Hostages by Cass

part four

Mark slowly became aware that his hand was enveloped within a warm grasp and with a monumental effort, forced open incredibly heavy eyelids. He tried to smile as he recognised the newcomer at his bedside but the intubation tube prevented him from doing so. In lieu of that particular greeting, he moved his fingers just the merest fraction, feeling the answering pressure on his flesh.
"Dad?"
He couldn't say anything but his eyes spoke volumes as they gazed up at Steve. The detective gave him a watery smile and nodded. "It's okay, dad," he said. "They got the bullet out and you're gonna be just fine."
Mark's eyes narrowed as they took in his son's appearance. Steve looked awful. His face was haggard, his azure blue eyes deeply troubled, despite his attempt to seem otherwise. Feebly, he freed his hand from the firm grasp, using it to indicate the other man's appearance.
Steve was puzzled for a moment until he saw the deep concern in the older man's eyes. "It's okay, dad," he assured him, although he felt far from reassured after his breakdown in the ER. Amanda had promised she would keep him posted about Jesse's progress but once again, they were playing a waiting game. It was driving him nuts. "I'm fine. Just tired, I guess. It's all over. Everyone's safe."
He didn't feel much like going into detail on that statement. Safe everyone might be but it was only a relative term. He wouldn't be convinced of Jesse's safety until his friend woke up and talked to him. He would even settle for a wisecrack at his expense at this point.
But Mark wasn't about to let him off the hook. Somehow he made Steve understand that he wasn't satisfied with that answer - mostly by raising his eyebrows and looking distinctly unconvinced. It was amazing, reflected the detective, just how eloquent his father could be even without the use of words.
"Jesse's got a concussion," he finally revealed, reluctantly. "They're keeping an eye on him overnight."
Mark managed to shake his head. He was staggeringly tired and pain was beginning to seep through the barriers of the medication that was being administered to him via his IV. But he knew that there was more than Steve was willing to tell him and he was determined to get it out of him. He settled for staring his son down, hoping desperately that Steve would give in before he realised that his father was about to lose his fight against the exhaustion that was dragging at him.
The younger Sloan sighed heavily. It wasn't as if he wasn't accustomed to losing arguments against his dad - but this time the older man couldn't speak and he was still winning. "Okay, okay," he acquiesced. "He's been unconscious for a long time, dad. They've done a scan and they can't find any reason for it, other than the fact that he's suffered several blows to the head in quick succession, but they're concerned." He swallowed as the fear rose up to choke him again. "I … they can't even tell me if he's gonna wake up, let alone when!"
Mark winced at the naked despair in the younger man's voice. It was written all over his face, too. He was terrified and he was berating himself for not getting in to the store sooner. He desperately wanted to comfort him, offer him some words that would help him see that he had done everything he could and could have done no more; that had anyone else been in charge it could have ended so much differently - and more tragically. But he couldn't. All he could do was move his fingers to cover Steve's hand and curl them around his palm, hoping it would be enough.
It was. Steve managed another weak smile and took his father's hand in both of his own. "I was so scared for you, dad," he admitted, quietly. "And I wanted to be here with you, but … I couldn't. I knew you'd understand but it didn't make it any easier. And then when I finally got into the store and saw what that kid - Kyle - had done to Jesse. Jesus, I wanted to kill him. But, you know what? He's hurting too. It doesn't wipe out what he did to the two of you and I don't think I can ever forgive him for it, but I can at least understand. He's been through so much and he's just a kid, really. I … I ended up promising I'd help him. I don't even know why. It just seemed … the right thing to do."
Mark's eyes crinkled as his mouth curved into the slightest of smiles despite the tubing taped to his mouth and running down his throat. God, he had never been so proud of his boy. He had always known Steve was an honourable, decent man, but it was his compassion and the good heart that beat beneath the gruff and crusty exterior that put him head and shoulders above everyone else.
He wished he could tell him so, but his vision was blurring and the blackness was rising to swallow him up. He thought he heard a whispered 'Don't fight it dad,' and felt the touch of lips on his brow as he sank into the abyss.

Steve watched as his father drifted back to sleep. Mark's hand was still firmly clasped in both his own, the warm, pulsing flesh proof of a precious life that had so nearly been ripped away from him that day. Tears brimmed in his eyes as he studied the sleeping man. Mark looked smaller, somehow, and frail amidst the medical paraphernalia that was helping to sustain him and new lines of pain were etched into the beloved face. But that awful greyness from before had been replaced by the merest hint of colour and although the dark shadows beneath the shuttered lids attested to his ordeal, his eyes had sparkled with life.
It wasn't until this moment that he had allowed himself to believe that his father was truly going to be all right. Amanda had told him; his dad's surgeon had backed up those assurances, although they had been tempered with a surgeon's natural caution. But now, with the unattestable proof lying in front of him - now he really believed it. He should never have entertained any doubts - he knew that. Mark Sloan was possibly the stubbornest person on the plant. But the evidence to the contrary had been so compelling. The wound had seemed fatal.
Now, thanks in part to that famous tenacity, but also due to the skill and determination of his surgeon, Mark Sloan was going to be fine. And as he finally accepted that fact, Steve felt a little of his tension drain away.

He remained at his father's bedside for some time, unwilling to leave now that he had finally made it here. His heart, though, was torn as his thoughts drifted, inevitably, toward the friend whose condition was still so precarious.
He suspected, however, that that friend wouldn't be alone. That someone would be watching over him - much like he was watching over his father. And he smiled sadly at the realisation that he and Amanda had done little more than swap vigils.

