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The Longest Road, Part III - The Long Road Home
By: Gerry Wolfson-Grande
e-mail: gawolfson@earthlink.net

The same disclaimer as for Parts I and II applies. The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, Cheryl Banks, Randy Wolfe, Captain Newman and Ron Wagner belong to CBS and Viacom. Any other individuals are fictional and not intended to resemble any actual living person, although Dave Harbrook is a conglomeration of some of the more human attorneys I have encountered over the course of my lengthy legal career (yes! there really are some!), while Samuel Edding embodies some of the less attractive ones.

I would also like to thank all of the wonderful people who have written telling me how much they have enjoyed Parts I and II of The Longest Road. Your encouragement and support are very much appreciated. At the risk of sounding unoriginal, this one's for all of you.

Rating: PG-13; angst, drama, some unavoidable violence.
Summary: Steve and Mark cope with damage control following Steve's rescue.
Feedback: Of course! Please!

* * *

The Long Road Home - Chapter One

"You're going home," Mark Sloan repeated, holding his injured son's hand and helping Jesse Travis with the rifle wounds in Steve's right arm and shoulder. Around them was a chaotic assemblage of medical and law enforcement personnel; Mark could hear the hoarse voice of Dr. Morgan complaining, presumably to Sheriff Silver or Captain Newman, interspersed with frequent coughs as he tried to push additional furious expletives through his bruised throat.

Jesse glanced in that direction briefly, then returned his attention to Steve's arm. "Guess Steve had him pretty good there," he commented bitterly. His mouth tightened as he looked at his friend's gaunt face. "Can't say he didn't deserve it."

Mark raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristic viciousness in Jesse's voice, but was hard put to disagree. "That chain was pretty heavy." He had picked it up briefly once they had convinced the sheriff to have Steve's restraints removed, before the annoyed lawman confiscated it. "Steve could have done major damage if he had chosen to do so." He glanced at his son's face in his turn, noting the signs of stress and injury, physical and psychological, and sighed, wondering how long and hard the road to recovery was likely to be.

The paramedics had arrived, and were being briefed by Jesse. Mark watched as they slid Steve onto a stretcher, setting up an IV, then took his son's hand once more, forcing himself to sound reassuring. "Don't worry, son. You're going to be all right. We're taking you to Community General. Everything's going to be fine."

He was interrupted by the sheriff, Captain Newman, who looked like he was on the verge of apoplexy, hard on his heels. "I'm sorry, folks, but he's going to have to go to Fairview Hospital up here. They've got a lockdown unit."

Mark stared at him in shock. "What difference does that make?"

Sheriff Silver ran a finger around his collar. "Your son's under arrest for attempted murder, aggravated assault and battery --"

"You've got to be kidding!" yelped Jesse. "After everything that bastard did to him --"

"I wish I were, son," the sheriff responded gravely. "I might be less inclined to charge him if that was the extent of it."

The extent of it? Mark caught the odd nuance in the sheriff's voice. "Extent of what?" he demanded, rising, starting to glower, glad Steve was safely unconscious.

Captain Newman spoke up before the situation started to get ugly. "Mark, listen. Something's happened. Until we can get all the facts, and clear Steve, I have to go along with George; it's his investigation."

Mark's ire rose. "Clear Steve? Jim, you or your friend had better start explaining what's going on, right now. My son is sick and hurt, and I intend to take him home, so --"

Newman held up a hand. "You can't, Mark. Listen to me. They found a nurse in Steve's room. Badly beaten, barely alive --"

This was too much. Mark's temper, so like his son's once sufficiently aggravated, exploded. "You cannot seriously expect me to believe my son would --"

The sheriff interrupted, holding up a large plastic bag. "We found these." It contained what looked like long gloves, which had once been white, but were now soaked with blood. "I understand these were his." He nodded towards the man on the stretcher.

Fury ignited in Mark's eyes, and Newman hurriedly stepped in front of him. "Mark. Listen. You can't do anything to change this right now. I promise we'll make sure there's a thorough investigation. Right now, Steve needs a hospital. From the looks of him, the closest one."

Mark glared at his son's commanding officer for another minute, hating his powerlessness, slowly coming to grips with the fact that he could do nothing to change the situation at present. Yet. "All right, Jim. I want it on the record that it's over my professional protests as well. And I swear to you that I intend to get to the bottom of this."

Chapter Two

Steve was drifting peacefully, feeling no pain. That was strange, he thought detachedly, he didn't think there'd been enough methadone in his last dose to achieve this effect. He tried to lift his right hand, but his arm was too heavy. He swam a little closer to the surface, to realize there was an IV drip connected to his arm, and started to panic. Was Morgan dumping the stuff into him intravenously now? Straining, he slowly became aware of the familiar beeps and chirps of hospital machinery, sounds he had been around his entire life. Oddly reassured, he relaxed and slid back under again.

He roused a little later to increasing discomfort in his right arm and shoulder, becoming gradually more and more aware of the throbbing of his wounds as he crawled back to consciousness. A man sat dozing next to his bed; when he blinked to clear his vision, he recognized his father. He licked dry lips and tried to shape the word; it took him three tries before he succeeded in forcing the sound through his equally dry throat.

"Dad?"

Mark woke instantly at the soft call. "I'm here, son," he replied, a world of meaning in the simple words.

Steve tried again to lift his right hand, but it weighed too much. He needed to touch his father's arm, to reassure himself that the apparition was real. He'd just have to reach over with his left hand, he thought, and discovered his left arm wouldn't work properly either. Puzzled, he rolled his head towards the recalcitrant body part, and went still as the sight of the handcuffs securing his bandaged wrist to the bed rail registered. Panic flared in his eyes. "Dad --"

Heartsore, Mark reached for his son's right hand. "Steve, take it easy --"

Steve found his voice, which was still there, albeit strained. "Take it easy? Dad, what's going on? Why am I cuffed to the bed?" His tone had a slightly hysterical edge. "Where am I, anyway?" he demanded, glancing around wildly. "This isn't Community General."

"No, it isn't, son," Mark responded in what he hoped was a sufficiently soothing tone. "You lost a lot of blood, and Fairview was the closest hospital."

His bewildered son succeeded in connecting loss of blood with his aching shoulder, but -- "What's that got to do with lockdown, Dad?" he asked, still frantically. "I can see the cop sitting outside the door." Hadn't he been through enough? Starting to get truly upset, he yanked on the handcuffs hard enough to shake the bed, rattling the metal loudly.

"Steve, please, calm down. You're in no shape for this sort of thing." Mark automatically checked on the injured arm.

Panting, Steve forced his jangled nerves to settle down. Although he wasn't about to admit it aloud, the brief moment of violence had not helped his shoulder any. Payment for foolish melodramatics, he thought with wry detachment, and rolled his head back to meet his father's worried eyes. "Dad, if I promise to behave myself, will you please tell me what's happened?" he begged plaintively.

Stalling, Mark asked, "What do you remember last?"

Steve pondered briefly. "I remember -- I felt bullets slamming into my arm. And -- I think -- Jesse --" he trailed off uncertainly.

Mark experienced a brief pang that Steve didn't remember seeing him, then felt ashamed. His son had been badly hurt; that he even remembered Jesse's presence was amazing.

"And -- I thought I was dreaming -- but it was you, Dad, wasn't it?" Steve queried, words tumbling over themselves in a rush. "I did see you!" he announced with a small air of triumph; then his face crumpled into lines of distress. "Oh, God, Dad, you were there when I -- you saw --?"

Mark said gently, "We got there after you'd been shot. And I understand what you felt you had to do. You don't need to feel ashamed."

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, relieved that he wouldn't yet have to tell his father about the ice-self which had been in control at the time. He wasn't sure he was ready to let the man he loved and honored know that he was capable of such a thing. He opened his eyes and met his father's squarely. "Thanks, Dad. Not one of my better moments." He lay quietly for a moment, then the awkward left hand presented an unwelcome reminder. "Dad?" He tugged on the cuffs lightly. "This?"

Mark sighed. "Promise me you'll lie quietly and not jump around."

"I promise."

"And you'll take my word for it that Jim Newman is doing everything he can."

Alarm trickled into Steve's brain, but he willed himself to cooperate. "I promise."

"And I swear to you we will get to the bottom of it."

Steve couldn't take any more. "Dad! I promise! Tell me!"

Mark's face was grave. "You've been charged with attempted murder, ag assault and battery --"

Steve's voice was savagely incredulous. "On Morgan?" He moved his head restlessly. "Dad, no jury on earth would possibly --"

"That's not all, son."

Disbelief washed over Steve's face. "What else could there possibly be? He's after me for ruining his precious research study?"

"I wish," Mark said heavily. "Listen to me, Steve. They're making the same charges concerning one of the nurses."

His son looked at him blankly. "You've totally lost me now, Dad."

A new voice broke in as Captain Newman strode into the room. "A nurse by the name of Rachel Pauling."

Steve's face went white. "Rachel? What happened?" Then it sank in. "Wait a minute. You said I --" he stopped dead, staring at the other men in shock. Their expressions were grave, and totally unenlightening. "Dad, I really, really don't understand."

James Newman stared down at the man he privately considered the best cop under his command, one of the best on the entire force, looking for some indication of the monster he would have had to have been to have attacked Rachel Pauling so brutally. He saw none, and hoped he hadn't lost the ability to see. "Rachel Pauling," he stated, choosing his words carefully, "was found barely alive the same day you attempted your hostile takeover. She had been badly beaten. Her jaw and cheekbone were broken, as were several ribs, both wrists, her left knee and her collarbone. She also sustained internal injuries, including a damaged kidney and a ruptured spleen."

Steve closed his eyes. "Oh, God. Rachel." He opened them again. "But I still don't understand why I --"

"Steve," his father interrupted, hating to say the words, "she was found in your room." As his son stared at him in increasing horror, he added, "Her blood was all over your -- restraints." He paused, trying to get the ugly taste of the word out of his mouth, and reached for his son's hand.

