Solace 5/14 (Without a Trace)
Solace
5/14
Chapter 9
The rest of Friday proved miserable for Martin. Breathing hurt. Talking hurt. Moving hurt. Laying still hurt. The only thing that didn’t hurt was sleep, which, despite his weakness and exhaustion, he could only manage after a hefty dose of Demerol.
He had several visitors as the morning passed. His sister showed up first, trying to distract him with amusing anecdotes about his precocious nieces and wild tales about the brilliant but oversexed sous-chef at her new restaurant. She was clearly concerned about opening night, scheduled for Monday, and could barely meet his eyes as she confessed to booking a flight to Las Vegas on Sunday night. She said she’d come back midweek.
Even as a fresh wave of pain gnawed at Martin, he somewhat breathlessly reassured her that it was all right for her to leave, that the worst had passed. As she smiled gratefully, their parents arrived. Meghan excused herself and left him alone to face them.
As they drew closer to his bed, he wasn’t sure what to say. Even on a good day, he had difficulty sustaining a decent conversation with his father. He got along better with his mother, but that wasn’t saying much. During his childhood, Victor and Rebecca Fitzgerald had been so wrapped up in their careers that they’d been little more than part-time parents. Sometimes there for spelling bees or swim meets, but rarely around for meaningful conversations about their son’s hopes and dreams, or fears.
To have his dad hovering over him now, patting his arm or squeezing his hand, and his mom repeatedly fluffing his pillows was just weird.
Martin was too out of it to talk much, so his father filled the silence with a quick account of how the FBI had tracked down Emil Dornvald. Danny’s role in the manhunt surprised him. He would have expected Jack to pull his partner off the case. He didn’t share those thoughts out loud. His dad and boss had never had the greatest working relationship, and he didn’t want to give his father another reason to treat Jack with disdain.
After a few more minutes, his parents left him to nap. When he opened his eyes two hours later, Tricia was there, taking his vital signs and then, unfortunately, checking his bandages, an experience he’d come to loathe. No matter how gentle the nurses tried to be, he always wound up gasping for breath. This time was no different, and as he winced and bit his lower lip, Tricia checked his chart. He had another hour until his next dose of Demerol.
Damn.
“You have a visitor waiting,” Tricia announced as she put the chart back. “Are you up to it?”
He turned his head toward the waiting area and spotted his partner standing outside the room, hands shoved in his jeans pockets. Danny raised a hand in greeting, and Martin weakly returned the gesture.
Truthfully, he didn’t want to see anyone until after the next round of Demerol and some sleep, but this was his friend. The man who’d kept him alive after Dornvald pumped two bullets into him.
“Send him in,” Martin requested, taking a cautious, shallow breath, hoping he didn’t look as bad as he felt.
Tricia held the door open as the other man walked in, then left the two agents alone. Danny watched her go, whistling softly and then grinning at his injured friend. “Nice.”
“Down, boy.” Martin said, chuckling, and then winced as his incisions pulled.
Taylor’s expression sobered as he approached the bed. His eyes roamed over Martin’s torso before resting on his face. “How you doin’, man?”
“I’m alive.”
After a brief nod and slight frown, the brown-eyed agent hooked a chair with one of his boots, dragged it closer to the bed and sat down. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped together between his legs.
Martin saw pain and guilt on his partner’s always-expressive face, and sighed. He didn’t want Danny to feel responsible for what had happened. As he waited for the other man to speak, tiny, white-hot sparks danced over his torso. Not wanting Taylor to note his distress, he stifled a groan, instead settling for clenching the bed sheet. He knew his partner was onto him when the agent eyed his white-knuckled death grip and cringed.
“I’m sorry, Martin,” Danny apologized hoarsely.
“Not your fault.” Martin gasped softly as the tiny sparks grew into flames that licked their way up and down his chest and stomach. Damn it, he wasn’t up to this right now. But he had to try. “Couldn’t have done … anything differently.”