Steve's suspicions were correct. Amanda was seated in another hospital chair, further down the corridor in another room.
Jesse hadn't moved since being settled in there. Amanda had never seen him so still and quiet. It both unnerved and frightened her. Her young friend was always in motion, it seemed, his irrepressible nature and zest for life sometimes threatening to wear her out. But she couldn't help but love him for it, even though on occasion all it earned from her was an exasperated 'Jesse!'
Now he lay as though held in some kind of limbo, his face ashen beneath the lurid purple bruising and dried blood. A long, deep gash on his forehead had been sutured and bandaged, the skin around it discoloured and puffy. Deep, dark smudges below his eyes bore mute witness to the torment he had undergone at the hands of the young gunman and both lip and cheek were grotesquely swollen from the vicious blows that the boy had inflicted on him.
He didn't look like the young man she held so dear to her heart and her eyes filled with tears as she questioned - not for the first time - man's cruelty to man. How could anyone do this to Jesse? It seemed inconceivable. He was so easy going, so outgoing and compassionate. He had done nothing to deserve this, she was sure. He had probably done everything he could for the young man who had treated him so abominably. She knew Jesse. She knew how big his heart was. Steve had related Kyle's sad tale to her and her own heart had gone out to him and his family. But that still didn't give him the right to exact revenge for his tragedies on someone so completely undeserving - someone who had undoubtedly expressed his horror and sympathy and tried everything in his power to help him. She had no doubt that if - when - Jesse regained consciousness that getting him to press charges against Kyle was going to be difficult, if not impossible. He wouldn't want to add to the boy's woes, regardless of the fact that the same boy had shot Mark and battered him so badly that it was lucky he hadn't sustained brain damage.
A lone tear tracked down her cheek. She wiped it away distractedly. "Jesse, honey, can you hear me?" she whispered to the insensible young man.
Like Steve before her, her hopes of extracting a response were dashed as he remained oblivious to everything around him.
Amanda was only too well aware that the longer he remained unconscious the more dangerous the situation was. Just because the scans had not shown significant brain injury didn't mean that there wasn't something. The damage could have been done already. Head injuries were notoriously complicated. He may never wake up. He may end up in a coma, to be kept alive by machines for the rest of what remained of his life.
Fresh tears welled in her eyes at this thought.
Never to hear his voice again.
Never to see that sweet, bright smile.
Never to experience that wonderful, infectious laugh.
She didn't know what she would do without him. He was the little brother she had never dreamed of having; the steadfast friend who never failed her; he was her confidante. They had shared so many secrets and her world was a sunnier place with him in it.
"Jesse," she sobbed. "Please, please wake up."

Steve eventually fell asleep at his father's bedside. The nurse who entered to check Mark's vitals and hang a new bag of saline didn't have the heart to wake him. Instead, she rummaged around inside the cupboard in the room, located a blanket and draped it over him. He looked very uncomfortable, sprawled out like he was in the chair and she winced at the prospect of the stiff neck he would have the next morning. But he looked exhausted and he didn't move a muscle even when she had to dislodge his hand so she could access Mark's IV.