Steve winced away from his father's touch. "I didn't touch her! That son of a bitch did it, did that to her!" He yanked savagely at the handcuffs, rapidly losing any willingness to be reasonable. "How can you let them do this to me, Dad?" he accused, tugging at them again and again until Newman reached down and stopped him, immobilizing his hand.

"Son --"

Steve ignored his father's attempts to calm him, still fighting the captain's grip. "She took care of me!" he raged, his voice rising. "She saved me from going totally out of my mind! How can you even tolerate such a ridiculous charge, let alone think I --"

"Lieutenant!" barked Newman, hoping to distract him enough to be able to regain some sense of composure. "That's enough!"

Taken by surprise, Steve reacted automatically to the order, and shut up instinctively, waiting.

Newman hooked a chair over with his foot and sat down heavily, not yet ready to let go of Steve's arm. "Listen, Steve. We don't put any credence in the reality of these charges, at least where you're concerned. But I know George Silver, and I can assure you he will not take kindly to interference with his investigation. He's a fair man, and a thorough one. He won't stop until he's sure of his results."

Mouth dry with apprehension, Steve muttered, "Somehow, I don't find that very reassuring."

Newman frowned. "Steve, you're going to have to trust me here. I can't help you except to assist in the investigation as much as George will let me. Although the evidence right now is mostly circumstantial, you know as well as I do that it's still dangerous in the absence of anything else. Until we can remove the cloud hanging over your head, you need to do as you're told and stay with the program."

Steve moved restlessly. His arm and shoulder were starting to really hurt, and he was rapidly becoming aware of a growing nausea suspiciously reminiscent of methadone withdrawal. "What about getting me out of here?" he asked with resignation.

Mark and Newman traded uncomfortable looks, which exchange was not lost on the man in the hospital bed. "Dad -- I want to go home."

His father sighed. "We don't think the judge is going to be likely to grant bail, son."

The strain of the last few minutes, on top of the last three months, came to a head. Enraged, Steve unwisely bolted upward, and as rapidly subsided while he waited for the fire in his arm to go out. "Why the hell not?" His eyes blazed blue fury.

Watching his son's struggle to control his rage and pain, Mark felt his heart ache. "Steve -- there's no good way to tell you this. Rachel Pauling almost died from her injuries. She's still not out of the woods. And -- if she survives, she's going to need extensive reconstructive surgery just to put her face back together again, not to mention any subsequent cosmetic procedures." He stopped, unable to bear the misery in his son's eyes.

"God help me," Steve whispered. "I did this to her."

Mark's head snapped up. "WHAT?"

Steve closed his eyes, trying to fight back the increasing nausea. "I -- she came to my room, told me that she had found out what Morgan was doing. She wanted to help me, -- dear God, I let her. She couldn't do anything to interfere with the drugs." He was still for a while. "Dad -- is there any water?"

Silently, his father poured him some water and helped him to sit up enough to sip it. After he had settled again, he continued, still somewhat hoarsely, "She wanted to help. I wasn't thinking straight, or I'd have discouraged her. I never thought she'd get hurt."

"Son," Mark said softly, "I understand that. Tell me what happened."

"I -- I asked her to call you, told her you'd know what to do, would take care of everything." The quiet voice had acquired a ragged edge. "You weren't there, but Jesse was, and you sent him up here. Then -- Dad, I don't know what happened then," he said despairingly. "The last time I saw her, she was sitting with me -- staying with me, helping me through the attacks --"

"Attacks?" his father asked.

Steve couldn't make himself meet those gentle eyes. "Cramps, nausea, body tremors -- methadone withdrawal." Before either of his listeners could say anything, he rushed on. "We were talking, oh, God, I started to tell her how I felt about her --" He didn't want to go there. Not yet. "I finally fell asleep, and she must have left before I woke up, because she wasn't there. That was the last time I saw her." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Bastard told me he'd reassigned her." Both hands clenched spasmodically as he remembered.

Newman gave him a long, searching look. "Steve, believe me. We will do everything possible to convince the judge. But don't get your hopes up too high. Ms. Pauling's in a bad way."

Steve looked up at him miserably. "May I see her?"

Newman glanced at Mark, who shrugged. "I'd have to cuff you to the wheelchair and escort you myself."

Steve winced, but nodded. "I understand. I want to see her."

He almost wished he hadn't. The nausea rumbling around in his belly threatened to come roiling upwards at the sight of the injured woman. She was sleeping, essentially comatose, tubes in her arms, tubes helping her breathe, shattered ribs and face bandaged heavily. He could only imagine the actual damage. "Oh, God," he managed. "Rachel, I'm so sorry." He started instinctively to reach for her hand, then pulled back when he realized what he was doing. With the possible exception of Morgan, he was the last person she was going to want to have anywhere near her. He swallowed. "Take me back to my room, please," he requested, unable to meet Newman's eyes.

Chapter Three

He had hoped to face the intensifying symptoms alone, sure that his father and the captain would have found other things to do for a while. No such luck, he realized unhappily, as he was wheeled back into his room. He squirmed under his father's narrowed stare as Mark helped him back into bed and Newman refastened the handcuffs. Although the captain then left, Mark remained, still watching his son dispassionately. Finally, Steve couldn't bear both the sickness and his father's calm but silent observation. "What is it, Dad?" he asked reluctantly.

Mark contemplated his restive son a little longer. "Tell me about the 'attacks', Steve," he requested in a tone which brooked no argument, and Steve knew it.

He sighed. There was no easy way to do it. "Dad --" He stopped, then forced himself to continue. "Dad -- I'm addicted to methadone."

His father said nothing, waiting.

This was too damned hard. He said, as rapidly as he could manage, "Morgan was experimenting with methadone and PCP. I've had I don't know how much of both pumped into my system. I do know I've had withdrawal symptoms several times when Morgan withheld the meth, then he'd increase the dosage again." He took a deep breath and made himself say it. "I've got them now, Dad."

Mark stirred. "You're having them now?"

He nodded, a lump in his throat. "Yeah. Mostly nausea -- the cramps and other stuff usually start later. I thought I was going to toss my cookies when I -- when I saw Rachel." A pause. "It's getting worse." Another pause; then, hating himself, he added, "Dad, I -- I need some --" He stopped, unable to speak or look his father in the eyes, and closed his own, unable to bear the expression he knew was on his father's face.

A gentle hand on his cheek, brushing away the dampness of tears he hadn't realized had escaped. "Oh, my son," his father said, his voice full of sorrow and love, "what baggage have you decided to lug about now?"

His eyes stung, but he still didn't dare open them. "Dad --"

"Steve, look at me."

Like a child, he shook his head mutely. Mark refused to accept it. "Steven Sloan, I mean it. Open your eyes and look at me."

His name, spoken in that manner and tone, allowed for no insubordination. He obeyed reluctantly. His father was blurry until he blinked the moisture away. Slowly, he raised his eyes, deathly afraid of what he would see, until his father's face entered his line of sight, and nearly lost all control again at the love and pride showing there so clearly. "Dad --" he tried again, his voice cracking.

Mark put a quieting hand on his shoulder. "Son, I have always loved you. You have always, always, made me proud of you. I couldn't ask for a better gift than a son like you."

He couldn't take it. "Dad -- please, don't --"

"Shh. Listen to me. That's not going to change because of an unfortunate byproduct of your run-in with Wyler and Morgan. We'll deal with the addiction, each day as it comes. Just promise me you'll stick with whichever program you choose."

Steve's throat was tight. "I promise, Dad."

"Good. In the meantime," Mark added, shrewdly noting the tightening of his son's eyes which he suspected coincided with an attack, "we'll see about getting you something to deal with these symptoms long enough to let your shoulder heal and get you on your feet."

Although the thought was paramount in both minds, neither man mentioned the fact that, once he was on his feet, Steve would most likely be in jail.

Chapter Four

Randy Wolfe stood by the bed of the man she thought she had married, watching him sleep. Despite the narcotic he was being given, both for the pain from his wounds and for the withdrawal symptoms, he didn't seem to be resting particularly comfortably. He muttered something incoherent, and she leaned over to catch it, but he had already subsided back into his restless slumber. A small sigh escaped her, and Mark looked up over his glasses from the reports he had been reviewing, which she had brought up with her for him.

"What is it, Randy?"

She sighed again and settled into the chair next to him. "I'm debating whether to wake him. David's going to be on his way up, and I don't know whether I should talk to Steve first."

Something was off, but he opted for the easier question first. "David -- is that another lawyer friend of yours?"

Randy nodded. "David Harbrook. He's willing to represent Steve. They've set the arraignment for tomorrow, assuming he's well enough."

Mark wondered briefly what the judge would consider well enough, and pushed the thought away. There were more important matters to resolve. "Randy, honey," he said, his voice full of concern, "why haven't you let Steve know you're here yet?"

She tried to give him a too-bright, too-innocent look, and failed miserably under his warm, worried gaze. She squirmed, much like his son did. "Now I understand how he feels when you do it to him," she complained.

"Randy." It was the same tone he had used on Steve, and it was no less compelling for her.

She let out a breath. "All right, all right," she said unwillingly. "I haven't told him because I -- I don't know how he'll feel. I'll have to tell him we're not really married." She paused, then said it. "By rights, he should want his mother's ring back."

"Honey --"

She shook her head. "I left him there, with those pills in his pocket, unable to run -- three months, and I couldn't find a single damned clue, and had to wait for some woman to call you, and look what's happened to him, and he'll think I didn't care, and --"

Even for Randy, she wasn't making much sense. Mark noted the strained nuance surrounding "some woman" and filed it away for examination later, then addressed the most urgent issue. "Randy, I know my son. He wouldn't have sent you off without him if he'd had any other viable alternative. And the only reason he would think you don't care is if he keeps waking and not seeing you here."

