A short fictional work based on the tv series 'Without a Trace'
Rating: PG-17 (Language, violence)
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the show or characters. This story is for entertainment purposes only, without profit or gain of any kind.
Note: First, thanks to all of you who've read both of my earlier Without a Trace pieces, Nothing Gold Can Stay from last year and more recently, In Extremis: Epilogue. I truly appreciate your kind and generous support, it really does make a difference hearing from you, it helps me write better.
A big huge Debt of gratitude to my friend and advise giver and most excellent editor, Christy. Thanks Pard, without you, this story wouldn't be here.
Warning, this story might be long, (those of you who've read my Magnificent Seven Fic's know how hard it is for me to write short stories. Stop laughing Laramee, I can hear you!)
Without Further interruption, let the tale begin.
Jack was halfway to the end of the pier when Danny surfaced with Martin, who was limp and unmoving. His heart nearly stopped as he watched the pair slowly head for shore. Had Danny been too late? Was Martin dead? He paused briefly, bending over to gulp much needed air and try to chase the dizziness that was gripping him, away. After taking several mouthfuls of sweet, fresh air, he straightened up, pulled out his phone and called Chris Boone.
"Chris?" he gasped, blinking as the dizziness lingered.
"Where are you?" Chris asked, entering the Wax Musuem. "Vivian is with the nun, the cops are here and there's a chopper with medics on the way."
"On the pier. Danny and Martin went under. Get help now, Martin isn't moving."
"Will do!" the blond team leader replied, quickly exiting.
Danny flipped Martin onto the wet sand and opened the stilled man's mouth. He bent down and placed his face close; there was no air coming out. He slapped Martin's wet face hard and there was no response.
"Goddammit! I'm not gonna lose you again!" he thundered to the pale body in front of him.
He tipped Martin's head back and began mouth to mouth resuscitation. He'd glanced back and saw Jack was on his hands and knees, having fallen or passed out. But since then, Jack had got up and was making his way toward them. As he counted off the chest presses, he saw a blond man running and cops just behind.
"Come on, man, come on," he pleaded and began the breath of life again.
"Danny, let me take over, you're about to keel over," Jack ordered, dropping next to the two wet bodies before he fell over.
"He's... breath...ing..." Danny gasped, hauling the sputtering man over his arm as half of the ocean seemed to exit Martin's mouth. He kept a hand on the damp shirted back and rubbed it hard. 'That's it, man, get that shit out." He felt Jack's hand on his own back and slumped down, the toll of the ordeal hitting him hard. He began to shake all over and his teeth were chattering.
"Flip him over, Danny, he can't breathe like that." Jack waited and saw how bad Taylor was shaking. "Danny! Turn him over!"
"Yeah," Danny rasped, gently turning Martin over.
Two blue eyes were peering up at him in total confusion. He realized now what the true meaning of exaltation was. He never felt such an intense feeling of glorification as he did now cradling the shivering, wet body. Praising the restoration of life where just seconds before the shadows of the Reaper had been present. He glared at the Grim Reaper in the shadows and didn't hide his defiance.
"Take your... fuckin'... scythe... and go back... to... Hell...." he whispered.
"Huh?" Jack eyed the empty space that Danny was staring at and the younger man didn't seem aware he was speaking.
Danny swallowed hard as the pain and grief of the past twenty four hours left harshly, leaving a deep bruise inside of him. Martin was alive and looking right up at him. The battered, pale face never looked better. He managed a crooked grin then, and a few words came out in a tense rasp. "You look like shit, Harvard."
The name split through the darkness Martin was lost in and cracked it wide open. With the new light came reasoning and memories. He wasn't lost anymore, he was home. He saw Jack Malone nearby and saw the lips moving but didn't hear the words. The hammering of his heart made it difficult to hear. He didn't know where he was or how he got here. He felt sick and his whole body ached, especially his head. He heard sounds and the grunts turned into words. The words lost their anonymity. He knew those voices; his mind told him to trust them. He blinked and moved his face as the blurriness cleared and he saw a familiar face grinning at him. He was resting against Danny Taylor's wet chest. Wet chest?
"Dan...nee..." Martin whispered, frowned and reached up to touch the wet collarbone. "... all... wet..."
"I've been telling him that for years, Junior." Jack's voice cracked with emotion. He laid a hand on the shivering Taylor's back and gave it a gentle pat. "Come on, I'll take him, you're beat."