Amanda too had refused to budge from the bedside at which she appeared to have taken up permanent residence. Not that the nursing staff and the doctor on call tried very hard to persuade her otherwise. They came into the room every hour, trying to wake Jesse, shining a penlight into his eyes, carrying out reflex and sensory tests and exchanging worried glances.
The young pathologist ignored them for the most part, too intent on carrying on a one-sided conversation with her young friend to pay much attention beyond a hopeful look every now and again when they tried to get a response from their patient. Their continued failure to do so only made her more determined to stay.
"I know you're going to be all right, Jesse," she whispered, as the door closed behind the doctor for the sixth time in as many hours. "But you need to wake up now. I'm very annoyed with you for worrying me like this, you know. It's just like you. You don't realise how much we care about you. If you did, then you wouldn't do this to us." She carefully rubbed her forefinger over the hand that she held so securely in her own. His flesh was warm and pulsing with life. If only he would open his eyes and talk to her, everything would be all right.
The tension was almost unbearable. First Mark, now Jesse - where would it end? Mark was going to be all right; of that she was certain. Of course, complications could set in; a post-operative infection, fresh internal bleeding or even bleeding that they had missed the first time around. But her dear friend had led a charmed life so far, and somehow she couldn't see it all coming to an end this way. She wasn't even sure what she based this confidence on - perhaps Mark himself. He certainly inspired belief. He was that type of person. If anyone could recover with so few complications from a bullet wound that would surely have killed anyone else, it was Mark Sloan. She couldn't fathom how lucky he had actually been. The slug had not penetrated his heart or the main artery leading to it; it had not actually done as much damage as they had at first suspected. The main problem had been the amount of time that had lapsed between him getting shot and being brought here. And even then, he was a lot better than anyone else she had seen in a similar condition. But then, those she had seen in similar conditions had usually been lying on a slab in her path lab.
They certainly hadn't made it through surgery. Although she wouldn't forget in a hurry those few despairing moments in the OR when she had been convinced that they were going to lose him.
No, Mark was not only lucky. He led a charmed life. And she was profoundly grateful for that.
She only hoped some of that luck had rubbed off onto her younger friend. He certainly had been through it in the last few months.
Was it only a few weeks ago that they had almost lost him the first time? She shuddered as she recalled the smallpox incident and their desperate race against time to find the antigen before the mutant strain did indeed succeed in taking not only Jess's life, but Mark's too.
Jesse had succumbed first of course. Mark had been affected but the symptoms had never had the chance to show up in him. Maybe it had been luck; maybe it had been the residual traces of the immunisation shot he had received years before, but whatever it had been she had thanked god for small mercies. Mark had been left alone for much of the time to take care of Jesse, whose condition had worsened by the minute and he had kept the younger doctor's hopes alive and managed to figure out the man responsible for stealing the virus and the antigen before it was too late.
It had been close, though. Closer than they had ever revealed to either Steve or Jesse himself. Before Steve had broken every speed record to get back with the serum, Jesse had gone into cardiac arrest. She and Mark had spent several desperate, panic-stricken moments administering CPR and giving him oxygen. That they had got him back at all had been a miracle.
The antivirus had saved him, but it had taken a long while before the effects had become evident. He had remained in a deep coma, his breathing ragged and laboured, sweat pouring off him, his chest and abdomen covered with the deep, red rash indicative of the virus itself.
During those long, seemingly endless hours, Amanda had taken his hand - as she had now - and had held on, trying to communicate her love and affection for him through her touch. Mark, perched beside him, had tenderly stroked the burning forehead, brushing aside stray strands of damp blond hair, whispering words of encouragement to his protégé, his voice shaking with emotion.
When he had finally opened his eyes, several hours afterward, it had been a moment of joyous - although quiet - celebration. He had smiled dopily at them, bewildered blue eyes watching them cry over his recovery, then had drifted back into a healing sleep.
It had taken over a week for the virus to completely leave his system. The first couple of days had been the easiest in many respects - as Jesse had done little but sleep. The scant few moments he had returned to anything resembling lucidity they had made sure that he was given fluids and painkillers when the headache or backache was particularly severe.
Not that he had ever complained - at least not about the more serious symptoms. Then, his brow would furrow in pain or he wouldn't be able to suppress the wince when he moved and they would know.
They had taken it in turns to sit with him - even Steve insisting on being allowed to help. She had peeked in one night on her way home to find the detective seated on the bed, Jesse practically in his arms, his head lolling against the older man's chest as he was persuaded to drink some broth the pathologist had made. Steve's voice had been low and practically hypnotic as he urged Jesse to have 'just one more sip' and the younger man had grudgingly complied. Then he had given Steve a drowsy smile before drifting back to sleep and the older man had carefully eased him back under the duvet, practically tucking him in before he settled back into the easy chair to watch over him.
The scene had brought tears to Amanda's eyes. She wasn't sure why because she had found Mark doing the same thing on a number of occasions - although he had usually been able to convince Jesse to consume a little more liquid. Then again, she had often maintained that Mark Sloan could sell snow to the Eskimos! It was just as well he was a doctor and not a con artist. The Brooklyn and Golden Gate bridges would otherwise have been sold many times over.
Once Jesse was awake for longer periods of time and he had begun to feel better he had started to complain about being kept in bed. In fact, he had whined so much that she had teasingly suggested to Mark that it might be a good idea to invest in a gag. He hadn't seemed too averse to the proposal, although she had a sneaking suspicion that he was actually enjoying the time spent nursing his young friend. Not that he liked the idea that Jesse was sick - far from it. But during this gruelling period all of his paternal instincts had risen to the fore and he was having a hard time dialling them down. Their young friend had insinuated himself into their hearts from the moment he had arrived at Community General - all bouncy, eager enthusiasm and irrepressible joy. Mark had even intimated that it was because of Jesse that he was enjoying teaching again - then again, the young man was brilliant, although endearingly, he didn't think so. He was going to be a wonderful doctor - on a par with his mentor, if he didn't surpass him.
He was also a kind of surrogate son and it was patently obvious to anyone who knew him how much Mark cared about him. Steve too, who played the stern, protective older brother part to the hilt. It had taken a while for Jesse to feel comfortable around Steve - not sure at first how to take this dour, acerbic cop. But his bright, bubbly personality had lightened Steve's spirit and they could often be found engaged in a bit of light verbal sparring.
Amanda remembered well one of her visits to the beach house after Jesse had been allowed up. He had not lasted long - a fact which had mortified him. He had fallen asleep on the couch about an hour after getting out of bed, barely managing the walk to the living room before practically collapsing. He had looked pale and sick and she had been alarmed at the thought that he may have suffered a relapse. It had taken all of Mark's persuasive powers to convince her that he was actually recovering but had just overdone it.
He had awoken shortly afterward, thoroughly mortified by his own weakness and had spent the rest of the week bemoaning his infirmity. It was a cover, also, for the pain he still experienced at times - most especially when he was feeling tired.
He hadn't truly smiled at her till the last day when she had checked him over and pronounced him clear of the virus. Of course, he was still going to have to recovery physically - he had lost a lot of weight during those seven days, his already slender physique dwindling at an alarming rate. But she had been fairly confident that with the amount of food Jesse Travis usually shovelled into his mouth, he would regain those lost pounds in next to no time.
She had been right, of course.
Jesse the human vacuum cleaner had practically eaten Mark out of house and home during the next few days. The older man had told her later that it had been almost a relief when his protégé had returned to work and to his own apartment. He'd been convinced that he would have to take out a second mortgage to keep him fed if he'd stayed with them much longer.
Of course, the telltale twinkle in his eyes and the fondness in his voice when he had spoken about Jesse had utterly belied his sentiment and she was pretty sure that had it come to it, Jesse could have stayed there indefinitely without Mark minding too much.

