"Every time I grab somethin' on the side it's like I get jammed up," Ken Poluso said. "It's like a bad joke."

Ed Green was walking down Poluso's driveway with him, officially escorting the man to court to testify because, supposedly, he was reluctant enough for Borgia to be worried. So far, Poluso was behaving as if he had not a care in the world, as if he and Ed were the best of buddies. Just two guys--one cop, one ex-cop--heading off for who knew what at nine a.m. on a cloudy, chilly, March morning.

Ed said, "It ain't none of my business Kenny, but you ever think about not gettin' any on the side?" Buddy-bonding or no buddy-bonding, testosterone induced idiocy was impossible to ignore. They reached the black unmarked at the end of the drive.

Poluso leered at Ed. "No. It never entered my mind."

Ed shook his head. The issue of monogamy has to be on the table, Ed. His stomach lurched, and he almost swore out loud right in front of the witness who was still leering at him. After all these months, why couldn't he simply pick and choose what to forget? Why was--

"Yo Kenny!" came a voice from the street.

Ed turned to see a man, a gun, the flare of fire from the first shot, felt the nick of the second as it grazed his shoulder, but before he could draw his gun and do something he was jolted back on his heels, burning pain blossoming in his chest. He reeled; his legs gave way and he fell against the side of the unmarked; he pulled out his gun, his eyes and mind focusing on the shooter--hispanic twenties bald goatee leather jacket--who calmly got into his flaming red car. By the time its tires were turning in front of his face, the pavement was digging into his hip and stomach. His gun was drawn but he couldn't get his arm to work, or his hand, or even just his finger. The pain was bad; it was real bad and spreading; he was in trouble because nothing was working and he couldn't move, couldn't get his cell phone, couldn't make his body get up and DO something...

He closed his eyes, the lids too heavy, his head too heavy to hold up. Jack is... he's gonna be so pissed that the witness is down. Ed wondered if Poluso was dead. He wondered if he was dying, too, because this was bad... fuckin' bad... and he was suddenly freezing. He's gonna be.... I can't.... You were.... Jack--

In the midst of pulling files out of his briefcase, standing at the Prosecution table, Jack McCoy's shoulder was tapped. He turned and was handed a folded piece of paper by one of the guards.

"From NYPD dispatch," said the man in a low voice.

Jack's heart skipped twice for no reason he could think of during the second it took him to thank the guard. He unfolded the note.

"Witness Poluso shot outside residence. Officer down." His chest seized. He read it again. Officer down. There was a sudden whooshing sound in his ears. Ed down. No. It can't be--

"Jack?" Alexandra Borgia touched his forearm. "What is it?"

He had to go--now. He focused and handed her the note. "I need Poluso's address," he said in a rush, watching her face go pale and her eyes widen.

"But--"

"His address," he whispered sharply. "Now. Find it." The moment she nodded he walked as quickly as he could to the court clerk and requested to see the judge in chambers. He told her it was an emergency, speaking calmly, he thought, in a low voice, though his insides were churning and his knees were beginning to feel weak. In his head, there were what felt like endless gaps with no thoughts at all interspersed with Ed down, which would have been like a litany had he had any response at all. Other than I have to go.

Once he was successful with the judge, Jack moved, striding back into the courtroom on legs which had feeling again, because now he had freedom and purpose. Alexandra handed him a slip of paper with Poluso's address, staring hard at him. He told her they had a continuance; he was leaving, and asked her to take his briefcase to the office as he tried to find his car keys in its inside pocket. They were jangling, but his fingers refused to find them. He swore under his breath.

"Let me," Alexandra said, smoothly pulling the case away from him, finding the elusive keys and handing them over.

He intended to thank her, but his throat was thickening too tightly for words to push through, so he merely nodded and moved again, heading for their conference room and his coat, gloves, scarf and hat. He thought he remembered that it was cold outside.

Jack got his car as close as possible on Poluso's street, double parking behind squad cars and an ambulance with lights flashing. He watched another ambulance tearing around a corner two blocks away and the broken thread between him and Ed vibrated harshly. Jack jumped out of the car, and saw Van Buren standing in the street, waving to what he assumed was her driver coming from the opposite direction. She knew he no longer had personal standing in regard to Ed. Yet he needed-- He needed her to treat him more than professionally; he hoped she knew that, too.

"How is he?" Jack demanded when he reached her side. Tell me the truth, Anita.

"We don't know anything yet," she said in a voice taut with tension. Fear. But unsurprised to see him.

Disappointment kicked his heart. "Poluso?"

"Dead. He took two to the chest." She turned away, heading toward the passenger side of her car.

Jack's instinct was to grab her by the shoulders and insist she tell him Ed was okay. That he wasn't hurt that badly. The fact that his witness was dead barely registered. He turned, too; Fontana was walking toward him. The man looked terrible. Jack's stomach clenched; he took a quick, deep breath. "I'm sorry about your partner," he said, deliberately injecting sincerity. He had issues with Fontana, but he was important to Ed. No matter--

The other man met his eyes briefly, muttered, "Thanks," and walked on by.

"How are you doing?"

Fontana paused in the act of getting into the back of Van Buren's car, looking directly at Jack this time. "I'm thinking, Mr. McCoy," he said, his tone eerily flat. "Just thinking." He got in and the car took off.

Jack stood in the middle of the street, seeing nothing. A gust of wind swept by him; he shivered. Ed wasn't dead. That worst fear had not been realized. Jack's heart was still thudding, like a hammer trying to crack a pane of glass. He imagined Ed being rushed into the ER, medical staff swarming over him, clothing cut off, his chances assessed. Jack turned toward the sidewalk, burying his emotions out of sheer necessity. The EADA had to see where it had happened, to look at it all objectively, to learn what CSU had found by way of evidence. For Ed's sake, because the man who shot him, when caught, was going to pay dearly. Poluso's murder would be only a means to an end, a fact Jack would never admit out loud to anyone. A fact he would hold deep in his soul.

There were two pools of blood in the driveway. One next to a black sedan with its back end in the street; the other pool was almost at the sidewalk. Jack's stomach took a dive, forcing him to swallow hard and breathe slowly. The queasiness passed. The lightheadedness took a few seconds longer. There was a lot of blood. Most of Ed's would still be flowing through his veins and heart, besides, blood could be replaced. A man could survive any number of injuries. Jack repeated that twice more. Breathed deliberately again.

He recognized one of the CSU technicians, working further up the drive. "Holloway," he called, "what have you got?"

"Mr. McCoy," the other man replied, then paused. "I know you work with Detective Green; I'm sorry about all this. He's--" Holloway shook his head, continuing with a rough voice, "We've got a burned cloth the shooter used to muffle the shots, some shell casings, and a bullet, here--" He pointed to Poluso's porch. "--that I'm just about to dig out of the brick. Looks like the bastard missed at least once. Witnesses say they heard four shots. Two went into the vic and one went into the detective--"

Only one bullet in his body. Jack had expected more than that would have been needed to seriously damage Ed. Holloway was still talking. "Sorry, what?" Jack said.

"I was just sayin' that we have Detective Green's gun. It was in his hand, but looks like he didn't get off any rounds at all." Holloway's eyebrows knitted together and his lips set in a tight line.

Jack's stomach dived again; he kept his focus on the man's shoulder because he absolutely could not look him in the eye. Ed hadn't been able-- Not one-- He was an excellent marksman; he had twenty-twenty eyesight; he was as stubborn as they come. That single hit must have been one helluva-- Jack stopped thinking altogether. He had to go again--now--because he was about to lose his breakfast all over the crime scene, and though driving was not an option being inside his car was better than here. He muttered his thanks, spun on his heels and strode to where he was parked, his throat clamping down, his eyes burning, his hand gripping the key ring in his pocket; the raw wind piercing the thin fabric of his shirt.

"What the hell happened to you?" Abbie said, when Jack stepped through her office doorway. "And does the answer to that tell me why you're here at ten-thirty in the morning?"

He hadn't realized he looked bad, but that probably explained the reactions he had got so far from the security guard and receptionist. Both of whom were used to seeing him relaxed, on his way to pick up Abbie for lunch or an after work drink. "I couldn't go back to the office--I just came from--" He hadn't yet been forced to say the words aloud, and found them caught behind his Adam's apple.

"Sit down," Abbie said in a low voice, getting up and closing the door.

He did, choosing one of two upholstered chairs she had brought with her and placed in the corner along with a table and lamp; a single cozy area amidst gray walled modernity: chrome fluorescent lights, big windows, and a bank of glass doored cabinets and bookcases next to her desk, with clean lines, light wood. Everything her old office at One Hogan was not. Jack sank into the softness, the familiarity of shape and even smell bringing back memories, as it did every time he came here. The memories bordered on a kind of comfort, even if the freshest ones intensified the ache in his head.

Abbie sat in the other chair and leaned on her elbows, fixing him with concentrated attention. Pure, unadulterated Abbie. "So," she continued, "you came from somewhere and you're white as a sheet--"

"Ed was shot." He got the words out, but his heart started hammering again to hear them.

Her eyes widened, then closed as she took a long, harsh breath. She went to one of the cabinets and poured a finger of Scotch, sipped it, then brought the glass to Jack before sitting down again, perched near the edge. Watching him.

He hesitated, but sipped some, too, letting the slow burn of alcohol permeate his chest, his senses. This familiarity he welcomed. His breathing normalized for the first time since being in court. "Thanks," he said. "I--I couldn't go back. To the office. Just couldn't face them--" He took another small sip.

Abbie leaned further forward. "How is he? What happened? He's at the hospital? Or is he--" She snapped her mouth shut.

Jack shook his head, his stomach suddenly churning. "He's not dead. But, he's--critical. I spoke to Anita about fifteen minutes ago. He's in surgery. One bullet. Damaged his lung. His aorta. He's bad, Abbie." Jack paused and willed his throat to stay open. "Very bad," he finished, hearing his voice low and rasping, as if the words were squeezing through sheets of sandpaper.

"Why aren't you sitting in the waiting room with everyone else?" Abbie's voice was strong, and clear.

He stared at her for a long moment; she stared back in return. He shook his head again. "Because Ed wouldn't want me there."

Her stare didn't waver. "That's bullshit; why would you think that? Because you broke up with him? Big deal, he broke up with you before that." Abbie chuffed. "You're even in that score. Besides, don't you think that if something serious happened to you he'd be there, and that you wouldn't mind?"

Jack looked down at the amber liquid left in the glass. He swirled it, imagining himself if the situation were reversed. An easy answer. "Of course I'd want him there. I'd--" He sipped again, slowly, and met her eyes. "I'd want to know that he cared enough to come. But it's not that simple. I'm the one who decided a few weeks ago that maybe I was wrong, remember? So, I know where I stand. Ed--" The scotch was suddenly fascinating again.

"So, you don't even know where Ed stands," Abbie responded with a hint of frustration, maybe something more, as she relaxed into her chair. "You never asked him. Remember?"

"I didn't have to," he said, letting his own frustration out. "Ed made it clear enough."

Abbie lifted both hands and let them fall, hitting the upholstery with force. "What clarity?! Borgia thinks he's flirting with her--"

"He did it again just yesterday--"

"Jesus, Jack, for an incredibly intelligent man you can be really.... Look. What better way to get under your skin, not to mention covering in front of Fontana, than to do his flirty thing? Turn on the charm? You don't think he hoped that Borgia would make a comment to you? Ask you if you knew if Ed was dating someone? Of course he did." Abbie stopped to take a breath.

"And so how does getting under my skin, as you put it, give me any message other than he's enjoying giving me a dig or two?!" She didn't understand, of that he was sure. She hadn't heard the hurtful things Ed had said, meant to inflict pain. Ed was good. They still hurt, four months after they were thrown at him.

"Maybe he just wants you to make a move! Do something--say something. Anything!"