He could see she wasn't happy, but his lecture was interrupted by a moan from Steve. The emotional level in the room had filtered through to the restless patient, and subtly changed the layers of his dreaming. With a muffled yell, he bolted awake, eyes staring wide, only to be snapped brutally to reality by the cold metal on his left wrist. His father grabbed him and eased him back onto the bed gently, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Easy, son. It was only a dream."

Steve had closed his eyes; Randy's presence had not yet registered on him. "Dad -- can I ask you something?"

Mark smiled down at his son. "Anything, son."

Steve's good hand clenched and relaxed again. Mark made a mental note to check the handcuffs and make sure they weren't too tight. "Dad -- would I be able to dream about something which really happened if I hadn't seen it happen?"

Mark reflected. "I don't see why not. Your brain would naturally fill in details you might have learned about elsewhere. Why?"

Steve didn't look particularly reassured by the answer. "I don't know, Dad. It was just the two of us, and it was so real -- it had to have been me, but I don't remember --"

Concerned with his son's coherence level and what he was trying to say, Mark checked Steve's eyes and the level of the IV drip. "I don't understand, son. 'Just the two of us' --?"

"No, Dad," Steve said impatiently. "Not you. Rachel. Just Rachel -- and me -- or at least, I was looking at her --" He stopped, momentarily confused, then shuddered as the memory of the dream hit him full force. "Dad -- her face practically exploded -- she had the kindest eyes --"

Now he was losing his tenuous grip on himself, and Mark needed to stop him before he blurted out anything else, until he could be sure Steve was properly awake, aware, and not still in the middle of a nightmare which might or might not have any basis in reality. He adjusted the drip and deliberately increased the narcotic. "It's okay, son," he soothed, stroking the agitated man's forehead. "We'll discuss it after you get some proper rest."

Mark looked up and surprised a very odd expression on Randy's face, of regret? he thought, intrigued in spite of himself. "Randy, what is really bothering you?" he asked bluntly, recalling as he did her odd emphasis on "some woman."

"He's in love with her," Randy said flatly. She misinterpreted Mark's look of comprehension as the puzzle piece fit as his confirmation of her fears. "He loves that nurse, the one who was hurt, and now he's carrying around this guilt for what happened."

While he couldn't argue with the last claim, he was reluctant to accept her statement entirely. "Randy, that's absurd. I'm sure he was fond of her, after all, she was probably the only bit of brightness in a three-month long nightmare; but that doesn't mean his feelings for you have changed."

"You don't know that," she charged.

"No, I don't," Mark said, exasperated. "The only person who does for sure is sleeping in that bed. And you need to let him know you're here the next time he wakes up. Preferably before your friend Harbrook arrives." He took her hand. "I have to run a couple of errands and get something to eat. Tell him I'll be back soon if he wakes. And talk to him." He gave her a hug, and abandoned her to her conflicted contemplation of his sleeping son.

Chapter Five

She was forced to make a decision an hour or so later, when David Harbrook called to tell her he was about a half hour out. Naturally, Steve was sleeping peacefully. She hated to wake him, but Mark was right. It wouldn't be fair to Steve or David (or to her, she had to admit) to wait. She touched his hand gently. "Steve?"

He mumbled something inarticulate, but his eyelids fluttered. She scooped up her courage and leaned closer so he could hear her better. "Steve, it's Randy. Please wake up."

Her voice filtered down faintly to where he was drifting. He really didn't want to awaken, but she kept talking to him. Slowly making his way back to the real world, he strained to listen, fascinated, as she poured out her heart, although she didn't seem to be making much sense.

" -- And it's not even legal --"

He appreciated her candor, even if he didn't completely comprehend it, but now he was confused. He was obviously going to have to wake up properly just so he could understand what she was saying. He creaked one eye open to get his bearings.

Damn. She was standing on his left. He wanted to reach for her, but he had developed a positive loathing of the rattle of the metal bracelet. With an effort, he croaked, "Randy --"

She stared at him with an oddly panicked expression. "Steve! You're awake!"

Wasn't that what she wanted? he thought, disconcerted. He nodded, discovering his mouth was drier than he had expected. She interpreted his desire correctly and helped him manage some water, then sat down, fingers twisting nervously. He peered at her, puzzled. "Randy -- I realize I don't exactly have any free arms, but --"

"Oh!" She jumped up, flustered, and planted a quick kiss on his mouth, then sat down again, obviously ill at ease.

Something in his eyes altered as he noticed her discomfort. She must have changed her mind about him, he thought; it had been three very long months, after all. Even though he had half expected such a reaction, it hurt nonetheless. But that didn't make sense, if he believed what she had been saying when she had thought he was asleep. He couldn't leave it like this. "Randy --"

She took a deep breath. "Steve, please, don't say anything. I understand."

Wait a minute. She understood -- she understood what? He sure as hell didn't understand. He shook his head to clear it, experiencing that familiar feeling of befuddlement traditionally associated with Randy Wolfe. "Randy," he started again, fixing her with a stern look, "I think we're talking at cross purposes here. What exactly are you trying to tell me?" Doing his best to disregard the ugly reminder of his pending fate, he reached for her with his left hand.

Randy sighed. "Steve, didn't you hear what I said earlier?"

He shook his head. "Not very well. I was mostly asleep, and you were mostly inarticulate."

Ignoring the mild criticism, she said unhappily, "We're not legally married. Wyler had no business marrying us or any of those other people." She paused, reaching for her ring. "I guess I should give this back to you."

The fog started to lift a little. "Wait a minute," he objected, "I thought you wanted to marry me."

Frantic to end this conversation before it got into tricky waters, she babbled, "I did. I mean, I do. I mean, yes, but I don't know if you'll still want to because I left you there, with those pills, and that madman got hold of you, and it's been three months, and that nurse, and --"

His face shuttered suddenly. "What did you say?"

She sighed. "Oh, Steve. You want me to try to repeat that?"

"No." His voice was remote. "Just the last part."

The penny dropped. He obviously thought she believed -- oh. "Steve, that's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"I meant," Randy said miserably, "I don't know if you still want to marry me because of how you feel about that nurse."

Startled, he missed the signs of impending danger. "How I -- feel? About Rachel?"

She looked him straight in the eyes. "Yes. What are your feelings for her?"

He felt oddly disoriented. Hadn't he had this conversation already? He chased the memory down, and realized with a shock that it had been with Rachel, the last time he saw her, the last time she stayed with him.

"Steve?" Randy asked, already regretting her bluntness.

He blinked, then swore when he instinctively tried to rub his eyes with his left hand. "Randy, for the love of God, why did you have to choose now to ask me a question like that?"

She stared at him, mouth open, totally, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words, and it became clear to him that, having helped open this particular can of worms, it was his responsibility to help close it as well. "Randy, the past three months I've held you close in my heart. At least, during all the times I could remember who I was." He shook his head impatiently at her soft exclamation of distress. "That last part doesn't matter now. I'd concentrate on your face, your hair, your voice, just to keep from going crazy."

"So what happened?" she asked cautiously.

He sighed. "I don't know. An excess of contra-indicated drugs. Not being able to remember my own name half the time, much less anyone dear to me. A woman who was almost killed because of me. I don't know."

She didn't want to ask, but knew she must. "Can you look me in the eyes, and tell me you don't have conflicting feelings about her -- or about me because of her?"

Damn. He didn't want to lie, couldn't, wouldn't lie to her. He didn't want to hurt her either. Miserably, he looked up to meet her troubled gaze, and whispered, "No. I can't. -- I'm sorry, sweetheart, but -- I can't." And, as she averted her eyes, blinking, he added, "Randy, listen to me. I'd have to answer the same way if she were asking me about you."

She stared at him in amazement. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He wished he'd never let himself get dragged into this conversation. Not now. Maybe not ever. "Randy, darling, I do love you. If you'd never mentioned the questionable legality of our marriage, I'd never have --"

Now she was getting angry. She was willing to cut him a lot of slack under the circumstances, but his clumsy efforts were just making things worse. "You'd never have told me you were in love with another woman?"

Steve winced. "That's not what I was going to say."

Randy folded her arms and glared at him. "And what were you going to say?"

Exasperated beyond belief, he replied, "I was going to say I wouldn't have troubled you with my -- my feelings for Rachel, would have sorted them out properly by myself --"

Somehow, hearing the name was the final straw, and she lost her temper. "Oh, I see. Would you have decided to tell me about her after you'd safely decided you'd only been suffering from a drug-induced infatuation with the woman who held your hand, who put the needle in it when you asked for it?"

The brutal words slammed into him like a pile driver; she saw his body literally jerk with the force and shock of them, as the enormity of the accusation weighed down the already tense atmosphere in the room. Randy put her hand to her mouth, appalled. "Oh, Steve. I didn't really mean that. I'm so sorry."

There was ice in his chest and in his brain, reaching for his soul, as he fought an unexpected skirmish with the bitterness pounded into him over the last months. He won, but barely, and the cold still chilled his heart. He ran his tongue over chapped lips. "No, I'm sorry, Randy. It's not your fault."

They stared at each other, sharing the same indefinable misery. Finally, Randy stirred, slid Steve's mother's ring from her hand, and wrapped his fingers around it. "Here. Until we get ourselves sorted out, I think it would be best if you kept your mother's ring." Steve drew in a breath to speak, but she put her fingers to his lips. "Shh, dearest. I'm not going anywhere. But I don't want you to do anything because you feel obligated. Once you get this business here behind you, you can take as much time as you need to decide how you feel."

His voice was ragged. "I can't expect you to hang around waiting for me to get my act together."

She nodded briskly. "You're right. But I'll always let you know where I am, and you'll have an equal opportunity to woo me."

"But --"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door, then it opened and Mark stuck his head around it. "Randy, I found this gentleman wandering around -- says he's a friend of yours." His grin grew somewhat forced as the strained expressions on their faces registered.