Her back was aching. She had been sitting in one position for hours now and her muscles were beginning to pay the price. Rubbing eyes gritty from lack of sleep she fantasised about going home, to where her bed awaited her. The comfortable mattress and soft inviting pillows had never been more alluring.
But she couldn't go home yet. Not until she knew that Jesse would be all right.
As she took her hands away from her face, she gasped in startled delight.
Confused blue eyes were staring at her, tiny frown lines puckering the skin on the bridge of his nose.
"M … Manda?" he croaked. "Wh … where …?"
"It's all right, honey," she crooned, leaning forward slightly to run her fingers gently through the blond hair. "You're at Community General."
He blinked at her dopily, a sleepy smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "Yeah," he rasped - his throat felt sore and he figured someone must have intubated him at some point. Thank god he hadn't woken up to find a tube in. They must have removed it at some stage. "Yeah … f … figured that. Ow!"
"Jesse?" she queried in concern as he winced at the sudden pain. "What is it, sweetheart?"
"Head … headache," he whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut and shifted restlessly under the sheets. "H … hurts …"
Patting his arm consolingly, she reached for the call button beside his bed. "It's all right," she comforted him. "I'll get your doctor. Don't move."
"Wasn't … planning to," he said, faintly, with the merest hint of sarcasm. Seconds later a nurse entered the room. Amanda half turned as she approached the bed, where her patient was now lying rigid and completely still, his expressive features contorted with pain.
"Can you get Dr Barrett for me?" the pathologist asked, softly, in deference to her friend's obviously severe headache. The other woman took one look at the young man, nodded and hurried away and Amanda turned back to her suffering friend. "It'll be all right, Jesse," she soothed him. "Just breathe, all right?"
One hand fumbled for hers, then curled tightly around it as Jesse struggled to comply with her advice. Agony seared through his head, threatening to split it asunder at any moment. He could barely breathe through the intense throbbing at his temples, which was radiating outward to encompass his entire body.
It was starting to make him feel sick and he had to fight the urge to throw up as his grip tightened on Amanda's hand.
God, he couldn't stand this! It hurt! It hurt so much. Where was the doctor, anyway? Why didn't he come?
The tiniest of whimpers escaped from between cracked, parched lips and he became subliminally aware of the soft touch on his arm as Amanda gently stroked the bruised flesh, giving what little comfort she could.
So immersed was he in the excruciating pain that was threatening to take his head off, he never heard the door open, completely missed the hushed conversation between the two doctors and it was only when the first flush of the medication coursed through his veins and the pain began to diminish that he even realised that the painkiller had been administered.
As the burning agony began to lose its grip, he started to breathe again, his body slowly relaxing back into the bed as the drug took effect. Awareness returned in increments and he listened to the soft murmur of voices from above him without really taking in what they were saying. He lay cocooned in a sensation of pleasant numbness as the blinding headache gradually receded, completely unaware of the spasming of his fingers around Amanda's hand.
"It was a very bad concussion," Jesse's doctor told Amanda, gravely. "In fact, I was beginning to worry that he wasn't going to wake up at all."
Amanda swallowed hard. She was vastly relieved to be hearing this retrospectively. Had she known before just how deeply concerned the man had been about his patient she doubted very much whether she would have been able to sit at his bedside all night without screaming.
"Is he going to be all right?" she queried. She should know the answer to this. She was a doctor, after all. But exhaustion dragged at her, clouding her thoughts and her ability to trust her own judgement in the diagnosis of so dear a friend.
"Bad headaches are the norm," he told her, sagely. "Especially after such an acute concussion. It's going to take a bit of time before he feels one hundred percent again. But he will. In the meantime, we'll keep a close eye on that skull fracture. I don't expect any complications and it should heal on its own, but there's no harm in erring on the side of caution."
She exhaled deeply, fatigue taking over as the adrenalin drained away. "Thank you," she said, softly.
He shrugged. "I didn't do much," he said. "You're the one who's been sitting at his bedside all night." He eyed her appraisingly, not liking what he saw. "Why don't you go home and get some rest? You look wiped out."
She smiled at his concern. "I'm all right," she said, belying her words the very next moment as she yawned widely.
"I can see that," he said, dryly. "Look, you can't do any more now. He's going to go back to sleep pretty soon. That painkiller was pretty strong. We'll be here to keep an eye on him. We need to wake him every hour now that he has finally regained consciousness. It's only going to disturb you if you fall asleep in that chair - which looks highly likely at the moment, by the way."
She snorted inelegantly. "I'm perfectly fine," she objected. "I can stay a while longer."
"Hmmm. Right." Dr Barrett didn't sound convinced. "Well, I have rounds to make. I'll be back in an hour. Amanda, look, go home. You're not going to do him or yourself any good if you collapse. Come back when you're refreshed."
"I'll think about it."
It was as much of a concession as he was going to get. With a despairing shake of his head, he patted her on the shoulder and left the room.
Amanda then turned back to Jesse. His eyes were at half-mast and he had a drowsy grin on his face. "How're you feeling, honey?" she asked.
"Doped up," he managed. He was beginning to drift in his enjoyably numb world and everything felt three sizes too big. "M … Manda …?"
"Yes, Jesse."
"How's … how's Mark?"
Mark! My god, had no-one told him …? Then again, she realised, when would they have had the opportunity? By the time Steve - who was the only one who could have imparted such important information - had reached him, Jesse hadn't been in any fit state to take it in. And anyway, her detective friend had been far too concerned in trying to get him out of the bookstore to consider relaying Mark's condition to him.
She flexed her hand. His grip had loosened considerably as the medication had taken effect. Massaging his palm with her thumb she smiled down at him. "He's going to be just fine, Jesse," she said. "He came through surgery with flying colours." She thought it better not to tell him about the part where they had nearly lost the older man. That was a story better left for another time - if she told it at all. "Steve's with him. But he wanted to be with you as well."
Jesse frowned again. "Should … be with his dad," he said, his voice growing fainter as he slid inexorably toward sleep. "Doesn't … matter about … me …"
Her throat constricted at the words and as he finally gave in to the lure of Morpheus, she leaned over and kissed his brow. "Oh it does matter," she said, not even noticing the hitch in her voice. "It matters a great deal."