"No." Danny protectively pulled Martin closer, "I got his back."
"...there... nee...."
"Right here, partner, you rest easy, you're safe now. You hear me? You're okay." Danny reassured as much for himself as for the injured man.
"...safe... now..." Martin repeated and kept both sets of emotive eyes in focus briefly before his own fluttered shut. He was safe; the echo of the waves he heard was his proof. He'd found safe harbor; he could rest.
That's how Chris found them; Jack Malone holding onto a shaken Danny Taylor who wouldn't relinquish his grip on Martin Fitzgerald. He knelt by Jack and gave the worn team leader's shoulder a good tug. The weary eyes came up under a ghastly scalp wound. His pale eyes rimmed the horizon when he heard the distinctive sounds of a helicopter approaching. It hovered briefly and then landed nearby. Victor said he'd have one there to meet them and he was true to his word.
"We're gettin' too old for this shit," Jack managed, moving as the medics arrived.
"Speak for yourself, Old Timer," Chris teased and helped Jack to his feet. That lasted a moment; Malone's knees went and sent them both to the ground. "Dammit!"
"You okay?" Jack blinked, recalling the serious concussion. He also didn't miss that Boone's gray suit was only a shade or two darker than his ashen complexion.
"No, I'm not okay!" Chris shifted, easing Jack onto his back, slipping his body out and kneeling beside him. "You're bleedin' all over my pants," he growled lightly and eyed the stain on his trousers.
"Serves you right," Jack noted, as Chris's face got a little blurry. "Wearin' fuckin' Armani on the job... probably cost more than my car."
"I got half a mind to send you the bill," Chris eased the shirt open and put pressure on the bleeding wound on Jack's side.
"You got the half a mind part right," Jack noted and tried to see what the medics were doing. "Martin? Chris, is he okay?"
"Yeah, they got a couple IV's started and oxygen going in from a mask. They're taking Danny in there with him." He frowned as a new team of medics appeared next to Jack. "What's up with the protective suits?" He jerked his head at the first team that were disappearing down the sandy path towards a helicopter.
"Fitzgerald's got something unidentifiable. Taylor gave him mouth to mouth, which makes him at high risk. Until they find out what it is and how it's spread, they'll keep them in quarantine." He eyed Jack Malone. "Did you assist in that maneuver?"
"No, Danny did it. I grabbed him inside, but I didn't really get a good hold, just the back of his shirt." Jack flinched and shifted so the medics could cut his shirt away.
"We can't take any chances, we'll let the hospital decide," the paramedic noted, inserting an IV line as his partner set up the oxygen. "Sir, you need to move." He waited and there was no response from the blond man. "Sir?"
"Jesus, Chris, if you get any closer we'll need a priest," Jack complained of the terrier's pit-bull like stance.
"Sorry," Chris whispered and moved, the final rush of events had him on an adrenaline high which now evaporated like a gutted balloon.
"Don't be," Jack saluted, tapping the expensive pants leg and catching the worn gray eyes. "Hey, Chris... my trunk... inside the park. The antidote is in a black bag. You tell them..."
"You got it, Jack." Chris saluted and watched them strap his friend down for the short distance to the waiting whirlybird.
He walked a few feet away and sat down on the edge of the old pier. His head was throbbing and he felt sick, but it was finally over. The dark storm that he'd been trapped inside, unable to vanquish the angry black sky, was finally gone. Through the dark shadows cast upon his horizon, the sun broke through. Its delicate rays stroked the sky and turned it a beautiful blue. Hope rose up and spread her wings, reassuring him that the new day had indeed dawned finally. That very thought left him weak and unable to move. He picked up the phone and dialed Victor, who was en route to the scene. He heard the older man's voice but for a few moments, couldn't find the right words. Finally it came, like sandpaper on gravel.
"He's alive, Victor."
"Thank God..."
The surging relief in the father's voice made the younger man pause long enough to recover. "He's on his way to Mount Sinai." he recalled of the medic's reply to Jack's question as they'd left. "Taylor saved his life. He fell into the ocean and somehow Danny found him under the waves and pulled him out. He wasn't breathing, Victor. Danny..." He paused and let out a long, well deserved lungful of air. "He put the breath of life back in him."
"Thank you, Chris," Victor's voice broke and he sat back hard in the passenger seat of the car. He frowned for a moment, recalling his discussion just the night before with a nurse at the hospital. "I thought Taylor was in the hospital?"
