sports events.
He didn't really think Kyle would equate his depressing life to Jesse's comfortable existence. He wasn't really sure what he was supposed to say. He knew he couldn't tell the young man the truth. It would only alienate him and make him even more aware of the things he hadn't had.
Jesse hated that Kyle had experienced such terrible heartache and such hardship. He desperately wanted to do something for him; give him a glimmer of hope for the future. But how could he? He was ill equipped to deal with the other man's misery when he had known so much of his own.
Still, he had to try …
"Kyle … " he said, hoarsely. "Kyle, I'm so sorry."
The young man didn't seem to hear him. Jesse tried again. "Kyle? Kyle?"
Slowly, the gunman's eyes cleared and life and intelligence returned. He beamed at Jesse as he became aware that the young doctor had awakened. "Hey, Jesse," he greeted him, jovially. "Thought you was gonna sleep for ever, man."
Jesse didn't quite know what to say to that, considering the blows from Kyle were the reason he kept losing consciousness. He wondered how long he had been out, and how long Kyle had been talking before his voice faded away. He tried to lift his arm to look at his watch but his vision was too blurred and he couldn't make out the figures on the watch face. "Wha … what time is it?" he slurred.
Kyle squinted at him through the dim light that was coming in through the blinds. "Late, I guess," he replied, casually. "Hey, you hungry? I should send out for more food, ya think? And we could have ice cream too, or … d'ya like apple pie? I bet ya do. My mom used to make it before - well, you know."
"I know," said Jesse, softly. "'M'sorry, Kyle."
He shrugged, indifferently. "Hey, tha's okay. You got your own story, dontcha? Why dontcha tell me - and I'll get a hold of that cop - Steve. He can get us somethin' else to eat. Hey, this is fun, ain't it? It's like - us two guys, hangin' out together, shootin' the breeze. I'm real glad you're here, Jess."
Jesse tried to smile. His face seemed frozen. "Yeah," he managed, through cracked lips. "Me too, Kyle. Me too."

Steve had taken to pacing the confines of the communications truck. It was wearing on the nerves of the other three occupants, one of whom in particular was about ready to strangle him.
"What the hell are they doing in there?" he demanded, querulously, for the fiftieth time in as many minutes, ceasing his restless movements to stop and glare at the bookstore. "Why the hell doesn't he answer the phone?"
Tanis sighed dramatically. "I have no idea, Steve," she said, tiredly. It was a response that had become automatic and, indeed, almost entirely unnecessary, as her partner ignored her and re-commenced pacing.
Tanis had had enough. In one fluid movement, and before he knew what was happening, she had risen from her seat beside the two tech guys and had practically pinned Steve to the side of the vehicle. "Steve, stop it!" she ground out. "You're driving everyone - including me, crazy!"
He glared down at her, breathing hard, his eyes flashing fire. Unperturbed, she met his glower head on. He might have the height and weight advantage over her, but she was wiry and a lot more volatile and her anger was not a pretty sight to behold. He had seen her in action against recalcitrant perps. They hadn't stood a chance against her. One of them had even begged them to take her away. He had made a full statement after that. Steve had been mightily impressed - and not a little intimidated. If she was of a mind to, she could probably take him.
Reluctantly, he subsided, sagging against the restraining, vice-like grip she had on his arms. "Okay, okay," he conceded. "I'm sorry. I just … I can't reach anyone in there, Tanis. Anything could be happening!"
"I know that," she said, not relinquishing her hold on him just yet. She could feel the infinitesimal tremors vibrating through his muscular form. He was, literally, shaking with tension. "Steve, if he was gonna kill Travis, don't you think we would have heard the shot by now?"
"There's more ways to kill a man than with a gun," he reminded her, darkly. "Besides, Jesse was hurt - is hurt," he amended. "How do we know that Kyle hasn't already done irreparable damage? He could be lying there, bleeding to death internally and we can't even find out because the damned kid won't answer the damned phone!"
He was becoming agitated again. But she had to admit that he had a valid point. They had managed to procure a heat sensor - although where he had found the authority for that, she had absolutely no clue. Its readings had been both inconclusive and not at all reassuring. One figure lay sprawled motionless on the floor behind the counter - Jesse, they had guessed. The other - Kyle - sat beside him, barely moving except to toy with whatever he had in his hands - probably the gun. Heat radiated from both bodies so they knew that Jesse was still alive. However, no-one could tell them how much longer he was going to remain that way.
It would be so easy, she knew, for Steve to order the sharpshooters to take out the seated figure. But despite the fact that the kid had shot Steve's father and had seriously injured his friend and despite his obvious desire to exact his revenge for them both, she knew her partner well enough to know that if he could find some way to resolve this without bloodshed - even if that blood was Kyle's - he would go for that option every time. It was the kind of cop he was. The kind of man he was. Putting aside his personal feelings in order to do the job the right way was a measure of his high moral code and she couldn't help but admire him for it.
So, they were playing the waiting game and, unfortunately, 'waiting' was one thing Steve did not do well, particularly when it involved those he cared about. It was a testament to his strength of character that he had held out this long without snapping completely. But he was as taut as a bow, ready to break at any moment.
Slowly, her hands released him and he cast her a grateful half smile as he calmed down somewhat, her temporising presence having more of an effect than any words. She shrugged mutely and returned the smile with one of her own.
Then without warning, his cellphone rang.

"Come on, come on!" Amanda tapped her foot impatiently on the floor as she listened to the interminable ringing on the other end of the phone. She had made her way out of the OR after Mark's procedure had been completed and had spoken briefly to the surgeon in charge, Dr Bannister. Now she was keeping the promise she had made so many hours ago to the detective.
If only he would answer his damned phone!
"Sloan!" came the gruff voice suddenly.
"Steve!" she exclaimed. "Steve, Mark's going to be all right!"