The next time Jesse opened his eyes he found Steve seated beside his bed. Totally bewildered, he watched the older man sleep for a long moment before deciding that he'd better make his friend aware that he was awake.
"Steve?"
The detective almost fell off his chair at the unexpected voice. Jesse smothered a grin at the sight of other man struggling to regain his composure as he grasped the edge of the bedside cabinet, heaving himself back into a seated position.
"Those chairs aren't meant to sleep in," the younger man commented lightly. "What're you doin' here anyway? How's Mark?"
Steve smiled. "He's just fine, Jess," he replied. "They're just redressing his wound so I thought I'd come and see you."
Jesse frowned. "You've been here all night too?" Off his friend's expression of confusion, he elaborated. "Amanda was here. Looked like she hadn't slept in a week. I don't know where she is now … have you seen her?"
The detective shook his head. "Maybe there was a patient who needed urgent attention?"
"Steve, Amanda's patients don't need urgent attention. They're not going anywhere. They're dead," Jesse reminded him, his eyes sparkling with laughter.
Steve was delighted to hear his friend sounding and looking so normal. He'd been so afraid that he would never converse this way with Jesse again, that the light, uncomplicated friendship which he had started taking so much for granted would be forever lost to him because of a devastating brain injury which would leave the younger man incapable of doing anything beyond simply existing.
He would never take him for granted again. That was for sure.
"Well, maybe she had an urgent autopsy to perform," he retorted, at last, realising that he had been lost in his own thoughts and that Jesse was still waiting for some kind of response from him to his last teasing comment. "Or maybe she went to catch up on her sleep. I don't suppose she's far away. We were worried about you."
"Why?"
The simple question caught him offguard.
Why?
Because he'd been severely beaten by a mentally unstable young man who had come to believe they were friends despite the dreadful injuries he had inflicted.
Because by the time Steve got to him, he had been convinced that Jesse had suffered some kind of traumatic brain injury.
Because when the doctor had been treating him his grim expression hadn't done much for Steve's remaining confidence.
Because, despite the CT findings - or lack thereof - he had been unconscious for over 6 hours and even his doctor had been worried, or so he had told Steve when he had met him outside.
Because this was his friend - his best friend if truth be told - and he was allowed to be worried about him.
"I think it's in the job description," he said, cryptically.
"Huh?"
"Worry," Steve explained. "You worry about people when you care about them. It's part of the job."
Jesse's mouth formed a perfect 'O' as he digested this then he grinned. "Well, I guess I can relate to that," he said. "After all, I worry about you when you're running around with your latest woman. I mean, how do I know you're not gonna end up in the ER again after she's shot you, or mauled you or … um … I'll shut up now," he finished as the detective's eyes narrowed and he glowered at him. "Well, you gotta admit, it's true!" he exclaimed, somewhat defensively. "Face it, Steve. It's dangerous for you to date!"
"You're never gonna let me forget my one - count 'em - one girlfriend who tried to kill me, are you?" he ground out.
Jesse smirked. "Steve, she was a serial killer," he reminded him, "You were dating a serial killer. A serial killer you were actually looking for in connection with several deaths. You were actually going out with her at the time."
"And she nearly killed me!" pointed out Steve, acidly.
The younger man shrugged nonchalantly. "Now do you see why I worry about you?"
"And I worry when my friend is held hostage and beaten to a pulp by some insane kid," Steve retorted -immediately regretting his words as all the colour drained from Jesse's face. "Oh god, Jess, I didn't mean … I'm sorry. Look, I …"
"It doesn't matter, Steve." Every trace of light had fled from the bright blue eyes. Now they held a sheen of tears. "I … what happened to Kyle? You didn't … you didn't hurt him, did you?"
It was patently evident that he felt some kind of responsibility toward the young man - although why he should after the treatment Kyle had meted out to him, Steve couldn't say.
Although he had to admit he had expected nothing less.
Jesse was nothing if not compassionate and however much Kyle had hurt him, his terrible tale of loss and suffering would have earned the kid the young doctor's sympathy and understanding. It wouldn't have surprised him if - had Jesse been aware and conscious at the time - the younger man had tried to persuade him to let Kyle go free. He could even imagine the conversation and wondered whether he would have been able to withstand Jesse's heartfelt entreaties to 'sneak him out the back way'.
"No," he said, eventually, reaching out to cover his friend's hand with his own. It was a reflex action, something of which neither of them were consciously aware. "No, I didn't hurt him. He's had it tough, Jesse," he went on. "Very tough. And I understand some of the reasons he did what he did - although it's going to be difficult to forget that he shot my dad and seriously injured you. But he's in custody right now. Even if you and my dad don't press charges, the state will, Jess. They have to. He held hostages. He terrorised people. And they have witness statements from the clerk and the others to that effect."
Jesse's face fell further. He had known, of course, that Kyle wouldn't get off scot free. In fact, he accepted that the boy had frightened them all and deserved to be punished - to some degree.
But hadn't he been punished enough?
His life had been a litany of appalling errors. From the uncaring police who didn't take his sister's attack seriously to the child services who didn't seem to know or care that a woman was drinking herself to death whilst her young son could only watch, helplessly.
He himself might not have had any love and affection in his life, until he had come to Community General and found a ready-made family in Mark, Steve and Amanda - but he at least had been well-provided for. He had never wanted for anything material.
Kyle deserved better. He deserved …
"What if I offer myself as a .. a defence witness?" he asked. "Do you think that would help his case?"
Steve felt like throwing his hands up in the air and giving up. "What is it with you and my dad?" he exclaimed, in utter exasperation. "He said much the same thing this morning when I was finally able to talk to him about it! He wasn't even awake for long and most of that time was spent trying to come up with ways to help Kyle!"
"We care, Steve," Jesse said, very quietly.
The detective couldn't prevent a sad smile. "I know you do, pal," he said. "You and my dad both. Look, I'll see what I can do, okay? Just … don't expect too much."
"I trust you, Steve."
The sentiment and the utter conviction with which it was expressed made his heart lurch. He hadn't doubted that for a moment. He never would. "I … I promised him I would help him, anyway," he revealed, a little shamefacedly. "I should have said something before we got into this. I just - I just don't know how much I can realistically do."
Long, slender fingers curled around his hand, tightening reassuringly. "You'll do as much as you can, Steve," Jesse declared. "No-one could ask for anything more."
He nodded, feeling a weight he hadn't been aware of shouldering slide away. He should have known that Jesse would understand, that he wouldn't push. But he had been castigating himself for so many hours about so many things …
Not getting there sooner.
Not being able to be with his dad.
Not being able to help Jesse before he was so badly battered - even now the split lip, dark bruising and dressing covering the sutures in his temple had the power to fling him back to that terrible place, where he had listened to his friend's laboured breathing and been convinced that he was going to expire at any moment.
Not being able to give Kyle the help that he had offered him so readily.
His father and his friend had demonstrated several times over what benevolence and caring could achieve. They had both proved many times that they possessed both of these qualities in spades.
And he had been on the receiving end from both of them today; helping to assuage his self-recrimination, his guilt and his sorrow. His father had laid a gentle hand on his face and had told him that whatever Steve did he knew that it would be the right thing and Jesse had now more or less told him the same.
Or were they just master manipulators - directing him onto a path of their choosing, even though it was one he had already decided to travel?
He smiled resignedly as this latter thought occurred to him.
It was uncharitable, definitely.
But it perhaps wasn't that far off the mark!

Mark woke up when the door to his room opened, his face lighting up with a delighted smile as he recognised his visitor.
"Jesse!" he exclaimed, his voice still a little husky from the after-effects of the intubation.
"Hey, Mark," the younger man greeted him with a dazzling smile as Steve wheeled him further inside. The wheelchair had been a compromise. Jesse had demanded to see the older man, despite the advice of Dr Barrett, Amanda and Steve, who had all been against him being up so soon.
But the young doctor was nothing if not determined - it was a trait he shared with a certain Chief of Internal Medicine - and had stated wilfully that if they didn't let him go, he would just wait till they'd all gone and do it anyway. Rather than risk his health - although there had been no signs thus far of any complications from the concussion save for the one debilitating headache - they had made a deal. He could go see his mentor and friend, providing he didn't walk there.
So after easing himself into the hated contraption, and with an irrepressible grin up at Steve and a jaunty 'forward ho!' he was taken the short distance to the older man's room.
Steve had smiled, shaking his head in fond indulgence as his young friend's natural ebullience returned, although, as they made their way down the corridor, he hadn't much appreciated the complaints that he was being 'too slow' and was 'walking like an old man'. He would have his revenge later, though. Much later.