Randy jumped up, immeasurably relieved by the interruption. "David -- I'm so glad to see you!"

A tall, pleasant-looking, dark-haired man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a well-cut, conservative suit followed Mark in and gave Randy a hug. "You're looking well," he said, smiling at her fondly. His attention turned to the man in the bed, who was watching him rather coldly. "Lieutenant Sloan? Dave Harbrook. Randy's retained me to represent you. Okay if I call you Steve?"

Steve's expression was not exactly welcoming. "You'll excuse me if I don't get up," he said, not quite rudely. "And I can pay for my own defense."

Harbrook chose to ignore the challenge. "That's fine. Now, assuming you have no objections, I need for you to tell me everything that's happened, and then I can see if my thoughts on your defense are on the right track." He glanced around at his audience. "I stopped in at the judge's chambers this afternoon. Steve, unless you're incapable of even riding in a wheelchair, she's insisting on arraigning you tomorrow afternoon."

"Fine," Steve said shortly.

Harbrook gave him a measuring look, then turned to the others. "Would you mind if Steve and I talked privately for a few minutes?"

Sensitive to the considerable chill in the room, Mark considered this a prime idea. "Not at all," he said hastily, and dragged an uncharacteristically subdued Randy out, determining to have a few words with her as well.

Harbrook waited until the door had closed, then dropped into the visitor's chair on Steve's right. "Look, Steve. I'm not going to pull any punches here. This is serious. I'm not too thrilled about your prospects for bail, even, given what I've learned about this judge. She's a stickler, and she absolutely despises men who batter women."

Steve shot him an icy look. "Then she and I should get along just fine. I'm not a member of that fraternity." He closed his eyes. "You don't need me for anything else, I hope."

"Cut the crap, Sloan," Harbrook snapped. "Listen. I don't have to care if you want me to defend you or not. I was hired by your wife --"

Steve opened one eye. "She's not my wife."

Harbrook's own eyes glinted with annoyance -- or was it the glasses? "That's not what she said."

Steve shrugged his good shoulder. "I heard it from her. I thought I was married until then."

"But you're not?"

The tone of the conversation was starting to bother him. "What the hell do you care about it, anyway, Harbrook?"

The attorney stared at him. "She didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Steve asked indifferently.

Harbrook looked uncomfortable. "We -- we were going to get married ourselves a few years ago."

There was a queasy silence while both men digested the bizarre nature of their new common bond. Then Harbrook inquired delicately, "So are you going to marry her?"

Steve had to appreciate the irony. He was also tempted to tell Harbrook to go to hell, but, in all fairness, he couldn't bring himself to do something like that to Randy. "I'm not really sure what we're going to do at this point," he conceded. "What about you?"

The other man shrugged. "You're my client. If you tell me to back off, I probably will. If you don't -- well, to be honest with you -- she's the only woman I've ever truly loved."

Steve sighed. More complications, as if his life wasn't already too damned complicated. "I'd like to tell you to stay away from her, but I can't. But I will warn you that she doesn't want us to step out of each other's lives yet, and that we have agreed to table any decisions until after you get me cleared." Reluctantly, he added, "But if she decides in the meantime that she wants to see you -- I can't really stop her, can I?"

Harbrook's eyes were sympathetic. "I know what you mean. Her picture's in the dictionary next to the word juggernaut."

Steve couldn't stop the grin. "You too, huh?"

His lawyer was tactful enough to avoid the unfortunate logical progression of that type of thinking. He was certain the irony had already occurred to his client. He loosened his tie and uncapped his pen. "Okay, Steve. Give it to me from the top."

Chapter Six

There was a pause after Steve finally finished. It had taken longer, and been far harder, than he had expected. The knowledge that he was probably going to have to tell it again in court, at least once, possibly more, was not exactly pleasant. Harbrook looked a little ashen himself, although not quite as pale as his client. Wordlessly, he took the tumbler from Steve's unresisting hand, refilled it, made sure the straw was in properly, and replaced it in that same hand, waiting patiently while the other man gulped the cool water down. "Better?"

Steve nodded. "I suppose I need to work on getting through all that a little less incoherently."

Harbrook gave him that sympathetic look again. "Depends. At the risk of sounding like I want you to milk it, do you think you could?"

Steve grimaced. "Good question." He was silent for a while. "I wouldn't want to bet money on it," he concluded finally.

Harbrook exhaled mightily. "Well, then. At least it will work for claiming extenuating circumstances where Morgan's concerned."

There was a glaring omission in the statement, and Steve's temper, already highly sensitive to that particular issue, started to rise. "Listen, Harbrook, you'd better understand something right now. I'm only going to say it once. I did not lay a hand on Rachel Pauling."

He would have said more, but Harbrook held up a peremptory hand. "No, Steve, you need to understand. I'm not one of the people you have to convince. The circumstantial evidence is nasty, and we're going to need a very precise approach to deal with it. And I would appreciate it if you would call me Dave instead of growling my last name like a dyspeptic senior partner."

Steve stared at him, not sure whether to shake his hand or toss his butt out, as the entirety of the lawyer's short tirade sank in. He started to smile slowly. "I take it that means you believe me. Dave."

"Now that that's settled," the lawyer said drily, "let me explain what you're up against. As I said earlier, Judge Wharton has a reputation as a fair, if hard-nosed, jurist. However, she's not going to ignore normal bail request guidelines without a damned good reason, and a blue-eyed, innocent look and boyish grin aren't going to cut it. The D.A. is a hot dog and a grandstander, so you're looking at a potential double whammy. Then there are these."

He took several sheets of photograph laser color copies out of an envelope and laid them on the table arm across the bed. Steve's initially puzzled expression altered abruptly to one of shock as he recognized Rachel's face, or what he could see of it. The pictures apparently had been taken before she had been removed from his prior accommodations. His breath hissed out sharply as he absorbed the extent of the injuries, feeling the ever-present incipient nausea rear its ugly head. Unable to bear the sight any more, he closed his eyes. "Dave," he said raggedly, "please get those out of here."

He waited until he heard the sound of them being slid safely back into the envelope before he reopened his eyes. His breathing wasn't quite back to normal.

"If it's any comfort," Dave observed dispassionately, "they think the first blow put her out, and she was probably unconscious for the rest."

Steve apparently had found something absolutely fascinating on the opposite wall and was concentrating on it fiercely. "No, it's not," he said quietly.

Dave waited, giving him time to compose himself, then advised, "There's something else I need to ask you, and I need you to give me a straight answer. You touched on the subject before, but it's more relevant than you think."

Steve's remote gaze slid from the wall to his attorney's face. "Yes. I am."

Dave blinked. "What?"

Steve had returned to his contemplation of the wall. "You were going to ask if I'm a drug addict," he said in a disconcertingly calm voice. "The answer is yes. I'm addicted to methadone."

The lawyer's eyes involuntarily focused on the IV and hurriedly snapped away from it again. Steve noticed the movement; his own expression was not easily identifiable. It might have been classified as a wry smile if it had gotten anywhere near his eyes. "I'm not getting any right now. There's a shunt up there on the drip. Dad's been regulating the dosage. I'd like to start lengthening the intervals between doses, but he's been concerned about my shoulder lately." He smiled a slightly healthier smile. "You'd know if I was taking it. Can't put more than a few words together."

Dave rubbed his nose. "That may provide us with a possible solution." He rose. "I need to get your father in here so we can bounce it off of him."

Chapter Seven

Mark was only too relieved to be found. His attempted heart-to-heart with Randy had been highly unsatisfactory. Despite her obvious distress, she had flatly refused to respond to his gentle probing, and he knew no more than she had told him earlier, other than that there was an obvious strain in her relationship with his son. That said, he wasn't sure he was particularly comfortable discussing Steve's addiction with someone who technically was still an outsider, even if that person was his son's defense attorney. His uneasiness soon communicated itself to both of the other men; Steve found himself feeling profoundly grateful for his father's affections yet again, while Dave succeeded in obtaining a very clear idea of the strength of their bond.

After Mark had answered his questions about treatment of such conditions in general, Dave put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "Okay, Mark, tell me this. If you were allowed to put Steve into treatment right away, say tomorrow, what would it entail -- dosages, length of time, conditions for behavior, that sort of thing?"

Mark gave him a quizzical look. "Am I right in guessing you're going to propose something like that as an alternative to jail without bond?" he asked shrewdly.

Steve broke into genuine laughter at Dave's look of consternation. "You're busted, Dave! Don't ask me how he does it; he just does it." He smiled affectionately at his father. "To everyone. All the time. Perfect record." And, in unison with his father, chanting what was obviously a well-established mantra, "Annoying as hell." Father and son both laughed, enjoying the family joke.

No wonder she fell in love with him, Dave mused, watching them. She had always been a sucker for a big, honest smile. With dimples yet. When Sloan smiled, really smiled, the bitter chill which otherwise lived in his eyes disappeared. He shook his head. Poor Randy. He came back from his odd train of thought on the receiving end of identical looks of inquiry. "Are you two comedians done?" he asked lightly. "Okay. Give me details, Mark."

Mark pondered. "Community General has two substance abuse treatment units. One essentially is a lock down facility. Coincidentally, the coordinators of each unit report to me."

Now Steve was the recipient of that long, calm stare. He tried not to squirm, feeling as he always did that his father could see right into his brain.

Mark tugged at his mustache. "At least one month, preferably two, due to the fact that we have to assess any possible complications due to the phencyclidine Steve was given. He reports to his counselor, the unit director, and to me, and Community General is his home away from home for the duration. Any outside visits must be approved and can only be made with an escort and a tracking bracelet." His disapproving glance fell on the handcuffs. "I hope that would be sufficient. I really don't sanction using this type of thing."

Dave reflected momentarily. "I think I can work with that." He rose. "Thanks, Mark. We may just have a shot at it." They shook hands.