The joy and incredulity on the other end were palpable. "He's gonna be okay?" he echoed. "You're sure, Amanda?"
"Yes!" She was smiling broadly. She couldn't help it. She still felt a little giddy and light-headed from the utter relief of knowing that her dear friend was going to make it. "He was very lucky, Steve. The bullet entered his right lung and lodged itself there. His lung collapsed and there was internal bleeding. He had a pneumothorax, but that was treated using a tube thoracostomy."
"A what? Speak English, Amanda!" demanded Steve.
She recognised the impatience in his voice. Despite being a surgeon's son, he had never mastered the art of 'doctor speak'. He preferred to let it go over his head and force the doctors to speak to him in terms he could understand. "He had free air in the chest outside the lung," she explained. "There was also internal bleeding. Normally, they'd simply perform a procedure in the ER to drain the air and to re-inflate the lung if it had collapsed, but because of the amount of time Mark had been at the scene, and the risk posed by the bullet and the fact that they couldn't account for all the blood, they took him to OR. It wasn't a lengthy procedure - just a couple of hours …"
"But they took him away this afternoon!" objected Steve. "It's …" he looked at his watch. "It's 7'0'clock now! What have they been doing all this time?"
"They had to stabilise him in the ER first, Steve," she told him, evenly, omitting the part about the cardiac arrest. It wasn't something she thought he needed to know - not right now, anyway. "But he's going to be all right now. I spoke to the surgeon and he expects Mark to make a full recovery. In fact, he woke up in recovery."
"Did you see him?"
"No. But I'm going along to his room once he's moved there. I'd like him to see a friendly face when he wakes up."
Steve's elation at the news that his father was going to recover without complications was tempered by the knowledge that he couldn't be there with him, couldn't be there when he woke up. He would have given anything to be in Amanda's shoes at that moment, but he was stuck here, powerless to do anything but wait. He wanted more than anything to resolve this situation - not only because he wanted to see his father - to ensure for himself that the older man was going to be all right - but also because he wanted Jesse the hell out of there. One of Kyle's victims might be all right. He knew damned well the other one wasn't.
"Steve? Steve? Are you there?"
Amanda's alarmed voice cut into his gloomy contemplation and he heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Amanda," he apologised. "It's just … I'd like to be there, you know? When he wakes up?"
"I know," she replied, softly. "Steve, he knows you're needed there right now. He won't begrudge you being elsewhere."
"No, but I do!" he mused, silently. "I just …"
"I know, you want to be here," she interjected, only too well aware of his dilemma. "But Jesse needs you, Steve. And your presence there is very important right now. I'll give your dad your love. And I'll tell him you're doing your very best to resolve things so you can get to him."
He smiled sadly. "Yeah, you do that, Amanda," he said. "Look, I have to go. Kyle might be trying to get through and … I don't want to do anything to piss him off."
"Like be on the phone when he's trying to reach you," she guessed. "Okay, Steve and - take care, all right? Oh, and Steve?"
"Yeah?"
"Tell Jesse we're thinking of him. Okay?"
"Yeah."

"Looks like food is out," mused Kyle as he abandoned the call. It was the fifth time he had tried the cellphone number in as many minutes. It had been constantly busy. He resisted the urge to toss the instrument across the room, instead placing it on the floor next to him. Eyeing Jesse critically, he frowned. "Hey, you don't look good, man. You're all pale and stuff."
Jesse stared at him through slitted eyes. Had he been capable of it, he would have asked just how Kyle expected him to look after he'd practically caved his head in. But he just didn't have the energy, nor the motivation. Instead, he settled for uttering a quiet moan.
Kyle bent over him, peering at him intently, his frown deepening. "You're probably just hungry," he diagnosed. "Ya didn't have anythin' earlier, didya? Well, don't worry, Jesse, I'm on it. I'll try that cop friend of yours again. I'll get us somethin' to eat. Ya probably need a drink too, huh? I'm gonna look after ya - you don't need to worry now. Okay?"
If he expected an answer he was sorely disappointed, as Jesse merely continued to stare at him through drooping eyelids. No sound issued from his mouth apart from the occasional soft whimper and he didn't move.
Shaking his head in concern, Kyle picked up the phone again, leaning back against the counter as he punched in the code for Steve's cell. To his surprise and delight, it started to ring and a moment later he was greeted by the now familiar, if rather curt voice of the detective.
"Sloan! Kyle, is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me," he verified. "Hey, listen, Mr policeman, we need some more food."
"Food?" echoed Steve incredulously. "You want food?"
"That's what I just said, yeah. Jesse's real hungry - he didn't have any pizza. Maybe we should get somethin' else. Maybe he doesn't like pizza. And send over some sodas. He's thirsty. Oh, and maybe some ice cream. I'll bet he likes ice cream. Is that right, Jesse? D'ya like ice cream? Yeah - he likes ice cream," he went on, without even waiting for a response, which Jesse was by now incapable of making anyway.
"You … you want ice cream," stated Steve, flatly.
"Yeah, and - hey maybe we can have a Mexican or somethin'? Maybe Jesse likes Mexican? Some tacos or chilli dogs .. but make it fast, man, cos we're starvin' in here."
'Starving,' Steve reflected, bemusedly. 'Yeah, Jesse is always starving' But not this time. Not according to what Kyle had told him. And that sent alarm bells ringing. For as long as he had known the younger man - which was admittedly only a couple of years - Jesse's capacity for eating had been something of a standing joke. He could eat anything, anywhere at any time. It didn't even seem to matter if the food was on someone else's plate at the time - or in someone else's larder. When he visited the beach house - which was frequently - he made an instant beeline for the fridge. He never even asked any more, just helped himself to whatever was in there. Steve had lost count of the number of times he had allowed his young friend on a stakeout with him and had had his doughnut pilfered from right under his nose. Not to mention his coffee and anything else that was going.