"You look better than when I saw you last," Jesse said, airily, studying his older friend.
"So do you," observed Mark. "But should you be out of bed so soon?"
"Hey, I only had a concussion!" protested the young man.
"And a skull fracture, apparently," added Mark, pointedly.
The bright smile faded just a little at the cautionary words. He had already heard all of this from his doctor, Amanda and Steve. He didn't need to hear it from his mentor as well. "I feel all right."
"I'm sure you do. I just want you to be careful," temporised Mark.
The grin returned in full force, putting to shame the sun, which was streaming through the windows in apparent competition. "I always am!" asserted Jesse.
There was a derisive snort from behind him. "That's a matter of opinion!"
Jesse wasn't fazed by Steve's slur on his capabilities. He simply ignored him, focusing his full attention on his mentor. "How're you feeling, Mark?" he asked.
The other man grimaced a little as a restless movement sent a sliver of pain shooting through his chest. He waited a moment for it to subside before responding. "Like I've been shot," was his succinct response. "But I'm going to be fine."
"You certainly are," opined Steve decisively, almost as though he was daring anyone to argue with him.
"Course he is," Jesse agreed, softly. Then his smile faded and his gaze fell. "I … I only wish I'd been able to do more for you, Mark."
The older man sighed at his protégé's sudden change in demeanour. Jesse was staring fixedly at the bed, as though it was going to deliver up some heretofore undiscovered revelation. It was a slightly unexpected but not entirely atypical reaction from his young friend who took his responsibilities as a healer very seriously. Mark couldn't fault him for that - especially as, given the circumstances, he might very well have felt the same way had their positions been reversed. But it was entirely unnecessary.
"Jesse, you did everything you could," he said, softly but firmly, the steel he injected into his voice leaving no room for argument. "It was an impossible situation and a highly dangerous one at that. I was very proud of your courage and tenacity - even if you did get hurt because of it."
Jesse raised his head at that, regarding Mark with wide, shining eyes. "You were proud of me?" he whispered, incredulously. "Really?"
"Really," said Mark.
Suffused with a warm glow at the totally unexpected tribute, Jesse relaxed back into the chair, then winced at a sudden stab of pain in his temple.
Keen eyes missing nothing, Mark scrutinised his young friend carefully, seeing the warning signs of an encroaching headache.
A silent signal passed between the older man and his son and Steve grabbed the wheelchair handles. "I think we'd better get back to your room, Jesse," he said, casually, although he was frowning in concern behind Jesse's back. "Dad could use some more rest."
The pain was intensifying and was becoming more prolonged and Jesse wanted nothing more than to lie down, but he also didn't want to leave after just getting there. He didn't see through his friends' ruse but he did narrow his eyes as he took in the weariness on Mark's face, the lines of strain around the pale blue eyes, and realised that Steve was right. Mark wasn't up to long conversations just yet. He had just undergone major surgery not 24 hours before. It was time for him to leave the older man alone and let him recover.
"I'll … I'll be back later, then" he said. "If … if that's okay with you, Mark?"
Mark reached out, patting the hand that was now clasped tightly to the arms of the wheelchair as Jesse strove to control the pain. "I'd like that, Jess," he replied, sombrely. "I'd like that very much."

By the time Steve and Jesse reached the latter's room, the headache had returned in full force, pounding away fiercely behind his eyes, making it difficult to even think clearly.
Steve ended up supporting Jesse's full weight as he helped him from chair to bed, discreetly pressing the call button for assistance as he did so.
As he threw the covers over his friend, trying to ensure that he was warm and snug and safe, Jesse squinted up at him. "You … going to tuck me in?" he quipped in a pain-filled whisper.
"Only if you misbehave," Steve retorted with a gentle smile. "And then there'll be a rumour going around the hospital about you."
"Better … watch it, big guy," Jesse warned him, softly, with a small smile. "That rumour might include you, too. Might ruin your reputation as a big tough cop if you get to be known as a teddy bear instead."
Steve didn't have the opportunity to respond to that particular statement as the door swung open and Dr Barrett appeared. Taking in the younger man's condition at a glance he half turned to collect a hypodermic from the accompanying nurse and was at Jesse's bedside in a couple of strides. "This'll help," he murmured, swabbing Jesse's upper arm and then injecting the contents of the syringe into it. "I did warn you of the consequences of this," he went on, as the medication began to take effect. "I don't want to say, 'I told you so', but I did tell you so and next time, perhaps you'll listen to me before you decide that you know best. I know you're a doctor too, Jesse. But this time, you're a patient. My patient. And in this case, I know what's good for you and …" His voice trailed away as he became aware of Steve smirking at him. "What?" he demanded, a little irritably. He'd been waiting for a chance to scold the younger man, annoyed at having been so easily over-ruled earlier when he had only been trying to look out for his patient's welfare.
Steve wordlessly gestured downwards. Jesse was sound asleep, a slight smile on his face as he snuggled deeper into the bed. He looked the picture of innocence and virtue.
Dr Barrett sighed heavily. It seemed that he was destined to be thwarted in his attempts to make his patient aware of his own limitations. "Well, he isn't listening again," he said, dismally. "You know, I know the old maxim, 'doctors make the worst patients' but until I encountered Jesse Travis I never actually believed it was true. Does he always think he knows best?"
Steve shrugged. "Not always," he replied. "But he definitely follows his own rules. He's a lot like my dad in that respect."
"Yes, but your dad hasn't tried to persuade anyone to let him out of bed and do things he shouldn't be doing in his condition."
"Not yet," retorted Steve with a snort of laughter. "But give him time!"