A cold voice spoke from the vicinity of the bed. "Excuse me. Do I get a say in this, or are the two of you going to decide the rest of my future for me too?"

Mark opened his mouth to respond, but Dave stopped him. He didn't look quite so calm now. "Damn straight, Steve. For now, get used to it. It beats being given orders by a prison guard."

Steve's head snapped back as if he had been struck. His eyes blazed hoarfrost. "That's it, Harbrook. You're fired."

Dave gave him a contemptuous look. "No such luck, Sloan. I'm being paid by your wife." He pulled out a card case, extricated a card, and flipped it casually onto the bed. "I'll see you at the courthouse tomorrow at 2:30. If you elect to think with your brain as opposed to a certain other part of your anatomy, my cell phone number's on my card." He turned to leave.

"Dammit, wait --"

Dave turned back, waiting, savvy enough to keep his mouth shut. The burden was squarely on Steve's head, and he knew it. "Look, Dave," he finally said, "I apologize. I was out of line." Try as he might, he couldn't suppress the bitterness in his tone, but Harbrook was willing to skate him on it. His father, however, was not.

"Steve," Mark said with a touch of asperity, "We understand your hostility. But your attorney is not an appropriate target."

Steve grimaced. "I said I was sorry," he grumbled. "I would just appreciate it if the two of you would at least let me pretend I have some tiny degree of control over my life."

His lawyer shook his head. "Steve, I'm not trying to make this harder for you. But you'll manage a lot better if you don't try to think that way. You're just going to have to resign yourself to doing what I tell you with no arguments." He leaned forward slightly, as if to emphasize his point. "I can't promise absolutely that I will keep you out of jail. But I can guarandamntee you that you'll end up there if you don't trust me to keep you out."

He knew Dave was right, but he didn't have to like it. His father's expression, however, clearly said not to look in that direction if he was going to be uncooperative. He sighed. "All right. I guess I have to trust you. What do you want me to do?"

Dave relaxed. Sloan was convinced, now he could let up on him a little. "Get better." His client gave him a disbelieving look. "Really. I need to draft some pleadings and the conditional release proposal. You need to take it easy." He glanced at Mark. "I understand your other witnesses are on their way up --"

"Other witnesses?" Steve exclaimed, wondering just what of circus his hearing was going to become.

"Jesse and Amanda," his father amplified.

"What for?" He was feeling squeamish enough about the upcoming proceedings as it was.

"I think it would be best if Jesse supervises you in the program. That way they can't object that my involvement is too personal and not objective."

"Oh, like my best friend wouldn't be?" Steve asked pointedly.

His father frowned at him. "Quiet, Steve," he admonished. "You're not in charge here, remember? Anyway, Jesse will be able to testify concerning the details of the program, and --"

"And Amanda?" Steve inquired, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

"Actually," his father replied calmly, "Amanda was kind enough to go to the beach house and bring us some clothes." His son gave him a startled look. "I wasn't expecting a lengthy stay, and I would think you'd rather not appear in court wearing a hospital gown."

Steve looked at his attire ruefully. "Got a point, Dad. Okay, the three-ring circus can stay. But --" his smile was short-lived as he suddenly became very interested in something on the blanket.

Sensing that this was going to develop into one of those father-son moments which discouraged outside participation, Dave quickly made his goodbyes and left.

Chapter Eight

Mark turned his attention back to his son. "What's the matter, Steve?"

Steve was still concentrating on the intriguing distraction, whatever it was, on the blanket. "Dad -- I really don't know how to say this."

His father sat down and tried to look encouraging. "Try me," he said obligingly.

There was a silence. Steve got bored with his diversion and mashed at it with his finger, noticing idly that either his arm was starting to feel better, or there was some really good stuff in the IV, because he could move it without nearly as much discomfort now. He started doodling circles on the blanket.

"Steve?" Mark prompted.

He took a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. "Dad -- you know I love Jesse like a brother, and I adore Amanda."

"But?" Mark asked, starting to get a glimmer of where this was heading.

"But -- I can't -- I can only take so much sympathy, Dad," he said in a rush.

Mark gave him one of those infamous fatherly measuring looks. "That why you've been so ugly?"

Steve had the grace to look ashamed. "Yeah -- well, partly. Probably. And -- I don't particularly like the person I become then. But, Dad --" he stopped, doodling forgotten, hands clenching and unclenching with the strain.

Mark took pity on him. Plenty of time to address the ugliness issue. "You don't want to keep remembering, revisiting it, do you?"

How the hell did his father manage to do that? Steve wondered, not for the first time in his life, and probably not for the last. "Not any more than I can avoid it, no."

His father scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Steve -- I realize it's going to take time, but they're family."

Steve was wearing the deliberately shuttered look again. Mark was sorely tempted to shake him. "Okay, son. I wasn't planning to get into this now, but, while we're on the subject of less than desirable behavior, we may as well address it also."

His son continued to study the wall intently.

"Would you mind explaining your animosity towards Dave Harbrook?"

Steve turned his head and stared blankly at his father. "I said I was sorry."

"That's not what I meant," Mark snapped. "You've had a problem with him from the start, which has escalated as you went along. Why?"

"I didn't appreciate being left out of the loop, okay?"

His father stared at his obstreperous offspring. "I thought you got past that."

Steve shrugged, saying nothing. His father's stare became a disapproving frown. "Steve, if you have doubts about his ability to represent you --"

Steve shook his head. "No, Dad, nothing like that. I think he can defend me just fine."

"Then, my eldest and most annoying child," Mark said with exasperation, "would you mind sharing your concerns, whatever they may be?"

Steve was starting to redevelop a keen interest in the wall. "Didn't Randy say anything to you?" It was Mark's turn to stare blankly. "I thought she would give you all the gory details when you two disappeared."

Oops. His father had just acquired that "and another thing" look. Why couldn't he learn to keep his mouth shut? "That reminds me," Mark said, true to form.

Steve closed his eyes in resignation. "No."

Mark broke off in mid-inhalation. "What did you say?" he asked, fixing his son with a narrow stare.

Steve's nerves had tolerated about as much strain as possible for one day. "No, we're not married after all; no, I don't think she really wants to be, to me at any rate; no, I don't know how I feel about it; no, his qualifications notwithstanding, I don't like being indebted to the man who was once engaged to the woman I thought was my wife for anything, much less my freedom; and no, I really don't want to talk about it or anything to do with the last three months any more today." Throughout his speech, his face remained calm, his voice quiet, dispassionate even; only the whiteness of the skin stretched over the taut knuckles betrayed him.


His father noted the clenched fists, so at odds with the deliberately indifferent expression and careful wording. "You know, Steve," he remarked mildly, "you don't have to agree to go for treatment under these circumstances."

What the hell was his father talking about? Steve shook his head. "No, Dad, you don't understand. That I do want -- it's just that --" His hands opened, helpless, and he couldn't hide the wince of pain as his arm and shoulder let him know the medication was starting to wear off.

"Still bothering you, I would imagine," his father stated. "I think you'd best get some rest. You've got a busy day ahead of you tomorrow." He stood up and put his hand on his son's. "Listen to me, son. I hope I won't need to say this more than once to convince you. You have my complete, utter support, as well as Amanda, Jesse and Randy's, for whatever course you choose to resolve your addiction, short of encouraging or ignoring it. We will do everything and anything to assist Dave with this legal monstrosity. And I will give you a sympathetic ear and whatever words of wisdom I can summon to help you deal with any of the psychological and emotional repercussions from this entire affair. I think I can safely speak for the others as far as that goes too."

Steve started to speak, but his father pressed his hand gently, albeit firmly. "Hold on, son. I'm not finished. It's vital for you to understand what needs to be said." The concern in his eyes softened the words. "None of us can truly, totally understand the pain you have to resolve. We can only help you to the best of our abilities. If you need professional help, I'll refer you. But you need to remember that you are not living in an emotional vacuum, and that, much as you may want to avoid the sympathetic efforts of your family and friends, you really do need the security of our love and support to help repair the damage to your own emotional well-being. And," he added, "you may not think so today, but that really is a lot easier than trying to do it alone. I should know -- I tried that when your mother died. If I'd been thinking straight, I would have let you and Carol in, let us help each other through it, but I didn't, and I ended up hurting both of you." He stopped at Steve's stricken look, and waited, wondering if he had tried to push his injured son too hard.

Steve sagged back against the pillows, eyes closed, face muscles tight, saying nothing. Finally, he drew in a ragged breath. "Dad -- I'm -- I'm sorry. I really don't know what to say."

His father spoke up hastily. "It's all right, son--"

"No," Steve interrupted, in that same oddly distant tone as before, "it's not. You're absolutely right. I had no right to behave the way I did." The quiet voice had acquired a slight tremor. "But I don't know how -- Dad, there's something I have to tell you and maybe then it will make sense -- but I'm --" His studied calm was disintegrating rapidly.

"Steve," Mark interposed, "You've had enough for one day. This can wait until later."

"No, Dad, it can't. I -- just don't know how to tell you --"

Mark sat down again, hoping Steve hadn't noticed his weariness, keeping his hand on his son's. "Start wherever you need to. If it's disjointed, we'll figure it out."

Steve looked at him doubtfully. "Okay, Dad, I'll try." Slowly, hesitantly at first, then building up speed as the pain and misery of those last days at Morgan's clinic came rushing back, he awkwardly related to the man he had loved and respected his entire life how the repeated, consistent brutality had eaten away at him, bored through his sense of self and self-control until it had released an inner demon he had never expected to discover. "I thought I had beaten it, Dad. Forced it to-- to give me the strength to fight back, but I thought I had kept it from gaining the upper hand." There was a suspicious brightness in his eyes. "But I didn't. That was all that kept me going, especially after Rachel --"

"After Rachel what?" Mark asked, after too long a pause.