He had often wondered how Jesse managed to put away so much food and remain so trim and small when by rights he should have been the size of a house - or a small island. Amanda had joked that he probably had hollow legs. Mark had commented that he probably burned it off. Certainly he couldn't seem to stay still from one minute to the other. He was a real livewire - with an appetite to match.
So the fact that he hadn't even tried to partake of the pizza - especially as Kyle had made a point of asking for it for both of them - was not only alarming. It was truly terrifying. He couldn't think of anything that would prevent his friend from eating under any circumstance, especially for so many hours - unless he were physically incapable of doing so.
Steve strove to contain his rising feelings of panic and inject a flippancy into his voice which he certainly didn't feel when he spoke again. "Kyle … is Jesse … can I talk to him?"
"Nah," came the offhand response. "He's lyin' down right now. He's real tired. But he'll be okay once we get some food, man."
'Lying down'. Well, that tallies with what we've seen on the heat sensors. "Kyle, is he … is he all right?" He couldn't believe he was asking this. He wouldn't get a straight answer from the kid. He seemed to be under the impression that this was some kind of a game. Steve didn't understand him at all. His behaviour was so wildly erratic, going from terrified to hostile to indifferent. His current cavalier attitude was possibly even more chilling than his earlier antagonism had been. At least that had been easier to predict and simple to understand. Now - now Steve didn't know what to say for the best. He didn't know where the kid's mind was at. It was driving him nuts.
"He's okay," came the easy response. "Well, maybe not okay. He's real quiet. But maybe he's a quiet kinda guy, huh? Yeah, that would explain it. You quiet, Jesse? Jesse? Yeah … he's quiet."
'Quiet' Another description that didn't fit Jesse. If there was something Jesse was not, it was 'quiet'. He radiated warmth and high spirits and the room always lit up when he entered. His natural vitality had endeared him to all - even Norman Briggs, not exactly famous for his jocular nature. Like Norman, though, although in a slightly different way, Jesse could chatter non stop for hours given half the opportunity and the right subject. No, 'quiet' was definitely not a true depiction of his young friend and it was further evidence - as if Steve needed any - that Jesse was in serious trouble.
And now the knot in his stomach was back, and it was tightening with every word out of Kyle's mouth.
"Kyle …"
"So, when are ya gonna bring us the food?" demanded the kid. There was a whining quality in his voice which was reminiscent of Jesse on occasion and Steve's heart twisted in his chest as he was reminded of happier times.
"I'll … get right on it, Kyle," he promised. "But … when are you two going to come out of there?"
"Come out?" Kyle sounded perplexed by the question, as though the thought had not even occurred to him. "We're havin' a good time, aren't we, Jesse? Yeah … no, we're havin' a real good time, Mr policeman. We just want some food."
"But, Kyle, you can't stay there all night," protested Steve, careful to keep his tone even and calm, despite the emotions churning around inside him. "The store has to open again sometime. You can't just stay there."
"Why not?"
The genuinely bewildered question stunned Steve. Surely Kyle wasn't so far out of it that he had lost his grip on reality? It was certainly beginning to look that way. "Because that's someone's business, Kyle," he pointed out. "It's someone's living. You can't just shut yourself away in there forever."
"But I have," Kyle stated. "We'll be okay here."
"No, you won't," disagreed the detective. "And what are you going to do about food and drink? Jesse has a job, Kyle. He needs to get back to it."
"You guys can bring us the food," came the response. "An' Jesse? He don't want to go back to work. He ain't doin' so good."
The knot tightened even further. "Kyle, please let me speak to him," Steve begged. "I'll get you the food and the ice cream - everything you've asked for, if you'll let me speak to Jesse."
He was back in negotiator mode again, only this time the stakes were far more personal. He wasn't asking Kyle to give up his hostage. He just wanted to talk to his friend; he wanted to try to rid himself of the knot that was twisting his insides.
"Um …. " Kyle appeared to be considering his request. Steve held his breath. "Yeah - okay. Only, he don't look to be talkin' too much. Jus' wait."
Steve complied. His heart started pounding in his chest and every second seemed like an hour as it passed and silence reigned.
Finally, just when he thought he was going to explode with the strain, a weak, strained voice spoke his name. "St … Steve …"
"Jesse?" he exclaimed. "Jess, what's … how are you?"
Stupid question. He could tell how his friend was by the quality of his speech. It was slurred and feeble and barely audible. He wanted to retract the words, but he couldn't. So he waited again, whilst Jesse formulated some kind of response.
"Uh … Steve …"
"Jesse?" The detective had gone way past alarm and straight into terror at his friend's apparent inability to answer him. Jesse didn't even seem truly aware of who he was talking to. It was almost as though he were delirious, Steve's name merely an invocation against the evils perpetrated on him by his captor. The urge to storm in there and get Jesse the hell out was almost overpowering. He literally had to clamp down on his feelings, one hand gripping the edge of the instrument panel at which he was seated so he didn't simply leap off his chair and charge toward the store, gun drawn. "Jesse, can you hear me, pal?" he demanded. "Can you understand me? Jesse?"
"S … Steve …."
Jesse's voice trailed away and there was a distinct 'thump' - almost like a body hitting the floor. The terror became a living thing, oozing out of him, filling the truck with its energy. "Jesse!" he roared, oblivious to the alarmed expressions on the faces of his three companions. "Jesse, for god's sake, talk to me! Jesse!"
"He's sleepin'."
Kyle's voice and his words did absolutely nothing to reassure Steve. His face was dark with fury, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back his emotions. "Kyle, so help me …"
"So, you gonna get us some food, Mr detective?" asked the kid, calmly. "We're real hungry."
"I … I …" Steve could barely speak through the seething rage that was consuming him. He increased his grip on the edge of the instrument panel, watching absently as his knuckles started turning a ghastly shade of white. "I … Kyle … I …"
"Hey, maybe if you don't' wanna do it, you could ask someone else?" suggested Kyle, reasonably. "Makes no difference to me who brings it."