The other man frowned and glanced over his shoulder at the nurses’ station, then turned worried eyes on the hurting agent. “Maybe I should get a nurse.”
Martin doubted it would do any good, since he couldn’t have any drugs for a while yet. “Can’t help,” he ground out, breathing hard through his nose as he twisted the sheet. Sweat beaded on his face and neck.
Taylor shook his head and pressed the call button. “Just take it easy, man, okay? I’m sure they can do something for you. Take it easy.”
Tricia soon joined them, and Danny looked at her imploringly. “He needs something for the pain.”
The nurse smiled politely before addressing her patient, a sympathetic expression on her face. “I can’t give you anything just yet, all right? You need to hang in there for a little while longer.”
Martin bit his lip and nodded weakly, hurting too much to speak.
“You gotta be kidding me!” Danny protested incredulously. “Just give him the damned drugs!”
“He’s already on a high dosage, and we have to be careful with it. We don’t want to risk depressing his respiratory system.”
The flames on Martin’s torso coalesced and burst into a fiery explosion. He cried out, arching his back, trying to escape, but only intensifying the agony. As darkness slammed into him, he wondered if it would have been better if Dornvald had killed him after all.
**
Danny cursed softly as he watched the nurse check his now-unconscious friend’s vital signs. When she moved to examine the bandages he turned away, not wanting to see the source of Martin’s torment.
“He’s okay,” the nurse said.
Danny stared open-mouthed at her. What alternate universe was she in?
After she left, he drew closer to the bed, recalling what the injured agent had said, that he couldn’t have done anything differently when they’d been ambushed. The words had done little to ease his conscience. They might have been more effective if Martin hadn’t been wracked with pain at the time.
His stomach twisted as he studied his friend’s pale face and remembered how he’d cried out a few minutes ago. To see the proudly stubborn man so completely undone made his heart hurt. After one last look at Fitzgerald he strode quickly out of the room, wanting to escape the other man’s suffering.
And his own.
**
Dr. Gould restricted Martin’s visitors to immediate family for the rest of the day, and requested that they keep their visits short. He explained that the wounded man had simply overdone it earlier, trying to “entertain” too many people, in too short of a time span. The patient needed to focus on resting, not on following conversations or trying to be sociable.
As the day wore on and Martin struggled against the pain, he developed a low-grade fever that left him warm and restless. Deepening his misery. His nurse told him that post-op patients often ran fevers following surgery, but they’d watch him closely for signs of infection. He nodded weakly and almost sobbed in relief when the next dose of Demerol came, quickly soaked into his system, and spirited him away.
**
The next day, he felt no better. The low-grade fever had sapped what little strength he had, and he slept most of the time, despite the sharp knives jabbing into his wounds. His visitors were again restricted, and his sister and parents were careful not to stay too long, so that he’d get the rest his body so desperately craved.
During one of the moments when he hovered somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, his phone rang. Tricia, who’d been checking his vital signs, answered and explained that he wasn’t up for talking. When she said Viv’s name, he reached for the receiver. The nurse frowned disapprovingly, but handed it to him anyway, and he managed a weak hello.
“Martin,” the other agent said tenderly. “Marcus just told me what happened. I’m so sorry. I won’t keep you. I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking of you.”
He smiled. It was so good to hear her soothing voice. “You all right, Viv?” he asked sleepily.
“I’m doing great, sweetie. You get some rest now, and we’ll talk again soon.”
He nodded, fading out before he could reply. When he opened his eyes later, he pushed the call button and asked Tricia to look up a phone number. He dozed off for a few minutes, and when she lightly touched his shoulder and slipped a piece of paper into his hand, he stared at it in confusion. After a few seconds, he remembered why he’d requested it. When Viv had gone into surgery, he’d decided that as soon as she was ready for visitors, he’d take her flowers. But they were in separate hospitals, and he wouldn’t see her anytime soon.