"'Was' being the key word there," Chris muttered, rubbing his sore eyes. "Once he got word about Martin being alive, he discharged himself."
"Jack?" Victor asked.
"He's on his way there too, wounded. We got lucky this time, damn lucky."
"That and the skill of a first rate, first line supervisor, Chris. I'm going to recommend you for a citation. What you did..."
"...was my job," Chris ended, resting his throbbing head in his hands. "No awards, thanks sir, but it's not my way. My team busted their asses; you give it to them, Jack's team too. "Taylor... hell, they broke the mold."
"Go home and get some rest son, that's an order." Victor stated.
"Yeah..." Chris sighed and shut the phone off. He leaned back against the uneven roped pilings and rested his throbbing head. The call of the gulls and the salt air took over then. He didn't now how much time had passed when a soft hand touched his shoulder.
"You alright? You never came back, I was worried."
"Hey pretty lady," Chris greeted Vivian Johnson wearily. "Damn, I'm tired. I feel like I went ten rounds with Ali."
"You should have ridden in that medical unit. You look awful." She helped him stand and then decided against it, returning him to his perch. "You stay put and I'll bring the car over."
"Get the black bag from Jack's trunk, the antidote is inside." He paused and studied the warm brown eyes regarding him. "It's finally over, isn't it?"
"We're all safe and in one piece,' she smiled and lightly touched the wounded scalp peeking at her from under pale hair. "Slightly dented and damaged but salvageable."
"You make me sound like a piece of furniture at a yard sale," he grumbled playfully.
"I'd take you home, honey. With a little polish and a lot of love, you'd be good as new." she gave hisshoulder a squeeze and left him with a naughty wink. "You sit tight, I'll be back soon."
"Hey Vivian?" He waited until she turned around and gave her his best, cockiest grin. "You ever get tired of that cranky, old man you work for; you give me a call, okay?"
"First on the list, handsome," she returned and flipped her phone open to call Sam back. "They're on their way home, Sam." After the long sigh of gratitude, she updated Spade on what had transpired.
"The circle's complete," Sam thought as she hung the phone up.
She flipped the news on and watched as the 'breaking news' alert went across the screen. There was a reporter by the entry to the Emergency Room. He gave a sketchy account of the missing agents being found at an abandoned amusement park. They flashed a photo of Jack and updated his recent hearing and then one of Martin. As the reporter was finishing up, the doors behind him swished open and she saw Danny being wheeled into the ER. She sat up and stared hard at his dazed face just before another gurney swept past.
"Oh God, Martin!" She winced at the corpse-like body and heard the reporter mention the young man being 'infected by an unknown virus'. "Jack?" She was relieved to see him sitting up on the gurney and that the wound didn't appear too serious. The doors shut and it was over. The reporter wrapped up and the anchor person's plastic smile appeared her coiffed head nodding as the regular programming resumed.
She turned the television off and rested her head against the pillows. Battered and bruised, they'd been bloodied and bowed by a nasty opponent. But like true warriors, they'd fought back and they'd won. It would be a few weeks yet before they could resume their normal places, supporting each other and using knowledge and instinct to find lost souls. But they were all alive, Gibson was in hell where he belonged and that was enough for now.
When the three men arrived, the team inside the top notch Emergency Room sprung into action. They were wearing protective masks, due to the one man being infected with a potentially contagious virus. Two were not injured seriously and one was identified as critical. He had a team of nurses working on him.
While the gravely injured man lay as a corpse, the busy ER team bustled around him. Orders were given, vital signs were taken and recorded, intravenous fluids noted and the extensive injuries catalogued and assessed. Life sustaining oxygen, antibiotics and more of the desperately needed fluids were administered to the unresponsive and battered body. The wet, tattered clothes were cut away, the scattering of minor wounds given a superficial cleaning and examined for further treatment.
Terry Miller zipped quickly between the three tables taking blood samples from the men. She attached the printed labels and handed them to the orderly to take to the lab for analysis. She returned as the medical resident was examining the head wound of the oldest of the three. He'd been patiently answering questions about his name and the date. She smiled at how his voice became more annoyed with every question.
"I'm fine," Jack insisted, nodding to Martin's pale and unmoving body. "You need to help Martin."
The resident's dark eyes then moved down to the patient's side and he gave new orders.