'Who brings it.' The idea that suddenly occurred to Steve was so simple it was ingenious. "NO, no, I'll bring it," he said, hurriedly. "Kyle, maybe in return for all you're asking for - maybe I could actually bring the food inside to you."
"No!" The response was instantaneous and definitive.
"You could search me," Steve offered. "Make sure I wasn't carrying. I just - I just want to bring it inside, see how you guys are doing."
"We're doin' just fine!" argued the young man.
"Kyle, please. I'm not asking much here. I'm going to go get your food personally, and your ice cream and sodas. I just want to deliver them personally. It seems only fair. We've been talking on the phone - what harm will it be if I come inside and we spoke face to face?"
In his peripheral vision, he could see Tanis shaking her head emphatically as she listened in growing horror to his words. But he had to do this. He had no choice. No choice at all. If necessary, he would exchange himself in return for his friend. He had no doubt that Kyle would refuse him - in the few hours they had been in there, he had grown attached to Jesse for reasons best known to himself. But he had to do something. He simply couldn't sit here any longer, waiting, worrying and watching in helpless impotence whilst his friend died - as he had convinced himself was happening. The head wounds Jesse had sustained were obviously far more serious than any of them had believed. His fertile imagination was supplying all kinds of scenarios - from bleeding inside the brain to a full-blown brain injury. He had to see for himself - and try to get Jesse released in the process.
It was the right thing to do.

Kyle frowned as he digested Steve's words. He couldn't really see what harm it could do to let the guy in. He seemed okay - for a cop - although he didn't trust him. He hadn't trusted cops or, indeed, anyone in authority since the day of his sister's brutal attack. They hadn't shown much sympathy for her - indeed, one of the investigating officers had intimated that she had deserved the vicious beating and rape. The female cop had seemed more sympathetic but he had been glad when they had left the family to get on with their lives - such as they were.
The DA's office had never prosecuted anyone because no-one had ever been brought to book for the crime. He was pretty sure that the cops had brushed it aside as not worth dealing with, despite the fact that the female cop had been back a couple of times afterward, to try to obtain some more information from his severely traumatised sister. She had smiled sadly at him when she had left the last time, but he hadn't felt much like smiling in return.
The authorities hadn't done much to help when his sister had blown her brains out later, nor had they seemed to care much when his mom had finally drunk herself to death. The doctor who had treated her had been kind enough but he had had to admit that he couldn't do anything for her and had tried to explain how she didn't qualify for another liver when her own was shot to hell.
Jesse was a doctor too, Kyle knew that. Still, he was different. He'd had a rotten life, too. They had that in common. True, he didn't know much about Jesse's mom or how they had managed after his dad had left them, but he could make an educated guess. They both had scars - one victim always recognised another, he had been told by the counsellor they had referred him to after his sister's death. He had not been back to see that woman since. She had wanted him to talk about things that he didn't feel like talking about and had been shocked at the profanities he had used when she had tried to force the words out of him.
Truth be told, offending her had given him a secret thrill. It was only a minor payback for all that his family had suffered, but it had been a start.
And now here was another form of payback - making the cops do his bidding. He considered the detective's plea. He had sounded desperate. He liked that. He liked the fact that he held some sway over this man's life - that he could determine if he was happy or not.
And that was when he made his decision.
"Sure," he said, at last. "Sure, okay. But, you don't try anythin', ya hear? I'm only doin' this because you're Jesse's friend. Okay?"

"You can't do this, Steve!" Tanis protested as Steve made to step out of the truck.
"Sure I can," he responded, tightly, reaching under his jacket to his shoulder holster and removing his gun. "Here, hold on to this for me, willya?"
She took it automatically, following him as he clambered out and started to walk toward the bookstore. "Steve, this is crazy! You don't know what's going to happen once you get in there! What if he takes you hostage too?"
"Then you can take over the negotiations. At least I'll be with my friend."
Appalled at his seeming cavalier attitude toward his own welfare, she stepped in front of him, moving backwards as he continued to stride forward. He was obviously completely out of his mind. It was her job to reign him in, make him see sense, stop him. "Steve …"
He stopped - so suddenly that she had scurried backward a few steps before she even realised. Then he grabbed her by her forearms. His expression was intense, his deep blue eyes even more so as they bored into her. "Tanis, I'm doing this," he ground out. "I don't care what you - or anyone else says. They can have my damned badge if they want. I don't much care. I have to do this. Okay? I can't just leave Jesse in there whilst Kyle makes up his mind whether he wants to be a hostage taker or some kid out with his buddy. I don't know what's going on in this kid's mind, Tanis. I think he's lost touch with reality and that makes him doubly dangerous. I can't predict what he's gonna do next. For all I know he's gonna shoot Jesse because he doesn't like his food or something. I can't take that chance."
"And equally, he might shoot you!" she pointed out, angrily. "Steve, please …"
"Look, as soon as the guys bring the food from round the corner at the Mexican, I'm going in there," he said. "And nothing and no-one is gonna stop me."
"You wanna bet?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Tanis, I'm warning you. Don't get in the middle of this with me. You don't wanna do that."
"Look, Steve, I know you're worried about your friend. I understand that. But …"
"No!" He cut her off in mid sentence. "No, you don't understand. This guy shot my dad. He's hurt Jesse - maybe seriously. No - scratch that - definitely seriously. You heard his voice, did he sound well to you?"
"Well, no, but …"
"And that's why I have to go in there. I need to check him out. I need to find out if he's even still alive."
"And if he's not?" she challenged him. "What then?"
He smiled grimly. "Then I signal you guys and you let him have it."