"Well, it's too late for that," he said, and downed the remaining Scotch.

Abbie leaned forward again. "It is not too late. He's still alive."

Jack's stomach reacted for the umpteenth time, the alcohol making it roil.

"Jack," she said gently, "I'm sorry. We shouldn't be arguing. We should go to the hospital. Now. If for no other reason than for you. And Ed's mom. She's there, right?" Abbie reached across the table and rested her hand over his.

The touch of her skin against his nearly shattered his composure. He swallowed down the lump that had formed, clasped her fingers, and nodded. Ed's mother was there; he'd asked Van Buren specifically, to make sure the NYPD had found her. Siblings hadn't yet arrived, or hadn't yet been called. Either way, Jack held a picture of Yvette Green, alone, waiting for news of her son. The lump wasn't going away; he was forced to close his eyes, but against his will felt a tear roll out of one. Damn it, Jack, don't ... lose it ...

Abbie tugged on his hand; he heard and felt her stand. "Come on," she said. "Come on. I'll drive."

He allowed himself to be pulled upright, leaving the empty glass on the table. He opened his eyes to hers and still couldn't say anything, could only nod, could only go with the hug she was giving him, gulping back tears with what seemed a Herculean effort. Could only feel the unbearable fear crawling up his spine. Feel the pain he had been holding for four and a half months of missing Ed, in his life, in his bed. Jack had let him go, twice. He didn't have the strength to cope if that turned irreversible, should Ed not survive.

This hospital was exactly like every other one, with the smell of cleaning solutions overlaying body fluids and the sounds of voices overlaying medical machines. Jack hated everything about hospitals, from the arrogant doctors with nurses cowering in their wake to the administrators and insurance clerks. He had never had a good experience in one. Yet, walking off of the elevator and toward the surgery waiting room he felt nothing but pure relief. He needed to be there like he needed to breathe. To be merely in the same physical space as Ed. And when Ed woke up after surgery and became angry at learning that Jack had been sitting, anxious for news of his health, so be it. Abbie was right.

She opened the door to the waiting room with Jack at her heels. All eyes turned to them. Fontana and a few other cops were together near the back of the room; caddy-corner from them, on a couch, Van Buren was with Yvette Green, who was sitting stiffly, clutching a handkerchief. Whether the apparent lack of interrupted conversation was due to people giving her a respectful distance or simply Van Buren's quiet support, Jack's heart ached to meet Yvette's glance. She smiled a wavering, tense smile, stood, and met him halfway across the room, while Abbie went to Van Buren's side.

Jack took Ed's mother's hands in his and spoke softly. "Yvette, I'm so sorry."

She squeezed his fingers. "Thank you for coming; I could certainly use a friend about n--" Her voice choked and her eyes filled with tears.

Without hesitating, he pulled her into an embrace, holding her head against his shoulder, feeling his control slipping again. His throat hurt; he closed his eyes for a moment, begging his body to keep it together. She was quivering in his arms. He murmured comfort words, the kind he had never, ever wanted to be forced to say to her, knowing their nightmares were probably commingling. She said something he couldn't understand, so he asked her to repeat it.

She pulled back slightly, and wiped her cheeks with a wad of white cotton which, hours before, had been a monogrammed handkerchief. Jack remembered Ed shopping for them, remembered the entire afternoon: warm sun on city sidewalks, eating lunch in a courtyard cafe, laughing about Ed's anality over the gift, his argument with the clerk about available colors. Yvette touched Jack's chest. "I've made a nice wet patch on your coat."

Jack held her shoulders. "And I couldn't care less. How about we sit down? Do you need anything? Water, cup of coffee, tea...."

"No, nothing like that. Let's sit over there," she said, gesturing toward chairs by the door, well away from everyone else.

He agreed, and, after removing his parka, they settled in for the wait. Abbie was talking with Van Buren. Fontana was studying his hands, clasped between his knees. He lifted his head and gave Jack what felt like a harsh stare, brief as it was, before returning to the hand-watching. Jack had no idea what the look had meant but found he didn't care about that, either. In his peripheral vision, Yvette ironed out the handkerchief on her thigh, her long fingers smoothing cotton over a lightweight wool dress, the deep red "YBG" visible again near the white lace edging.

"I'm frightened, Jack," she said softly.

Me, too, was what he could have answered, and almost did. "One thing we can rely on," he said, "Ed is a fighter. Stubborn. He's not going to give up." He'd better not, he added silently.

Yvette shook her head slowly. "My son's stubbornness is his worst quality."

"No. It's like tenaciousness, and that's a good quality." He patted her hand.

"He's not tenacious when he needs to be," she said, looking directly at Jack. "And that worries me...."

"Well, I believe--" He was forced to stop, and put some passion behind his message, for her. "--he'll be just fine."

"Thank you for saying that," she said, her voice cracking slightly. She went on to ask Jack how his life was, both generally and specifically, and told him that Ed had only let her know the month before that they had broken up. Her mouth set firmly; her eyes were even more sad.

Jack couldn't think of a response to that, couldn't imagine what to say to her, to explain it to her, couldn't decide if an explanation was appropriate. He fell back on answering her first question, chatting quietly with her as if they were at a holiday gathering, sipping wine by candlelight around her dining room table. Giving her the bare bones of his spare life. Work, home, work again. Any question of whether or not he was dating was an elephant in the corner of the room. Another one was Ed, a corridor away, cut open, being stitched back together.

Their low conversation was interrupted by a sudden commotion from the other chairs. Fontana was saying something; Jack looked up; the man was standing, pulling on his coat.

"--can't keep sitting here," Fontana said harshly, to Van Buren. "I'm gonna go back to the House. Find out what's goin' on."

"Joe--"

"All due respect, ma'am, I'm better off if I'm trying to find the bastard who did this to Ed, than sitting here, waitin'."

Van Buren sighed. "Okay. I'll call you, but you do the same, you understand?"

"Yes." He reached out toward Abbie. "Nice to finally meet you, Ms. Carmichael."

She accepted the offer to shake. "I wish it were under better circumstances, Detective."

He nodded grimly and walked toward Ed's mother. As he approached, Jack felt the need to gird himself though he had no idea why. Fontana did not meet his eyes, spoke directly to Yvette Green, promising her that he would find justice for her son, saying all of the right things in the right tone of voice. And when, after Fontana had left, Yvette made an offhand remark about how she did not quite trust the man, Jack merely shrugged his shoulders and gave her a reason to discount her notion, reminding her that the partner-relationship was a thing unto itself. That Fontana always had Ed's back.

She looked at Jack, lifting her eyebrows and blessing him with a gentle smile. "So is a lover-relationship."

The "ex" part of the equation was completely left out. Jack's stomach twisted, but he smiled back at her, and agreed. Heard Ed's voice ringing in his head, You ain't gonna be no friend of mine, Jack, so just leave me the hell alone-- Knew now, without a doubt, he still loved Ed, deeply, irrelevant of all that had happened between them. For Jack had discovered something crucial since reading the note in court: even if his life was going to be lived as dictated--alone--his love would always be there, like the absolutes of right, and wrong. Good and evil. There was no more equivocating that could be done.

Abbie stood on one side of Jack, Van Buren on the other. They were outside of an Intensive Care room; Yvette Green was inside, standing next to the bed in which Ed was lying, with tubes, and monitors, and IVs, all meant to keep him alive. Jack wasn't sure how his legs were holding him upright; perhaps it was Abbie and Anita who were willing him to remain standing. Ed was on life support. Without the machine breathing for him, he would be dead. He wasn't going to wake up and see his mother, or his siblings who were rushing there at that very moment. He wasn't going to be angry to see Jack, or happy to see Abbie, or grateful to see his lieutenant.

Abbie slipped her hand inside of Jack's elbow. "There's nothing else we can do here, Jack," she said quietly. "Branch is--"

"Obligations," he replied, barely having the energy to speak. "I know." He wanted to reach through the glass and touch Ed, simply touch him, feel his skin warm and see even the pretense of breathing, close up.

"Jack," Anita said. He looked at her. "I'll let you know if anything changes."

"You--" His throat closed; he felt a sting behind his eyes.

"I promise."

He nodded. "Tell Yvette I'll be back tonight."

"I will," she said.

"Thank you," he managed, and, after one last look, let Abbie walk him away. By the time they reached the first floor, he was able to take out his phone and call the office, convey Ed's status to Alexandra, ask her to tell Arthur. They exited the building; the air was bracing; the wind had picked up; clouds still filled the sky. It wasn't until he was in the car, ten minutes later, that he realized he hadn't felt the cold at all.

Work was not going to be his salvation, Jack concluded fifteen minutes after hanging up his coat. Alexandra had followed him into his office, asking questions that seemed impossible to answer. Was there a prognosis for Detective Green, did the surgeons repair all that was necessary? Jack could only answer in the shortest of sentences, constantly aware that his voice might reveal the emotional tightrope on which he was balanced. Precariously. If he could simply be left alone to gather some semblance of right attitude like the EADA he was--in charge of prosecuting Ron Drexler for the murder of Jackie Ogden, a case now in the crapper with its only witness, Ken Poluso, dead--he might make it to the end of the day in one piece.

Then Arthur called him into his office, peppering him with questions about what had transpired that morning, highly upset himself, which only left Jack giving shorter and shorter answers. Barely able to look the man in the eye. Jack told him the general opinion of the police, that the shooting was not related to their case. When Arthur wanted information on Poluso the man, Jack nearly turned and walked out, for at that precise moment Poluso was only one thing: the reason Ed was hurt, and the vision of Ed lying in Intensive Care with tubes and machines was like an icy hand against his naked chest, making him flinch. He forced words into answers, digging a fingernail into his palm, inside the fist he clenched, inside his pants' pocket.

The phone rang. Jack's wish was for true salvation: he could leave if someone was needing the DA for something else.

After hanging up with a grimace, Arthur said, "Well, the other side's caught the scent of blood. The defendant's attorney is waiting in your office."

When he started crossing the hall, Jack was fairly certain he could not handle this impromptu meeting, but by the time he reached his side door, he had convinced himself that he was fine. He could talk to defense attorneys in his sleep he'd done it so many hundreds of times. Then he crossed his own threshold, and his feet simply stopped moving. His stomach clenched. "What can I do for you?" he said when his glance landed on Drexler's attorney, Rosalie Eldon. He knew his tone was stiff. Unfriendly. So be it.

"Make this case go away." Eldon was standing ten feet inside the door, obviously waiting for an invitation to sit. Alexandra was behind; she moved to perch on the edge of the table under the hall window, hands stuffed in her pants' pockets. "Man one," Eldon continued. "Two to six."

Jack took three steps into the room, trying to breathe with each one, sure he was failing. "Forgive me, Rosalie, but I'm not feeling particularly generous at the moment."

The woman nodded. "I understand," she said, her tone the epitome of reasonableness.

His pulse began to pound. "If you understood, you wouldn't be here right now," he shot back, realizing the moment the words were out of his mouth that they were far too honest.

"Excuse me?" Her face was pinched, her head was cocked, her eyebrows quirking.

That she had no clue only made Jack want to-- "Poluso's body is still warm--" He took a breath. "--and you're already trying to exploit the situation." And Ed--

She looked away, her lips setting tightly, then shook her head and met his glance. "Not at all," she said, her stridency matching his own, "things have changed. I'm just trying to resolve a difficult case in the fairest way possible--"

"Fair?!" Jack's pulse pounded harder as he glared at her. He took two more steps. "There was nothing fair about what happened to Jackie Ogden I can assure you!"

"I'm sorry," she said with force. "Bad word choice, let me try again, okay?" Her voice dropped slightly, and she approached, stopping when they were only a few feet apart. "Without Poluso you can't prove motive, which means you can't win--"

"I'm not having this conversation!" Jack was shaking his head, clenching his hands tightly to keep from pushing her away.