So, he settled for calling his favorite florist and ordering a dozen yellow roses, to be delivered that afternoon. When the receptionist asked what to write on the card, he paused, at a loss for words. The unnatural warmth in his body and ever-present throbbing in his torso made it hard to think straight. He decided on a simple, “Thinking of you, too. Martin.”
Not eloquent, by any means, but it would have to do.
**
Chapter 10
Danny awoke Sunday morning feeling fairly good after a long, nightmare-free stretch of sleep. He grabbed a quick shower and, as he shaved, inspected the cut on his head. It was healing nicely, and he peeled off the two thin band-aids. The ER doc had told him he’d only need them for a few days while the skin began knitting itself back together.
After throwing on some boxers, a pair of well-loved jeans and a black T-shirt, he padded out to the kitchen. He toasted a bagel, spread a thick layer of low-fat cream cheese on top and poured a tall glass of orange juice. Once he finished eating, he called the hospital, hoping for some good news on Martin. He’d wanted to see him yesterday, but had been disappointed to learn that visiting hours were still heavily restricted.
The news was better today. Fitzgerald’s fever had broken, and friends, as well as family, could visit. The nurses had even relaxed the ten-minutes-every-three-hours rule. If the injured man seemed up for company he could have it, as long as the visitors left if he seemed to be tiring or hurting too much.
When Danny arrived at the ICU, he cheerfully greeted the nurses, saving an extra-wide smile for the delightful Tricia. She smiled back and told him to go on in.
His good mood dissipated slightly as he entered Martin’s room. While Fitzgerald looked better than he had a few days ago, he was still too pale, features drawn in pain. On the bright side, the nasal cannula was gone, so he was definitely improving.
“Hey, man.” Danny exchanged smiles with his friend. “Brought you something.” He handed over a plastic bag and sat down, resting one ankle on a knee and draping an arm over the top of the chair.
The plastic crinkled as Martin opened the bag and slid out the latest issues of “Sports Illustrated,” “ESPN The Magazine” and “The National Enquirer.” “The Enquirer?” he asked, the corners of his mouth quirking up in amusement.
“I know, I know, it’s not your usual reading material, but I figured what the hell. You’re probably getting bored, and that rag is nothing, if not entertaining.”
The other man chuckled, wincing, and slipped the magazines back in the bag. “Thanks.”
“There’s one other thing in there, at the bottom.”
Martin fished around and removed a piece of white ruled paper, the size of a dollar. “IOU. The Ground Round.” His favorite greasy burger joint. He looked questioningly at his partner.
“When you’re up for it, I’ll take you there and you can get one of those gut bombs you love so much.”
The injured agent smiled and dropped the paper back in the bag, then laid the parcel on the small table at his right, again wincing.
Even though Danny doubted he’d get the truth, he asked the standard hospital-visit question. “So how are you doin’, man?”
“Better.”
Ah, the old Fitzgerald stoicism. He easily saw through it, not just because the wounded man grimaced every time he shifted in the bed, but also because of his short, clipped sentences, as if the very act of speaking hurt.
“How are you?” Martin asked.
“Pretty good,” Danny replied, wondering if his partner was trying to deflect attention away from himself. “I spent the last couple of days taking advantage of my satellite TV hookup. It’s amazing how much stuff is out there to watch. Most of it’s crap, of course, but there’s nothing like uninterrupted channel surfing to make a man happy, right?”
The other man nodded, and he continued. “I saw Viv yesterday. She looks good. She said she called you, but you fell asleep on her.”
“Yup.” Martin grimaced as he placed a hand over his chest, as if to ward off, or hold in, the pain. “Wish I could see her.”
Hearing Fitzgerald’s frustration at being laid up, Danny patted his friend’s knee. “Give yourself some time, man. You’ll be up and around before you know it.”
When the injured man looked away to stare out the window, Danny wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. He just wasn’t good at hospital visits. As he considered his next words, Martin winced and pressed the button on his PCA pump.