Her eyes widened. "You're not serious? I thought you weren't going to hurt him?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
"I …"
He heaved a heavy sigh, rubbing a weary hand over his face. He was exhausted - mentally, physically and emotionally. All he wanted was an end to this. He didn't much care any more about how he went about it. "Tanis … look, maybe I don't want that. Maybe I wouldn't give that signal. I'm tired, I'm cranky, I need to be with my dad and I'm worried as hell about my friend. Give me a break here, okay?"
"Lieutenant!"
The yell from the side street distracted both of them. One of the uniformed cops was approaching them with a large brown bag. They could clearly see the steam rising out of the top of it.
"This the food?" demanded Steve as the cop reached them, proffering the bag to him.
"Yeah," replied the other man.
"Good." The detective breathed deeply and squared his shoulders.
Tanis tried one last ditch attempt to stop him. "Steve, please …"
"Just … be ready for whatever happens," he told her, in a strained voice. "And - thanks."
With that, he continued on his way, leaving his partner watching helplessly as he walked into who knew what.

"Kyle? Kyle, I have the food here. I'm coming in. Okay? I'm unarmed. Look." Pushing aside his jacket with one hand, Steve revealed his empty holster, his other hand clasped firmly around the food bag. He was standing about two feet away from the door. There was no movement from inside and he felt a shiver run the length of his spine.
He could be walking into a trap.
Kyle could be preparing to shoot him as he entered the building.
But he had made his choice.
He couldn't - and wouldn't - back out now.
He could feel the disapproving eyes of every cop in the vicinity on his back as he stepped forward. He knew that this was against all the rules of hostage negotiation, but then, Kyle seemed to have forgotten that he was a hostage-taker. Any and all rules, therefore, had become moot.
He should be trembling with fear. Instead, adrenalin was coursing through his body, lending him strength and resolve.
With no sound from within the store - of either a negative or an affirmative, he took another step forward, half expecting a bullet to come crashing through the glass and ploughing into his torso at any moment.
Nothing happened.
Another step …
And another …
He pushed the handle and opened the door.
The next instant he was inside.
The store was dimly lit from the outside, the spotlights creating lengthy shadows, creating an eerie mood which did nothing to assuage the tension knotting his shoulders.
"Kyle?" he called out. "Kyle, the food's here."
"Jus' … put it on the counter, Mr detective," came a disembodied voice from somewhere in the direction of the counter.
He complied - carefully, not wishing to unduly alarm the kid. As soon as the bag had been safely laid down, he raised his hands, palms outward, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
Then a slight movement from behind the darkened counter caught his attention and he squinted through the semi-light, in an attempt to determine what was happening.
A shadowy figure rose and Steve could clearly see the glint of metal in his hands.
A gun.
It was aimed directly at his chest.
"Kyle," he temporised. "Kyle, I'm not here to harm you. I just wanted to bring the food and see Jesse. Okay?"
The young man stood motionless for a moment, then he nodded his head and lowered his weapon. "Okay," he agreed. "But you don't get none of this, ya know, not unless you brought enough for three."
To be honest, Steve hadn't even considered that. He smiled humourlessly, although he was aware that Kyle probably couldn't see the expression in the gloom. "I'm not hungry," he lied. "I just … I came to bring you the food and see Jesse, Kyle. Nothing else."
That seemed to appease the kid. "Okay," he said. "He's here. He's asleep right now. Tired, ya know?"
Steve swallowed hard. He didn't think for one minute that that was true. But Kyle obviously wanted to believe it was. "Can I … can I come round there?" he asked, caution a slim victor over his desire to run round the counter and get his friend the hell out of there.
The young man appeared to regard him for a moment or two. It was difficult to tell. "Yeah," he finally said, grudgingly. "Okay."
As Steve rounded the counter, his eyes widened in horrified dismay. His friend lay curled up on his side, a small, vulnerable, motionless figure. Frozen in momentary shock, it was all Steve could do to control the burning fury that flared anew in his heart at the sight. He forced himself to step forward and, truly fearful of what he might find, sank to his knees next to the inert form.
Trembling fingers reached out, questing for a pulse. For one truly terrifying moment he couldn't locate one, then he felt it, a faint beat, weak and thready. Leaning closer, he moved his hand down to grasp Jesse's forearm, preparing to turn him over. A shaft of light hit them at that moment - a fresh spotlight having been set up outside, inadvertently and conveniently falling in just the right spot and he gasped in shock at what it revealed.
Deep, dark contusions covered the young doctor's cheeks, some of the shapes unmistakeably those of fingerprints. The bruising was supplemented with dried blood, the origin for which could be sourced to Jesse's temple, where several lacerations had sliced open the fair skin.
The young doctor's skin was ashen in the harsh light and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. There was no movement visible beneath his eyelids and Steve realised he was deeply unconscious.
He felt his stomach lurch in sick dread and a deep hatred burned its way into his soul toward the man responsible for the sickening injuries.
The same man who had shot and almost killed his father.
He bit back the angry words that he wanted to say, instead, focusing all his attention on the helpless figure before him. Placing a gentle hand on the battered face, he moved even closer, until his lips were next to Jesse's ear, where more blood was visible.
"Jesse?" he said, in a low, urgent voice. "Jesse, can you hear me?"
There was no response. Not that he had expected one, but he had to try.
"Jesse, it's Steve. I'm here, pal. I'm right next to you. Can you hear me?"
Still no response. The hand that wasn't tenderly stroking the brutalised cheek clenched into a tight fist.
"Jesse, I need you to wake up for me. Jesse, please. Please, Jess!"

Jesse heard the faintest of sounds through the miasma in his mind. A red haze of pain cocooned him, making it next to impossible to concentrate on anything other than his own extreme discomfort. His head was aching with a ferocity that terrified him, as his brain appeared to be doing its best to break out of his skull or implode. He half wished it would just get it over with just so he wouldn't have to endure the white hot agony that was making his stomach roil with nausea.