"I'm simply try--"

"I'm not having this conversation!" Rage suffused him with white heat; his heart was about to beat right out of his chest. The tightrope was no longer under his feet because he'd plummeted head first and hadn't even hit the ground yet. He focused; Rosalie was staring at him.

"Fine," she stated before turning and walking out.

Jack focused on nothing else as he mirrored her actions, walking to the windows overlooking the street. The reverberations in his chest echoed the rushing sound in his ears as his rage suddenly dissipated. His stomach was in knots.

"She's right, Jack," came Alexandra's voice from across the room, "without Poluso...."

He sighed deeply. "I know," he said, leaning with one arm on the back of his chair, looking out at the city, seeing Ed rather than buildings, wondering if that blinding smile of his would ever again shine Jack's way. Anyone's way. Jack's own impotence stared back; he could do nothing to help him. His throat was beginning to clamp shut.

"So what's the plan?" Alexandra said.

I honestly don't care. He sighed again, and closed his eyes for a long moment. Abbie had told him to concentrate on work, like he always did whenever things in his personal life were difficult, or spiraling out of control. Let the intellectual stuff overlay the emotional until there was time and space to deal. She had reiterated this at least twice on the drive from the hospital. A good, and rare friend; she had such faith in his ability to do exactly that.

"Jack?" Alexandra was closer, probably next to his desk; her voice was gentle.

He turned; she looked as she had in the courtroom, hours before. He said, "I need a cup of coffee. Then you'll help me come up with a way to convince Nathan Fogg to testify. That's our only chance." He made a move to walk past her, to the conference room.

"I'll get it, I could use one, too." Her face softened.

The lump in his throat blossomed for the millionth time; he cleared it away. "I promise I won't consider this a future expectation." He tried a smile. "And thanks."

"Don't worry," she said with a small smile of her own, "I won't let you."

As she headed out the door, Jack sat, resting his elbows on his desk, his face in his hands. Blocking out the sight of everything familiar that had surrounded him ten or twelve hours a day, six days a week for the prior eleven years. Working hard to bury his emotions somewhere deep inside. Never losing the image of Ed in that bed, but deliberately dragging his mind somewhere else. Toward a laughing Ed, in a different bed, eyes shining, skin hot and slick, looming over him. Memories that were Jack's alone to keep.

The Wellington restaurant in which Jack was sitting with Arthur Branch was one of Arthur's favorites, for its high-end food as much as for the refined atmosphere of brick walls, white tablecloths, low lighting, and cut glass salt and pepper shakers. Not crystal, just as the small lamp on their table held a bulb in the shape of a flame instead of a candle. Arthur likely didn't think about this subtle lack of pretension on the owner's part, and if he did, wore his restaurant preference like a badge of Southern honor. It was one of the qualities that Jack appreciated in his boss: the no-bullshit factor.

Jack had agreed to the dinner invitation for expediency's sake. He needed to eat; he wouldn't have to decide on the where and when; he could report what had transpired during his meeting with Nathan Fogg and be done in time to return to the hospital before visiting hours ended. After placing their orders, Jack got right to it, telling Arthur how he had turned Fogg to testify against his employee by playing to the man's self-interest. The upcoming securities fraud trial of Fogg's would have a different outcome should Ron Drexler appear already convicted of murder.

Arthur sipped his drink. "Nathan never was one of the good guys. I don't care what his motives are, I'm just glad he's goin' to take the stand for our side."

"He'd be the first to agree with you about his lack of morality. Seems to believe it's a job qualification for working at Cromwell-Moore," Jack said with a slight shrug. "To think that I applied there when I first came to New York...."

"And?" Arthur asked with a lift of his brows.

"I interviewed with Fogg. He didn't remember, of course, but I told him why he hadn't hired me. I wasn't the cream of the crop."

"I'd beg to differ with you there, Jack. You're ten times the man he is."

He didn't know what to make of such an outright compliment, not that evening, and maybe not at all. He took a long swig of water to cover.

"So," Arthur continued, "you almost had a career in the private sector."

"It wasn't even a close call."

"Still, it could've been in corporate litigation."

Jack shook his head. "I would have killed myself first." His stomach fell like lead plummeting toward a lake bed as the alternate reality of his would-have-been life hit him in a rush. He wouldn't have met his wife, or had his daughter, Joanna. That one good thing he had helped create, she wouldn't even exist. Claire would probably be alive, passionately disagreeing with whomever was the EADA, or by now would have worked her way into that position herself. But, alive. And Ed. He never would have met him. Never had his life turned upside down by him. Never fallen-- Ed would be with someone else-- Happy--

"Thinking about past decisions?"

Jack looked up from the smudge on the tablecloth at which he was apparently staring. "Something like that," he said.

Arthur leaned forward. "Time to change the subject then. No point in looking back. Further than today, anyway." He paused. "Alexandra said you ripped a strip off of Rosalie. She was worried. About you. Hearing what happened, I'd have to say that I am, too. You've worked with Detective Green for...."

Jack's heart beat was speeding up. "Six years."

Arthur nodded, and studied him for a long moment. "That's a fair chunk of time as coworkers."

The unspoken request was clear. He considered his options, and settled on the barest minimum of truth, which should suffice. "Green and I socialized sometimes. Dinner, a basketball game, every once in a while a movie." He shrugged. "Friends."

"I didn't realize that you had any relationship other than through the office." Arthur paused again, his mouth pressing tight as if he was preparing to say something, then his lips relaxed, and he settled back into his chair. "I'm sorry that your friend is hurt."

Jack rested on his forearms, his heart finally slowing to a more normal rate, seizing an opening he hadn't expected. "I'd like to take the next two days off. I've got the vacation time, even the sick time. We're not due to convene again until Monday--"

"I can't spare you--"

"I need to be free to go to the hospital, help Ed's mother--" His pulse skipped.

"No, Jack, I'm sorry, but it's not possible," Arthur said with more authority, shaking his head. "I'm sorry--"

"I can't be in the office right now!" Damn it. He rarely lost his temper with Arthur, and he could see from the other man's face that he knew it, too. Jack took another drink of water, to buy a moment to calm himself, though the slight tremor in his hand as he set down the glass was probably obvious. To anyone. Forget the food; he would make some excuse and leave.

"This isn't like you," Arthur said.

You don't really know me. Not really. He closed his eyes and tried to think. Time off was imperative, and if not entire days then at least some flexibility to be gone at a moment's notice. If necessary. His heart careened, and he skittered away from any further thinking along those lines. Ed would recover. He looked at Arthur, taking a long breath to quiet his pulse, feel his ass on the chair, his feet on the carpet. "Please, Arthur. I'm asking for some consideration. Some leeway. Shortened days." He lowered his voice. "Anything."

Arthur was assessing him again, but diverted his attention long enough to drink his own water, crunching an ice cube while meeting Jack's glance. "I'm gettin' the strong impression that something is way off here, and-- well, let's just leave it at that for now." He sighed. "So, what is it? Are you having an affair with Mrs. Green? What? 'Cause you're wound tighter than I've ever seen you...."

They were only going to keep traveling in circles, with the focus coming back on him and his fragile state of existence, until Jack either got up and left or told the truth. Or some of the truth. At the same time, he knew deep in his gut that there was no way he could deal with potentialities without someone on his side in the DA's office. This was exactly-- He stopped that train of thought as altogether pointless.

There was a woman three tables away putting her arm around a man sitting next to her, kissing his cheek; he was smiling. Jack sensed Arthur's eyes still on him. Would this be another of those moments, when, years from now, he looked back and thought about choices made? Would he regret the one he was about to make? The direction he was about to go, taking Ed along whether or not he wanted to come? I'm sorry, Ed. He met Arthur's glance. "Detective--" He took a deep breath, almost chuckling at how absurd that would have sounded. "Ed and I were-- lovers."

The transformation of Arthur's face was remarkable: eyebrows up, mouth slightly agape, chin dropped toward his chest. He said nothing for a very long minute. "You've gone and poleaxed me, Jack. You, and Detective Green? 'Were' as in the kind of experience two fraternity brothers can have?"

That kind of question triggered a number of his own, about Arthur Branch's college years, questions for which he truly did not want answers. He shook his head slowly. "'Were' as in a long-term intimate relationship, now over."

"Well." Arthur's glance drifted off of Jack's for a moment. "I see. How long-term?"

The relevance of that was murky in Jack's mind. The calm he felt, right then, was almost shocking. Maybe there had been simply too many things to deal with that day, too much to process, too many emotional reactions to live through. Maybe he was tapped out. He sighed. "We were together almost two years. We broke up four months ago. It's... a recent event. It's still difficult."

Arthur looked around, then lowered his voice. "You're gay? So is Detective Green?"

Jack sighed again. "That's complicated. I don't think you want details. Suffice to say that whatever labels you choose, they have to be kept confidential. The whole thing has to be. Not many people know."

Arthur shook his head. "Of course, of course. Who does know?"

"Only Lieutenant Van Buren, now. Abbie Carmichael. Detective Briscoe. Ed's family. Mine. Friends." Jack shrugged. "That's it."

Silence enveloped their table, while Arthur deliberately straightened the knife and spoon in front of him, studying the silver plating intently. Jack waited, with the picture of Ed in ICU coming back into sharp focus so abruptly his breath caught.

Arthur sighed long and loud. "I'm really sorry, Jack," he said, his voice gentle, rumbling from deep in his chest. "You take whatever time you need. But if you could be in the office during at least half of the next two days, I'd appreciate it. And you give my best wishes to the Detective's family, would you?"

The lump in his throat made its millionth and one appearance, looking at the other man's eyes brimming with emotion. He nodded, unable to voice a word, knowing with a sinking heart that he was so far from tapped out it was in no way funny. Arthur called the waiter over and told him they had to have their food as soon as possible, and Jack didn't need any explanation to understand that was being done for him. So he could get to the hospital. The broken thread between him and Ed quivered, and hummed.

"Jack, it's my decision," Yvette said with a hand on his arm, "as Edward's mother. It will be fine."

They were standing outside of Ed's room, with his sister, Jocelyn, and his aunt and uncle grouped ten feet away. Yvette Green had spent the prior minute inviting Jack to take a personal visit at Ed's bedside. The minute before that advising her daughter to sit, or go for a walk, or a break in the cafeteria, but to please keep her opinions to herself. Though Jack wanted desperately to see Ed, he was loathe to bring any more trouble to his family. Not to mention what Ed would think of it.

"Come," she repeated, gently escorting him to the door, which she opened, "you need this. Ed needs it, too."

He focused on her alone, and those soft brown eyes, so like Ed's, held him, long enough to accept her offer. He followed her into the room with a nod. She waved him ahead.

"Thank you," he said.

She gave him the same short nod, and as he approached the bed she dragged the curtain for privacy, behind him. His pulse responded to the noisy rattle--so at odds with the overall quiet of the room--with a stutter and a momentary falter.

The pull Jack felt to be six inches from Ed's side was suddenly warring with an aversion, sweeping through his body, to touch the reality of an unconscious Ed. He stood at the foot of the bed, his chest constricting, his knees slightly weak. There was an intubation tube poking into Ed's mouth; the sound of the ventilator pumping in a perfect, synthetic rhythm made Jack's flesh crawl. He almost didn't care that it was filling Ed's lungs with life-giving oxygen, pushing them to work while allowing them to heal, helped by the drugs dripping through the IV that kept Ed sedated, paralyzed, in a coma. Jack wanted to slide the tube out, gently, so Ed could sleep peacefully, could look like he did during the night, or first thing in the morning. Or napping on a Sunday afternoon. That was an Ed Jack recognized.