Danny nodded toward the pump that allowed his friend to administer his own painkillers. “They giving you the good stuff?”
“Oh yeah.” Fitzgerald closed his eyes, took a shallow breath, held it, and then slowly expelled it. It didn’t take long for the lines of tension in his face to ease. He looked at Taylor with a hint of humor in his eyes. “Down side is, I’ll be in la la land soon.”
It was the longest sentence the man had uttered since before the shooting, and if that wasn’t enough to lift Danny’s spirits, the trace of his partner’s usual dry wit certainly was. “Nice, man,” he teased. “I come bearing gifts, and you’re gonna take a nap during my visit. Some gratitude.”
The other man’s expression grew serious. “I am grateful. For what you did back there.”
Danny’s smile faded as he realized where the conversation was heading.
“I remember you pulling me out of the car. Trying to stop the bleeding.”
Blood-soaked images rose before Danny could stop them and he swallowed hard. Did Fitzgerald have any idea how much those moments haunted him? “I should’ve done more. I should’ve kept it from happening in the first place.”
Martin shook his head. “Nothing you could’ve done,” he said, yawning, eyes heavy-lidded. “Wasn’t time to think. Just … react.”
Despite the reassurances, Danny searched his memories, trying to pinpoint where he’d gone wrong. “Maybe if I hadn’t told you to back up the car - ”
“Don’t know if that’s when it happened.” Martin closed his eyes, seeming to fall asleep, but then roused himself. “Not sure when I got shot.”
“If I could go back and change what happened, I would.”
“I know.”
“If I could trade places with you -- ”
“I’d never ask you to.” Martin shook his head. “Wouldn’t want you to.”
They sat quietly for a moment, and then the injured man’s eyes drifted shut and his breathing evened out.
Danny leaned back in the chair, watching Fitzgerald sleep. He was grateful that Martin didn’t blame him for his injuries, but he still felt like he’d failed his friend.
**
Part Six
5/14
Chapter 9
The rest of Friday proved miserable for Martin. Breathing hurt. Talking hurt. Moving hurt. Laying still hurt. The only thing that didn’t hurt was sleep, which, despite his weakness and exhaustion, he could only manage after a hefty dose of Demerol.
He had several visitors as the morning passed. His sister showed up first, trying to distract him with amusing anecdotes about his precocious nieces and wild tales about the brilliant but oversexed sous-chef at her new restaurant. She was clearly concerned about opening night, scheduled for Monday, and could barely meet his eyes as she confessed to booking a flight to Las Vegas on Sunday night. She said she’d come back midweek.
Even as a fresh wave of pain gnawed at Martin, he somewhat breathlessly reassured her that it was all right for her to leave, that the worst had passed. As she smiled gratefully, their parents arrived. Meghan excused herself and left him alone to face them.
As they drew closer to his bed, he wasn’t sure what to say. Even on a good day, he had difficulty sustaining a decent conversation with his father. He got along better with his mother, but that wasn’t saying much. During his childhood, Victor and Rebecca Fitzgerald had been so wrapped up in their careers that they’d been little more than part-time parents. Sometimes there for spelling bees or swim meets, but rarely around for meaningful conversations about their son’s hopes and dreams, or fears.
To have his dad hovering over him now, patting his arm or squeezing his hand, and his mom repeatedly fluffing his pillows was just weird.
Martin was too out of it to talk much, so his father filled the silence with a quick account of how the FBI had tracked down Emil Dornvald. Danny’s role in the manhunt surprised him. He would have expected Jack to pull his partner off the case. He didn’t share those thoughts out loud. His dad and boss had never had the greatest working relationship, and he didn’t want to give his father another reason to treat Jack with disdain.