"This wound is infected It needs to be opened up and drained but the OR is unavailable right now. Let's get a minor wound tray up and lots of betadine and irrigation and let me see what I can do down here. Did he get any IV antibiotics? He needs a full skull series as soon as possible," Hasem Malik directed of Jack who was flashing his painful eyes between Martin and Danny.
"How is he?" Jack asked.
"Well." Malik turned briefly to see his associate Denise Traynor working on the man identified as Martin Fitzgerald. "He's in the best place he can be. He's young and strong, he should pull through."
"The CDC doesn't know what it is," Malone updated, "but I found the antidote, it's being brought here. Theresa DiSipio, the woman holding him hostage, she was giving it to him."
'She saved his life," Danny noted without opening his eyes. He was utterly spent, he couldn't move now if the hospital caught fire. "He damn near died on me when we were prisoners. Whatever she gave him, it did the job."
"DiSipio?" Terry Miller nodded, "She's upstairs in 515, they're holding her due to her close proximity to him." She nodded at Fitzgerald. "So far, she's shown no signs of it."
"What about Gibson?" Danny asked, eyeing Jack and the doctor. "That bastard started this whole thing, he was all over Martin."
"I dunno," Jack replied, "I don't think the coroner found any traces of it."
"You my friend are the only one we know of that had direct contact, sharing bodily fluids. Most likely that is how it is spread, so the others wouldn't have contracted it." Malik noted. "Who is this Gibson?"
Malik paused briefly and listened as Jack Malone gave them a very concise recanting of everything that had happened in the last few weeks. Now that they knew everything, he rested his aching head on the back of the examining table
"How you doin' boss?" Danny asked, reading the concern on the battered face.
"I'd been doin' better if I was at work, givin' you two orders," Jack replied and groaned. "I feel like stir-fried shit."
"Yeah," Danny agreed, he felt awful as well. "Damn, I'm tired."
'That's what happens when you leave a hospital before you're ready."
"It was warranted," Danny replied to Jack and watched the ever increasing group hovering around Martin.
"His blood pressure is one-hundred over sixty with a pulse of one-fifteen. Respirations are twenty-four and shallow, breath sounds somewhat diminished on the right." Traynor noted and gently probed the faded blue and purple chest. "Let's get the radiology tech in here for a portable chest film too. Have you gotten a temperature on him yet? He's burning up."
"One-hundred two point five," Terry replied, eyeing the latest reading.
"Let's put him on a cooling blanket and give him some rectal Tylenol, 650 milligrams," the resident dictated. "We need to get that temperature down before he has a seizure."
"Seizure?" Danny's half mast eyes popped open and a mask of worry lined his face.
"It happens sometimes with high fevers," the nurse taking his vitals replied. "Your fever almost at 100. You have your own fight to handle."
"I can stay with him right?" Danny inquired. "I mean they said on the chopper I was 'high risk' like him. I need to be there, he's gonna be confused when he wakes up."
"I don't know Mister Taylor but I'm sure everything will be done to ensure that..."
"I need to be in his room," Danny interrupted his pained face painted in an unmovable shade of determination.
Why didn't they understand? Didn't they see how helpless he was? Waking up alone in a strange place is bad enough. Having a high fever meant he'd be listless and just breathing would be a full time job. He had to know he was safe; that his back was covered. All those things were swirling in his mind when he decided to rest his aching eyes. He was still out of it when he was wheeled up the hall to an elevator, just behind his partner. He stirred briefly later, cracking an eye open and glancing at the pale green walls. His brows furrowed in confusion at the IV line attached to him. Then he heard a beeping sound and moved his dark eyes again. A surge of relief coursed through him when he saw his partner in the next bed.
"That's it, Harvard, you sleep. You're gonna suck up all the medicine and walk out of here, or I'll kick your sorry ass." he vowed, watching the red and green blips on the machine hooked to the pale chest until he too surrendered to dreamland.
It had been the longest day he could ever remember. He should be dead to the world, sleeping for a bazillion hours, but as night fell, Jack Malone remained awake. Vivian had arrived earlier with updates on Martin and Danny. She'd left about an hour ago, seeking a warm bed at home. He called Sam twice and spoke with her, he was glad she was making progress in therapy. Now it was almost nine o'clock and he remained lost in an uncomfortable place between sleep and wakefulness. He yawned, shifted in the bed and watched the pictures on the television. He kept it muted as his throbbing head didn't need the added discomfort. He rested his eyes a moment and then frowned. His nose twitched when the distinctive scent of Chinese food wafted by. He peeled an eye open and saw a container of Won Ton Soup being placed in front of him. Three more large containers came out of the box, reminding him that he'd skipped his dinner. He took the spoon offered as the visitor took his own soup and settled in the chair by the bed.
