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Chapter Nine

The snow had not stopped, but it was not falling nearly as hard as it had the day before, Jesse thought, peering through the window. He had a pleasant enough room, with a small fireplace even, but he had felt guilty at the thought that his best friend was stranded somewhere in the blizzard, so he had deliberately refrained from using it. He was starting to shiver, though, and the firewood was looking very appealing. He finished the excellent breakfast the proprietor, a large, kindly woman, had insisted he eat, and was starting to struggle into the borrowed coat when she called him to the phone.

It was Gillian; Jesse's world suddenly acquired a rosier hue before the guilt returned and gave him a mental wallop. "Dr. Travis? It's Gillian Tolliver. Could you possibly make another house call?"

I'd love to, he thought, until he remembered the transportation situation. "Of course. Except --" he trailed off, embarrassed.

Amazingly, she understood what he was trying to say. "I'll come get you. I can -- leave Paul for a little while."

Her voice sounded strange, especially the slight hesitation. "Is Paul --" he started to ask, but she interrupted him. "I'll be there in twenty minutes," she said hurriedly, and hung up.

Puzzling, Jesse retrieved the inherited medical bag, wondering what sudden occurrence had put that odd note of strain in Gillian's voice. When, true to her word, she arrived exactly twenty minutes later, he climbed into her ancient truck and finished his question. "Is Paul having problems?"

Gillian threw him a startled glance. "No, Paul's all right. It's -- we had a guest arrive unexpectedly, and he had an accident, while hiking. I think you'd better take a look at him."

Something was definitely off, but he couldn't pinpoint it. Her attention, however, was clearly focused on the still treacherous road, so any questions about her "guest" or the antiquated vehicle would obviously have to wait. He would find out soon enough.

The patient could hear the low murmur of voices in the next room, and wondered vaguely if they were talking about him. He considered calling out, but it seemed to be too much trouble. He was definitely uncomfortable, though; daylight was pouring in through the curtains and battering at his eyelids mercilessly. If he was to go back to sleep with any degree of success, he was going to have to force his sluggish body to roll over, regardless of its inclinations to the contrary. Taking a deep breath, he made an effort and rolled to his right, away from the unwelcome sun, and landed hard on his injured arm.

Steve jerked from his somnolent state abruptly as fire raced up his arm, a grunt of pain escaping him involuntarily. He lay frozen, eyes squeezed tightly shut, as he tried to ride out the agony in his arm as well as the other screaming, newly awakened nerve endings in his abused body, ribs naturally doing their best to outyell the rest. Outside his room, the voices halted, and he heard footsteps, presumably belonging to the owners of the voices, come into the room.

Then a voice he knew. "Oh, my God. Steve."

And a familiar touch on his wrist and forehead as his best friend once again became his doctor, prying his clenched eyelids open. "Where the hell have you been, Steve? I've been worried sick."

He focused one bleary eye on his partner. "Playing in the snow, Jess."

"I see that." Jesse's voice was grim. "Gillian, would you mind bringing some water? I'm going to take this bandage off." He returned his attention to his patient, and flushed at the raised eyebrow. "What?"

"Gillian?" Steve inquired, with considerable emphasis.

The red deepened. "We met yesterday. I came out to look at her son," Jesse said carefully, attempting to sound nonchalant despite the betraying color. He deliberately started to undo the bandages on Steve's arm on the premise that he could distract his friend from additional teasing.

His assumption was correct; Steve flinched in spite of himself as Jesse worked a particularly recalcitrant piece free. "Jess --" he started, breath hissing out as the bit of bandage gave.

Jesse slid him a stern look from under his lashes. "Let that be a lesson to you. No jumping about or fussing at your doctor." His eyebrows lowered as he frowned at the ugly wound. "How did you do this, Steve?"

Steve scowled at him. "I fell."

Some information was obviously missing, and Jesse was not amused. "Fell how? And where?"

"I told you," Steve replied grumpily. "I was out in the storm. Fell and stabbed myself with a branch. Not," he added with a certain understandable asperity, "that I went out in it on purpose."

Jesse stared at him. "What are you talking about? They said you'd escaped. They told me they'd searched for you until the weather got too severe."

His best friend laughed, a short, ugly sound. "I don't think so, Jess. I remember passing out after you left with Hill. Next thing I know, I'm waking up halfway up the canyon, lying in the snow, without even that so-called blanket. Bastard had them dump me there."

"Flynn and what's-his-name, Howard?" Jesse asked automatically.

"Yeah. Sorry excuses for deputies. I guess they figured I'd die of exposure or encounter the proverbial mountain lion or something."

There was a sudden thud, followed by a splash, as the bowl Gillian was carrying hit the floor, splattering water in all directions. She ignored it. "What did you say?" she asked urgently, advancing into the room.

Jesse stepped in before Steve could repeat the accusation. "Steve, Gillian and Sheriff Hill --"

"Are friends, old friends," she interrupted. "Is there a problem, Jesse?"

Oh, so that's how it was, Steve thought. Then the situation rapidly went downhill, as Gillian turned those sea eyes on him. "You were saying something about John Howard?"

Steve was still too foggy to think clearly. "Yeah. He and his pal Flynn left me out in the canyon in the storm. That's how I ended up on your doorstep."

She stared at him. "And I am to assume that you're accusing Roger Hill of having something to do with it?"

Steve saw Jesse's stricken expression too late. "Yes."

Her voice was even, quiet, and frosty. "You're saying the man who got me through the first months after my husband was killed in a hunting accident, the man who has tried to be a surrogate father to my son, deliberately ordered what amounts to your murder."

His eyes and tone were equally chilly. "Yes, I am."

Gillian glanced at Jesse, who was occupying himself wiping up the spilled water, then returned her focus to the man in the bed. "I don't believe you."

Steve started to shrug, and grimaced with pain at the injudicious movement. "That's your prerogative. But it's a cold, hard fact that Roger Hill tried to kill me almost twelve years ago because I was going to turn him in to Internal Affairs, and he lost his shield as a result -- and he's the one responsible for most of the black and blue marks you mentioned before." A wince as excessively helpful ribs twinged, as if to corroborate his statement. "And I truly doubt Howard and Flynn acted on their own initiative."

Tiny little flames were leaping in her eyes. "I suppose you think he had something to do with my husband's death, too."

Steve was sick, hurting and generally fed up with Destiny and its inhabitants. "Got him closer to you, didn't it?"

Jesse sucked in a breath at his partner's deliberate offensiveness; Gillian ignored him and stepped closer to the bed so her voice wouldn't carry out into the hall. "Roger was Andy's deputy, and his best friend. He was devastated when Andy died." The cold eyes flicked towards the window and back to Steve's face. "The weather's going to turn again soon. Dr. Travis, I'd appreciate it if you'd get your friend ready to leave. I'll drive you back to town. What you do then is up to you -- but I want you both out of my house." She turned on her heel and stalked out, leaving unrelieved tension in her stead.

Jesse finished his self-imposed chore and stood up with the bowl in his hands. "I'm going to get some more water," he said shortly, and exited in his turn, leaving his best friend glumly contemplating the prospect of the long, uncomfortable drive back to Los Angeles.

Chapter Ten

Gillian had retreated to her room, where she slumped down on the bed and stared into the mirror, perturbed by her own behavior. Even as the anger caused by Steve's accusations had coursed through her, she had felt the pull of those vivid blue eyes, had been drawn by their intensity. She found herself automatically comparing her visitors, until she realized with a start that, despite his rudeness and disturbing claims, she was more intrigued by Steve than his friend, who was obviously much more kind and considerate. What was wrong with her, she wondered; this should have been a no-brainer. And, in any event, she wanted them to leave -- she thought. She rubbed her hands over her face, took a deep breath, and went to find Jesse so she could apologize for her outburst.