After a few more minutes, his parents left him to nap. When he opened his eyes two hours later, Tricia was there, taking his vital signs and then, unfortunately, checking his bandages, an experience he’d come to loathe. No matter how gentle the nurses tried to be, he always wound up gasping for breath. This time was no different, and as he winced and bit his lower lip, Tricia checked his chart. He had another hour until his next dose of Demerol.
Damn.
“You have a visitor waiting,” Tricia announced as she put the chart back. “Are you up to it?”
He turned his head toward the waiting area and spotted his partner standing outside the room, hands shoved in his jeans pockets. Danny raised a hand in greeting, and Martin weakly returned the gesture.
Truthfully, he didn’t want to see anyone until after the next round of Demerol and some sleep, but this was his friend. The man who’d kept him alive after Dornvald pumped two bullets into him.
“Send him in,” Martin requested, taking a cautious, shallow breath, hoping he didn’t look as bad as he felt.
Tricia held the door open as the other man walked in, then left the two agents alone. Danny watched her go, whistling softly and then grinning at his injured friend. “Nice.”
“Down, boy.” Martin said, chuckling, and then winced as his incisions pulled.
Taylor’s expression sobered as he approached the bed. His eyes roamed over Martin’s torso before resting on his face. “How you doin’, man?”
“I’m alive.”
After a brief nod and slight frown, the brown-eyed agent hooked a chair with one of his boots, dragged it closer to the bed and sat down. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped together between his legs.
Martin saw pain and guilt on his partner’s always-expressive face, and sighed. He didn’t want Danny to feel responsible for what had happened. As he waited for the other man to speak, tiny, white-hot sparks danced over his torso. Not wanting Taylor to note his distress, he stifled a groan, instead settling for clenching the bed sheet. He knew his partner was onto him when the agent eyed his white-knuckled death grip and cringed.
“I’m sorry, Martin,” Danny apologized hoarsely.
“Not your fault.” Martin gasped softly as the tiny sparks grew into flames that licked their way up and down his chest and stomach. Damn it, he wasn’t up to this right now. But he had to try. “Couldn’t have done … anything differently.”
The other man frowned and glanced over his shoulder at the nurses’ station, then turned worried eyes on the hurting agent. “Maybe I should get a nurse.”
Martin doubted it would do any good, since he couldn’t have any drugs for a while yet. “Can’t help,” he ground out, breathing hard through his nose as he twisted the sheet. Sweat beaded on his face and neck.
Taylor shook his head and pressed the call button. “Just take it easy, man, okay? I’m sure they can do something for you. Take it easy.”
Tricia soon joined them, and Danny looked at her imploringly. “He needs something for the pain.”
The nurse smiled politely before addressing her patient, a sympathetic expression on her face. “I can’t give you anything just yet, all right? You need to hang in there for a little while longer.”
Martin bit his lip and nodded weakly, hurting too much to speak.
“You gotta be kidding me!” Danny protested incredulously. “Just give him the damned drugs!”
“He’s already on a high dosage, and we have to be careful with it. We don’t want to risk depressing his respiratory system.”
The flames on Martin’s torso coalesced and burst into a fiery explosion. He cried out, arching his back, trying to escape, but only intensifying the agony. As darkness slammed into him, he wondered if it would have been better if Dornvald had killed him after all.
**
Danny cursed softly as he watched the nurse check his now-unconscious friend’s vital signs. When she moved to examine the bandages he turned away, not wanting to see the source of Martin’s torment.
“He’s okay,” the nurse said.
Danny stared open-mouthed at her. What alternate universe was she in?
After she left, he drew closer to the bed, recalling what the injured agent had said, that he couldn’t have done anything differently when they’d been ambushed. The words had done little to ease his conscience. They might have been more effective if Martin hadn’t been wracked with pain at the time.
His stomach twisted as he studied his friend’s pale face and remembered how he’d cried out a few minutes ago. To see the proudly stubborn man so completely undone made his heart hurt. After one last look at Fitzgerald he strode quickly out of the room, wanting to escape the other man’s suffering.
And his own.