He forced his feet to carry him to the side of the bed, to the chair placed for visitors. Family. He pulled off his coat and draped it over the back. One of Ed's hands was completely free of wires and needles, his long fingers resting gracefully on top of the sheet like they rarely did when he slept. Jack's heart hammered as he slipped one hand under Ed's, the other one on top. It was a dead weight he held, but the skin was warm, and if Jack left his fingertips on the inside of Ed's wrist, he could feel a pulse, beating slowly, regularly. The texture of the skin was as familiar as his own, as different as his own. It had been such a long time since he had felt it. Like this, palm to palm. Skimming along the surface of his hip. Cupping the back of his head. His chest reacted with an ache so acute he was afraid he could not control the grief waiting to drown him. He took a slow, shuddering breath. And another.

The thought that he might be taking advantage of the situation, violating a boundary that Ed had set firmly, only briefly crossed Jack's mind. It was just as briefly dismissed, though he was crystal clear he was acting out of a self-involved, bone-deep need. Maybe even something as simple as pure want. He wanted Ed. Still. As fully as he loved him, Jack's want pulsated in every cell of his body, and soul. He moved even closer, gently running a hand up Ed's arm, across his shoulder to the spot on the side of Ed's neck that could elicit a variety of reactions from the man, now lying unconscious under Jack's touch. Jack caressed the inches of skin there, because he could, and some part of him hoped it would make Ed open his eyes. Even if that was impossible. Want and need were overwhelming logic. Jack accepted this, silently, and only to himself.

But Yvette had asked him to talk to Ed, out loud, and since he did have something important to say, he might as well say it. He brushed a thumb across Ed's eyebrow, his fingers over Ed's hair. His other hand was still under Ed's, on the bed; he held it more deliberately.

"I'm sorry, Ed. You're not going to like what I have to tell you. You're not even going to like that I'm here saying anything at all to you." He sighed. "I told Arthur Branch-- about us. The us in the past. I know I promised I'd ask first, before I told anyone. I always supported you around that." He slowly brushed Ed's cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Always." Hot tears welled in his eyes; he willed them down, wiping the corners brusquely. "I didn't feel I had much of a choice, given the circumstance. I-- I needed Arthur to understand why I had to be here. With you. Your mother. Even Jocelyn." He paused, a memory of Ed and his younger sister arguing, about him and their relationship, taking him back eighteen months. Ed and Jocelyn, huddled in the corner of their mother's small backyard, gesticulating back and forth, their voices never raised enough to carry into the kitchen from where Jack was watching. Then the flash of explosion. Jocelyn stalking toward Jack. He had quickly turned away, but not before seeing Ed grin, his hands on his hips. Ed's ability to more than hold his own with people who disagreed with him, or his life choices, was a quality Jack admired. A quality that drove him nuts. He focused on Ed in a thin hospital gown surrounded by machines. "So," Jack continued in a low voice, "when you wake up, you can tell me off. Get as angry as possible. But.... Damnit, Ed, you'd better wake up when the doctors order it, you understand?"

The ventilator gave him a rhythmic whoosh-click-whoosh in response.

"What the hell am I doing?" Jack muttered. "You can't hear a word I'm saying." Maybe Ed couldn't, but Jack could always consider this practice for the real thing, like rehearsing closing arguments before giving a jury the power to decide for or against punishment. For or against mercy. He slowly stroked Ed's hair one more time, and without letting himself think he kissed Ed's forehead, long enough to smell antiseptic, and taste a hint of salty, long-dried sweat. He pulled back, staying six inches from his face. "I love you," he said softly. "No matter what... I still do."

The first person Jack saw when he walked out of the room was Joe Fontana. His heart thudded once with force, and again. Fontana was leaning against the wall, staring at him in the way that supposedly had witnesses cowering in their shoes. At least, that was how Ed had described it. Yvette and the others were nowhere to be seen.

"Mr. McCoy," Fontana said, drawing out each syllable. "I was under the apparently mistaken impression that only family was allowed in Ed's room."

Jack was not in any space to deal with this man's issues; he didn't care to find out what they might be. He took a hopefully surreptitious deep breath, shrugging with, hopefully, casualness. "Mrs. Green was kind enough to take me in to see him. We're friends. Outside of work."

"You and Ed?"

Jack nodded.

"Funny," Fontana said, his head cocking to one side, his eye lock not wavering, "my partner never mentioned that. You and he being friends."

Jack wanted to knock that smarmy, know-it-all look right off of his face. His blood began to race, sending a warning throb to his right temple. "I've known your partner for six years. You've known him how long? Six months? Now, if you'd like to be updated on his status, I'd be happy to do that."

"So you're tryin' to imply that 'cause I don't have the years invested in New York's finest precinct, Ed isn't goin' to trust me? Is that what you're saying?" Fontana's voice had dropped.

There were so many words that were ready to fall right off of Jack's tongue, he nearly bit it to stop the flow. He sighed harshly. "I don't make it a habit to pass judgment on other people's relationships, Detective. If you'll excuse me, I need to find Mrs. Green before I go home." Alone. He turned in the direction of the elevators.

"She's in the cafeteria," Fontana said to him as he passed, "with the family. His brother showed up while you were in there."

Jack was glad to hear that Lawrence had made it back from his business trip, cut short, to D.C. Jack's daughter, Joanna, was coming home early from a conference, arriving late that night. Word was Briscoe was due in the next two days, dealing with a family crisis of his own down in Florida. Lawrence must have had an absolutely hellish flight, with thoughts of his younger brother dying before he could get home. It would be good to see Lawrence, give him his best, before leaving the hospital for the night. And thank Yvette, one more time. Jack lifted a hand to Fontana as a response and walked to the elevators. While waiting for a car, he looked back. Fontana was standing at the window of Ed's room, hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped, staring inside.

Jack pulled down the scotch from a kitchen cabinet along with a glass from the one to the right, the lone under-cabinet light shining behind the bottle, illuminating the brown liquid to a warm gold. The light permeated the gloomy kitchen inadequately, but Jack wanted it that way. The glass hit the Formica counter, cutting the silence. Jack unscrewed the bottle top and poured two fingers. Then poured one more. Good measure, and all that, for his intention was to get as drunk as he ever did, which he considered nothing close to however many sheets to the wind constituted ripped, blasted, bombed or blitzed. He never ended up under the table. Not since his youth, and even then the floor and his face had never met. He could hold his liquor. A function of his genes, no doubt.

Ed, on the other hand, had no such ability. Jack tossed back half of his drink, swallowing with ease, the burn spreading throughout his chest, and stomach, and still further. He leaned back against the counter, looking into the dim room. Right here. It had happened in this exact spot. Drink in hand, and half consumed. The heat of alcohol, the buzz of expectation filling his senses. Ed had closed the refrigerator after retrieving another beer and turned to him, not two feet away, a slow grin blossoming on his face.

They had been spending some off-work time together, nothing more than a drink, or dinner, some talk, and a few times a walk through blocks that took them to neither one's home. A walk that had been an excuse to keep talking about important things, and nothing at all. This evening had not ended, they had kept walking until Jack invited Ed to his place for one last drink. He honestly hadn't thought Ed would accept, or let himself think beyond the drink. He couldn't.

Ed opened the beer and stopped the grin by taking a long swig. It returned as soon as he swallowed. "I think this guy-- what was his name?"

"Abagnale. Frank." Jack sipped his scotch.

"Yeah, Abagnale. I think the reason the movie was so good was because you didn't know who to root for: the Feeb who was chasing him, or Abagnale for conning so many people with such... balls. He was brilliant. And that's something to admire." Ed drank more beer.

Jack shook his head. "No, it's not."

"It is."

"It's not."

Ed chuckled. "It is, too, Jack." He took a step closer. "It's just hard for you to admit that there's a little part in all of us that admires someone who can get away with something, especially when it took the brains he had and didn't physically hurt anyone."

"Look," Jack said, his pulse stuttering, "I can admit when I'm wrong, Detective, but this isn't one of those times. There's nothing heroic in pretending to be an airline pilot, or a doctor. Or a lawyer."

Ed pointed at him with his bottle. "See?" He took yet another step. They were a foot apart. "Whenever you call me 'Detective' that's a sure sign that you're tryin' to put me in a lesser advantaged position, and keep me there." He grinned again, and his voice dropped. "Won't work. Counselor."

Jack was going to argue the point--he merely slipped and wasn't using Ed's title in any gamelike way--but Ed moved too quickly, setting down his beer, cupping Jack's face and delivering a hot, hard, demanding kiss, with warm, soft, pliable lips. Jack's stomach dipped; all blood raced to his groin; his mouth responded; his brain froze. They were kissing in earnest now, and it was as good, as sweet, as hot as Jack had been imagining for any number of weeks. He tasted beer mixed with scotch, trying to find the counter with the glass, still in his hand, so he would be free to touch with both. A thought, a question, suddenly intruded. He gently pushed Ed's chest and unlocked their lips.

What he could see in Ed's eyes almost kept him from asking. But-- "Is this going to be an alcohol-induced thing that you'll regret in the morning? Not be able to face me?" He grabbed the edge of the counter on either side of his hips, his heart beating faster than even a second ago.

Ed shook his head slowly. "No. No regrets. And the beer had nothing to do with it." He smiled. "Though I am a bit ripped." The smile faded. "Will you regret it? Do you?"

Jack smiled, his blood thrumming from a surge of desire. "Not a chance."

That had been enough to drive them together again; they kissed, and groped, and went at each other like two starving men digging into a deluxe pizza. Ten minutes after the initial move, Ed had admitted that he thought the man in the movie had been nothing more than a check kiter, and Jack had admitted that maybe he did use Ed's title in a possibly manipulative way. They had laughed together, and made their inexorable way to Jack's bedroom, and had fallen into bed for twenty-four hours. And had never looked back. For quite a long time.

Jack finished his drink in another large swallow and refilled the glass. It had all seemed so damned, fucking simple at the beginning. It was such a complete mess now. His hands trembled; he clenched them into tight fists. He grabbed the drink and the bottle and stumbled across the room to the two person table. Sitting heavily in the dimness he threw back most of the scotch, swallowing twice to get past the thickness, and poured more. The bottle he held was becoming a wavy blur, seen through unshed tears quickly filling his eyes. He set it down, and the glass, as he finally lost control, burying his face in his hands, crying hard, his gut clenching, his chest heaving, visions of Ed with tubes and machines and blood spilling out of him playing over and over in his mind. Tears spilled on the tabletop. His sobs echoed in the empty room. His heart ached. His head throbbed. His spirit broke.

The last half-hour of NPR's Morning Edition was blaring out of the radio on Jack's night stand, across the room. If pressed, he might concede that "blaring" was not a fair judgment, but hearing more news of the war--more garbage he was in no mood to hear--was an intrusion, tempered only by the drone of familiar voices in familiar rhythms. A comforting murmur when he could ignore the words, which he managed to do only every five minutes. Jack was digging down to the bottom of his dresser's top drawer, searching, sure this was the right place. The pain in his head was a twinge, not a pounding, which he attributed to a pill he had placed under his tongue an hour ago, a cup of coffee, and a phone call from his daughter, Joanna. Sleeping later than normal had probably helped, too. So far, he was evading a hangover. And so far, Ed was holding his own, with the same conditional report as the night before.

Joanna had called within a few minutes of Jack dragging himself out of bed. Surprisingly, she said she was rearranging her schedule to be with him, and would spend at least that day and the next, Friday, in Manhattan. To help Jack, should he need it. That Brooklyn Law School could do without her was not the surprise. The surprise was her statement that she was going to stay with him, in his apartment, until some time over the weekend. She said it was to keep her from having to deal with traffic back and forth between her place, her father's, and the hospital. Jack didn't precisely buy that explanation, but he had not had anywhere near the energy or impetus to argue. It would be good to have her there. Besides, she and Ed had been tight, and if she only needed to be around because of her relationship with Ed, that was completely understandable.