She had her hand on the doorknob when she heard low voices inside, and the obvious strain in both as she stood listening persuaded her to rethink her plan. Instead, she turned and headed for the kitchen, with the idea of making them sandwiches as a peace offering, casting a worried eye at the darkening sky as she walked through the living room.

The first faint trickle of renewed snowflakes was starting to fall, but the temperature inside the guest room was far chillier as Jesse finished rebandaging Steve's arm and raised angry eyes to his friend's face. "I want to check your ribs," he said curtly.

Steve pushed the hands away. "They're fine," he said mendaciously. "Jess --"

Jesse shook his head. "I don't want to hear it, Steve. Now let me see your ribs."

Steve stared at him. "Not until you tell me what you've got going with Gillian."

His best friend glared back, obviously contemplating physical mayhem. "Why? So you can tell me how stupid I'm being?" he snapped.

Steve blinked. "No. I just want to know what's going on --"

"What's going on," Jesse interrupted, "is that any chance I might have had for any kind of meaningful relationship with a very attractive woman, who seemed to return my feelings, has now gone down the toilet, thanks to you."

Stung, Steve retorted, "Oh, and Roger Hill doesn't come into consideration here at all?"

Jesse shook his head. "I don't know -- but they are friends. However -- she wasn't looking at me like just a friend -- or at least until you started in on him."

The fact that Jesse essentially was right gave him pause momentarily, but Steve ignored the twinge of conscience. "And just what would have happened when Hill found out? Or hadn't you planned that far ahead?"

"Steve, you don't understand."

He shook his head, trying not to wince. "No, Jess, you don't understand. Hill is an amoral, opportunistic psychopath. I'll bet anything he was involved in Tolliver's so-called accident. He finds us here, we're sitting ducks -- and then Gillian and Paul's safety is compromised as well."

Jesse stared at him coldly, unwilling to consider the possible truth in Steve's words. "Obviously nothing I can say is going to convince you otherwise. So let's get you some clothes and get out of here before you and Hill go for round two."

Steve sighed in exasperation. "Jess --" he started, but was interrupted by Gillian, who looked as if she was trying to ignore the last part of the conversation.

"Here are some clothes which might fit," she said, her tone deliberately neutral. Steve took them, thanking her equally colorlessly, and withdrew to the bathroom, shaking his head briefly in response to Jesse's automatic but not particularly sincere offer to help. The young doctor frowned at his friend's back and turned to Gillian, who was gazing in that same direction pensively. "Gillian, I --"

She put a hand on his arm. "Don't apologize; I understand." She flicked another concerned glance at the window. "I'm going to check the weather report," she said quickly, and slipped out, leaving him to sink down on the bed, where he leaned his chin onto his hands, contemplating the closed bathroom door and his own conflicting emotions. Thus distracted, he hardly noticed when Steve emerged, good arm thrust through the sleeve of a denim work shirt, injured arm hanging awkwardly.

"Jess? I could use some help with this if you don't mind --"

Unhappy brown eyes met perturbed blue ones; then Jesse sighed and stood up. "Yeah, sure, Steve. I'm sorry -- this isn't your fault."

Steve's mouth twisted. "I haven't helped the situation any." He looked around. "Where is Gillian, anyway?"

Hands occupied with easing the wounded arm into its sleeve, Jesse jerked his head sideways. "Probably in the kitchen -- that's where the radio is."

"Radio?" Steve asked, trying to suppress the twinge of alarm.

Jesse nodded. "Weather report. She seems to think the storm will get worse."

Steve directed a glance at the window. "It doesn't look good out there." He squared his shoulders and secured the final button. "I'm going to go bite the bullet and apologize to the lady of the house." He held up a hand as Jesse started to speak. "Jess, let me go eat crow, okay? Trust me." He turned and headed for the door, trying not to limp too visibly.

Gillian was in the kitchen, worriedly regarding the world outside as a not very encouraging forecast crackled out of the radio speaker. She turned as he entered, and he felt an unexpected jolt as the clear eyes met his. "Gillian --" he started, and stopped, temporarily at a loss for words.

Those disturbing eyes glanced outside again, then returned to focus on him. "What is it, Steve?"

Another shock at her unexpected use of his first name, and the caress in her voice as she said it. He had a disconcerting feeling of teetering on the edge of a pit, and grabbed at his reason for seeking her out in an effort to regain his emotional balance. "Gillian, I'm sorry. What I said before -- I was out of line. I didn't mean to --"

Before he could finish, she was standing in front of him, delicate face raised, sea eyes compelling. "It's all right," she breathed, and the small hands whose competence he had already had occasion to notice reached up to pull his head down to hers, as his arms circled her automatically and their mouths met. He lost himself temporarily in the intoxication of it before sanity thundered through his brain. Infinitely gently, he disengaged her hands and drew back slightly.

"Gillian. That -- that was very nice --" His wits, having successfully fended off immediate danger, now fled cravenly at the prospect of explaining himself.

She watched the emotions flicker across his face, debating whether to help him or not. Not. "But?" she asked.

Steve was visibly uncomfortable. "But I --" Gillian merely gave him an expectant look, and he resigned himself to his fate. "I'm -- I'm involved with someone."

Strangely enough, it didn't feel like an excuse, nor did it bother him to say it. She remained silent, and some perverse force encouraged him to continue. "Seriously involved," he added, realizing with almost pleased shock that the statement was true, and that his confused heart had finally made its decision, bearing out the promise made to him by his alleged kinsman that fateful day months earlier.

Gillian gave him an appraising look. "That's a shame," she said calmly. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, still marveling at the revelation. Finally, his voice found itself. "I'm sorry, Gillian. If circumstances --"

She smiled. "Were different. I understand."

He waited, but she seemed disinclined to continue. After a lengthy, awkward moment, Steve cleared his throat. Time to do something helpful for Jesse for a change. "Besides, I couldn't do that to Jesse. He's my best friend."

Gillian looked startled. "Do what?"

Steve smiled down at her. "Jesse's interested in you, you know."

She blushed. "I -- know." And, as Steve waited patiently, she added, "He seems like a good person."

Steve's expression sobered. "Seems, nothing. I'd trust him with my life."

"You're probably right," Gillian said thoughtfully. "Maybe I should give him the opportunity." She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. "Thank you, Steve."

After returning the embrace, Steve extricated himself gently. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said, and limped off towards the living room, where he sank gratefully into a chair to wait, frustrated by his weakness.

Jesse found him there shortly thereafter. "I thought you were looking for Gillian," he remarked acidly.

Disturbed by the worsening view through the window, Steve failed to notice the bite in his friend's voice. "I already did," he replied shortly, preoccupied by the snow.

"And I gather you *resolved* the problem?" Jesse inquired.

This time, the edge registered. "What is it with you, Jess?" Steve asked, irritated. "First you fuss because I upset her. I make peace with her, and you're still not happy. Just what is it you want me to do?"

"Don't you have enough women in your life right now?" Jesse demanded, obviously making an effort to hold onto his temper.

Totally lost, Steve stared at him, mouth open; then the penny dropped. "Jess, I didn't -- I wasn't --"

His best friend's voice was cold. "Weren't what? Weren't kissing her in the kitchen? Just what would you call it, then?"