**
Dr. Gould restricted Martin’s visitors to immediate family for the rest of the day, and requested that they keep their visits short. He explained that the wounded man had simply overdone it earlier, trying to “entertain” too many people, in too short of a time span. The patient needed to focus on resting, not on following conversations or trying to be sociable.
As the day wore on and Martin struggled against the pain, he developed a low-grade fever that left him warm and restless. Deepening his misery. His nurse told him that post-op patients often ran fevers following surgery, but they’d watch him closely for signs of infection. He nodded weakly and almost sobbed in relief when the next dose of Demerol came, quickly soaked into his system, and spirited him away.
**
The next day, he felt no better. The low-grade fever had sapped what little strength he had, and he slept most of the time, despite the sharp knives jabbing into his wounds. His visitors were again restricted, and his sister and parents were careful not to stay too long, so that he’d get the rest his body so desperately craved.
During one of the moments when he hovered somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, his phone rang. Tricia, who’d been checking his vital signs, answered and explained that he wasn’t up for talking. When she said Viv’s name, he reached for the receiver. The nurse frowned disapprovingly, but handed it to him anyway, and he managed a weak hello.
“Martin,” the other agent said tenderly. “Marcus just told me what happened. I’m so sorry. I won’t keep you. I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking of you.”
He smiled. It was so good to hear her soothing voice. “You all right, Viv?” he asked sleepily.
“I’m doing great, sweetie. You get some rest now, and we’ll talk again soon.”
He nodded, fading out before he could reply. When he opened his eyes later, he pushed the call button and asked Tricia to look up a phone number. He dozed off for a few minutes, and when she lightly touched his shoulder and slipped a piece of paper into his hand, he stared at it in confusion. After a few seconds, he remembered why he’d requested it. When Viv had gone into surgery, he’d decided that as soon as she was ready for visitors, he’d take her flowers. But they were in separate hospitals, and he wouldn’t see her anytime soon.
So, he settled for calling his favorite florist and ordering a dozen yellow roses, to be delivered that afternoon. When the receptionist asked what to write on the card, he paused, at a loss for words. The unnatural warmth in his body and ever-present throbbing in his torso made it hard to think straight. He decided on a simple, “Thinking of you, too. Martin.”
Not eloquent, by any means, but it would have to do.
**
Chapter 10
Danny awoke Sunday morning feeling fairly good after a long, nightmare-free stretch of sleep. He grabbed a quick shower and, as he shaved, inspected the cut on his head. It was healing nicely, and he peeled off the two thin band-aids. The ER doc had told him he’d only need them for a few days while the skin began knitting itself back together.
After throwing on some boxers, a pair of well-loved jeans and a black T-shirt, he padded out to the kitchen. He toasted a bagel, spread a thick layer of low-fat cream cheese on top and poured a tall glass of orange juice. Once he finished eating, he called the hospital, hoping for some good news on Martin. He’d wanted to see him yesterday, but had been disappointed to learn that visiting hours were still heavily restricted.
The news was better today. Fitzgerald’s fever had broken, and friends, as well as family, could visit. The nurses had even relaxed the ten-minutes-every-three-hours rule. If the injured man seemed up for company he could have it, as long as the visitors left if he seemed to be tiring or hurting too much.
When Danny arrived at the ICU, he cheerfully greeted the nurses, saving an extra-wide smile for the delightful Tricia. She smiled back and told him to go on in.
His good mood dissipated slightly as he entered Martin’s room. While Fitzgerald looked better than he had a few days ago, he was still too pale, features drawn in pain. On the bright side, the nasal cannula was gone, so he was definitely improving.
“Hey, man.” Danny exchanged smiles with his friend. “Brought you something.” He handed over a plastic bag and sat down, resting one ankle on a knee and draping an arm over the top of the chair.