His words proved prophetic a few days later when the surgeon who had operated on his father confronted Steve in the doctor's lounge, where he and Amanda were deep in conversation.
"I've about had it with your father!" Dr Bannister declared hotly, punctuating his words by slamming the door behind him.
Steve glanced up in bewilderment and not a little alarm whilst Amanda flinched at the sound. "Huh?" demanded the detective intelligently.
"Your father. My patient. The man who won't see sense and refuses to do what I tell him and is risking his own health in the process," elaborated the other man, practically flinging himself into the other chair at the table at which both friends were seated.
Steve sighed heavily and covered his face with his hands. "What did he do now?"
"He's demanding to be released," stated Bannister. "This two days after I find him down in ER, trying to treat a patient. He insisted that they were short staffed and needed the help. I told him that he shouldn't even be out of bed yet. Of course, then he launched into the 'I'm Doctor Mark Sloan, Chief of Internal Medicine and I know best' speech. Except he didn't quite put it that way, of course. No, no, he just tried to make me feel bad for confining him to bed when there were so many other people who needed his help. Well, right now, he needs help and if he doesn't start taking me seriously and looking after himself, I'm going to suggest that the help be psychiatric!"
The detective winced. He had a pretty good idea what his father would say to that suggestion. And he didn't want to be around for it. "What do you expect me to do?"
"Do?" echoed the surgeon nastily. "Do? I expect you to talk to him, Detective Sloan. I expect you to make him see sense!"
Steve uttered a brief, humourless laugh. "You expect me to make him see sense?" he said, incredulously. "Me? He doesn't listen to me, doctor. My father is very good at convincing people they're wrong and he's right. He does it in the nicest way, but he's had years and years of practice. Primarily on me. No, no, I don't think I'm your man."
"But he's your father!" Bannister pointed out, in amazement.
Steve shrugged. "Precisely!" he replied.
The other man wilted. Resting his chin in one hand he looked the picture of utter dejection. "You know, I never believed that doctors made the worst patients till I met Mark Sloan," he said.
This refrain sounded eerily familiar. Steve had heard it a few days earlier from another doctor about yet another member of his extended family, also, coincidentally a doctor who thought he knew best. "Welcome to my world," he said, miserably.
"So what do we do?"
"Do?" Steve echoed, perplexed.
"Yes, do."
"We could always tie him to the bed," the detective suggested. Then, "Nah, that'd never work. He'd get his partner in crime to untie him."
At the surgeon's expression of confusion, Amanda decided to enlighten him. "Jesse Travis," she said.
"Oh, right. Yes, Dr Barrett was complaining about him the other day. He discharged himself a week ago, AMA. He's back on duty. But surely he wouldn't let Dr Sloan convince him to do something against his better judgement?"
Amanda and Steve exchanged glances. "Jumping off a train," the pathologist murmured.
Bannister just looked more bewildered. "What?"
"Mark convinced Jesse to jump from a moving train once," she said. "And that's only one of the many occasions when he's managed to talk him into doing something he shouldn't."
The other man shook his head despairingly. "We don't stand a chance, do we?"
Steve smiled wryly. "Nope," he replied. "I think you'd just be better giving in, doc. When my father has his mind set on something nothing can dissuade him. And believe me, we've tried."
"Short of sedating him for a week and shipping him off somewhere where his partner in crime can't find him to release him, I think you're stuck," Amanda calmly informed the surgeon. "But don't worry. Once he's home, I suspect that he'll slow down. Mark might be slightly eccentric but he's not stupid. He knows he has to look over his own health. He's just notoriously bad at being a patient - especially in his own hospital."
"Plus he doesn't like the food," Steve added. "I don't understand it. That's the best part of being here! What?" he demanded then as two pairs of eyes turned in his direction, both equally aghast.
"And she says your father's eccentric," grumbled the other man. "Seems to me the apple doesn't fall far from the tree!"