Steve swore under his breath. "Jess, listen to me. I -- it wasn't what you think."

"And wasn't what I saw, either?"

Jesse had moved towards the other window in his agitation; Steve twisted to face him and grunted involuntarily as his midsection protested. Jesse twitched reflexively, but stood his ground, correctly assuming any medical admonishment from him would not be well received, as Steve stood up slowly. "And just what was it you saw, Jess?"

Jesse automatically took a step back; even in his weakened condition, Steve looked suddenly -- dangerous. "You were kissing her," he said defensively. "After all that snarling at each other, there you were with a lip lock on her. And you knew I'm interested in her. And," he added unexpectedly and not entirely fairly, "just how do you expect me to look Cheryl in the eyes after that?"

"What!?" The snap in Steve's response would probably have been more impressive if his voice hadn't cracked on the word. His left hand instinctively seeking the support of the chair back, Steve swallowed and tried again. "What are you talking about, Jess?" he asked slowly.

Dispassionately, Jesse took notice of the white-knuckled hand and the slight tremor in the voice, but wisely refrained from pointing out his friend's obvious weakness. But the unexpected panic in the blue eyes dismayed him; had Steve really thought he had successfully concealed his feelings for his partner? He shook his head. "Never mind."

Too late. The grip on the chair tightened along with the muscles in Steve's face. "No, Jess. You weren't just aimlessly tossing invective. You meant what you said." The strained look was deepening as his body objected to its upright position, until Jesse could bear it no longer. "All right, I'll tell you -- if you'll sit down before you fall down."

He would have refused, but his vision was starting to acquire ominously grey edges, and his knees really didn't feel particularly steady anyway. Steve nodded and sank into his chair wordlessly, trying not to gasp with relief. "Talk to me, Jess."

Jesse pulled another chair closer and flopped into it. "Steve -- you're in love with Cheryl, aren't you." The silence which met his comment was unsettling; he gathered his nerves and rushed on. "Ever since that weird business with that sea-thing --"

"Selkie," Steve said automatically and somewhat grumpily.

"Whatever. It's been pretty obvious --"

Now Steve definitely looked alarmed. "Obvious?"

Jesse shook his head. "Whoa. To me, Amanda, Mark -- not the whole world, maybe."

A startled blink. "Dad, I can see -- but you and Amanda too?"

"Steve -- we're your best friends."

It was said simply, quietly, but, in conjunction with his mounting guilt for his earlier behavior, it stabbed deeply. He ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips, ashamed and at a loss for words. "Jess --" The other man said nothing, waiting, and Steve forced the words out. "I'm truly sorry, Jess. Gillian -- it really was unintentional -- and we neither one of us meant it."

Temporarily distracted from the other burning question, stung by the remark, Jesse demanded, "Then why did you do it?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know, Jess. Neither did she." He raised his head to look his best friend in the eyes. "But we both realized it was a mistake -- she doesn't want me, and I --"

"Want Cheryl," Jesse said inexorably. "What are you going to do about it?"

Steve damned the post-injury illness and weakness which refused to let him out of his chair. Anywhere but here, any time but now, he thought. Then a memory of luminescent eyes and velvet mouth pushed its way gently but firmly into his awareness, and he finally acceded to its irresistible demand. "I guess I'll have to tell her, won't I?" he ventured carefully, still apprehensive about turning his feelings into reality by virtue of the spoken word.

His best friend stared at him somberly. "That would be the best approach, don't you think?" Steve didn't respond, and Jesse's irritation percolated again. "Steve, did you think if you waited long enough, she'd do it for you?"

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I've -- that's usually when things start going down the tubes." Jesse remained unhelpfully silent, so he continued reluctantly, "Even Rachel -- once it turned into a normal relationship, it went south. We're not --"

"And then there's Cheryl," Jesse pointed out obligingly.

"Yes." Steve blew out a breath and shifted, trying to get comfortable. The movement sent a grimace of pain flitting across his face, and Jesse relented.

"Steve, I don't think the weather's going to let up any time soon, and you need rest. I'm going to give you something for that arm, and I want you to take a nice, long nap."

"Jess, I'm all right," Steve protested unconvincingly.

The eyes were dull, the voice threadier than he liked. "You promised not to argue with your doctor, remember? I swear I'll wake you as soon as we can travel."

Steve managed a small grin. "You just want some time alone with Gillian."

"There is that too," Jesse agreed. He left the room and returned with his bag, rummaging through it until he found what he needed. "I mean it, Steve. For you right now, sleep is most important." He administered the sedative to a surprisingly cooperative patient, noting with satisfaction the gradual loosening of the clenched left fist. "We'll deal with how you're going to tell Cheryl later."

Steve was just exhausted enough for the medication to kick in quickly, and his world was developing kindly, fuzzy corners. "Have to tell her I love her," he mumbled, "soon's we take care of Hill."

What? Jesse thought with sudden alarm, and reached to shake the other man back to lucidity, but his efforts were rewarded only with a soft snore. Reluctantly, he straightened, tucking the thought away for future handling, and, after arranging an afghan over the sleeper, wandered off hopefully in search of the lady of the house.

Chapter Eleven

The auburn-haired man looked cold despite his leather jacket, the waitress thought, heading his way with the fresh pot of coffee. And tense, she decided as she reached his table and got a good look at the grimness lurking in his eyes and the set of his jaw. "Coffee, sir?" she asked kindly, and filled his mug after receiving an absent nod. She put the pot down and pulled out her pad. "Take your order, sir?"

"What? -- Oh." He had been a million miles away, food the last thing on his mind. His gaze flickered quickly to the menu in front of him. "Uh -- hamburger, medium, fries, that's fine." He assured her the fixings were acceptable and returned his gaze to the window, although the street outside barely registered. He had to find some solution to his dilemma, and soon.

Footsteps approached, and he turned his head to see a slightly older man, similarly dressed, slide into the opposite booth. "So what's the occasion, Steve?"

He was still distracted. "What?"

Detective Roger Hill gave his partner a tolerant look. "I told you I'd help you study for your exam. You don't have to buy me lunch."

Steve Sloan took a sip of coffee, barely noticing the rich taste, and slid his hands around the mug, unconsciously seeking its warmth. Just do it, he thought. Get it out in the open and over with. "Roger -- I know what you've been doing."

The other man's face held a pleasant look of inquiry, but Steve's tense scrutiny could discern the sudden wariness in Hill's eyes. "What I've been doing? Of course you do -- you're my partner."

Guilt at the reminder washed through him, and Steve's jaw tightened momentarily. "That's not what I meant."

The wary eyes developed a certain frostiness. "Maybe you should spell it out then, Steve."

This wasn't fair, Steve thought resentfully. His own career, so solid and promising till now, was in serious danger of sinking into oblivion, and he still couldn't believe he was the only cop in the entire district who was aware of Roger Hill's dirty little sideline, much less opposed to it. But his own position was foreseeably becoming more precarious the longer the issue remained unaddressed, and he really had precious few options available to him at this point.

"Roger -- I know about your arrangement with Andrews and his operation. You've been helping him out for at least two years that I can tell, if not longer. How much is he paying you to keep him and his henchmen out of jail?"

The pleasant look had vanished, to be replaced by a cold stare. "That's a pretty serious accusation -- partner." Hill paused, but Steve seemed to be waiting for something. After a minute, the older man continued, "Do you have anything solid to back it up? Or --"

Or do you want to invite the wrath of the police brotherhood by violating its paramount unwritten law. The unspoken words lay between them, oozing ugliness. Tension knotting in his stomach, Steve forced himself to respond.