"After Rachel didn't come back," Steve said with difficulty. "Morgan took her away from me -- and I couldn't, I couldn't fight the drugs any more -- so I let the ice out, I didn't have any reason to stop it. So I let it out -- and now I can't make it go back, it's there in the back of my head all the time now. I feel like part of me is permanently frozen and I'll never be able to get warm again." His arm and shoulder were hurting like blazes now, but he would have passed out before admitting it; with some difficulty, he pulled his hand away from his father's and covered his eyes so he wouldn't have to look his father in the face. "And -- instead of accepting their love and concern, I keep trying to inflict that chill on the people I care about most -- oh, God, Dad, I'm so sorry, it's not exactly like you don't have enough to worry about right now --"

Heartsick, Mark leaned over and put his arms around his son as best as he could, given bandages, IVs and handcuffs, and hugged him hard. "It's going to be all right, son. I promise. We'll get you through this." And waited, his own eyes damp, as his son finally released the strangle hold he had been trying to keep on his emotions since his rescue and wept, choking, difficult tears, until he had no more energy to devote to them, finally lapsing into sleep, utterly exhausted. His father remained in his awkward position for a while, disconcertedly reminded of the small boy the man in his arms had once been, and stroked his son's hair. Strangely enough, he felt reassured by the episode. It was going to be a long, difficult path, but now he was sure his son would survive the journey.

Chapter Nine

Mark watched as Steve slowly buttoned the light blue shirt Amanda had brought, carefully avoiding moving his injured arm too quickly. The shirt was brand new; they had bought it shortly after Steve's car accident. He had never worn it. Now it hung on him with more than a little room to spare. His son sensed his father's disturbed reaction and glanced up, trying to smile. "Dad, don't worry. You know I like them loose."

"Not that much," his father retorted. "I think I'm going to have a word with the dietician at the hospital, and have Jesse schedule you regular workouts."

"A punching bag ought to do it," Steve remarked lightly. A sobering thought occurred to him. "Dad -- you talk as if it's a done deal." He started to pull on his pants.

Mark helped him to his feet, and winced as Steve cinched the belt at the tightest hole. He'd always been slim-hipped, but now he was obviously much too thin. Steve made a face at him. "Well?" he prompted.

His father took the tie out of his hand. "I'd hate to see how this would turn out with you trying to tie it one-handed." He looped it around Steve's neck and started working on it. "I'm operating on the premise that the judge will see the complete and utter logic of our request," he stated confidently, finishing the knot with a flourish. "Don't forget, Steve, you're not exactly going to have much more freedom of movement. And I can't guarantee the drug therapy is going to be particularly enjoyable."

"Beats jail," his son said grimly.

"Yes. And your record, not to mention what Morgan did, should speak in your favor. So that's how I intend to look at it. We'll convince her."

Steve winced into the jacket. "No, Dad, I can manage this. I think." His father, trying to suppress a certain understandable amusement, grabbed the recalcitrant sleeve and guided it onto his irritated son's arm.

Steve looked dubiously at his reflection. It was still strange not seeing shaggy hair and scruffy jaw. Sometimes that shocked him more than the gauntness of his face or body. His good hand unconsciously drifted up to touch his clean-shaven chin.

Mark misunderstood his distraction. "I'm definitely going to talk to the dietician. Get some flesh to go with the skin and bones," he added, only half joking.

Steve gave him an amused look. "That's not it, Dad. I just can't figure out why my head hasn't floated away after losing all that ballast of hair."

His father chuckled. "Rather reminded me of your college days."

There was a knock on the door, and the gang trooped in, including Dave, whom Mark had called the night before for a very long talk. Amanda's brow puckered slightly with distress when she saw how the navy suit hung on Steve's frame, but she carefully cleared her expression after getting Mark's signal. She gave Steve a hug, careful to avoid his hurt shoulder, then fussed with the jacket, buttoning a couple of the buttons and smoothing the fabric. "There. Trust you to just miss the best effect," she admonished, twinkling at him. Steve laughed and pulled her close with his good arm for another hug. "I know what you were thinking, Dr. Bentley," he whispered. "But I won't fuss. Thank you." He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead and let her go. "Jess, Dave. Where's Randy?"

"Right here," she replied, walking through the door. "I got stuck with chauffeur duty." She hugged him and gave him a cautious kiss, then moved aside very slightly.

He felt the too-familiar chill, and shoved it away hard. Not now. Not today. He had to stay calm, and respectful, and do as he was told.

Watching both of them attentively, Dave caught the slight hesitation and subsequent body language, and wondered again at the irony that had involved him in trying to keep the two of them accessible to each other. From the look Mark gave him, he suspected the doctor was thinking along similar lines. Oh, well. Steve and Randy were just going to have to mess up their relationship without his active assistance, although, he admitted to himself, he didn't think he would be able to exactly discourage Randy from coming back to him if that was what she wanted. He gave his client a searching look. "You okay, Steve?"

Steve nodded a little too quickly. "Yeah. I think."

"Just stay calm and let me do the talking unless she speaks to you directly," his lawyer advised. "You'll be all right."

Chapter Ten

Trying not to squirm under the stern gaze, Steve wasn't so sure. The Honorable Agnes Wharton was a handsome woman, probably in her mid-fifties. Silver-blond hair capped an arresting face with piercing grey-blue eyes, a strong nose, wide, mobile mouth, and a chin almost as pronounced and firm as his own. She didn't look exactly forbidding, but she had the same kind of penetrating stare which he had received from his father often enough to recognize it in others. She was definitely not going to allow any kind of nonsense in her courtroom. He thought, a little crazily, that his father would find her most attractive, and hastily reined in his undisciplined mental wandering.

She was discussing the conditional release proposal, and frowning. His heart performed a nasty little dip and backflip, then deposited itself firmly in his throat as he waited.

"Dr. Sloan, I will agree that the facility would have sufficient capability to ensure that your son would not be able to remove himself from it very easily. I also am willing to concede the necessity for him to wean himself from his addiction as much as possible to ensure a fair trial." She glanced at the documents before her. "Dr. Travis' credentials are more than satisfactory. However --"

Steve's heart hurtled higher, if that were possible. It felt like it was sitting on his tongue, waiting to leap out of his mouth.

"I am not willing to rule on this without first talking with your son." Before he was able to send the cardiac acrobat back where it belonged, she added, "In my chambers. Alone."

Dave stood up. "Your Honor, you know I have to object to the propriety of my client not having his attorney present."

She looked at him with a hint of scorn in those wintry eyes. "Maybe so. But this is my courtroom, Mr. Harbrook. I'm not planning to try and convict him today. I'm only going to decide where he's going to spend his time prior to trial, and I want to talk to him about it." The sharp eyes traveled to where Steve sat, waiting numbly, and softened slightly. "I believe he may not necessarily feel -- comfortable -- answering my questions in front of an audience, even an audience of one, and counsel at that. And I sincerely hope you are not implying that, if he starts to say anything which might possibly incriminate him, however remotely, I won't shut him down immediately?"

Dave flushed. "No, your Honor. I wasn't."

"Good." She aimed the gimlet stare at the prosecuting attorney. "Mr. Edding. You have the appearance of a man who wishes desperately to be heard."

The woman was frightening, Steve thought, watching in fascination. Attorney Edding looked less than thrilled at being singled out in such a peremptory fashion, but managed a reasonably decent recovery. "I would only remind the court that this man has been charged with several counts of violent crime, and --"

"The court," Judge Wharton interrupted icily, "is well aware of the charges. The court has also noted that the defendant, in addition to already having an immobilized arm, is wearing handcuffs. Besides," she added drily, "I have every confidence in my bailiff's ability to handle the situation appropriately if it should become necessary for me to call for help." The bailiff, a large, handsome black man with impressive muscles, smiled serenely at the assemblage. No one decided to challenge the judge's claim.

She glanced at Steve, who quailed at the look despite his best intentions, hoping she couldn't see his anxiety. "Lt. Sloan? Would you care to join me in my chambers?"

Steve nervously followed the judge into a large, comfortably furnished office, trying not to jump at the quiet click of the door as the bailiff closed it. Painfully aware of the metal circling his wrists, he waited patiently as she removed her robe, revealing a well-cut grey suit, with a sigh. "Damn thing gets hot," she explained to her mesmerized audience. She sat down in one of the armchairs rather than behind the massive desk, and pointed a finger first at him, then at the other chair. "Sit. You look like a paralyzed moose. I'm not going to eat you alive."

He had to laugh. Standing up, she was probably no taller than his elbow, and the image was pretty funny. He eased carefully into the chair, trying to avoid jarring his arm, and gave her an inquiring look, hoping his apprehension was nowhere near as obvious as it felt.

Agnes Wharton tapped a finger slowly on the chair arm as she gazed thoughtfully at the man sitting tensely across from her. Thinner than his normal weight, obviously; handsome, probably quite charming when he was relaxed. She had caught a glimpse of it when he laughed. Yet the signs of strain were evident in the lines around his eyes and nose, the shadows under his eyes, and the stillness into which his face settled as his nervousness intensified, although he was managing reasonably successfully to hide it.

"Lt. Sloan," she said finally, "tell me yourself why I should commit you to your father's program pending trial instead of just denying you bail and tossing you into prison?" As he opened his mouth to answer, she added, "And we'll take the obvious line about the danger to police in jail as read, all right?"

He nodded, not sure he trusted himself to speak yet. She gave him a minute or two, then the finger's gentle tapping reminded him that he was supposed to start talking. "Your Honor," he said hesitantly, "I'm a cop. That's what I do. I'm also a drug addict. I need to overcome my addiction, and I know enough to know I can't do it without help."

"There are rehab programs in prison," she pointed out.

"Yes, there are," he agreed. "But my father is concerned about any residual effects from the phencyclidine I was given, and he would prefer to trust the Community General staff to deal with that." He swallowed. She wasn't probably going to like what he was going to say next, but he couldn't omit it. "With all due respect, I can't avoid being concerned about the danger of being in prison. I just spent three months locked up in hell because I was recognized as a police officer."