"Don't you have some big-breasted, unfortunate woman to play with?" Jack complained and frowned when there was no snappy comeback.
He opened the soup and took a spoonful, savoring the wonderful flavor. Jack's eyes didn't miss the blood stained pants his friend still wore. As he swallowed some of the delicate dumpling from the hot soup, he saw something in the pale eyes that he didn't like. Guilt was hovering there like an undeserving mask.
"What happened? You tailor wasn't open?"
Chris didn't reply and ate the soup without tasting it. After three spoonfuls, he put the container down and hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His fingers went to the maroon stains on the pants and he used his nail to chip away at some of it. Jack's blood was not only on his pants. The weight of how near he'd come to losing a close friend as well as the others lingered painfully.
"Don't go there, Chris," Jack warned, turning his full attention to his troubled friend, "And get your head up and look at me!" He saw the guilt then, so strong it was hard to look at. "No fuckin' way, lose that shit right now. How the hell can you possibly feel guilty? For what?"
"I fucked up, Jack." Chris sighed heavily and rose, walking slowly to the window. He stared at the black sky without the hint of a star for hope.
"That knock on the head really did screw up your brains!" Jack replied sharply and saw a flinch. "What? That's it? The knock on the head? That's what's eatin' at you?" A few seconds later the blond head dipped once. "For Christ's sake, Chris! How the hell was that your fault?"
"I should have seen him sooner." He thought of Martin Fitzgerald's body which had been dangling in the road. "If I'd reacted better..."
"It was three fuckin' a.m. you were working how many days without sleep? "
"He didn't get there by himself! I should have known Gibson was right there. I played the fool's harp but good."
Jack started to reply but he paused, swallowing his anger and choosing his words carefully. The pain that was written so eloquently on Chris Boone's handsome face was part of what made him the leader that he was. He felt things to the soul; he ached for his victims and bled for his team.
"It's over, Chris, don't do this to yourself." He saw the grimace then and a shaky hand rise over the pale face. "Jesus, you have a concussion, you should be home resting not babysitting me."
Jack saw the pale head turn and start to reply but then stop. He saw a lot more there in the pained gaze. A haunted shadow lingered on the fair man's features, something that went well beyond the realm of exhaustion. A hunger was gnawing away at Boone's insides; a rabid creature was chewing his way out from the inside. This guilt monster was the most lethal of all; for it was the one that often did the most damage.
"Is that why you're still wearing those damn pants?" Jack theorized aloud and saw the eyes flash briefly. "Lose the hairshirt now, Chris, I won't put up with bullshit like that and you know it. What the hell brought this on?"
"You didn't watch the news?" The downcast blond agent answered, finally coming away from the window and returning to the chair. "There was a press conference about an hour ago..."
"No why?" Jack frowned as the pale brows of his friend drew together in a grimace. He popped open a container of shrimp and vegetables in a light brown sauce. He stabbed a succulent shrimp from the top as the pensive body spoke
"There were a lot of questions about how Gibson pulled it off, how come we didn't find Johnson and Taylor sooner."
"They're vultures, Chris, you know that," Jack growled of the press. "Hell, we've been through stuff like this for years."
"Yeah, I guess, but..." He felt very queasy and sat back to catch his breath. "I forgot soda, I'm gonna get a coke. You want one?"
"No, I'm good." Jack held up a large cold container of ginger ale and watched him walk out. Then he dialed the phone. "Sam? Sorry, I know it's late. Did you see a press conference on the news?"
"Jack, is Chris there? I can't reach him," Sam fretted then her anger rose. "Victor wasn't there; they said he was at his son's side. Chris had to stand in for him, he gave a brief report and they were all over him. They kept hounding at him about how he let Gibson get away. That if he'd been doing his job better, Martin might not be in ICU, that Danny and Vivian shouldn't have been prisoners that long. That it was just lucky that they were found. They hinted that you wouldn't have been kidnapped if he'd gotten Gibson the night he got attacked on that road. One of them practically accused him of being negligent in his duties. It was awful, like sharks circling for the kill." She paused recalling his startled face in the glare of the television lights. "It really shook him up."