Steve arrived home from the precinct very late a few days later. Kyle's arraignment had taken place a week before and his trial date had been set for the next day.
Jesse had already informed him that he had been subpoenaed by the State Attorney's office and that he intended to be a hostile witness and he had a nasty feeling that his father was going to tell him the same.
His suspicions were proved correct when his father met him at the top of the stairs into the living room brandishing a piece of paper.
"You've been subpoenaed," Steve stated, flatly. "And you're going to be a witness for the defence."
"You knew," responded Mark, falling into step beside him as the detective trudged into the room and flung himself onto the couch.
He nodded miserably. "Jesse got his subpoena yesterday," he said. "I just don't know how much good the two of you think you can do."
"Well, someone's got to do something for that young man," Mark declared. "Because let's face it, so far, he's had to do everything alone."
"Might I remind you - both of you, that he invaded a store, held hostages, shot you and beat up Jesse?"
"You don't have to remind me, Steve," his father shot back, wincing a little as the residual pain pulled at his chest. He was planning on returning to work the following week - although he hadn't chosen to inform his rather over-attentive son of that fact. He figured he would just go in after Steve had gone to work. That way they could avoid the inevitable disagreement that would ensue. "I still bear the scar, remember? But he didn't mean to do it. I knew that as soon as the gun fired. I don't know who was more shocked that it had gone off. Him or me. But I've already told you this. I've already given my statement. I don't know why I'm being called to testify on behalf of the prosecution but I don't intend to say anything that can make things worse for that young man."
"Me neither," interjected a new voice, from the shadows.
Jesse.
Steve hadn't realised he was there. He hadn't seen the VW parked outside but then, it was a very small car and it was easily missed. Then again, like its owner, it was distinctive and couldn't be ignored.
God, he really was exhausted. He was beginning to have internal arguments with himself about Jesse's damned car now!
"Jesse…" he began but the younger man cut him off.
"I know what you think, Steve and I understand, really I do," he said, earnestly, taking a seat beside the detective, the deep blue eyes boring a hole in the detective's skull. They were blazing with resolve and Steve knew that this was an argument he was never going to win. He didn't understand why he just didn't give in and admit defeat. Maybe he was a masochist at heart. "But we can't just let Kyle go to jail for something that he couldn't help."
"Something he couldn't help?" Steve echoed incredulously. "Jesse … Dad .. he held hostages! He was violent! He threatened people's lives!"
"Yes, but he's also not psychologically stable," pointed out his father, evenly. "You know that, Steve. You saw him. And you know why."
"Yes, I know," he snapped, "But …"
"And a psychiatrist has seen him and her opinion is that he should be helped, not locked away for something he didn't even realise he was doing," chipped in Jesse. "He wasn't all there, Steve. He was on a different plane of reality."
He glanced from one to the other, trying to formulate an opinion that wouldn't have either of them either jumping down his throat or arguing back. He couldn't find one. Dammit, he even agreed with them. Kyle had lost it by the time he had started beating Jesse to a pulp. In fact, Steve wasn't entirely convinced he'd been all there to begin with. 'Post traumatic stress' the psychiatrist was terming it. And with that argument, providing it could be proved, Kyle wasn't going to be locked away in a prison community where he would deteriorate further and probably end up killing himself if her prognosis was correct. No, he would be going to a secure facility where he could be helped.
And his father and his friend were going to ensure that was going to happen.
He had even promised Kyle that he himself would help him and, in fact, he had already taken steps to do just that - arguing with the State's Attorney about the punishment that should be meted out to the young man.
Their voices had been so loud that he was pretty sure that everyone in the court building had heard them. In fact, he wouldn't be at all surprised to find that some court reporter had already filed the story on the disagreement between the two. After all, the hostage situation had been a minor media event.
Tanis had simply stared at him like he had gone out of what remained of his mind when he had told her what he intended to do. Then she had turned her back on him and ignored him the rest of the day.
He was beginning to feel besieged - especially here at home, where he should be able to relax. Leaning back against the couch, he stared unseeingly up at the ceiling, wishing the whole thing would just go away.
A slender hand touched his arm and he turned to find himself being scrutinised by compassionate blue eyes. "Steve, I'm sorry," said Jesse, softly. "None of this is your fault and you're not the one who served the subpoenas. You even told Kyle you wanted to help him. I … I never thanked you for doing what you did to help get me out of there."
Before the detective could respond to that he found himself the subject of another concerned examination as his father perched beside him. "I never thanked you, either, son," he said. "I also never told you how proud I am of you for doing what you did under the most exceptionally difficult circumstances."
The beleaguered feeling faded away, to be replaced by a warm glow. He smiled, shaking his head in mild exasperation. "You should both know by now that I would do anything to stop you getting hurt," he said. "What did you expect me to do? Just leave you in there while I went to have a cup of coffee or something?"
Jesse snorted. "No, but …"
"Dad, Jess," he said, cutting off the younger man's protest before it could be uttered. "You're my family. I did what I did for purely selfish reasons. Because I didn't want anything to happen to my family. Okay?"
"Still, it must have been awful," Jesse mused, considering not for the first time what Steve must have gone through that day. Coming upon a hostage situation only to discover that his father and his friend were involved in it; keeping his head and negotiating with Kyle whilst knowing that his dad had been shot and then staying to continue negotiations when he should have been with Mark … "I owe you my life, Steve."
"Me too," added Mark, then added, slyly, "I understand there's a commendation in the works for you."
Steve simply stared at his father. "How did you …?" he spluttered. "No, no, never mind," he went on, resignedly. "I don't think I want to know."
"I have my contacts," said Mark, cryptically. "And it's well deserved."
The detective managed a nonchalant shrug. "Oh, it's nothing," he said, airily.
Both Mark and Jesse knew he wasn't as unaffected as he appeared to be. If they had gone through hell during that time, then so had Steve and yet he had managed to talk Kyle into letting Mark and the other hostages go and had risked his own life to save Jesse. It had been no mean feat and the reward was entirely justified.
Their two-pronged attack on him wasn't.
"Steve, neither of us intended to criticise you as soon as you walked through the door," the older man said. "In fact, we never intended to criticise you at all. You've done what you can for Kyle, I know that. You've started the investigation into his sister's attack and you've been there for him during his arraignment. Let's not talk about it any more. I've made dinner for us all and I happen to know that someone here is dying to get stuck into that food."
His eyes slid across to Jesse and that young man instantly tried to defend himself. "Hey, I only said it smelled delicious!" he exclaimed.
"And then you demanded to know when it would be ready," Mark reminded him with a smile.
Jesse pouted. "I wasn't 'demanding'. I was just curious."
Steve snorted at that. "Right," he said. "Face it, Travis. Your appetite is bigger than you are!"
"Are you accusing me of being short?"
The detective sniggered. "Who needs to accuse you?" he teased. "You are!"
"Hey!"
"Boys! Boys!" Mark was enjoying the banter but he thought it best to intercede before blows were exchanged - or Jesse tried to wrestle Steve into submission and found himself on the wrong end of the tussle. It would be fun to watch but he didn't think it would do the younger doctor's cracked skull any good. Jesse still suffered from the occasional debilitating headache and, although he had tried to work through them, had discovered, much to his chagrin, that he was unable to function and had, in fact, found himself confined to a hospital bed on at least one occasion. He hadn't mentioned it to Mark, but word got around, especially from concerned pathologists who happened to be a friend to both men.
The two younger men had the grace to look abashed at his admonishment and they subsided, but not before Jesse had stuck his tongue out at Steve. For his part, the detective ignored him, adopting an air of rank superiority that lasted all through dinner and irritated the heck out of his young friend - much to Mark's amusement.
It didn't have any effect on Jesse's appetite, though and he exacted his revenge when Steve had to leave the table at one point to answer the phone. Upon his return he was somewhat aggrieved, although not entirely surprised to find that not only had Jesse devoured his own meal, he had also finished off his.
Luckily Mark had foreseen such a situation and had prepared extra. With a warning glance toward his young friend, he had ladled some more spaghetti and sauce onto Steve's plate and the detective had eagerly tucked in, shooting narrow-eyed glares across the table toward his young friend, who seemed entirely unfazed by them.

The court case commenced the next day, the circumstances of the hostage situation tempered with the favourable testimony from Mark and Jesse, plus advice from the psychiatrist. Kyle was given a lenient verdict - sentenced to a secure institution where he could get the help he needed. The doctors there were ordered to report back after a year and if all had gone well, release would be considered.
It was the outcome that Jesse and Mark had wanted and even Steve was satisfied with it. He knew not everyone was pleased - the other hostages, for instance. But the media attention had worked for at least one of them. The business man had brokered a deal with a major publisher and was writing a book about his ordeal. He and the others had also all been approached by a couple of major TV networks about a TV movie documenting what they had gone through and they all stood to make a lot of money out of it.
So no-one really lost.
It was the best result for everyone, really.
But for Steve, that his father and his best friend were still walking around, fit and well - or nearly so - was the only outcome that mattered and he thanked god and providence every day for their survival.

END

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