"Yes, I do. But -- you're right, Roger. We're partners. I don't want to have to turn you in."

Hill snorted. "So just what is your point?"

He was fairly sure his request would be shot down summarily, but he had to try. "Do it yourself, Rog. Please. Tell them it was -- unplanned, you were trapped. Ask for help. They'll go easier on you --"

Hill snorted again. "Are you out of your mind? Even if that were true, it wouldn't make any difference. Bye-bye, badge, bennies, pension, everything." He stared at Steve, menace and warning in his gaze. "Here's my suggestion. You even get two choices. One, you pretend you know nothing."

Steve's mouth was even drier, if that was humanly possible. "And the other?" he asked cautiously, trying not to let Hill see or hear the dread he felt.

The other man's eyes were implacable. "Two -- you join up. Extra cash can't hurt. Either way, no one talks."

He felt sick. This had been a mistake from the start. His partner wasn't about to relinquish the extra income. And he was totally screwed. Even if he said nothing, no one would believe, once the bottom eventually dropped out, that he had not known or, worse yet, been involved himself.

Hill broke in on his frantic thoughts. "If I were you, Sloan, I'd think real hard about putting in for a transfer. And keeping my mouth shut." He rose. "Thanks for lunch -- partner."

Steve watched the other man leave, miserably aware that he had handled the situation less than effectively. Somehow, he had to find an acceptable resolution to his quandary, and soon.

It came sooner, and not quite as acceptably, than he expected. They were halfway through a late night shift when the call came through; the alarm had been tripped at a jewelry store barely minutes from their location. On seeing darkened windows, Hill signaled Steve to circle around to the back of the building while he investigated the front.

Having negotiated the back door lock, Steve was cautiously and noiselessly advancing down the corridor when he heard gunshots. He ran forward, gun ready, to be brought to a skidding halt by the sight of the would-be burglar on the floor, definitely dead, Hill kneeling beside him. "Self-defense, I take it," he remarked, letting his left arm drop to his side and starting to walk forward.

"Right," Hill answered. "And so is this." He lifted the dead man's hand and fired the gun in it directly at Steve.

His startled brain absorbed the action too late for him to do more than start to fling himself out of the way, and he was slammed back by the force of the bullets tearing into his body, two, three, no, four before shock interceded and awareness faded. He never saw the other man's mouth twist as he fell, nor did he hear the muttered, "Sorry, kid. You were one of the good ones."

* * * *

The man sleeping in the easy chair by the fire muttered indistinctly, and shifted as if seeking a more comfortable position, but did not awaken; the sedative maintained its hold on his consciousness, and he subsided back into his dream.


* * * *

There were lights, and voices, and hands prodding at him, hurting him even, although the voices soothed and promised to make the pain go away. The grey world was less crowded, uncomfortable, and complicated, and he sought refuge there as much as possible until another, beloved voice intervened.

"Son. You need to wake up and start breathing on your own. Your sister and I need you." It sounded like his father, but so uncertain, so forlorn -- not like Mark's usual competent tone at all. Then the voice broke, and he found he couldn't bear the thought of his father's distress.

"Dad?" He couldn't hear his own voice, couldn't talk around the tube in his throat, so he settled for pushing leaden eyelids open, to be rewarded by the look of joy and relief on his father's face.

"Steve. Thank God. I thought --" Mark's voice cracked again, and he settled for gently squeezing the hand which had clung to his so tightly for the last several, ghastly hours. His free hand smoothed back the tumbled hair from the injured man's forehead as he struggled and failed to control the emotion in his voice. "It's all right, son, you can rest now. And Roger took down the man who shot you --"

He had to talk, had to make his father understand. But he was still surrounded by the fog of drugs and lurking pain, and, when he sought the memory, it fuzzed and receded until he wasn't sure himself what had happened. It would have to keep, he thought muzzily, and slid back into unconsciousness again.

* * * *

With a small moan, the man in the chair shifted again, trying to escape the images, but wakefulness was still too far away, and his dreaming continued relentlessly.

* * * *

He was incredibly lucky, they told him. He had taken wounds to his right thigh, shoulder and arm, the last of which punched through the bone and required a cast down to his elbow. But the bullet which had caused the most concern had hit him in the chest; only his attempt to evade the shots had saved his life. The bullet had snaked between heart and lungs, nicking one lung slightly but otherwise sliding through with a miraculously minimal amount of damage. He had lost a lot of blood, however, and the lung injury had caused anxious vigils by Mark and other hospital personnel at Community General, where the tall, pleasant, handsome cop was popular for his own sake as well as his father's.

The chest tube exchanged for the less obtrusive but not particularly less uncomfortable nasal apparatus, Steve stared at his father as he absorbed the tally and extent of his injuries. His throat still raw from the invasive plastic, he held his peace until he heard the fateful words.

"Roger's been checking on you every day, either in person or by phone."

The memory he had misplaced earlier surfaced abruptly. "I'll bet he has!" Steve croaked, outrage clear in his voice despite its roughness.

Mark blinked at his son, startled. "Steve -- he's your partner. And he feels terrible about what happened." Misconstruing the anger in Steve's expression, he continued, "But he did manage to stop the shooter, although I'm afraid the man's dead."

He couldn't stand this. "Convenient for him. Dad --" The coughing struck then, and it was a few minutes before his father would allow him to speak. "Dad -- the shooter was dead when I got there."

Mark's eyebrows rose. "Son -- you're saying that --"

"That Roger shot me. With the burglar's gun. I saw it just before --" Steve shuddered and broke off, still coughing, before the sickness from the revelation could hit.

His father still looked incredulous. "Roger? Your own partner? Steve -- I don't understand."

He wished he didn't. Despite his unwelcome knowledge, he had liked and respected Roger Hill, had appreciated the more experienced detective's willingness to help him learn, and was truly dismayed by the foulness which had emerged. Slowly, due to both the tenor of the telling and the increasingly frequent bouts of coughing, Steve told his father the whole sordid story, eventually gasping to a halt.

Mark automatically checked tubes and IVs, then stroked back the recalcitrant forelock which had flopped over again due to its owner's agitation. "The way I see it, son, there's only one possible solution."

Steve stared up miserably, shocked by the rare chill in his father's eyes and voice. "Dad -- if I turn him in --"

Mark's expression was stony. "You don't have any choice. Besides, while obviously you're going to have to deal with the fallout from the investigation, it's out of your hands now."

He was confused, and starting to hurt. Badly. "Out of my hands?" he repeated thickly, feeling like an idiot.

His father nodded. "You're forgetting I have a duty as a doctor, not to mention as chief of staff here. I have to report it."

Steve didn't have the energy to argue, much less when he knew Mark was right. He nodded weakly and closed his eyes, hoping he and his career would survive the self-destruction of Roger Hill's.

Ultimately, he did. It was difficult at first to handle the questions from Internal Affairs, not to mention the curious stares and, worse, the turned backs and sudden silence from his compatriots after he was finally cleared to go back to work. But he set his teeth and did his job, grimly enduring the ostracism, and eventually his dedication to his work and the strength of his personality convinced all but the strongest Hill supporters. He had always been well-liked; and his popularity returned along with a new respect among his peers for his courageous handling of an obviously perilous situation.

All but Roger Hill, of course. He had resorted to murder as a solution already; and Steve read it in Hill's eyes on the day he testified at Hill's disposition hearing in lieu of trial. He had outrun the destiny the other man had planned for him once; Hill's bleak eyes promised to revisit it if their paths ever crossed again.