"Shit!" Jack hissed, hitting the bed with his fist. "Goddammit! He knows they're vultures, they love to pick on us instead of focusing on the monsters like Gibson."
"You need to talk to him, Jack, he'll listen to you." She was worried about him.
"Yeah, he's here, I'll do just that." He paused. "Thanks, Sam." He thought for a moment then dialed the operator. Martin and Danny were in an isolated area in ICU and there was no phone. "Yes, this is Special Agent Jack Malone, I need to page Victor Fitzgerald, it's urgent." He sat back when the operator put him on hold. A few moments later the annoying music stopped.
"Hello?"
"Victor, it's Jack. How's Martin?"
"Well," he sighed hard, eyeing his son's all too pale face through the glass walls of the ICU cubicle. "He's holding his own but the fever's putting up a good fight, his breathing is awful. Danny's sick too, his fever's up. The doctors keep saying it'll take time and not to worry but..."
"They're both fighters, they'll come out on top. I hate to bother you, Victor, but... did you happen to see a news conference about an hour ago?"
"No, why?" Victor listened as Jack explained what had occurred and felt his own anger rising. He nodded thoughtfully as the dark-haired agent ended. "I'll get a copy of the tape tonight. I'll have more information by tomorrow, the lab found a disc and a journal of Gibson's in the bottom of that bag. I'll have a conference of my own and set things right. I'll call Chris too... I'll do that now."
"He's here... well he was, he went to get a soda. Let me talk to him first."
"Okay, thanks for letting me know, Jack."
Jack finished his soup and the shrimp dish. He was putting the empty containers in the large bag they came in when Chris returned. It annoyed him no end that when you bled on the job, you were the one most likely to be a target. The dirty cops slept easy at night and didn't fight off wise-ass reporters. He sipped his soda and watched his friend hunker down in the chair.
"They're wrong, Chris."
"I don't know, Jack." He sighed hard and bent over, resting his elbows on his knees. "We have the best technology in the world at our fingertips and we couldn't find that bastard in our backyard. Hell, if Danny hadn't come up with the amusement park..."
"Could have, would have, should have," Jack snapped, 'It's all bullshit, Chris. Get your head up, you're no damn dog." He waited until the bruised eyes were trained on him. "I'm only sayin' this once, so listen up. The only reason I'm here, alive, Danny and Vivian are alive and Martin is alive is because of how you wear the badge. End of story, okay? There's nobody else I trust like you, you know that. Those fuckin' assholes with microphones... you'd take their word over mine?"
"No!" Chris said too quickly and then realized how wrong he'd been. Malone had almost been totally honest with him from the first case they'd worked over ten years past. "No, Jack, I wouldn't. I guess I short-changed you a bit."
"Just a bit," Jack replied and sat back. He saw the hand snake onto the tray and pop a container open. The face soured immediately. "What? You got rat shit in the rice?"
"Where's my shrimp?"
"Halfway to the plumbing system." Jack retorted patting his satisfied gullet.
"That was mine!" Chris answered, making a face at the box he held. "This is that spicy chicken shit you like."
"Kung Pao? I'll have the nurses put it away for lunch tomorrow." Jack trumped. "You still have some soup."
"It's cold," Chris pushed it away, "I can't believe you ate my dinner."
"Hey, who's the invalid here? You'd deny me a lousy shrimp when I'm lying in a stiff hospital bed?" Malone grumbled and then nodded to the door, "like you'd have any trouble talking one of the nurses into heating it up for you. That redhead probably has your ass memorized by now anyhow."
"Hey, she was hot." Chris stood and collected his cold soup. "Did you see how well she filled out that uniform?"
"I hadn't noticed," Jack returned and kept a straight face. "I was more interested in her other attributes."
"You're full of shit, Malone!" Chris teased and stood up, pausing at the door. He relaxed for the first time in hours and felt like that albatross was off his back. "Hey, Jack, thanks."
"Don't thank me yet, you didn't get her number," Jack answered with a grin and relaxed when he saw the guilt demon skitter off.