His lips were numb and his mouth dry and stuffed with cotton wool. He couldn't have formulated a response to the voice that was just prickling the edges of his consciousness had he wanted to. He didn't want to move, too scared of exacerbating the molten pain.
But the voice was insistent - and sounded scared.
It was also eerily familiar.
"St ….. "
Even that feeble attempt to speak hurt. He gasped as the agony intensified for a moment, felt the surge beginning in his stomach and instinctively rolled over as bile rushed into his throat.
Then he was being violently and horribly sick, the movement only aggravating the incessant, intolerable pounding in his head.
He groaned. It emerged as a gutteral sound, reverberating through his skull, and adding to his agony.
Tears seeped out from beneath the shuttered eyelids and he felt a gentle touch on his burning skin as they were wiped away.
Instinctively, he flinched away, the disappointed murmur of his name following him, halting his movement. "St ….. " he tried again. Again, barely a sound made it past the dry, cracked lips.
"It's okay, Jesse," he heard. "It's okay. I'm gonna get you out of here. I promise."
He tried to open his eyes but they appeared to be glued shut. The voice was warm and reassuring and the innate trust he had in the speaker allowed him to relax slightly even as his stomach lurched again and more bile spewed forth.

"Shit!" Steve swore softly as Jesse threw up a second time. He wasn't stupid. He had seen enough injuries of this nature to realise that his friend had sustained a bad concussion - at the very least. He didn't want to consider the implications of the blood oozing from his ears - indicative of a more serious brain injury. He didn't know the odds on survival for such damage but he knew enough to understand that they weren't good.
He had to get Jesse out of here now.
"Shit, he's been sick!"
Whipping his head around, he glared stonily at Kyle, who was staring down at Jesse in distaste.
"Yes, he has," he ground out. "He's very badly injured, Kyle. You want him to die?"
The young man actually looked shocked at the suggestion. "He's … he's not dyin'! He's … he's gonna be okay! Look, I got food for him!"
Steve eyed the taco in the young man's hand with a mixture of incredulity and outrage. "He doesn't need food!" he exploded. "He needs a hospital! For god's sake, Kyle …!"
"N … no." Kyle backed away, pouting as he fumbled for the gun he had laid on the counter as he ate. Steve swore vehemently under his breath. His attention had been so entirely focused on his friend that he hadn't even noticed that Kyle had actually been disarmed. And now it was too late.
Or was it?
He surged to his feet, prepared to lunge for the weapon, but before he could step forward, Kyle had grabbed it again and, although he wasn't aiming it at him, his fingers were wrapped tightly around it, obviously prepared to defend himself.
Dropping to his knees again, he glanced quickly at the inert form and then redirected his gaze to Kyle. "Kyle, please," he begged. "You say you're his friend. If you are, then please, help him."
"I am helping him!" the other man protested. "I got him some food, didn't I? Some sodas and some ice cream?"
Steve felt like screaming - or launching himself at the younger man and beating him to a bloody pulp, see how he liked it. With a supreme effort, he bit back the furious words that sprang to his lips, forced himself to remain still, although he shook with the force of his emotions. "He's thrown up, Kyle," he pointed out. "He's obviously sick, okay? Do you feel like eating when you're sick?"
Kyle appeared to give this question some consideration. "Well - uh - no," he acquiesced, reluctantly. "But …"
"And he's unconscious," Steve went on, relentlessly, not giving the kid the opportunity to say any more. "He can't eat when he's unconscious."
"I … I thought he was jus' sleepin'," came the defiant response. "I did!"
"Well, he's not. He's sick, Kyle. And we need to get him to a hospital."
Kyle bit his lip, turning away as he considered what Steve was saying. He didn't want to lose this moment. He didn't want to lose his newfound friend. Everything had been going so well till this cop had come in here and tried to take over. It was all his fault.
On the other hand … he couldn't deny any longer that Jesse wasn't looking good. He hadn't actually been awake for a while now and it wasn't like Kyle hadn't tried to wake him. He had. Jesse had remained completely unresponsive to his pleas to wake up. Even the violent shaking he had given him had failed to rouse the other young man. The blood was vivid and red and it was a sickening reminder of everything bad in his life. He shuddered. What if Jesse died the way his sister had? The way his mom had? He couldn't lose anyone else.
It wasn't fair!
Everyone left him eventually.
What had he ever done to deserve this?
"Can I come?" he asked.
Steve stared at him in utter shock. "What?"
"Can I come with him? To the hospital?" Kyle elaborated. "I went with my mom."
"Your … your mom?" The detective was completely befuddled by this turn of events. But he had no intention of alienating Kyle now he had finally given implicit permission to remove Jesse at last.
"She died," Kyle told him, sadly. His eyes drifted toward the door, his voice becoming distant, as though he were lost somewhere in the past. "She died and we had the funeral last week."
"I'm … I'm sorry," murmured Steve. "I …"
"Drank herself to death after my sister blew her brains out," Kyle went on, ignoring him. He laughed bitterly. "They never caught those guys, you know. The cops."
"Those guys? What guys?" Steve was now totally confused.
"They beat her up, cut her," said the young man in a strangled voice. "Raped 'er. She was real pretty once."
Steve felt sick and sympathy flared for the kid, despite the revulsion he felt for what he had done to those Steve cared about. "She … she killed herself?" he prompted.
"Yeah. Blood … just like Jesse's blood … everywhere …" Kyle's voice trailed away and he wandered over to the door, peering out to the street beyond. He couldn't see the cops, the lights or the amassed crowd who had gathered, eager to witness some kind of shootout. His mind had regressed back to the night of his sister's suicide and the screams of his mom. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he heard the coroner's low voice telling the two attendant cops that he didn't think the death was suspicious.
Steve quickly realised that Kyle was no longer with him. It was now or never.