* * * *

Steve woke with a jolt, gasping. The dream was still fresh, almost as much as in the days immediately following Hill's expulsion from the force and sentencing to a white-collar facility halfway across the country, where his former occupation would not necessarily be an issue. Despite the simmering pain in his arm, Steve's right hand instinctively drifted to guard his abused ribs as he reluctantly recognized the likelihood that the two of them would indeed meet again before he could manage to extricate himself from Destiny.

Chapter Twelve

When Jesse found her, Gillian was still in the kitchen, trying to distract herself from the complications attached to her guests. Smitten, he paused in the doorway, watching her work in contented silence until she became aware of his regard and glanced up. "Jesse. I'm afraid the weather report's not very encouraging."

He strolled closer to inspect the biscuits in progress. "Still in a hurry to get rid of me, Gillian?" he asked teasingly.

Taken aback by the underlying intimacy of his tone, she returned her attention to her hands, taking refuge in cutting precise circles in the dough with a small glass. After a few moments, however, she realized he was still observing her intently, and took a deep breath. "Yes. No. I don't know." With a slightly hysterical tinge as she heard herself babbling, she asked faintly, "Coffee?"

From the aroma, he could tell it was gloriously fresh. "Sure. I'll get it -- don't stop what you're doing."

She was already in motion, and their hands met on the coffeepot handle. Flustered for one of the few times in her life, Gillian watched in bemusement as Jesse gently replaced the pot, captured her free hand, and bent his head to hers.

Some time later, how long, neither one was quite certain, Jesse straightened up and smiled down at the entrancing woman in his arms. "I guess that answers my question," he said slowly, not quite able to suppress the hint of inquiry at the end.

Gillian toyed with the thought of letting him wonder, then dismissed it as being excessively unkind. "I think I can safely say I don't begrudge the time to get to know you better," she replied carefully. "Although -- with you in L.A. -- I don't know how I would feel about the long distance aspect --"

He rubbed his thumb over the small hand, marveling at the combination of delicacy and competence. "Plenty of time for that, dear. In the meantime -- the big kid's asleep, and Paul's doing homework; maybe we should make the most of the opportunity."

Mischief in her eyes, she took another glass from the cupboard. "Ever made biscuits?"

* * * *

The biscuits safely out of the oven and cooling contentedly, despite Jesse's repeated and largely successful efforts to distract the cook, Gillian pulled away from her suitor as she heard movement in the living room. "I think he's awake," she commented with a grin, making a hasty attempt to smooth her hair.

Jesse automatically turned to check the weather outside, and stiffened. "Isn't that Hill's SUV at the end of the drive?"

She joined him at the window, peering out in her turn. "Yes -- but I don't see Roger anywhere."

"Probably checking around back for signs of Steve," Jesse said grimly. "We'd better get him back in the guest room before Hill wants in." Already in motion towards the living room, he stopped abruptly at the sight of his friend, who was standing stiffly in the middle of the room. Steve turned a strained look on him and made to speak, but was interrupted by the sheriff's voice.

"Well, doc. I kind of expected you to be around. Walk in -- slowly." Then, with a quickly-squelched trace of shock, "Gillian. I'm sorry, but I think you'd better go make sure you and Paul stay in his room. This is business."

She glared at him, trusted friend turned malicious stranger. "What are you doing, Roger? How many people have to get hurt before you're willing to put a stop to this senseless vendetta of yours?"

Hill's eyes were hot, but his voice betrayed no indication of it. "Only one, my dear," he said tonelessly. "Then we can all get on with our lives." He jerked his head towards the door. "Move it, Sloan."

Steve sneered at him with a brazenness he didn't exactly feel, the tension of his body giving the lie to the forced tone. "So you can throw me off the side of a mountain *accidentally* again? I don't think so."

The other man shrugged. "Suit yourself. Either you walk out of here in handcuffs, or I put a bullet in you and drag you."

Steve shook his head. "Sorry, Hill. I'm not playing. You can stay here and play king of this godforsaken petty hill you've made for yourself, but I'm done with this."

"What are you saying?" Hill snarled, face reddening.

Steve shrugged in his turn. "I'm over it, Roger, old buddy old pal. I don't care whether you sit in this town and brood over what I did to you twelve years ago for the rest of your life; I'm not going to help you solve your problem. The hell with Destiny -- I'm going home."

Hill gave him a measuring look, then nodded to himself and put his revolver down carefully. "You're right. Shooting you isn't the answer."

Steve raised an eyebrow and turned away, and the other man threw himself at him, fists driving hard. Initially dazed by the attack, Steve pulled his wits together and fought back, although not quite quickly enough to avoid a jarring blow to his bad arm, nor was his recovery fast enough to keep the sheriff from noticing his reaction. Hill's eyes narrowed briefly with satisfaction, and he continued to pound the injury with one beefy hand while searching for Steve's throat with the other one. Neither man able to get a secure grip, the combatants rolled over and over, both seeking the upper hand, each flinching away from the blows of the other, while Jesse and Gillian watched, appalled, temporarily stunned by the suddenness and severity of the confrontation. Finally, the turning point came. Steve took one punch too many on his wounded arm, and his grip on Hill slackened. The sheriff seized the opportunity, right hand sliding towards his belt.

Jesse saw it first. "Steve, watch out! He's got a knife!"

The warning kept him from severe injury, but fire still burned across his chest, and Hill raised his arm to try again. Wincing, Steve grabbed at the descending blade, missed, and settled for punching hard at Hill's arm as it came down. Pain streaked through his good shoulder as the knife sliced down, and he jabbed viciously at Hill's face, grimacing at the misery in his right arm. It worked; Hill rolled away, his grip loosening, in his attempt to escape the punishing fist. Both men staggered to their feet, maddened and bloody, and Jesse made a desperate attempt to stop them before the next round commenced.

"Sheriff -- do you really want to convince Steve that he was right twelve years ago?"

The sudden non sequitur halted the antagonists in their tracks, and they turned identical looks of mystification on the young doctor. "What?" they both spluttered, panting for breath.

Jesse edged sideways, trying to distract Hill from focusing on Steve. "Don't you realize Steve's always wondered, just a little, whether he did the right thing?"

Hill merely stared, mouth open, but Steve shook his head in consternation. "What the devil are you talking about, Jess?"

Jesse spared him a quick look before returning his attention to Hill, who still looked baffled, knife dangling from his hand. "I'm your best friend, remember? I know these things. Besides," he added belatedly, "We heard you a little while ago -- I guess you were dreaming."

The sheriff shook himself. "Am I supposed to believe that Sloan's been having attacks of conscience all these years on my account?" he inquired with understandable sarcasm.

Jesse grimaced. "Would you rather believe you deserved what you got?" he asked rhetorically, trying to evade the question.

Hill laughed, not a pleasant sound. "That really doesn't matter now, does it? I'm stuck here in this backwater, trying to make the best of it, trying to rebuild my life, and Mr. Boy Scout shows up trying to ruin it again." He hefted the knife purposefully and started forward.

Jesse stepped in front of him, determined to find some way to stop the lunacy. "You don't want to do this, Sheriff. Really."

Aghast, Steve forced weary feet ahead inch by flagging inch. "Jess, get out of the way! Are you out of your mind?"

"No, Steve," the young doctor replied, with a calm his shaking insides didn't share. "I may be the only one here who isn't."