Danny stirred and blinked his way into the grayish annoying light that clung to the Intensive Care Unit. His head ached, this throat hurt and his leg was throbbing. To quote his boss, he felt like 'stir fried shit'. His eyes automatically went left and he frowned at the curtain that separated him from his partner. Although they shared the same large glass cubicle in an isolated end of the Unit, he couldn't see the ill man. He saw a pair of legs under the curtain and sat up, groaning out loud when some miniature sadist starting shooting tiny spears from a hidden area behind his eyes.
"Mister Taylor?"
"Who?" Danny grimaced as a cool hand rested gently on his forehead. The sheer sensation of something that cold on his hot brow made him moan in pleasure. "That feels good... nice and cold..."
"You should be resting," she replied and poured him a cold mug of water. "Here, you need to get fluids inside. Your temp is up and that's why you feel so bad."
"It's Danny," he noted, taking the straw she held and taking a good long sip. "Damn, that's good."
"I'm Roz, my partner Rick and I are assigned to take care of you and Mister Fitzgerald-"
"Martin," Danny corrected and chuckled. "Don't call him Mister, he'll get pissed off, that's his old man. Don't make that mistake."
"Okay," she agreed. "You need anything at all, you just push this buzzer. We're here until eleven tomorrow morning."
"How is he?" Danny fretted and lifted his IV'd arm. "You need to move that curtain. I can't see him."
"We were changing him. That will be down soon. You're close?"
"He's my partner," Danny said and didn't hide his pride. "He's doing better, isn't he?"
"Well, if you promise to behave and get some sleep, I'll check with Rick, he's taking his vitals now." She saw him grimace and his hand move to his wounded leg. "You put too much pressure on it too soon, we had to reopen it, clean it out and resuture. You have to stay off it, understood? It won't be long until you're back on the field kicking field goals."
"...not me... quarter... back..." Danny managed with a yawn.
"Oh, Big Man on Campus?" she teased and saw a slow grin, he had a very charming smile.
"...get the best lookin' cheerleaders..." He wagged his brows and got a soft laugh.
She saw the eyes fighting and leaned down. "Get some shuteye. That's an order."
"Martin?" he persisted.
"Hold on, I'll check." She left his bedside and went across the room. Rick Davis was just adjusting the IV drip. The pale young man on the bed hadn't stirred since his arrival. "How's he doing?"
"Not too good. His temperature isn't going down and his breathing is ragged. He is responding to stimuli though, I noticed some facial twitching and movement. Hopefully he'll be awake by morning. I'm gonna call Doctor Malik and see if maybe he can order some nebulizer therapy."
"Okay." She eyed the pale face in the bed and brushed back an errant lock of hair that fell over his forehead. "You fight, sugar, you hear?"
Danny kept his heavy eyes trained on the damned curtain, willing it to move. Sure enough, it was slowly pulled around and he forced his full, albeit waning, eyes toward the unmoving body. Martin's corpse-like state turned his stomach around. He swallowed hard and thought of the lost soul he'd encountered in the Wax Museum. Then he went back in time and recalled his feisty partner arguing with him in the car on an interstate. Hope shimmered and he hung on to it for all it was worth.
"Don't you die on me, Harvard," he whispered as the nurse made her way towards him.
"He's holding his own... but his fever is high and he's having some trouble breathing," she told the worried face.
"What's that thing in his nose?
"A nasogastric tube, it goes to his stomach," she answered.
"He won't like that," Danny decided as she turned to leave. "He's the king of junk food. Drives our boss crazy. Martin eats more sh... crap than anybody you ever met and he's got like a thirty-three inch waist."
"Well, he's in the best place now and it won't be long before he's scarfing down pizza and burgers again," she promised.
He was so still and silent it broke her heart. The only sound was the unnerving beeping of the monitors nearby. The nursing supervisor mentioned he'd stirred twice earlier. His eyes opened but he didn't seem to be aware. But she hoped that was a good sign that her boy was coming back to her. She ran her fingers through the damp, brown hair and winced. In her mind's eye, she still saw the little boy with wide blue eyes whom she'd tucked into bed every night. He was always inquisitive, dozens of questions spilling from his lips. It seemed a good fit, the career he chose, he was still asking questions and answering them. Where had the years gone? Still, when he slept, she saw glimpses of that outgoing child who grew to be a man she was so very proud to call her son. She bent and kissed his forehead, then turned to the window.