Her lips thinned. "I see. Any other reasons?"

His unhelpful stomach churned. This was not good. "I also -- my father thinks -- I'm not sure I can explain this very well, your Honor."

"Try," she suggested evenly.

Now he was really uncomfortable. "Dad thinks a safe, optimum dosage of methadone for me sufficient to suppress, or at least minimize, any withdrawal symptoms would be between 25 and 35 mg a day. He'll have a better idea, obviously, once I'm in rehab. Generally, prison rehab programs aren't that obliging. I would probably get 10 to 15 mg less." His throat felt like sand, and the water pitcher on the table was taunting him. "Your Honor, do you suppose I might --?" he gestured with his manacled hands at the water.

Judge Wharton looked at the pitcher, then the hands and the weary blue eyes of the man sitting before her, and decided she was probably safe from any attempted attack or escape. "Of course," she said, poured it and helped him to balance it while he sipped. "All right, Lieutenant," she remarked when he was ready to continue, "tell me why that should make a difference."

He looked more uncomfortable. "I -- I spent, I think, the last month of that trip to hell being given varying levels of methadone and/or PCP, and having them constantly withheld, for no rhyme or reason."

"You think?" she repeated. "Don't you know?"

He shook his head. "No. I pretty much lost track of time after the third or fourth drug trip, much less once they started the drug/no drug cycle. Someone had to tell me how long I'd been there."

Her eyes widened for a moment. "Go on."

He moved his neck as if it hurt. "Methadone withdrawal, for me at least, starts with nausea and stomach cramps. The cramps then spread throughout my entire body, and I can't stop shaking. It's like the most vicious case of flu I've ever had, except far worse, because the only way I can get the same relief I would get from flu medicine is to ingest, or inject, more methadone. It's a vicious circle."

He needed more water. She guessed his request before he spoke, and gave it to him. Mouth less dry, he continued. "If I don't get any methadone then, all of the symptoms intensify. It feels like my guts are determined to rip themselves out from the inside. It's impossible to find any kind of position that doesn't hurt." He paused. "I was gutshot in the line of duty a couple of years ago. This is much, much worse."

"And if you are given the drug?"

He made a noncommittal movement. "It's not as good as being clearheaded, but if I get it before things get really bad, then usually it more or less takes the edge off the world. I'm a little lightheaded, a little fuzzy, but I can function. If the symptoms are so bad that I need more, usually I have to have so much that everything's a blur, and I have no idea who, what or where I am." He took a chance and looked her straight in the eyes, tense blue staring into icy grey-blue. "I'm asking, no, begging you, your Honor, please don't make me live through that again. Especially with a virtual target on my back. I will swear on anything you ask that I will go along with whatever restrictions you impose on me, so long as you let me go into the Community General rehab program."

There was a long silence. He gave up trying to read her, and wondered briefly how the others were doing in the courtroom. Then the tapping finger started up again as the judge considered him. "What if I decided to allow it only as long as you remained handcuffed and/or under heavy guard at all times?"

His self-control wasn't up to staying on the same plane as this woman. She had to have seen him flinch at her words. "If that's the only way you'll let me go into rehab and stay out of prison, I guess I don't have much of a choice, do I?" he asked bitterly.

"Would you agree to those conditions?" she pressed, ignoring the bite in his tone.

Steve looked at her with a certain degree of desperation. Was this a trick question? "If that's the only way you'll do it, yes, ma'am. It's not exactly a new experience for me now." The chill was back in his eyes. "It's my father who has a really hard time with the idea. I'd simply like to spare him that if possible." Any warmth which might have been revealed in his face earlier had vanished. "He's been through enough because of what's happened to me without adding that to it."

She said nothing, merely contemplated him with an unreadable expression for an interminable amount of time. "All right, Lieutenant," she declared finally, "you can go back out into the courtroom. I want to think about this."



They were told to rise for her return about fifteen minutes later. Steve waited tensely, shoulders hunched. He had no clue one way or another as to how the judge was likely to rule, and consequently was having some difficulty remaining calm.

Judge Wharton surveyed the expectant group before her, and made it short and sweet. "Trial is set for six weeks out. I am approving the conditional release plan submitted by the defense in its entirety, except for one detail." She focused on a vastly relieved Steve. "Lt. Sloan, I'm afraid I can't justify the use of a tracking bracelet for any outside-unit travel. I'm going to have to insist on handcuffs." She paused, and glanced at Mark. "I'm sorry, Dr. Sloan. This is not an implication of any lack of trustworthiness on your son's part. Our conversation more than satisfied any questions I might have had about that. Unfortunately, the guidelines don't leave me enough leeway to rule otherwise."

The stern gaze swept back to Steve. "Lt. Sloan, I'm remanding you to the custody of the lockdown rehab unit at Community General. I am also advising you that one violation of any of the requirements made of you by that program will get you yanked out and deposited in jail so fast your head will spin." She glanced down at the papers before her. "The actual date will be on the trial order, but plan on the Monday morning for docket call. If for any reason you are not medically clear to go to trial, Lieutenant, I'd better have received a call from Mr. Harbrook before then. That's all." She stood up and swept out of the courtroom, leaving almost all of them, except for Mark, who had an "I knew it" look on his face, staring at the closed door in amazement.

Chapter Eleven

Steve surveyed the room which was going to be more or less his world for the next six weeks with an odd combination of regret and relief. It was not large; there was room for a bed, a nightstand with a lamp and an alarm clock on it, a small dresser, a writing desk, two not especially comfortable looking chairs, and a mini-refrigerator, which some kind soul had already stocked with ice and juice. He noted, with additional relief, that the walls were not white, but rather a light blue-green, which gave the room a calming effect. An intercom was installed in one wall. The tiny attached bathroom had a shower stall barely large enough to accommodate his height, but he didn't care. Running water was a glorious luxury. Now all he had to do was learn to tolerate the sound of what seemed to be a normal door to a normal room locking from the outside. He was still reserving judgment on that one.

The door clicked open, and Mark and Jesse staggered in, toting a large picture of a seascape. "Thought this might help you settle in a bit," his father panted. Jesse nodded. "Swiped it from the third floor lounge." The thieves hung it over the dresser and stepped back to admire it, giggling like lunatics at their skill and effrontery.

It was a wonderful picture. Even though Steve suspected he might have days when it would be an uncomfortable reminder of his lack of freedom, on the whole, he couldn't fault their logic. "Thanks, Dad, Jess. This will help me stay motivated; in a few months, I'll be looking at that for real."

Jesse rubbed his hands together, doing his mad-scientist impression. "Okay, Steve, I need to do a complete start-of-program physical, with labs and blood work. Once the program coordinator --"

Mark rolled his eyes. Jesse scowled at him. "Once the program coordinator has reviewed them, we'll start your protocol."

Steve gave him a quizzical look. "Jess, speak English. You're talking like a doctor."

"I am a doctor. I speak English too," his friend retorted. "For those of us who are physician-impaired, I'll set up your meds schedule once Mark's looked at the results of your exam. Is that clear enough?"

Steve grinned at him. "As much as I'm likely to get from the likes of you, I suspect."

Jesse squared his shoulders and tried to achieve a look of importance. "Anyway. The notes from your stay at Fairview indicate you were getting meds twice daily. I may want to stick with that to start."

Steve nodded. "Jess, really, whatever you do is fine with me as long as you get me off this stuff without killing me in the process."

His best friend gave him a mischievous look. "You say that now. I've also set up an appointment for you with Rob Durward, one of the PTs. He's going to set up your exercise program."

Steve looked puzzled. "Jesse, don't get me wrong. I think that's a great idea. But that's about the fifth time either you or Dad have mentioned it -- I know I've lost weight, but is there something I should know that you're not telling me?"

His expression was calm, but the tone of voice was more anxious. Bewildered at first, Jesse made the connection. "Oh, no, Steve. Nothing like that. My concern is that any withdrawal symptoms you may experience could be exacerbated because you're -- well, you're thinner -- and it's harder for your body to fight that if you're underweight."

Steve looked distracted. "Maybe that was why the symptoms were getting worse," he commented thoughtfully, and swore. "Damn him! Morgan probably knew that, didn't he?"

"Most likely," his father remarked. "Not to pursue an unpleasant subject, Steve, but you need to give some thought to how you want to manage your anger. Do you want a psych referral?"

Steve debated for a moment, then shook his head. "Not yet, Dad. I need to see how much I can do myself, and what effect Jesse's drug therapy and Rob's program have. I promise I'll ask if I need it."

Mark nodded. "All right. In that case, I do need to catch up on some work. Jesse will give you the schedule for meals and any common activities in which he thinks you should participate." He hugged Steve. "I'll be by later to see how you're doing, son. But, if you need me, call."

Chapter Twelve

His routine, Steve soon discovered, really was not too intolerable as long as one discounted the fact that his door didn't open from the inside. At least, he reflected that first day, being in a locked room wasn't something he hadn't experienced before, and this room was much more pleasant, and he didn't have to dread the visits from any medical personnel. And, while his periods of relative freedom were spent either in therapy sessions or at the communal meals, and always under supervision, he could be reassured by the fact that these people really were there to help him. He found himself deeply grateful for the unspoken emphasis on preservation of personal dignity, especially after the impersonal lockdown unit at Fairview and the studied brutality of his prior captivity.

That being said, that first day, he discovered just how accustomed he had become to solitude, and just how difficult it was to become used to being in the society of others again. Jesse was painstakingly thorough; Steve underwent tests he had forgotten existed. He gave so much blood for lab work that he started to wonder if he was going to run out. Finally, the vampire impersonating his best friend pronounced himself satisfied that he had exhausted all possible reasons for poking and prodding him. "Here." Jesse tossed a set of sweats at his victim. "Rob'll take you down to the dining room; then, after lunch, he'll go through your workout with you. I'll see you back here at 4:00 to go over your test results and determine your dosage."