Jack shoved the drawer closed after finding nothing. "Damn it," he muttered. He took a sip of coffee and tried one more time to remember where he had put the box. When he had last had it in his hands was easy. Five months before. Why he couldn't remember where he had stashed it was also an easy one. He had been infused with pure fear, once again, as now, acting on impulse and need with very little brain activity to accompany his decisions. He had returned to his apartment after working as late as possible and stopping for two drinks-- He had seen the baggy clothes Ed had worn on the sting and felt pure nausea-- He had sat heavily on the end of the bed, listening to Ed snore softly-- His chest had seized and he had--

He walked the ten steps to his closet, rifling among various shoe boxes on the overhead shelf until he found the right one. He pulled it down and brought it to the bed, flipping off the lid and finally seeing the smaller wooden box sitting on top of photos, ticket stubs and postcards. The dark stained wood was smooth, one corner nicked from where his college roommate had dropped it on the radiator in their room; the inside was felt lined, still the same burnished gold it was the very first time Jack opened it on the afternoon of his high school graduation. He lifted the string of black beads, running his thumb over the crucifix, and slipped the rosary into his pants' pocket, carefully packing it into the very bottom so it wouldn't accidentally fall out. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, almost release. Right. He rubbed his eyes, stood, and deliberately looked straight ahead as he left the empty room, hating the sight of a lone crumpled pillow on a too-wide bed.

The holy water was colder than the air outside; Jack's fingers recoiled slightly as he dipped them in the receptacle on the church's interior door frame. He touched his forehead, chest, left shoulder and right shoulder in genuflection, the familiar musty scent of the cavernous room immediately sending him back to St. Ignatius, Chicago. It was the same every time. At the pew he chose, near the back, he dropped to one knee and crossed himself again before sliding in, midway, to a place of relative privacy and quiet. The only other occupants of the nave were a few older women and a man polishing the pulpit; each one a stranger, as he would be to them should they turn around and look him over.

He sat for a minute or two, struggling to calm down, to leave the rush and noise of traffic, the office, the job, what was left of his life. He had phoned ICU one more time before leaving home. Ed was still critical but stable. Two words meant to convey seriousness and a hope for improvement, but which made Jack's stomach clench whenever he emblazoned them on the man whom he knew as vitally alive, passionate, loving and proud. At this point, stubborn was still the sole quality upon which Jack placed his hope. Something else he would never tell Ed, should he have the chance to do so.

Jack coughed quietly and slid forward to kneel on the riser, pulling out the rosary, taking one last look at the crucifix over the altar before closing his eyes, resting elbows on the back of the pew in front of him. He found his own crucifix at the end of the string of beads by touch alone. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he said quietly, genuflecting again. "Amen." He recited, "I believe in God, the Father almighty...," before moving his fingers to the first bead, reciting, "Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name...," words spilling out by rote, the clench of his stomach lessening with each one said aloud. The next bead, "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of they womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen." And the next bead, another Hail Mary, and the next.

He took a breath, his chest aching, dropping his forehead to his hands. Please.... If he lives I'll treat him with kid gloves, I'll never get angry at him, I'll try to make peace with him, I'll do whatever.... I will help Yvette get the best care possible. Holy Mary, Mother of God.... He has a whole life ahead of him-- He paused, inhaling the stale smell of the pew, feeling the knot in his stomach again. He tightened the hold of the bead in his fingers. I love him, that's got to mean something. Be worth something. I rarely ask you for anything, and Ed-- He does so much good. If anyone deserves a chance, he does. "Please," he whispered.

"Dad," Joanna said, wrapping arms around his neck.

He hugged her tightly, her one word greeting enough for both of them. She had been sitting with Ed's family; Yvette was at Ed's bedside. The moment Jack's eyes met his daughter's, she had bolted out of the chair, reaching him in three strides. After a long moment, he relaxed his grip and kissed her cheek.

She smiled a wan smile. "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay, Joey," he said. "Honestly."

She cocked her head, but didn't dispute his claim. "He looks awful in there," she said in a low voice. "All... wrong."

He cupped her face, a surge of love for her filling his senses. "I know."

She nodded, and they both walked to the window of Ed's room, his arm around her shoulders. Ed looked exactly like he had the night before, and hours before that. Jack's heart beat skipped to see him, his hands ached to touch; his mind was at a momentary standstill. For that alone, he was deeply grateful. Joanna gently put an arm around his waist and dropped her head to his shoulder. He gave her an extra squeeze as she sighed.

The afternoon passed quickly enough as Jack buried himself in work. Ron Drexler's prosecution would proceed on Monday with but a brief testimony prep needed with Nathan Fogg, scheduled for the following morning. Jack read through case files on two upcoming trials in between phone calls: to Van Buren regarding the investigation of Ed's shooting; one to the nurse's station; two to Joanna; one to Yvette. Arthur gave him wide berth after Jack reported in at arrival, appearing at his door only to ask the time of Fogg's appointment. Alexandra was holed up in her cubical-cum-office. The DA's office was running with the smooth veneer of normality. A delicate, highly polished veneer.

A knock on his open doorway brought Jack's head out of a forensics' report. Abbie was striding toward him with a gentle smile, and if her hair had still been long instead of shoulder-length, and her coat still dark gray tweed instead of deep red, he would have sworn the past five years never happened.

She said, "You talked to Joey, didn't you? She's on her way to the restaurant. It's five o'clock." She pulled out a chair and sat on the table, her feet on the seat.

He nodded, and apologized for losing track, and while he was quickly gathering papers and files into a pile, Alexandra came in to remind him that he had planned to leave early. She and Abbie had met a few times; they chatted briefly as he finished. Side by side, they could be sisters; add Joanna to the tableau and the three of them could sit together on the Black Irish branch of his family tree. Joanna, who had to practice some circumspection in this crisis as a person with no obvious standing with Ed. No reason to be at the hospital with her father each and every time; no reason she would care deeply enough to forego work. Even if Ed, and Abbie, and even Van Buren had participated in the student group Joanna supervised--talking to first and second year students about working in the criminal justice system--that wouldn't explain her presence.

Jack pulled on his coat. After saying good-bye to Alex, closing the door behind him, he and Abbie walked to the elevators, she muttering to him under her breath about what she saw as a fundamental problem with the DA's office: though they hired smart and talented people, there were too many former defense attorneys on the payroll. Jack smiled at her as they headed down to the street. It appeared to him, at the very least, she actually liked this second chair of his, as opposed to the last. And that would be a pleasant change.

"I don't think that's true," Joanna said, tossing her head, dark brown hair flipping over her shoulder. "Hidden agenda means exactly that, it's something surreptitious. My agenda isn't hidden at all."

"So, it's--" Jack sat back in his chair. Abbie, on his right, sipped her beer, keeping her eyes away from his. Firmly on Joanna, across the table from her.

Joanna leaned on her forearms. "My agenda is that you and Ed get back together." She shrugged. "I don't see why both of you have to be miserable. Especially now."

Jack looked away, through the windows behind her. It was dusk; people were walking briskly along the sidewalk, back and forth, heading home. To dinner. A drink. He didn't have a pat answer for his daughter since the true state of his misery was too all-encompassing to even begin to describe. He stifled a sigh and met her glance. "You're making a pretty big assumption about Ed, don't you think?" He shot a glare at Abbie, who had the good grace, at least, to put on an innocent face.

"No," Joanna said, "it's not an assumption, it's fact. I--" She shut her mouth abruptly, then muttered something under her breath.

"You what?" What could she know?

"Dad--" Joanna broke their eye contact to look at Abbie.

Abbie shrugged and lifted a hand. "Just tell him," she said.

Jack waited, a sudden craving for Scotch hitting his gut, his blood. He grabbed a breadstick from the glass in their midst and took a large bite, the crunch loud, and jarring, even in the general din of the restaurant. He washed down the dry bread with water, watching the silent communication between Abbie and Joanna, fully expecting exaggerated hand gestures to break out at any minute. "Tell me, Joey," he said as evenly as he could manage.

"Okay," she said with a bit of force. "I talked to Ed, after the two of you had split up--"

"When?" Jack's stomach took a dive.

"About a month," she said in a calmer tone, "maybe more, and that doesn't make what he said to me any less true, or pertinent." She took a sip of water. "So, I talked to him, and he was-- He was angry, and upset, still, and he let something slip--at least it looked like it slipped out--something about how he thought-- he assumed that you were always on his side. And that's what he still couldn't get--"

"What the hell did he mean by that? What did he think I'd been doing for two years?" Jack's pulse was pounding; his need for a drink resurfacing with a vengeance. "And I don't need any report on his anger. It's no surprise to me."

"Would you rather he had been blasé, Dad?" Joanna's head bobbed with every other word, bangs bouncing against her eyebrows. "You know, not really care one way or the other that his lover had just dumped him?"

Jack looked hard at her. "Now just a minute, you don't have any right to make a comment like that. Dumping him. Ed the poor victimized dumpee--"

"That's not what I meant," Joanna said more slowly, gently. "But he was upset. He was hurt. That's a strong reaction from a man who supposedly didn't care that his relationship had just ended."

Jack shook his head more to himself than as an answer. He ate the breadstick still in his hand, attempting to calm a churning stomach. How could Ed have meant that? Have thought that Jack hadn't been on his side? Supported him? With everything they went through? Unexpectedly, his chest tightened from an image of Ed, hurting, confiding to someone he thought might understand, who knew the person he thought had hurt him. Jack's inadequacy was again staring at him in the face. His heart ached. He wanted to hold Ed. He wanted to walk away.

Abbie said, "Your father doesn't believe that Ed still does care." Jack looked up. Abbie shrugged. "I have my own theories--" She met his eyes. "--based upon Ed's recent behavior, but given what's happened, Jack, I don't think any of it matters. What matters is that now Ed needs you, and he's going to need you even more over the next few months."

"He has plenty of people to take care of him," Jack said, the assumption that Ed would actually leave the hospital settling over him like the warmth of direct sunlight.

"But," Joanna said, "this is a perfect opportunity to make up, to help him, spend time with him."

Jack shook his head, once. "I'm not going to take advantage of the situation. No."

Abbie put a hand on his forearm. "It's not taking advantage. But this kind of thing can put the more-- petty things of life in perspective." Her voice dropped. "You know, what's important, how much we can lose and how quickly we can lose it."

He remembered climbing into bed that awful night, curling himself behind the gently snoring Ed, slipping his arm around Ed's waist and gradually pulling himself tightly to him. The movement of Ed's breathing against his chest, the rumble he could feel under his hand as he shifted his grip to Ed's breastbone. The smell of soap, and skin he knew every inch of. The curls under his fingers. The certainty in his heart. He remembered the blessings he had given. He couldn't meet Abbie's, or Joanna's, expectant gaze. He mumbled an excuse before pushing away from their stares, weaving between tables as he made his way to the men's room, to splash some water on his face before his composure slipped away. Again.

Jack leaned against the cold metal wall of the elevator carrying him to his apartment, closing his eyes to the bright overhead light. Even a mere thirty seconds of glare was too much. The hospital visit had been more of the same: watching Ed move absolutely nothing of his own volition; keeping vigil with the Greens; talking with Abbie and Van Buren. Jack had not taken another bedside visit even though he had had the opportunity and the need to do it. No explanation for refusing would have made sense to Yvette so he had not offered one. It barely made sense to him, either, but he had been unable to picture himself crossing the threshold of Ed's room, or touching him, or making another promise for his unhearing ears alone.

The elevator reached his floor; he pushed off the wall and walked the ten yards home. He keyed the door and was greeted by the soft sounds of the televised news and the sight of Joanna curled into the corner of the couch, a blanket covering her legs. She gave him a gentle smile and was coming off the couch when his glance took in the rest of the living room. His pulse raced. Surfaces had been cleaned of magazines, journals and newspapers; his gym bag was gone; three days worth of coffee mugs were no longer in sight; errant pieces of clothing were probably in the hamper. He looked at his desk. The piles were neatened; books were now perfectly upright.