Hill stared at him in disbelief, then shook his head. "Enough of this," he growled in exasperation. "Sorry, doc. I would have liked to have you stick around -- but you're in my way."

All but forgotten, Gillian watched in horror as all three men started to move, almost in slow motion, although her conscious mind said otherwise. Hill leaned forward, intent on getting by or through Jesse, whichever was easiest. That young man sensibly stepped backwards from the larger man's attack, slipping and falling out of the way; and Steve flung himself hurtling forward between the two, left arm upraised, aiming for Hill's knife hand. He cannoned into the sheriff, knocking him off balance, but the latter recovered and calmly, deliberately, slammed the knife hard into his unprotected side. Steve's body jerked from the force of the blow, and he instinctively grabbed for the wound, breath sucking in with a moan as Hill drew his arm back, bringing the knife with it. The ghastly slow motion continued; clutching his side with both hands, Steve sank to his knees, trying to absorb the shock of the injury. "Jess --" he gasped, blood oozing through his fingers.

"Damn you, Hill!" Jesse snarled, scuttling over to his friend and literally shoving the sheriff out of the way, ignoring the fact that Hill was still holding a bloody knife. "Gillian, my bag --"

She was already running off to get it, returning to see Hill casually walk over to retrieve his revolver. She sent the bag skidding across the floor to Jesse and ducked out of the room again before anyone could notice.

Hill strolled back to stand over the wounded man and the irate doctor. "I think it's time to finish this," he remarked, gun in hand.

Jesse's expostulation was interrupted by the distinct sound of a rifle being primed. "You're absolutely right, Roger," Gillian said coldly. "Drop the gun."

At first inclined to ignore her, Hill caught the tone and slowly slid his eyes in her direction, to see her pointing her husband's favorite rifle in his direction. "Gillian, are you crazy?" he demanded furiously.

"No." Her voice dripped ice. "I'm sure you recognize Andy's gun, Roger. If you don't want it blowing a hole in you, move away from Steve and put the gun down."

He heard the unspoken accusation in her voice. This was patently unfair; his life was already in a shambles, once again thanks to Sloan. "I didn't kill Andy, Gillian. It really was an accident." But he didn't move, and the gun remained steady in his hand.

Steve peered up through a red haze of pain. "Roger, for God's sake, listen to her. She's trying to keep you from ruining the rest of your life."

"Think about Paul if you don't care about yourself," Jesse chipped in, frantically applying pressure to Steve's wounds and hoping madly that his logic would have some beneficial effect on the infuriated sheriff.

Affection for Paul and Gillian, and the desire for normalcy, fought a bitter, but ultimately losing, battle against malice fueled by long-standing resentment and the overwhelming desire for vengeance. Hill heaved a long breath, almost a sigh, and shook his head. "Sorry, doc. You just don't get it." Positive that she wouldn't have the nerve to fire, he raised the revolver once more, and staggered as the bullets tore into his body, the roar of the rifle echoing through the room.

Gillian walked over, weapon still in her hands, and kicked Hill's gun out of the way. "No, Roger," she said sadly. "You don't." She stared down at him as he lay stunned, wounds rapidly leaking blood on the hardwood floor. "You never did."

Jesse glanced over and made a snap decision. "Gillian. Get Paul in here so I can show him how to help with Steve. If I can slow Hill's bleeding, I may be able to keep him alive." He looked up at the frozen woman who had just shot a man in order to save his best friend's life. "Gillian."

She shuddered and focused on him. "I heard you, Jesse."

He hoped he sounded more composed than he felt. "Good. After that, I want you to go use Hill's radio, get Medevac or whoever the equivalent is around here. Every second counts."

She nodded and ran off. In a few seconds, Paul appeared, eyes wide, but surprisingly calm. Jesse quickly showed him what to do, grateful for the boy's quick wits and quiet steadiness, and turned his attention to the wounded sheriff. "Okay, Roger," he breathed. "Hold on. You're going to make it."

Gillian was back in a few minutes, and dropped to her knees beside Jesse. "Twenty minutes to half an hour," she reported breathlessly. "Weather's still pretty bad. But they'll be here. What can I do to help?"

Jesse gave her a quick smile before returning his attention to his patient. "Get the rest of the pressure bandages out of my bag. We need those for the worst of it -- the rest we'll pad and wrap. As soon as I get him stable, I need to check on Steve." He flicked a glance at his young assistant. "How's he doing, Paul?"

"The bleeding's not as bad, Dr. Travis. And I think he passed out."

"I wish," came a blurred voice. "Jess -- what the hell happened?"

"Hill was about to shoot you," Jesse replied grimly. "Gillian took a rifle to him."

Steve winced. "Ouch. How is he?"

"Alive, for now. But both of you are bleeding pretty substantially." Jesse spared another glance in Steve's direction before concentrating on Hill once more. "Medevac's on its way. In the meantime, I want you to rest quietly. I'm going to check you as soon as I finish with Hill. How badly are you hurting?"

Steve considered the question perhaps a shade longer than Jesse would have liked. "I've felt worse."

Jesse shook his head. "Tell me the truth, Steve. Then I'll let you know if I'm going to give you anything."

His friend tried to chuckle, but it hurt too much, and he conceded the point. Besides, he had never been able to keep that type of information from Jesse very successfully. "Bad, Jess."

Jesse grimaced. "Thought so. Hang in there, buddy. Let me get Hill under control, and I'll fix you up."

Several exhausting minutes later, Jess watched as the sedative took effect and Steve's eyes closed, then scrubbed his hands across his face wearily. "That's it. Now we just need to keep them stable till Medevac gets here." Impulsively, unconcerned by Paul's presence, he reached out to draw Gillian close and kiss her soundly. "Thank you."

Paul's eyes widened again, then he laughed. "It's about time, Dr. Travis!" He grinned as they turned shocked expressions in his direction. "I knew you were going to kiss my mom sooner or later; you kept smiling at her with your eyes."

Jesse grinned. "Can't fool the kids, can we?" He would have said more, but the welcome sounds of helicopters made themselves heard, and Paul went swiftly to open the door at his mother's nod. Before the room filled with emergency personnel, Gillian smiled at Jesse and returned the kiss. "We'll definitely pursue this," she promised, eyes sparkling.

Chapter Thirteen

Jesse helped himself to a cup of coffee, sank into a chair, and contemplated the doctors' lounge phone thoughtfully, considering his approach. The ER resident on duty had graciously accepted his offer of assistance. Jesse had then watched anxiously as Steve went through surgery to repair the damage, and subsequently ensured he was resting as comfortably as could be expected. That done, he had checked on Hill's condition, which, as he reported to the distressed Gillian soon afterwards, was stable for the time being, but his prognosis was fairly guarded. Now for the truly difficult part; taking a deep breath, he picked up the telephone.

Mark was in Amanda's office when his cell phone rang, and was singularly unimpressed by Jesse's overly casual greeting. "Hi, Jesse. What's happened to Steve?"

There was a pause while Jesse muttered to himself and counted to ten, not quite aloud. "How do you do that?" he complained rhetorically.

"Jesse --" Mark's tone had sharpened, but he waited, knowing the younger doctor wouldn't bandy words about wasting time. He had had his doubts about the excursion after listening to Steve's proposed plan, but had held his peace, (now) correctly assuming that it would not end up being quite as uncomplicated as either of the two intrepid adventurers had anticipated.

"We're at Weed Medical Center. Steve's stable, but he's looking at a few more days of care."

"You want me to come up and charm them into transferring him?" Mark inquired.