Steve had then spent a few hours in the company of his physical therapist, as well as other patients undergoing similar regimens, to emerge virtually exhausted. Rob Durward and Jesse Travis could have been twins in their boundless energy and enthusiasm, although Rob was both considerably taller and wider. He endured a fairly demanding workout ("We'll add more for your arm once it's healed," Rob had advised), and duly reported back to Tyrant Travis for more medical punishment.

Jesse looked up from Steve's chart. "Sit down, Steve. I'll be right with you." He grinned at Rob. "Looks like you wore him out."

Durward laughed. "Nah. Any whining is strictly for show. He did pretty well, actually. Once he gets full use of that arm, I'm going to have to watch myself." He flipped a mock salute at his charge as he left. "See you tomorrow, Steve. Do that one set of exercises after you get up, before breakfast."

"So what's the bad news?" asked Steve, noticing his friend's faint frown.

"Well," Jesse replied, "I think we're going to have to start you on the high side of the range we discussed." He leaned back and stretched. "I'd like to go with 35 mg a day right now. You can either get four injections, one every six hours, or you can have it all at once in one handy-dandy little pill. Personally, I'd --"

"Once a day is fine," Steve interrupted. "I've had my fill of needles for a while." He shuddered involuntarily as an unbidden memory pushed its unwelcome way into his brain, of lunging at Morgan, yelling something, trying to reach the silver lure held so enticingly out of range. "Why so high, Jess?"

Jesse hesitated. "Steve -- your body chemistry is pretty screwed up. You're also anemic, still dehydrated, and semi-seriously malnourished. I'd like to get all that closer back into balance before we lower the dose." He scowled. "If what Rachel told me was accurate, and I don't see that it wouldn't have been, you were getting at least twice that much daily. When you were getting it, that is."

Steve had been temporarily distracted. "You talked to Rachel?" he asked, his voice overly casual.

Jesse hated to disillusion him. "That day I came to the clinic. She told me then."

"Oh," Steve said flatly.

"I'm sorry, Steve. Do you want me to keep tabs on how she's doing?" he asked.

His best friend nodded, not trusting his voice just then. Jesse decided they needed to get back to the subject at hand. "You said methadone makes you pretty dopey -- so I'm thinking after dinner might be best. That way, you've already started to relax before lights out."

"Lights out?" Steve asked, startled.

Jesse gave him a questioning look. "It's a lockdown unit, remember? Lights out at 10:30. Besides," he added wickedly, "you forget. You don't get to just lie around and loaf about here."

Steve looked around for something to throw, but nothing in close range was suitable. "I ought to get up and slap you upside the head," he growled, half-kidding.

Jesse smiled at him beatifically. "Yeah, but for once I have the upper hand. I can have Rob haul your sorry hide awake at four a.m. For pushups."

They both laughed, then Steve's grin faded. "Jesse," he said awkwardly, "in case I don't manage to say it properly --" He ignored his friend's attempt to change the subject. "Thanks. For doing this. For what you did before. For everything."

Jesse looked at him soberly. "You've always been there for me, Steve. No way I was going to turn my back on you. What are best friends for, after all?"

Still, Steve was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, by the time he was given his medication. He chose to turn in early, unused to so much interaction with other people, and desperately in need of a little quiet time to be alone. Perhaps it was the strain of what had come close to being almost excessive human contact. Perhaps it was the realization that he had a predictable routine, which was no longer subject to arbitrary interruptions by sadists attempting to cloak their amusements with a thin coating of respectability. In any event, he turned off the light, and lay staring into the night, somewhat disconcerted by the degree of the relief he felt at being alone in the quiet darkness. As he started to drift, cottoned by the initial soft affection of the methadone, there was a knock, and the door opened.

"Steve?" his father said softly.

"I'm awake, Dad."

Mark shut the door behind him carefully and walked over to sit down on the side of the bed, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. "How was your first day, son?"

"Okay, I guess," Steve answered drowsily. "I'm not sure which one's more of a slave driver, though, Rob or Jesse."

Mark chuckled. "How do you feel? Shoulder hurting?"

Steve shook his head slowly. "Doesn't hurt now particularly. It was sore earlier." The medication was starting to work its way through his body, and his voice thickened a little. "Too many people," he added suddenly and somewhat indistinctly.

"What?" his father asked, startled. "What about too many people?"

He was very relaxed now. It occurred to him that whatever had made him think of the apparent throng probably didn't matter. "'S all right, Dad. Quieter now."

The light dawned. "Oh, I see." Mark reached to stroke the hair back off of his son's forehead, mentally kicking himself. Of course. They should have expected this; after all, it wasn't an uncommon reaction to social overstimulation after long periods of solitary confinement or habits. "It won't be quite as bad tomorrow, son. You'll get used to being around people again."

He wasn't sure if Steve had heard him; his son's breathing had slowed and deepened into a steady, peaceful rhythm. On an impulse, he leaned over to kiss the sleeping man's forehead, as he had done so many times with the boy Steve had been, immeasurably grateful for the opportunity to do it now. "Good night, son."

Steve was barely aware of his father's voice. "Night, Dad." He turned, snuggling his cheek into the pillow with a small sigh, and slid all the way into a deep sleep.

And came awake abruptly, the yell of protest dying in his throat, as he realized where he was. Rachel's face was still there when he closed his eyes, so he forced them open again, staring blindly into the gloom, chest heaving as if he'd just staggered across the finish line. Slowly, as his frantic scanning of the murky outlines of the room furnishings convinced him he was alone, he began to muster some control and calm himself.

She wasn't there. But the dream had been agonizingly real, including the shock in those soft, kind eyes at the impact from the unidentifiable fist which had shattered the delicate bones. He shuddered, remembering. Surely, if he had somehow struck her while in the grip of a more violent hallucination, he would be able to remember it on some more conscious level? Obviously, he couldn't have done it, he told himself with as much firmness as he could manage. Then why were they the same vivid images every time? For now, he had no answer for that question.

He got out of bed, padded to the refrigerator, and dumped most of the orange juice into himself, realizing just how thirsty he was as he gulped it down. Jesse was right; he was dehydrated. He sat down to finish the juice, reluctant to go back to sleep, and stayed put, staring at nothing in particular, trying not to think.

He was awakened by a hand on his shoulder and Jesse's voice. "Steve. Wake up." Somewhere in the room, something was buzzing annoyingly. "Wake up," Jesse repeated, nudging him slightly.

Steve blinked groggily at the concerned face hanging in front of him. It seemed to be attached to the hand which was shaking him. "Stop it, Jess," he complained. Clarity was starting to inch into his sleep-dulled brain. "That's not the best way to rouse my stomach, under the circumstances."

Jesse retreated a step. "Sorry." A pause, and then he asked, "Want to tell me why you slept through the alarm -- and in the chair? Do I need to decrease your meds?"

Steve shook his head. "No, Jess, I don't think that was it." The fog was dissipating, and he was starting to think more clearly. "I woke up in the middle of the night, dying of thirst. Sat down to drink some juice. I guess I just fell asleep again before I could go back to bed."

"Uh-huh," Jesse replied absently. "Let me go ahead and take a look at you since I'm here." After a short examination, he pulled the other chair over and straddled it, facing his friend. "Steve, you want to tell me what really happened?"

Steve was dismayed to discover that clearer didn't necessarily mean faster. "No."

Jesse made an exasperated noise. "Forgetting something?" He caught the other man's gaze and held it until Steve reluctantly looked away first.

"Okay, Jess. You win. It's something I have to get used to, okay?"

Jesse shrugged. "Just be careful where you are and who's around when you try to cop an attitude. Remember what Judge Wharton said."

Steve looked horrified. "Jess, you wouldn't --"

"No, I wouldn't. But, remember, you're not the only participant in this program. Cutting you too much slack isn't fair to the others, and someone might manage to complain if they felt you were getting special consideration. I don't want to find myself in a position of having no choice," Jess declared passionately.

This was going to be a lot harder than he'd thought. He was definitely going to have to deal with his temper more constructively. "I'm sorry, Jess. I didn't realize."

Jesse flapped a hand. "It's all right. Just try to remember to think from now on." He folded his arms. "So tell me about the real reason you overslept."

"I really was thirsty," Steve said defensively. "But -- I was already awake." Why was this so damn hard? Haltingly, he added, "I had that dream again. About Rachel."

"The one you mentioned before? With the --"

"Beating," Steve finished grimly. "At least, the start of it. It always ends at the same place." Now he couldn't stop himself from blurting it all out. "Jesse, I don't understand. I couldn't have done it, hurt her. I -- never mind. I can't imagine doing that to her even under the influence of the worst stuff Morgan gave me. But then why is it so real, so clear -- and why can't I see the face of the owner of the fist if it's not mine?" He dropped his head into his hands, unwilling to see the expression in Jesse's eyes. "And she looks at me with those eyes -- God, Jess, her soul was in her eyes; the only light I really saw for three months was in those eyes -- and then I see the look in them as the hand connects --" It hurt to speak. He didn't want to talk any more.

Disturbed, Jess observed the bowed head in silence, wishing he could add some miracle drug to Steve's meds which would prevent the dream from returning. Finally, he reached over and touched his friend's good arm. The muscles were taut from tension. "Steve, you had a long, exhausting day yesterday. New environment, new routine, new meds, and a lot more people around than you've been accustomed to. I'm sure tonight, and the next nights, will be different." He stood up, tugging on the unresponsive arm. "Come on. We need to get you started. A regular routine is vital to recovery."

Steve inhaled deeply, let it out slowly, and stretched, rotating his neck and popping it. "Yeah." He got up slowly, waiting for the faint dizziness to pass. "You're probably right, Jess. There's always tomorrow."

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