"What have you done?" he snapped, causing Joanna to stop mid-stride.

"What do you mean, done? About what?" Her eyebrows scrunched together.

Jack waved his free hand and dropped his briefcase on the closest chair. "My stuff. It's gone. Why did you have to clean up everywhere?"

"Dad, I just wanted to give myself some room to spread out--"

"Spreading out is one thing, you didn't have to--" He stopped himself from continuing, suddenly, sincerely, not wanting to get into it.

"Didn't have to what?" Joanna was standing with her hands on her hips now, a few feet away. "Come on. Keep going."

He shot her a glare and walked through the room toward the kitchen, his bottle of Glenlivit begging for attention. Joanna was following, but he ignored her, reaching his destination and taking down the bottle and a glass.

She said, "I didn't have to... be here? Settle in? What?"

He poured; he tossed back a large swallow, feeling the burn spread in his chest like a soothing balm. "Don't worry about it," he said.

"Of course I'm going to worry about it! I can go at any time, just say the word."

"Go? Who said anything about you going?"

She stomped out, muttering under her breath. Jack caught a few words: "nothing," "emotional," and "Ed," heard with a stab in his gut. He followed, leaving the glass on the counter. She was tossing couch cushions into a corner, preparing to open the sleeper sofa. The television was off.

"Joanna."

"What?" She kept at her task, glancing his way once.

"I don't want you to go, and I can't believe I have to say that to you, of all people."

She glanced up again, briefly. "Don't push yourself, Dad," she said, the sarcastic tone as evident as her scowl.

He pulled the coffee table out of her way in an effort to give himself a moment, but it didn't work. "I won't push myself, whatever the hell that means, if you stop making comments under your breath about Ed. And me. If you've got something to say to me, then say it."

Joanna stabbed a finger in his direction. "By 'push yourself' I mean stop acting as if expressing some emotions might cause the world to come crashing down around your ears, for god's sakes. Go ahead, get mad at me! Scream! Yell! Cry! Do something! And about Ed, and you? It looked like you barely flinched after your latest breakup, you just moved on, and--" She stopped abruptly, breathing heavily.

Jack's pulse was pounding. "And what? Is this more about what ED told you? I'm a cold, heartless bastard?!" He spun on his heels, back toward the kitchen. By the time he got to his Scotch, his hand was shaking. He downed another swallow.

"No," Joanna said from behind him, her voice calmer, smoother. "No, he never said that-- But I-- I don't know how to help you if you don't let anything out."

Jack took a deep breath and turned around. They looked at each other for a long minute. "I couldn't fall apart then," Jack said, "because there was no time, and it's not going to do me any good to fall apart now. I've handled my... grief."

Joanna sighed. "Why the hell can't you fall apart? And what does that mean, 'handled your grief'? He's not dead, and he's not going to die--"

"You can't say that, you don't know that for a fact--"

"I do know it--"

"NO, Joey, you don't! You want it to be true," he said, gently grabbing her shoulder, "and believe me, I understand, but the reality is that we don't know what's going to happen." He had to stop because his throat had shut, almost tight. He gulped air, and cleared it with a short cough. "I've gone to church, and said my prayers, and asked God for help, and I'll go every day until Ed is awake and-- And is better enough to sit up and smile at his mother."

She cocked her head, her eyes glistening. "Well... I think you still love him," she said quietly, "and I really think you two shouldn't have split. It's not right. It wasn't right." Tears spilled down her cheeks; she wiped them away.

Jack was forced to quell his emotions as he considered an answer for his daughter, rubbing her shoulder with his thumb. She was a woman who believed in true love, and wanted people to always fight for it. "I understand that's what you think, and even if I don't deny the first, the second is completely out of my hands." If Ed recovers, he added silently.

She smiled a wan smile. "Out of your hands? What happened to my father? The man who rarely, if ever, gives up on something that he wants? That stubborn guy?"

Jack released his hold of her, stifling a sigh. "That guy got involved with another guy who is about as bullheaded as anyone could ever imagine...."

"So, I guess my Dad has to learn how to compromise, then."

As if compromise would solve everything, much less the totality of what had driven them apart, he thought. He picked up his Scotch and took a slow sip, not meeting her glance. After he put the glass back down, Joanna picked it up and finished off the small amount left at the bottom. "Come on," Jack said, "we need to get your bed made and you in it."

His daughter nodded, turned, and left the kitchen, watching her feet, slipping her hair behind one ear.

"What are you doing," Joanna said, "tucking me in?"

Jack was sitting on the edge of the sofa bed, and although the urge to straighten the covers around her shoulders was strong, he clasped hands between his knees, shaking his head. "Thank you, for being here. It helps to have you nearby. To make sure I eat," he said with a small smile. "I'll be going to the hospital in the afternoon, so you can go in the morning."

"Okay. And you're welcome." She sighed. "And, Dad, about Ed, and you, and all of that, I can only guess at why you broke it off, and I'm sure that you were upset at the time because I know you're not a heartless man, or an unfeeling man. Maybe I'm acting like the twelve year old whose parents divorced, but I swear I didn't see much reaction from you about that, either--"

"You were way too young to have noticed," he said. "The situations aren't comparable, anyway."

"I was not too young." She propped herself on one elbow. "And why aren't they? You've always told me that you loved Mom, and that you still have loving feelings for her, and now you admit that you still love Ed, and for all intents and purposes you're not going to do anything to get back together with him, either. What's the difference? The end result is the same."

Jack wanted to bolt, but the look on her face held him. This was his twelve year old daughter who desperately tried to comprehend why her family was splitting in two, seen in the line of her eyebrows, the downward curve of her mouth, the flush in her cheeks. "It's different because-- Because your mother and I just weren't right for each other--"

"I know that line; you've said it to me a hundred times before this."

Jack lifted his brows at her. "And does that make it any less true? You know what that means, now, you've had boyfriends, lovers, you know what makes it right and what makes it wrong. Love sometimes has nothing to do with it."

"And Ed? Right, or wrong?"

He shook his head. "I can't answer that."

She stared at him for a long moment. With another audible sigh, she slid off her elbow and rested against the pillow. "He certainly seemed right to me, from the outside looking in." She reached up and squeezed his forearm. "Good night, Dad."

"Good night," he said, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. After turning out the one remaining light, and taking one last look at her, he started his own nightly rituals with a clench in his stomach that he hadn't been able to shake since the shooting. As if someone held his gut in their hands, wringing it like a washcloth. Every once in a while letting go long enough for air to circulate and dry it to the bone, before starting again.

He tossed dirty clothes into the hamper, and yanked a tee shirt out of his dresser and over his head. Joey had left a number of implications hanging throughout their conversations. For one, about compromise, and his apparently obvious-to-her lack of ability in that arena. But was that necessarily true? Ed had told him, once, that he was surprised at how easily Jack had been willing to change his habits, to keep both apartments neater, to take time to make the bed, every once in a while cobble together a dinner. Jack had let that slide since the breakup. Did that mean he had an ability to compromise, or the ability to sham a lover? Claire had seemed to tell him both that he could, and that he was too stubborn to, all at once. Or was he remembering that in a way that suited him?

Brushing his teeth, he thought about what else his daughter had been implying. That Ed was unhappy with the breakup. He knew at the time Ed was upset, and angry, but regretful? Distraught? Wanting things to be different? Wanting them to get back together? Jack rinsed his mouth and his face. Joanna was as pragmatic as she was romantic. Very much like Ed, though the man would never want anyone to know that. At least, he wouldn't want some people to know that about him. Joanna was also honest, to the core.

Jack climbed into bed after turning out his light. He stared at the ceiling, wondering about the toughest of his daughter's implications. Wondering if he truly came across as having no emotional reaction to the breakup. Appearing as if he didn't care, as if the decision had not been about as soul-wrenching as any he had ever made. It was true that in the first few days after he had told Ed, Jack felt such a weight lift off his shoulders it was as if his head were floating somewhere above his body. Work had passed across his desk and mind effortlessly. The relief had been overwhelming. Then Ed came to One Hogan for a review with Serena and Jack happened to pass by her cubicle and happened to catch Ed's unguarded glance, and in that briefest of looks, Jack saw such an aching gulf of pain that his relief transformed itself. Right there, in the hallway, feet still moving toward his office. By the time he sat behind the desk, his breath was seizing in his chest and his eyes were filling too fast.

From that point onward, Ed rarely looked directly at him, and if he did, it was far briefer than that first glance. Ed's eyes held no hint of emotion, which wracked Jack more than if he had displayed his hurt. They made it past one month with minimal personal interaction, then two, all the while putting up a pretense that they were mere colleagues in the fight for justice. It was no wonder that Fontana questioned Jack's assertion that he and Ed were friends outside of work. By the middle of the third month, Jack had a severe ache of his own. He simply wanted one real conversation with Ed about things that mattered; he wanted to go to dinner with the man, to a movie, anything to spend some honest time with him.

This wasn't like prior breakups, when Jack rarely saw the other person except at the yearly ABA banquet, or when--on the day her name would pop into his mind--he would see her at a restaurant, or a bookstore, or the subway. Jack was constantly aware of Ed's presence in the world. He had no choice in the matter unless he retired to a beach house in Southampton. And at almost four months, the desire to simply spend time with Ed had changed to deep regret, niggling self-doubt, and unfettered emotions ranging from hurt to elation at seeing his face. Jack had faced tough questions: could Ed have been right, and he wrong? Could they try one more time?

Now, everything was changed. Again. Maybe Joanna's question of right or wrong really did hark back to Ed's. I was the best damned thing that ever came your way, Jack-- Ed saying that, voice low, eyes sunken with pain, was shockingly clear in Jack's mind. He stopped staring at the dark shapes on the ceiling, stretching his arm into the void of the other half of the bed. Now, the stakes were higher, the self-doubt gone. Now, he knew he still loved Ed, still wanted him, and still needed to take care of him. What else constituted a serious relationship? Jack rolled onto his side, facing the center of the mattress, his hand drifting of its own accord to the pillow next to him, smoothing its surface. He regretted his earlier decision, not to take a visit at Ed's bedside. Not to touch him, to feel his pulse. It was another in a long line of missed opportunities.

Jack sat up and reached for the phone to call the ICU nurses' station. They told him Ed was the same, and he almost claimed a more proprietary privilege, almost asked them to go to his room to make sure, simply look at him one more time and report back. As if their eyes could substitute for his own. Instead, he thanked them and hung up. He made a decision, and the pressing heaviness in his chest drifted away so quickly it almost made him dizzy. It suddenly felt absolutely obvious how to answer the question of right vs. wrong. If Ed regretted the breakup--and Joanna seemed to think he did--and if Ed wanted them fixed, then there was no reason to waste any more time. He and Ed belonged together, deserved to be together. Should face Ed's recovery, together. Ed needed him. Jack laid back down, closed his eyes, and settled into sleep more easily than the night before, or the months of nights behind him.

With his back against the pew he was now calling his own, Jack slowly rolled his rosary in the hand resting on his thigh. His prayers finished, he stayed where he was rather than dashing off to start his morning's work. The wooden Jesus hanging over the altar gazed serenely down on an empty, completely quiet nave, save for Jack and the sound of his breathing. Into his prayer for Ed he had poured his own wishes and needs for a future with the man, believing that God would hear them without judgment, and would forgive him the trespass of speaking of himself during a rosary meant for the healing of another. He was well aware that his pleas were born from the anxiety building inside of him. The doctors were giving Ed one more day before trying to pull him out of the coma, and once Ed was awake, tomorrow, Jack would talk to him, tell him of his change of heart. Tell him how dearly he loved him.