It was a brilliant sky outside, a shade of blue just past glorious. A day that her outdoorsman son would have loved to have spent climbing a mountain or riding a raft down a churning river. She shivered when she thought on how close she'd come to losing him this time. She knew she was more than just lucky. Not just to have beaten the odds, but for having him find such a caring team. The men and women Martin worked were a true team, looking out for each other and caring very deeply. And her son had found a true champion in Daniel Taylor. The likable young man had nearly died saving her son's life. She heard a series of wet coughs and turned to see the very man she'd been thinking of struggling in the bed.
"Hold on, Danny."
It seemed he was trapped in a hellish place, alternating between cold and hot. Either the sheets were smothering him or causing him to shiver. A hand drew his head up and he moved his head as the pillow was turned around. The half-mast, fevered eyes saw a small women next to him with dark hair. She wasn't the nurse, but he knew her somehow. A moment later a mug was presented to him. He used the straw well, draining the mug. Gasping for breath, he heard her mention 'lunch' coming soon and nodded mutely. Jean, that was her name; it was Mrs. Fitzgerald. Danny wanted to thank Martin's mother but all he could do was sneeze. He took the tissues and cold water and managed a half-smile. He laid his head back and closed his throbbing eyes. He felt a hand on his forehead and peeked up at her. The easy fingers slid though his spiky hair and he relaxed immediately. It was that touch, a mother's touch, something he'd missed most of his life that got his throat to tighten. He saw now where Martin got his very expressive blue eyes. For several hours, off and on, whenever he peeled his eyes open he watched her tend to her son.
"You know, God don't waste that," he rasped.
"Waste what?" she puzzled.
"A mother's touch... it's a gift. Sometimes I forget how good that feels. My mom... I was only ten... she died."
"I'm sorry, Danny."
"Thanks." He coughed again and shook his head. "These Harvard germs are putting up a good fight."
"It's a losing battle," she vowed and watched his eyes drift over to her son's bed. "You know I feel like I know you already. Martin's always talking about you. He never stops praising you. The way he talked I expected you to be at least ten feet tall."
She smiled then, just for him and he couldn't help but smile in return. She was a nice lady, a gentle soul. He definitely saw a lot of Martin in her. He would bet she had a good sense of humor too, like her son. The mask hid the lower part of her face but the smile radiated from her eyes. Then she poured some of the ice water onto a cloth and wiped his face. He didn't hide the moan of pleasure that it caused.
Jean Fitzgerald gave his shoulder a pat and issued an order. "Now close those eyes and rest. I can't have either of my boys letting those nasty germs win, right?"
"Right!" Danny smiled, drifting to sleep and holding on to the word 'either'.
Victor paused in the doorway and frowned at the distress on his wife's face. He made his way to the side of the bed where she sat next to their ailing son. He put both hands on her shoulders and massaged them a bit. He saw her eyes were red; she'd been crying. Martin had always been her special child, the miracle baby. He only hoped his son had beaten the odds again.
"He's doing a little better."
"He's so frail... his hand... look at his hand... he's so cold... too cold..." she choked and lifted the limp hand; stroking the stilled fingers. "My little boy... my precious gift..."
For that is what he was to her, a gift, the very finest sent by God on the wings of a dove. She knew he was special the first time he stared up at her just a few hours after he was born. He'd been premature, kept in an incubator and hooked up to machines. That made him angry and that feisty attitude is what the doctor's credited then with his beating the odds.
"Do you remember that first night after he was born?" she whispered and felt her husband's hand move over hers. He lifted Martin's hand and held on tight. Both of their hands held onto their son's now. "They said he wouldn't live that night out."
"He's a fighter, Jean, the boy has an unconquerable spirit. He showed them then," he paused, his voice cracking as the image of the very tiny baby lying under the heated lights in the incubator came back, "and he'll show them now. I brought that boy into his world and put a name on him. I'll be damned if some virus is gonna take him. Mark my words; he's going to beat this."
He kept his eyes on his son's almost waxen face and felt his gut clench. He had hoped for better news by now, but Martin wasn't any worse. If only he'd wake up; if they could just see him looking back at them, it would make all the difference. Somewhere trapped within the limp body in the bed was a fire. He held onto that and thought of that winning spirit his son possessed. That fire in the stormy blue eyes that often locked onto his in verbal battles. He moved past his wife then and kept his hold on the cold hand. He put his other hand behind Martin's neck and lifting the damp head slightly he bent close to Martin's ear and issued a stern command.
"You fight like hell, boy!"
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