The plastic crinkled as Martin opened the bag and slid out the latest issues of “Sports Illustrated,” “ESPN The Magazine” and “The National Enquirer.” “The Enquirer?” he asked, the corners of his mouth quirking up in amusement.
“I know, I know, it’s not your usual reading material, but I figured what the hell. You’re probably getting bored, and that rag is nothing, if not entertaining.”
The other man chuckled, wincing, and slipped the magazines back in the bag. “Thanks.”
“There’s one other thing in there, at the bottom.”
Martin fished around and removed a piece of white ruled paper, the size of a dollar. “IOU. The Ground Round.” His favorite greasy burger joint. He looked questioningly at his partner.
“When you’re up for it, I’ll take you there and you can get one of those gut bombs you love so much.”
The injured agent smiled and dropped the paper back in the bag, then laid the parcel on the small table at his right, again wincing.
Even though Danny doubted he’d get the truth, he asked the standard hospital-visit question. “So how are you doin’, man?”
“Better.”
Ah, the old Fitzgerald stoicism. He easily saw through it, not just because the wounded man grimaced every time he shifted in the bed, but also because of his short, clipped sentences, as if the very act of speaking hurt.
“How are you?” Martin asked.
“Pretty good,” Danny replied, wondering if his partner was trying to deflect attention away from himself. “I spent the last couple of days taking advantage of my satellite TV hookup. It’s amazing how much stuff is out there to watch. Most of it’s crap, of course, but there’s nothing like uninterrupted channel surfing to make a man happy, right?”
The other man nodded, and he continued. “I saw Viv yesterday. She looks good. She said she called you, but you fell asleep on her.”
“Yup.” Martin grimaced as he placed a hand over his chest, as if to ward off, or hold in, the pain. “Wish I could see her.”
Hearing Fitzgerald’s frustration at being laid up, Danny patted his friend’s knee. “Give yourself some time, man. You’ll be up and around before you know it.”
When the injured man looked away to stare out the window, Danny wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. He just wasn’t good at hospital visits. As he considered his next words, Martin winced and pressed the button on his PCA pump.
Danny nodded toward the pump that allowed his friend to administer his own painkillers. “They giving you the good stuff?”
“Oh yeah.” Fitzgerald closed his eyes, took a shallow breath, held it, and then slowly expelled it. It didn’t take long for the lines of tension in his face to ease. He looked at Taylor with a hint of humor in his eyes. “Down side is, I’ll be in la la land soon.”
It was the longest sentence the man had uttered since before the shooting, and if that wasn’t enough to lift Danny’s spirits, the trace of his partner’s usual dry wit certainly was. “Nice, man,” he teased. “I come bearing gifts, and you’re gonna take a nap during my visit. Some gratitude.”
The other man’s expression grew serious. “I am grateful. For what you did back there.”
Danny’s smile faded as he realized where the conversation was heading.
“I remember you pulling me out of the car. Trying to stop the bleeding.”
Blood-soaked images rose before Danny could stop them and he swallowed hard. Did Fitzgerald have any idea how much those moments haunted him? “I should’ve done more. I should’ve kept it from happening in the first place.”
Martin shook his head. “Nothing you could’ve done,” he said, yawning, eyes heavy-lidded. “Wasn’t time to think. Just … react.”
Despite the reassurances, Danny searched his memories, trying to pinpoint where he’d gone wrong. “Maybe if I hadn’t told you to back up the car - ”
“Don’t know if that’s when it happened.” Martin closed his eyes, seeming to fall asleep, but then roused himself. “Not sure when I got shot.”
“If I could go back and change what happened, I would.”
“I know.”
“If I could trade places with you -- ”
“I’d never ask you to.” Martin shook his head. “Wouldn’t want you to.”
They sat quietly for a moment, and then the injured man’s eyes drifted shut and his breathing evened out.
Danny leaned back in the chair, watching Fitzgerald sleep. He was grateful that Martin didn’t blame him for his injuries, but he still felt like he’d failed his friend.
**
Part Six