Alexandra walked back into Jack's office from showing Nathan Fogg to the elevators; his trial preparation for Monday had been accomplished with a minimum of fuss. She gathered together the papers left on the table, tapping them into a neat, precise pile. "Are you leaving right after lunch?" she said, "Or more mid-afternoon?"

"Right after lunch," Jack said. He was already straightening up his desk, sorting through what he would take home to work on that weekend and what could wait until after the present trial's closing arguments, also planned for Monday. What he could sandwich in between what he hoped would be more time spent at Ed's bedside and time with Joanna before she left.

"Would you mind if I came along with you to the hospital?" She stopped what she was doing, her voice quieting. "I haven't gone to see Detective Green yet, or dropped off the card I got, for his family." She shrugged. "I think it's about time I did that, don't you?"

Jack didn't know what to think, or say, since he certainly did not want company on this visit. He had planned on taking Yvette to the cafeteria so they could talk, for one, and the thought of putting up a pretense of less than intense interest in Ed-- "I thought you went yesterday, at dinner?"

Alexandra shook her head, pulling the files and papers to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "No, I...." She didn't continue.

"What," he said with a lift of his eyebrows.

"I have a hard time being in hospitals," she said with a shrug of one shoulder. "Bad childhood experience, which I know is pretty ridiculous when you consider that I'm working on capital crime cases, and have to go to hospitals to interview survivors, and have been working in capital crime as a defense attorney and--"

"Alex, it's okay. I won't, and don't hold it against you." He went to the coat rack to retrieve his briefcase.

She sighed loudly. "It's only when I have to see someone I know."

Her glance solidly focused on the tabletop, she was refusing to look his way as he returned to the desk, and he chose not to press any further. If she had managed to do her job well for defendants, and she had, he honestly had no worries about her performance at his side. Her recommendations were about as positive as possible. He stuffed files into his case. "I don't really enjoy being in those places, either," he said, glancing at her, zipping shut the briefcase.

She finally met his eyes. "But you're spending a lot of time there...."

Another one of those life changing moments had just presented itself, and he wasn't in the least bit prepared, briefly wondering if a person ever is prepared for times like this, when truth is on the tip of one's tongue and reality is keeping it there, shackled securely. He turned off his desk light. "We'll need to take separate cars; I'd rather not have to bring you back to the office." He deliberately turned away from her, going back to the rack for his coat.

She said, after a long moment of silence, "That's fine, Jack. And thank you."

Smiling in her direction he assured her it was no problem; he was glad for the company, hoping she would leave within an hour or less of their arrival.

Though it was awkward with Alexandra there while she chatted, smoothly, with Ed's mother, Alex managed to do something that in two and a half years he had not. Make some connection with Jocelyn, Ed's younger sister. Jack didn't presume to understand the woman's issues in all of their complexities regarding him, and Ed, and Ed's sexuality past and present, but he did know that he could rely on her silence about those matters. She was fiercely loyal to her brother, and, according to Ed, well aware that if she ever stepped over the line either in outing him, or exposing anyone close to him, it would irrevocably damage their sibling relationship. Lucky for Jack.

While Alexandra and Jocelyn talked together a few seats away from everyone else, Jack asked Yvette if she would go downstairs to the cafeteria so they could have a bit of privacy. After she agreed, and while she told her family, Jack finally took his first long look into Ed's ICU room. He tried to control his emotional reaction, swallowing hard at the sight of him, still completely motionless, but solid, and real. Unaware of Jack's decision. He silently promised Ed honesty before he left for the night.

"Yes," Yvette said, holding her coffee cup in a slack grip, "the doctor's plan hasn't changed; they are going to reverse the coma tomorrow. Edward is stable, and his vital signs continue to be strong. Dr. Thomas feels the procedure will be done in the morning." She pressed her lips together, then visibly relaxed.

Jack felt his impotence acutely, again, wanting to take on her anxiety, too. If Ed didn't respond positively to being removed from the ventilator, then it was anyone's guess what happened next. If his damaged lung would ever work on its own. Jack took a sip of coffee. "And if all goes well, then what? How long do they think he'll have to be here?"

"I don't know, because they're not saying. I assume they don't want to speculate. Or get our hopes up too high."

"Have you thought about his home care? Who will stay with him, if you're going to hire a nurse?"

She let out a deep sigh. "I don't know that I want him in that apartment of his. It doesn't have very much room for guests, and there is already a list of people who have volunteered to help him, when the time comes."

Though Jack saw himself at the top of that list, he also tried to picture Ed with three or four people around his bed waiting to help him with this or that. Ed's scowl was also a part of that picture, particularly if the bed was in his mother's house. "You know how much he'll want to be independent--"

"Yes, I know how much he won't want to come home, but honestly, what else makes sense?" She lifted her left palm for emphasis, the solid gold wedding band slightly loose, moving on her finger with each point she raised. "I have the extra rooms, I have room for guests to sleep and eat, and I have some money put away in case he needs specific equipment, and I certainly have the time."

"And...."

Yvette sighed again. "And, yes, it will not be pleasant for him, but he really cannot do this by himself."

"No, he can't. So, let's keep praying for his-- tenaciousness until he's better enough to get out of here. Then pray for a miraculous change." He smiled, but he knew she could see his own worry reflecting back at her. "I'd like to be added to the list. Of people who will help out. And help defray any costs."

"Jack, you don't have to do that."

"Yes, Yvette, I do," he said, leaning forward, ready to make the point more emphatically if she argued.

She picked up her cup, studying him over the rim as she sipped. "And should he be in my home, in his own room, you would want to be there, with him?"

Jack went back to his coffee, to buy a moment, though its taste was acrid and old. A few drops sloshed onto the table as he set it down. "Depending upon how things-- progress from this point forward-- yes, I would want to be there."

She clasped his forearm, gently rubbing the inside of it with her thumb. "In case there's a change in the status of your relationship?"

He nodded.

"I, for one," she said, "would like to see that happen. It would be the best thing for Edward." She let go.

"Ultimately, it's up to him."

"Of course it is." She shifted back in her chair, crossing her legs, slowly tugging on her wool skirt's hem for modesty's sake. Her voice was softer when she spoke, slower, her eyes solemn. "Did you know that there have been studies about recovering from illness, and how much benefit there is from having a lover or spouse there with someone? It is quite significant. I've had ample opportunity to read up on these things, here." The edge of her mouth lifted. "The nurses aides are always accommodating me with magazines and journals. It makes the hours pass by more quickly, I suppose."

"I wasn't aware of those studies," he said. "The idea makes sense." He paused. "But what about you; is there anything I can do for you?"

She used a paper napkin to wipe the corner of one eye. "I don't want to think of my son, alone, facing the next few months. This isn't going to be easy for him, no matter how strong, or how stubborn, or how smart he is. I don't want him to be alone. That is what you can do for me."

Jack's throat ached as its too-familiar lump formed. He could only nod, and plaster another fake smile on his face, and hope that it was more convincing than it felt.

The feel of Ed's hand between both of his seemed to make all the difference in Jack's sense of equilibrium. Though the hand was a heavier than normal weight, leaden in unconsciousness, there was that comforting pulse to be found on the inside of his wrist. The hand was warm, and it was Ed, and right then those two things were enough. As he stroked it slowly and deliberately, memories overwhelmed him; memories he no longer pushed aside as too painful, or too achingly beautiful to experience. Months of trying to forget apparently had been wholly unsuccessful, and for once, Jack was glad. There was so much about him and Ed as a couple that was good, so much about their relationship that was strong and healthy, that nourished Jack, and up until the bad times near the end appeared to nourish Ed, as well.

Jack was sitting in the chair next to Ed's bed; the privacy curtain was closed. He brought Ed's hand up closer, and even if it didn't smell right, the sensation of touching it with his lips felt right. In a moment of pure need, he wished with all of his might that Ed would turn the hand and cup his face, his long fingers caressing his cheek, dark eyes fixed on him. Instead, Jack kissed the back of Ed's hand gently, lingering, his eyes closed to the scene in front of him.

He opened them again and smiled at himself, set down the hand but didn't let it go. "We're all going crazy out here, Ed. Sometimes I wonder if you would believe it. How many people are outside, cops guarding the doorways...." He told Ed about his talk with Yvette, skirting around his offer to help with money, giving a less detailed picture of himself in her house, sleeping in the same bed as Ed, holding him throughout the night. After taking a minute to inspect the intricacies of Ed's eyelashes, he plunged ahead. "I told you that I still love you. The last time I was sitting here. In case you really can hear me, like your mother and Joey believe, I hope what I'm about to say registers, somewhere inside of you, Ed. I do love you. And I want to give us another chance. Try again. I--" He paused again, rubbing Ed's hand, taking a deep breath. "I think we have what it takes. To keep going. To last a long time." He stopped, realizing that he was waiting for a reply. Irrationally waiting. Idiotically.

With a surge of frustration at the completely immobile and unchanging man, Jack let go and stood, shoving the chair behind him from the force of his move. The clench in his stomach was back, and coffee induced indigestion was probably not far behind. "Damn it," he muttered, at the machines beeping and ventilating and sticking into Ed's each and every orifice. He wiped a hand over his face, and as quickly as the tide had come over him, it receded. He looked down on Ed's smooth countenance and sighed, deeply and slowly. "Good luck tomorrow, Ed," he said in a soft voice. "Wake up. I'll be in to see you in the afternoon." Leaning in, he kissed him on the forehead before leaving.

As soon as Jack neared the doorway, he heard voices raised in anger. Voices he recognized. He exited Ed's room and to his left were two men stabbing fingers in each other's faces and talking far too loudly for a hospital corridor. A glance toward the chairs showed him most of Ed's family, with Lawrence and Ed's Uncle Steve on the edge of theirs, looking like they were both about to get up and do something.

"--don't give two chips how sorry you are," Lennie Briscoe was saying to Fontana. "A lotta good--"

"You don't know nothin' about it, Detective Briscoe," Fontana said. "And--"

"I don't know nothin' about it? I know that I never would'a let my partner be on the job without backup!"

Fontana took a step closer. "In this particular instance backup would'a done nobody no good whatsoever other than get more people with bullets in 'em, so don't go tellin' me about my particular--"

"Yeah, well Ed sure as hell doesn't deserve to be the one in there, Fontana," Briscoe said, taking a step, too. "So don't go gettin' all high and mighty with me. I know all about the way you work, and let's just say that your rep isn't makin' this look any better for you!"

Fontana glanced Jack's way just as he was about to make another pointed rejoinder, but their eye contact appeared to stop him, since he shot Briscoe a heated look, shoved hands into his coat pockets and stalked away. Briscoe's chest was heaving; when he turned to see what had happened, he met Jack's eyes; his shoulders sagged; he nodded a few times and approached.

"Lennie," Jack said, holding out his hand.

Lennie took it; they shook. "Jack." He sighed.

Though Jack didn't want any more coffee in his already churning stomach, he offered to take Briscoe back down to the cafeteria after the man had a chance to look into Ed's room. His curiosity was peaked by his reference to Fontana's reputation. At the same time, he didn't hold any hope that the former NYPD detective would ever give up a damned thing about a fellow cop. Even one whom he seemed to think held some responsibility for Ed being shot performing a fairly routine, benign duty.

"What are we down here for?" Joanna said, following Jack into his personal storage locker. "I can't imagine it's simply for fun."

Jack looked over his shoulder. "Why do you say that? Digging through years and years worth of boxes not your idea of a good time?"

She gave a snort in response. Dinner finished, he had dragged her to his building's basement rather than either talking or watching a movie, as she had requested. Parental prerogative dictated that she follow his lead, even if his reasons were merely to give him somewhat of an out from talking or discussing. He also thought she might want some of the things that he was keeping. Perhaps it was time to pass them along.

He knew precisely where he had put the box for which he was there, and went straight to the pile, pulling down the box and unsecuring its flaps. He lifted out the black motorcycle helmet, smiling to himself.