Rising quickly, he quietly made his way toward the young man. The gun was still in Kyle's hand, hanging limply at his side. All he had to do was reach out and …
"The cops didn't do nothin'!" Kyle suddenly screamed, spinning around, startling the detective into taking a step back. "They let 'em go! They didn't care! No-one cared!"
Steve inhaled deeply. Kyle was openly sobbing and it tore at his heart. He knew the story - not Kyle's, of course, but there were a million just like it. A broken family in a poor neighbourhood, a young girl brutally attacked, no suspects - it was only too regular an occurrence. There had been no closure for Kyle or his family; no sense of justice. The cops had been indifferent or inept or simply unable to find any evidence and because of the magnitude of cases on their desk, had simply abandoned it, labelling it a 'cold case' and filing it away.
No wonder he was verging on psychosis; had he turned out normal it would have been more of a surprise.
They had been searching all day for information on the young man, but the police databases had thrown out nothing - probably because he had never been in trouble before today, which was a minor miracle in and of itself, really, considering his background. But they should have thrown up something on the sister. Steve could only put it down to complacency - or sheer neglect on the part of the investigative officers.
But none of this negated the fact that he still needed to get Jesse out of here. Quickly.
"Kyle, I care," he said.
The young man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Huh?"
"I care," reiterated Steve. "Kyle, I'm sorry that the cops never found the perps who did that to your sister. I'm sorry that you and your family suffered so much. It shouldn't have happened. None of it. Maybe you'll give me a chance to look into it now. I know it's too late for your mom, for your sister. But it's not too late for you. Give me the chance, Kyle. I'll do my very best to find them. I promise you."
A frown deepened the small lines in the young man's forehead. "You … you will?" he asked. "Why?"
"Because your sister deserved better," stated Steve, sincerely. "You and your mom deserved better."
"Yeah," agreed Kyle, nodding his head. "Yeah, we did. We do."
Steve took another deep breath. "Kyle, if I'm gonna do that then we need to get out of here. I need to get Jesse to the hospital and then I can start on your sister's case. You can tell me all you know - all you remember about it, including who the cops were who investigated it and maybe we can help. I'd like to help."
Kyle's tears increased. This was the first time in a long time that someone had taken him seriously - apart from Jesse, of course. And this was a cop. More, this was a cop who was higher up in the police. He looked sincere. He looked like he meant it. His eyes were crinkled up at the corners and they were kind - not mean and ice-cold like they had been when he had first come into the store.
He nodded, fresh tears making their way down his cheeks. "O … okay," he sobbed. He held out the gun. "Here. I don' want this any more. It .. it hurts people. I … I hurt that man. I didn't mean to, ya know? I didn't."
Strangely, now he had been confronted with Kyle's tragic past and the dichotomies of his behaviour, Steve actually believed him. He would have to question his father when he was up to it but he had a feeling that the older man would corroborate Kyle's story.
He would still be charged by the State for discharging a weapon and injuring both Mark and Jesse, but he was pretty sure that Mark Sloan, for one, would not press charges himself and, indeed, once he heard Kyle's story, might even end up a hostile prosecution witness. It wasn't like he hadn't done that before.
Slowly, he reached out, taking the weapon from the younger man. Once he had it in his hand, he checked the chamber, removed the remaining bullets and pocketed them. Then he turned back to Jesse.
Whipping out his cell, he punched in a number.
"Tanis? It's all over. I'm fine. Get an ambulance down here. Fast!"

"What have we got?" demanded the doctor in charge as they ran the gurney into the ER, Steve close on the heels of the accompanying paramedics.
"White male, early twenties, severe contusions to head, bleeding from ear. Respiration rapid and shallow, pulse thready. He's vomited at least twice but there's been no drainage of any clear liquid from the nasal passage and no seizures. BP 60/40, pupils unequal in size but reactive to light and he's been non responsive throughout," reported the older of the two men. "We've started him on saline solution and 100% oxygen."
"Okay, I want a CT scan, intubate with lidocaine and get me an intracranial pressure monitor. Let's see what's going on in there!" the doctor commanded. He turned to the attendant nursing staff as Jesse was wheeled into the trauma room. "On my mark, one two three!"
As the young doctor was transferred from the gurney to the examining table, his eyelids fluttered briefly. Steve's heart missed a beat as he spotted this and he held his breath, in the hope that his friend would regain consciousness now that he was safe. But that was the extent of Jesse's return to awareness and as his body was obscured by the frenzied activity of the trauma staff, Steve lost sight of him.
"You can't do any more here, sir," said a nurse, gently steering him backwards.
"No," he tried to protest. "That's my friend. I should stay …"
"It's going to be all right," she assured him, with a gentle smile. "He's going to be just fine."
He wasn't so sure about that. He had seen the grim expressions on the faces of the doctor and his staff. He had seen the recognition too. They knew Jesse; they knew that he was Mark Sloan's protégé. They had also, undoubtedly, seen the news and knew what had happened to him.
He sagged against the nurse's station as the woman left him, returning to the trauma room. As the door swung shut behind her, he closed his eyes, swiping a hand over his face, to try to hide the emotion that was sweeping over him.
He had got Jesse here. He had stayed beside him in the ambulance all the way to Community General, holding fast to the limp hand despite the disapproving looks from the attendant paramedic. He had whispered nonsensical words of encouragement to his friend, regardless of the fact that the EMT had told him more than once that Jesse probably couldn't hear him. But he still felt so powerless, so impotent.
His friend was in the best of hands - although he would have felt far more confident about the outcome had it been his father in there, treating the younger man. He had done all that he could do. It was up to the doctors now. And it was up to Jesse.

At first he didn't hear the concerned voice that was trying so desperately to garner his attention. Then he became aware of someone standing next to him, someone's hand laying on his arm, squeezing gently. He opened his eyes - he hadn't even realised till this moment that he'd closed them - to find Amanda beside him, regarding him with an expression of concern.