Jesse mumbled to himself again. "How about I just put the phone to my forehead, and you can just absorb everything through osmosis?"

Mark laughed. "Sorry, Jess." He sobered. "What happened?"

Jesse took a deep breath and shot from the hip. "We ran into this guy Hill --"

"Roger Hill?" Mark exclaimed, alarmed.

"Yeah." Jesse assumed, correctly, that Mark was unlikely to forget the name. "They had a couple of go-rounds, but basically the worst is that Steve took a sizeable knife wound in his left side. Muscle and peritoneum were penetrated, but it didn't go much farther, thank God."

As calmly as possible under the circumstances, Mark commented, "I assume he's serious rather than critical, or you would have mentioned it."

"Yes. They're taking very good care of him here, but I'm pretty sure he's going to want to come home. And you know how he can get."

Mark chuckled. "Pigheaded. I know. Okay, Jesse, let me figure out connections, and I'll be there as soon as I can. Give me the number there, and I'll call you with the details."

Amanda hung up her phone just as he signed off. "I've got you on a flight to Redding via San Francisco. It's about an hour away from Weed. Get Jesse to pick you up around five."

Mark stared at her in amazement. "How --?"

Amanda laughed. "I learned from the master. Tell me what's happening, Mark."

He gave her a quick hug. "Walk with me, and I'll fill you in."

* * *

A scant few hours later, Mark stood by his son's bedside, watching him sleep. He had been briefed by the attending physician and reassured that Steve's prognosis was good. Additionally, the chief of staff turned out to be an old acquaintance, who agreed readily to the transfer to Community General, provided Steve's condition did not change for the worse in the next few hours. After being given an abridged version of their adventures, Mark had sent an exhausted Jesse off to get some rest himself; now he contemplated Steve's bruised face and wondered with a small sigh whether he was ever going to be able to get used to the danger which seemed to constantly surround his son.

The sound must have filtered into the sleeping man's consciousness; a small frown creased Steve's forehead briefly, then smoothed out as he sank back deeper into the drugged slumber. Mark sighed again, noiselessly this time, and left in search of fresh coffee. It was going to be a long night.

He had been back for some time, then slipped out to chat with the nurse just outside the door, when Steve awoke. Puzzled, the injured man blinked at his surroundings, confused by the peculiar combination of unfamiliar walls and the faint lingering trace of his father's aftershave. "Dad?" he called softly, reluctant to pitch his voice too loudly until he knew where he was. He turned his head to see the doorway, flinched in shock at the unexpected pang in his shoulder and neck, then gasped as the movement pulled at the torn muscles in his side.

His father heard both the call and the small, reluctant sound of pain, and came back in hurriedly. "Easy, son. You've got a side full of stitches; exercises are going to have to wait."

"Dad?" Steve made an effort to focus eyes which were disinclined to cooperate. "Where --?"

"You're at Weed Medical Center," Mark replied. "Don't try to talk too much. You need to rest."

Steve started to shake his head, then abruptly thought better of it. "How -- what happened, anyway?"

His father gave him a sympathetic look. "What do you remember, son?"

He thought about it for a minute, wishing he could think more clearly. "Last thing I remember is Jesse giving me something to make me sleep."

Mark ruminated. "If I recall what he told me correctly, that was yesterday afternoon."

His son picked up on the implication. "And it's now --?"

"About nine-thirty at night a day later," Mark said gently. "You've been here since last night."

Steve still looked puzzled. "So what happened, Dad?"

"As far as I can determine from what Jesse said," his father replied, "You and Roger Hill got into a major knock-down drag-out."

His best friend's absence finally registered. That explained the faint sense of wrongness -- "Where's --" he started to ask, still having trouble dealing with the thickness of his tongue.

"I'm here," came Jesse's voice, as the other man entered rapidly, running a hand automatically through hair which was still standing up in arbitrary spiky bits.

Mark glanced at him critically. "I thought I told you to get some rest."

Jesse was already leaning over his patient, who tolerated the quick exam with surprising patience. "I'm fine, Mark. I slept for a few hours, that's all I needed." His gaze flickered over the IVs. "How are you feeling, Steve?"

"Confused," Steve muttered. "What the hell happened, Jess?" Last thing I remember is dossing down by the fireplace for a nap."

Jesse glanced questioningly at Mark, who shook his head. "He just woke up."

The young doctor hooked a chair over with his foot and dropped into it. "You and Hill went at it after he left himself in through Gillian's back door."

"I take it he had a knife," Steve said dryly.

"A large one," Jesse agreed cautiously.

"And?"

A wary look flitted across Jesse's face. "And what?"

"And I was clumsy enough to get in its way several times?" Steve asked caustically.

A fascinated Mark could have sworn Jesse twitched slightly, but he held his peace. "Several times?"

Steve sighed. "Jess, I've come into contact with knives before. At least three that I can distinctly feel."


"Uh -- yeah."

This particularly unhelpful answer did elicit a startled reaction from Mark, and his son noticed. "There's something you're not telling me, Jess." He saw the other man's eyes slide towards the IV, and shook his head enough to make his point without agitating shoulder muscles. "Make one move towards that IV, and so help me, Jess, I'll get out of bed and throttle you. What the hell happened?"

Mark laid a mildly restraining hand on his arm. "Calm down, Steve." A level look at Jesse, who was still visibly uncomfortable. "Jesse tried to stop Hill, and you essentially got in the way when Hill went for him."

If he hadn't been more or less immobilized by bandages over most of his upper body, Steve would have made good on his threat. As it was, he managed to vent briefly before the inevitable coughing set in. "Jess, what the hell were you thinking --"

His father helped him sit up enough to allow the sputtering to subside, then eased him back and turned the severe look his way. "Steve, before you get too enthusiastic about berating Jesse for his admittedly reckless behavior, you might want to thank him for trying to save your life."

"It's all right, Mark," Jesse interjected. "Really. Steve was trying to protect me -- and he's probably right. I wasn't thinking -- I just wanted it to stop."

Steve opened his mouth to add a blistering comment, then changed his mind in light of his father's stern expression and Jesse's hangdog look. "Ah, it's all right, Jess. I do appreciate what you were trying to do. Besides," he added, voice slurring slightly as exhaustion started to set in, "I'm assuming you were responsible for getting me here more or less in one piece."

Jesse relaxed. "Well, the EMTs and Paul helped. Sorry we couldn't keep you awake for the helicopter ride."

Steve looked startled. "Paul was there?"

Jesse sighed. "Okay. I'll give you a quick recap, and then I want you to rest. We can take you home once Dr. Brightman signs off on you, but he's not going to do that unless you're stable, which isn't going to happen if you're too excited."

Steve grimaced. "I won't argue with you, Jess. Just tell me what else happened." He was obviously focusing with an effort, and Jesse gave him a terse summary of the preceding events. By the time he was finished, Steve's eyes were closed, and his breathing had deepened, but then he spoke suddenly, startling the others.

"What about Hill?"

Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose, sensing an imminent headache. "Latest news is he's in critical condition. He'll live, but there's a bullet dangerously close to his spine, and Brightman's not committing himself whether he'll walk again." He waited, but there was no comment. "Steve?"

The heavy eyelids lifted briefly; the blue underneath was cold. "I think I want to sleep now, Jess." The tone of voice was equally chilly, and Jesse took the hint.

"Okay, buddy. I'll check in on you later." He glanced at Mark, who nodded. "Join me for a cup of coffee?"

Safely out of earshot, Jesse said worriedly, "That was weird. It was like he'd, you know --"

"Consigned Hill to the nethermost regions of hell," Mark finished. "There's a lot of bad history there, Jess."