"Dad, that's Ed's." Joanna was immediately behind him.

He looked at her. "I'm bringing it back up to the hall closet. Where it belongs."

A wide grin lit up her face, though Jack was surprised to also see tears welling up. She tugged on him so he would turn around, then threw her arms around his neck in a fierce embrace. He set down the helmet and held her.

"This is good," she said. "I'm just-- really glad. Really."

He smiled. "I can tell."

They separated; Joanna tried to see what else was in the box while Jack prevented her. It was a box Ed had left outside of Jack's apartment with no note; things that Jack had not had the heart to sort through or even look through, but had instead brought right here before returning to his apartment and tossing down two fingers of alcohol. Jack steered his daughter to other boxes, containing bits and pieces of her childhood, encouraging her to take them, agreeing that they could spend time perusing them together, reminding her that it might be time to think about grandchildren for him and that maybe her kids would want these things. That everyone needed to consider preserving their memories. Joanna gave her father another hug, and the two of them spent the next hours wandering in and out of their life from years past.

"....Mr. Green, we'd like you to...."

"....not entirely... Give him another... We'll just have to wait five or...."

"....can't he hear you, he should be hearing you by now, shouldn't...."

"....Gree.... Green, Mr. Green, can you open your eyes?"

What the fuck was going on, and who was calling him, and who was...?

"....don't think this is working, Doctor...." Ed's mother's voice was low, and sounded... worried. Ed felt a hand on his forehead; the touch was familiar but it was touching him through layers of cotton; the way it moved made him feel like he was eight years old with that fever that didn't break for two days. There were other voices around him, speaking in murmurs, and he wanted to tell them to speak up but something was pushing on his tongue. He tried to reach his mouth. His arm didn't work. An inkling of panic crawled up his spine as he tried to remember what had happened, and where he was. What the fuck was going on?

"His pulse is steady, Mrs. Green, and everything looks good. Why don't you see if you can get him to respond." That was a man's voice, smooth as satin, resonant.

Ed tried to open his eyes, but it was so hard, the lids were so heavy....

"Edward, honey darlin', this is your mother," she said in that sweet tone, right in his ear. He tried to smile for her. "Open your eyes, okay? I need you to wake up now."

He did as she asked, but the light was blinding so he shut his eyes again, and he heard his mother ordering someone to turn down the light and someone else to pull something, and then she was stroking his forehead again, and telling him that he was okay, but he wanted to know what that meant, and when he tried to remember what had happened... he couldn't, and that scared the shit out of him.

Ed did his best to focus on the people standing around his bed; his eyes weren't working quite right. He couldn't make out their features, but he could see them, and he definitely recognized his mom, and he could tell that some were doctors and some nurses. His questions couldn't be asked because there was still this tube sticking down his throat which was awful, from what he could feel of it, but any attempt at understanding why it was there simply seemed to stop somewhere up in his brain. There were nurses doing things to other parts of him, adjusting this IV poking out of his arm and that machine next to the bed, and moving things covering him so the doctors could check more this and that. It was all seen, heard and felt through a thick, heavy haze. His mother's face was what he tended to drift back toward, though his chest twisted to see her wiping tears off of her cheeks. Was that the handkerchief he bought, in her hand?

The doctor standing next to his right shoulder told him they were going to remove the in-something tube, and he thought the guy was probably talking about the thing down his throat, which sent another wave of panic flying through him at the thought of what removing it was going to actually feel like. The next thing he knew he was being told to cough, and he did, and the horrific sensation of the tube being pulled out felt like his insides were being scraped raw. He coughed again, and for an interminably long second he couldn't catch his breath, but one of the nurses now was holding his hand and talking him through it and he started breathing again with a gulp and the panic ebbed, his eyes landing on his mother's. Mom was crying again.

Ed's mother slipped some ice chips into his mouth, telling him to not to swallow them whole, and though he followed her advice, when they melted on his tongue he wanted to chug a glass of water his mouth was so dry. Then he swallowed, and understood what she meant. After a few more rounds of this, he shook his head enough to convey "stop," frustration and exhaustion warring. He would take more ice in five.

So, he thought as he watched her dry her graceful hands, he had been shot, and he had been on a ventilator for three days. The time passing meant nothing, the time since they had "woken him up," their words, meant even less. A half hour? An hour? Two? He had been on a ventilator; ventilator equaled life support. There had been enough victims and even perps in hospitals over his career that he knew something about the way this worked. Life support equaled... he had nearly died. That was the part that he couldn't seem to compute clearly. He felt physically horrible enough to believe it, and he had some absolutely vaguer than vague memory of lying on a sidewalk thinking he was dying, but... it didn't make sense.

"....you feel if some people came in to see you, dear?" His mother was holding his forearm; she let go only when she had to.

It must have shown that he didn't understand, because she explained that there were people in the waiting area who had been there for days, standing vigil. As she talked softly about his brother and sister, and uncles and aunts, and how nice the nurses treated everyone, Ed thought he had a memory of her talking to him while he was there, in the bed. But that couldn't be. Then he had an odder sensation of something that he knew couldn't be a memory, of Jack talking to him, too, and a wave of undefined emotions washed over him, knowing that the man wouldn't come anywhere near this bed, or this hospital, or him. The knowledge settled in his damaged chest, adding overwhelming sadness to his exhaustion. The sadness made no sense either.... the two of them were long over.... this thing that had happened to him wouldn't matter at all to Jack. It not only wouldn't matter, but it.... what difference did it make. Jack was out of his life. Ed knew that for certain.

He told his mother, pushing words through a rusty and sore throat, that he would be glad to see whomever was there.

Jack hung up the phone on his desk, staring, unseeing, at the framed photo sitting on the shelf directly in front of him. For all he knew it was a photo of a dog he had never owned. Ed was awake. Ed was breathing on his own. He was awake, and coherent, with potentially--as far as they knew now--no brain damage from loss of blood, no irregularities in his heartbeat, no lack of sensation in his extremities. Yvette said that he was looking honestly wonderful, though Jack took that with the bag of salt that is a mother's love for her youngest son. Jack had been holding his breath ever since he woke up at five a.m.. A walk to breakfast with Joanna had not made the waiting any easier, neither had the food, the company, the newspaper, or the people watching. Even with his daughter's funny commentary on the last.

Ed was awake. Butterflies darted in Jack's stomach as he pictured the man he loved, gripping his hand with as much firmness as he could possibly manage, a soft smile on his face, a light behind his eyes. Jack turned away from the desk, determined to hold that image in his mind over the next couple of hours. He would savor it, as he waited until after lunch to make the trip to Ed's bedside. As he helped his daughter pack up her things so she could return to her own life, and prepare for the coming week's teaching. As he walked as many walks along city sidewalks as it took to quell his anxiousness.

More ice chips after another visit from nurses who took even more blood from him; Ed closed his eyes to the sight of it and had to be prodded back with a damp cloth across his brow. His mother's soft eyes were studying every inch of his features. Ed wanted to tell her he was still the same, but the look on her face told him different. He couldn't think about that as he parted his lips and felt the cold spots hit his tongue, and concentrated on the melting, the trickles of water running down his throat.

"There is someone else," she said, wiping his brow again. "Someone else who would like to see you."

Ed wondered if she meant Lennie, if he was in the city, but couldn't imagine why his mother would single Len out as needing his special permission. He had been moved to what he thought was a regular floor a few hours ago. Were friends not allowed in this room, either? She held more ice chips to his mouth; he took them, nodding her to continue.

"Jack."

His sluggish pulse lurched deep in his veins; he shut his eyes and tried to picture the man standing next to the bed.

His mother rubbed the back of his hand. "I called him while you were dozing, earlier."

He looked at her; she was gazing back at him. "Why?" he said, wishing he had the energy to put more force behind the demand.

She gave him more ice. "Why? Because I knew he would be waiting to hear from me, waiting to hear if things went well this morning. He would like to see you this afternoon."

He looked out the window as the ice melted down his throat, unable to meet the earnestness on his mother's face, not buying one iota of the story. It was gray outside, the sky dark and heavy; a cold wind was probably moving through the trees. It had been a gray morning three days ago....

"....something I want you to think about," his mother was saying. "It's about your recovery, and where that will take place...."

....and Jack wouldn't come here. He wouldn't.... Pigeons on a nearby windowsill suddenly bolted, twenty or thirty wings flapping furiously into the air. He couldn't see if they landed anywhere else on the building; they were beyond his line of sight too quickly.... There was no reason Jack would come....

"....and it's important that you have someone nearby, Edward. Someone who promises to be around, and help you while you get better, and get back on your feet. Someone who cares enough, really cares. Jack wants to do that. For you."

His heart thudded once as he focused on her again. He tried to formulate a response. Jack was promising to take care of him while he recovered? Why in the world would he do that? "More," he said to her before opening his mouth. She complied, and the cold ice chips hitting his tongue convinced him he was as awake as he had been for however the fuck many hours he had been aware of lying here.

"Edward, honey, will you see him, please?"

Ed nodded, not having the strength to argue, or the ability to think of an argument to make. What to say to her. It hurt to imagine Jack there, and to remember how much he missed him, and wanted him, and just exactly how broken they really were. He nodded, and shut out the bright, gentle smile on his mother's face.

Ed was feeling progressively worse from dizziness, and a cloudy head, and a strange, new, heavy sensation in his chest. He was pumped with so many drugs, still, sensations, perceptions, were difficult to name much less quantify. But, he was fairly certain why Jack wanted to see him, aside from whatever deal his mother had worked out. Before he was ready, she was telling him that Jack was there, and his reaction was profound, wanting to be anywhere but stuck in this bed.

His mother pulled the privacy curtain closed behind Jack, leaving the room after patting him on the arm, receiving a small smile in response. His cheeks were flushed; his hair was tousled, and Ed briefly wondered if he had driven his bike there, or what. He was deliberately avoiding eye contact with the man; his stomach was churning, and he suddenly felt way too hot. He moved the covers further down, to just below his waist.

"Hi," Jack said, forcing Ed to look more directly at him, making his insides take a roll. He was smiling again, that smile that Ed used to think of as sweet, that now was almost impossible to face.

"Hey," Ed said.

Jack approached, stopping when he was about a foot away. "You look good, Ed." He put his hands into his coat pockets, then immediately took them back out. "How are you feeling?"

That the nurses asked him the same question constantly was one thing, but-- He sighed, lifting one shoulder. "You know. Damned lousy. Like someone shot me."

Jack blanched, his small smile collapsing as if under its own weight. "They seem to be taking excellent care of you, here," he said, his voice husky. "From what they're telling us. You've made good progress--"

"Yeah, I'm doing great," he interjected. "Let's cut the chit chat, okay? I know why you're here--"

"You do?" Jack cocked his head, his bushy eyebrows knitting. "Who--"

"My mother told me all about it, and--"

"Yvette told you--"

"Yes," he said, raising his voice though it wracked his throat. "She told me about your talk, so let's just get this settled, man. I am not interested; I don't need this right now, and I 'specially don't want to hear what you're dyin' to say! So, please. If you want to do something for me, leave me alone!"

He didn't want to keep looking at him, but couldn't drag his glance away. Jack wasn't moving. Anything.

"Ed--"

"No! Just fuckin' go away!" Shutting his eyes, he finished, "Damn it, I need some sleep...." If he could have rolled on his side, toward the windows, he would have done it. Instead, he waited, hearing nothing. No footsteps, no rustle of jacket, no sounds of breathing that he could make out, although the general hospital din was as present as ever. After what felt like a minute at least, he peeked through slitted eyelids. The room was empty. His insides clenched and rolled, his heart started pounding intensely enough that he almost passed out. Though his throat was clamping tightly and hot tears were welling, he was aware enough to realize he was about to retch, hard. He groped for the call button as the room began swirling around him.

Continue on with part two