"Steve?"
"Uh … Amanda?" he managed. "I … uh … Jesse … " His voice trailed off, as he shakily raised his hand and gestured toward the trauma room.
She nodded. "I know," she said. "I was paged."
"Oh. Okay."
"Are you okay?" she asked, solicitiously.
He shook his head. "It's not me I'm worried about," he retorted, harshly. "It's Jesse. Amanda, he … he hasn't regained consciousness. He's bleeding and … Jesus, he looks so bad!"
She tried to swallow her own fear in light of the dread that filled the blue eyes that were boring into hers, looking for solace, for some kind of hope. "He'll be fine," she heard herself say. "Doctor Barrett is very good."
"But he's not my dad," he whispered.
Her heart lurched. "No, no, he's not. And your dad's the best. But he's not here right now. Would you like to see him?"
His eyes widened at her words. "Is he awake?" he asked, hopefully.
"No. No, he's not. But you can sit with him, if you like. I know you'd like to see him."
"Yeah, yeah, I would," he said, gratefully. His eyes drifted back toward the trauma room, where Jesse was being treated, where the bustle of activity around him had only intensified during the few moments he had been speaking to Amanda. He desperately wanted to go see his dad - the longing to do so had only increased since Amanda's phone call earlier, but equally, he didn't want to leave his young friend - not until they came out and told him something definitive. He felt so torn - and remained rooted to the spot.
Amanda could see his dilemma. With a sigh, she released his arm and stepped toward the trauma room. "I'll go find out how he's doing," she said. "Then we'll go see your dad together. Okay?"
He nodded, numbly. "Okay."

Leaving her friend slumped against the nurse's station, Amanda made her way across the floor toward the trauma room. She hesitated just the briefest second before entering.
Dr Barrett had attached an intracranial pressure monitor and was doing another pupillary examination, issuing quiet orders to the attendant nursing staff. Amanda eased her way around the other side of the treatment table to speak to the doctor and couldn't contain her gasp of horror when she saw Jesse.
"Oh my god!"
"Amanda?" Barrett glanced up from his patient. "I didn't know you were here."
"The nurses' station paged me a few minutes ago," she told him, her eyes riveted on the inert form of her young friend. Jesse was almost unrecogniseable beneath the swelling and massive contusions on his face. Dried blood caked his mouth and forehead and his eyes were tightly closed. "David, is he …?"
"We don't know, yet," he said, tightly, returning his attention to Jesse. "I'm waiting on the results of the MRI. The EMT's told us that he hasn't been conscious since they picked him up and your cop friend told them that he'd barely been conscious before that. I don't like that he's been unresponsive for so long and I don't like the look of that blood from his ear. His pupils react to light but that's certainly no indication that there isn't something more serious than a simple concussion going on."
Amanda stifled the sudden sob that rose in her throat at his grim diagnosis. First Mark, now Jesse … she didn't know if she could deal with all of this. "David …"
"I'm doing the best I can, Amanda," he interjected, more sharply than he had intended. "Until we have the result, I can't tell you if there's any intercranial bleeding or if something is putting pressure on the brain. You know what the worst case scenarios are. There could be a significant brain injury - in which case he may die. At best he's going to end up severely impaired for the rest of his life. There may be a subdural haematoma. If so then we'll operate and relieve the pressure. He should make a full recovery. Or it may just be a very bad concussion, in which case we'll admit him and watch him for 48 hours - or until I'm happy that he's lucid and can be discharged without any untoward consequences."
She nodded, silently, biting her lip. She couldn't even begin to contemplate what they would do if Jesse should die from his injury or if he was brain damaged in some way. It would devastate them all. She didn't want to be the one who broke the news about his protégé to Mark and she certainly didn't relish telling Steve. She had come in here sensing that all was not going well, but desperately hoping that her intuition was wrong on this occasion. Steve was waiting out there, trusting that she was going to emerge with the information that his friend was going to be just fine. How could she go back to him and tell him just the opposite?
"David …."
"Wait," he interrupted her, as someone handed him a set of films. Hurriedly, he propped them up on the board and flicked on the backlighter. Both doctors peered at them then Barrett smiled and turned to his colleague. "Looks like there's no bleeding into the brain," he said. "He has a hairline skull fracture, but it's not causing any pressure. I'm still worried about the fact that he's been unconscious for such an extended period but that could be because he appears to have undergone several attacks to the head. We may have been very lucky here, Amanda. Young Dr Travis may have been very lucky. I think we're going to have to play the waiting game now."
"See how long it takes him to wake up," she murmured in agreement. Relief washed over her at their second miracle of the day. "So he's going to be all right."
He frowned. "I didn't say that, exactly," he temporised. "But insofar as there's no traumatic brain injury, yes, he's going to be fine."
"Thank god," she breathed.

Steve watched as Amanda and Dr Barrett broke away from their consultation, the latter returning to his patient, the former making her way toward the door of the trauma room.
"Well?" he demanded impatiently as she opened the door. "How is he?"
"He's going to be fine," she said, cautiously. "Or at least - there's no traumatic brain injury so he's going to be monitored for the next 48 hours."
"But he's going to be okay, right?" he pressed her. "He's going to recover?"
Fear was still etched on his haggard features, despite her prognosis - or perhaps because of it. He looked like he was ready to storm in there and take over Jesse's care himself - conveniently forgetting that he was not medically qualified to do any more than administer a band aid.
"Steve, Steve, calm down," she implored.
"I can't, Amanda!" he grated out. "You don't understand … I spent hours outside knowing that he was hurt. I could have done something sooner. I should have done something sooner. If he doesn't make it … it's all my fault!"
Her heart broke at the anguish in his voice, the turmoil in those searing blue eyes. Reaching for him, she enveloped him in her arms, feeling his head coming to rest on her shoulder as the strain of the last few hours finally overwhelmed him.

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