Jesse made a face. "I guess. He really didn't tell me much, just that Hill had tried to kill him, and Steve was essentially responsible for turning him in."

Mark waited until they had reached the lounge and helped themselves to coffee before he continued. "It was somewhat more complicated than that, Jesse. Hill was Steve's first partner after he made detective. He more or less took Steve under his wing, helped him learn the ropes."

"Oh. Kind of a mentor, huh?"

Mark nodded. "Finding out about Hill's sideline was very difficult for Steve. He knew what he had to do, but he was reluctant to follow through on it. Then Hill made the decision for him, and very painfully." He stirred his coffee absently as he talked, eyes distant, then refocused on his fascinated audience. "Steve felt personally betrayed. I think he had still hoped, right up to the day Hill ambushed him, that Roger would do the right thing, so he wouldn't have to make that terrible choice."

The remoteness returned to his face briefly, then dissipated. "They were possibly as close as you and I, Jess. He took it very hard."

Jesse shook his head. "And we have to run into him, of all people. That does it, Mark. No more lamebrained plans, hasty schemes. Every time I have an idea, I get Steve into trouble."

Mark chuckled. "Don't be ridiculous, Jesse. Steve's more than capable of finding it all by himself." He sobered abruptly. "Let's hope at least this is the last we will ever see of Roger Hill."

* * *

It looked like Mark was going to get his wish the next morning. A more-rested Steve had been cleared for the trip back to Los Angeles after promising to be checked directly into Community General without any fuss. Mark and Jesse were in the process of thanking Dr. Brightman, the nurses and the ER team when Gillian arrived with her son.

"Oh, good. I was afraid we were going to miss you," she exclaimed.

Jesse gave her a hug, winking at Paul's customary wide-eyed grin, then flushed at Mark's raised eyebrow and made hurried introductions. The older man clasped the small fingers of the delicately featured woman who obviously had caught Jesse's attention, then shook hands solemnly with Paul, succeeding in locating a quarter in the delighted child's hand. "I understand I have both of you to thank for saving my son's life," he said warmly. "And are you all right, Mrs. Tolliver?"

"Gillian," she said automatically, responding instinctively to the kindness in his eyes and voice. "I think so. I mean, at least Roger's still alive. I don't know how I would have handled being responsible for his death." The sea eyes shadowed momentarily, then cleared as she glanced over at his companion. "Jesse, I've set up an appointment for Paul's tests in two weeks. Will you monitor them?"

Jesse's eyes lit; this time the embrace was longer and somewhat more involved. Seeing an impish look slide across the boy's face, Mark took Paul aside quickly. "How about I teach you how to make the quarter disappear again?"

Chapter Fourteen

"Thanks, Jess." Steve leaned back cautiously against the pillows, careful to avoid jarring his abused body. "Never thought I'd be glad to be at Community General."

Jesse grinned. "You just like the food."

Steve laughed, then winced. "Ouch. Can't do that, hurts too much." He looked over at his friend, and his grin faded. "Jess, I'm sorry."

"For what?" Jesse asked, startled.

Steve grimaced. "For spoiling your adventure, and giving you such a hard time, especially when you had to spend most of it saving my skin to one degree or another."

The corner of the younger man's mouth crooked upward. "Forget about it, big guy. If you're going to muddle through the new and unexpected, I'm your man. Besides," he added wickedly, "it did have some redeeming value for me at least."

"Still interested in the widow Tolliver, are you?" Steve laughed again, and swore as the same recalcitrant set of muscles objected vociferously.

Jesse rose smartly from his chair. "As a matter of fact, I have a phone call to make," he said, not quite in a rush. "Don't do anything too rash, okay?" he remarked, and made his exit before his irascible patient could object further.

Mark stuck his head in just in time to catch his son muttering to himself. "Something wrong?" he inquired.

Steve looked slightly taken aback. "No, Dad, just -- thinking out loud."

His father raised an eyebrow, but didn't pursue the matter. "How do you feel, son?"

"I'll live, Dad." Steve smiled at his father affectionately. "Why don't you go get some sleep? I'll be all right."

Mark nodded absently and plunked himself down in one of the chairs anyway. "Steve -- about Roger Hill --"

His son's mouth twisted. "I should have listened to you then."

"You couldn't have known, son," Mark said gently. "You did the best you could."

Steve shook his head. "No. It wasn't enough. I waited too long, and I left it unfinished." He glanced at his father ruefully. "Watersheds and incomplete circles. Whatever happened to just living life one day at a time, Dad?"

Mark grunted. "Destiny's a funny thing. Sometimes you outrun it, sometimes you don't." He would have said more, but Steve's choked-off exclamation caught him by surprise. "What is it, son?"

Steve wore an odd expression. "Didn't Jesse tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Come on, Dad," Steve said skeptically. "You're just pulling my leg, aren't you?"

Mark frowned. "What are you talking about? I don't understand."

Disbelief was starting to creep into Steve's eyes. "You're asking me to believe that Jesse didn't tell you where we were," he said flatly.

His father reflected, then shook his head. "If he did, I don't remember. Why?"

Steve still looked incredulous. "A little town stuck somewhere in the late nineteenth century -- named Destiny."

Mark blinked. "Pure coincidence, don't you think?"

"Coincidence or no coincidence, this time I'm not going to leave things up to *fate*." Steve's face hardened. "This is three times Roger Hill has tried to kill me, Dad. Even I have my limits."

"You've decided to press charges, then," Mark said softly.

"Yes." Steve inhaled as deeply as his varied wounds would allow, and exhaled slowly. "Yes, I have."

"Have what?"

Even if he hadn't looked deliberately, it would have been impossible for Mark to miss the sudden light in his son's eyes as Cheryl came through the doorway. Maybe now the boy would finally get around to saying something, he thought hopefully. He reached down for Steve's good hand and held it briefly. "I'll check on you later, son. Don't keep Cheryl up too long."

Steve returned Mark's smile, grateful as always for such a tangible reminder of his father's regard. "I won't, Dad," he said equally affectionately. "Thanks for bringing me home."

After Mark left, Cheryl turned a quizzical eye upon her partner. "How are you feeling, Steve? And what is it you were saying you have --"

He gestured at the chair, then reached for her hand. "Decided to press charges against Roger Hill -- come full circle on a bad, unresolved part of my life."

She hadn't yet objected to the touch of his fingers, and her own were cool and reassuring. "And -- to acknowledge something which has been staring me in the face for a long time."

Somewhat taken aback by the sudden intensity in his tone, Cheryl kept her own light. "Which is?"

His grip tightened slightly, not uncomfortably so. "You. I guess *someone* would have been more appropriate, but -- Cheryl, I love you. Predictably, unknowingly, and any other way you look at it -- you're the person I want to share my life with."

Fascinated, she would have let him continue to babble, but the effort had left him out of breath, so she opted for a different response. "Since you're more or less helpless," she quipped, and leaned forward to kiss him. "I love you too," she whispered.

Bandages, IVs, general awkwardness of his position notwithstanding, Steve Sloan reached up with his good arm and pulled her close, reflecting as their lips met again that perhaps destiny might, under the right circumstances, be a good thing to meet head on after all.


Copyright 2001 by Gerry Wolfson-Grande

All characters who have appeared in the series Diagnosis Murder, together with the names, titles and the original back story are the sole copyright property of CBS and Viacom. This fanfiction is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. No profit is being made or intended to be made by this story. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.

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