Inevitability Redux,  Part Two
Go back to part one for disclaimer, etc.

Jack climbed the stairs of the two-seven, intent on reaching Anita Van Buren's office without having to make eye contact or speak to anyone else. He had driven from the hospital across Manhattan, then sat and stared at the Statue of Liberty, then walked in the cold wind, then drove again until he reached the precinct house. All of it an attempt to calm himself down, and grab some hold of his bearings. Figure out what to do with the rest of his weekend, because suddenly he was adrift again. How to pass the hours of that afternoon and evening, and then his Sunday was as far as he thought. His wildly reeling emotions were firmly, and decidedly, under control.

He crossed the threshold of the homicide squad, and of course what he had not considered loomed up in front of his face. Ed's desk. It was freed of any scrap of paper; pens were in their place; his light was off and his chair was parked. It made Jack's head hurt, and he kept moving right on past it as quickly as he could, focusing on Van Buren in her office, bent over a stack of papers she was signing, one after the other. As he approached, he wondered, not for the first time, how she managed it all. How she lived with the reality that any one of her charges could be dead by the end of any one day. Did she send up a prayer over breakfast?

"Anita," he said, entering.

She raised her glance, but didn't seem surprised to see him, motioning toward a chair. "I've only got a few more of these."

He sat, and she finished, shutting the file folder over the stack. She took it to the door and waved over her clerk with it; after the exchange, she closed the door, heading back to her chair as she spoke.

"It's a relief that Ed woke up," she said. "Fontana left to see if he could get a statement from him." She checked her watch as she sat. "About an hour ago."

Jack was thankful he hadn't seen him. Thankful, too, that Anita was not asking why he had shown up on a Saturday afternoon without warning. "How is the investigation? Anything new?"

She sighed. "We're running into dead ends, which can either be looked at as leads we've followed to their conclusion and eliminated, or complete frustrations. We haven't found out why someone wanted Poluso dead, even. He was good at hiding things."

Jack nodded. "It's why he wasn't too keen on testifying. His wife would find out about the affair."

The falling silence was heavy with the unspoken next sentence, about Ed and why he was in the line of fire, and how ultimately ironic it was for a cop with Ed's history to be shot while bringing a witness to court. How ultimately stupid it was. Jack was about to break the silence with another question when the office door opened.

"It didn't happen," Fontana said with a sharp tone as he entered, shutting the door behind him. He was still wearing his overcoat.

"What do you mean?" Anita said.

Jack's stomach clenched into its familiar position as he took in Fontana's countenance. The man's eyes were burning, and they were ignoring him.

"I mean that Ed was in no condition to speak to me." Fontana finally looked his way; he flipped the gloves clenched in his hand once, with force. "There were two doctors and a slew of nurses in his room, doin' too much to mean anything good. And from what I understand, all of this started after you, Mr. McCoy, had gone in to talk to him!"

Jack stopped meeting his glance, staring down at the cracked linoleum as his heart beat began pounding. Ed had seemed fine when he-- He certainly had energy, anyway, and Yvette had told him that Ed was doing well, otherwise--

"What happened?" Fontana said, harshly, standing over him. "What did you say to him, huh?"

Jack's pulse surged; he shot out of his chair. "That is none of your damned business, Detective, and if you weren't so hell-bent on spreading blame around maybe you'd realize that!"

"Oh yeah? Well Ed is my partner, and he's lyin' in that room, and that is my damned business! And as far as I can see, you are killin' him--"

Jack pointed at his chest, resisting the urge to poke him, with every ounce of willpower he had. "I would be very careful what I say in the next minute if I were you, if you want to keep working my cases!"

"If you think you can threaten me--"

"I never threaten anyone. But I would suggest that you stick to finding the man who shot Ed and keep your insinuations to yourself!"

Fontana broke the eye contact by turning to Van Buren. "Lieutenant, Mrs. Green will be callin' you as soon as Ed is ready. If you'll excuse me, I'm goin' to get some lunch, which I should've had two hours ago." He shot a glare at Jack and left, pulling the door shut with some force, stomping through the squad room and on into the corridor.

Jack watched him go, breathing heavily, his pulse still flying.

"Jack, why don't you sit down for a minute?" Anita's voice was soft.

He did as she suggested, if only to buy a little time to slow down his lungs before his head chose to explode into one of his damned migraines. She was studying him, her hands clasped together on the desk.

"I certainly don't want to intrude," she said, "but was Fontana a problem for you and Ed? For Ed?"

There was no way he was getting into this, not with her, and maybe not with anyone ever again. He shook his head. "Immaterial."

"Not exactly."

He sighed. "Yes, it is, because-- whatever happened-- It no longer matters. Let's just find the bastard who tried to kill him, Anita. Fontana--" He sighed again. "Ed and he will be fine."

Van Buren propped her chin on a thumb, slowly running her index finger back and forth across her lips, still gazing at him. The movement stopped. "And what about you and Fontana?"

"I don't have any way to predict what Detective Fontana will or won't do--"

"Of course not--"

"Then don't ask me. Though, maybe I should be asking you if he can handle this investigation. Can I trust his results?"

Her eyes narrowed; her gaze mutated into something sharper. He stared back. After a lengthy moment, she relaxed. He followed.

"I think," she said, "that he deserves a chance to close this one." She shrugged. "I'll make sure that it's by the book. All of us want the same thing...." Her lips tightened in a line, and even in the low light of the office it was still possible to see a sheen of tears forming.

Jack felt everything he had been suppressing begin to bubble up, uncontrollably. Van Buren was the person one could rely on for rock-solid strength, and resolve, and if she lost her composure in his presence, he was certain to lose his own. He gulped, hard. He couldn't lose it, not here where there was no privacy, where Ed spent his working life, where someone might tell him at some point in the future about the spectacle of McCoy crying on the Lieutenant's shoulder. It was imperative that he end this, and leave, and he repeated this over and over, looking at the files on Anita's desk rather than her face, feeling Ed's absence pressing in around him, the grip in his chest, the hot tears of pain waiting to escape, unable to move, unable to think of what to say to end the conversation.

Anita let out a muffled cough. "Jack, I'll keep you informed."

He looked at her; she was gracing him with that gentle, compassionate smile that he saw every once in a while. That Ed had confessed her squad secretly adored. Jack nodded, and took a deep breath so he could stand, and managed to tell her "thank you," through the haze of unreality which had descended. Anita got up and opened the door, giving him a squeeze on the elbow on his way out, and from that brief touch he was grounded enough to keep walking through a much quieter than usual squad room, ignoring any glances which might have been thrown his way.

The section of videos Jack was staring at held some movies with which he was familiar, and most which were a complete unknown. His plan to pick up a few things to watch, a fresh bottle of Scotch and maybe some food was the only one he could imagine carrying out. Sitting in a bar was not an option. Quiet, solitude, and drink were the only requirements he had. Numbness was his goal, hopefully reached before complete inebriation. He studied the boxes on the shelf in front of him, thinking that maybe there was something here in the gay/lesbian section that might resonate with him. Maybe there was something that might make him feel less-- alone. In the top row was one he knew, because it was one that Ed particularly liked, and it was romantic, and about two seemingly mismatched men, and-- Jack started to take the video, then abruptly changed his mind as memories scattered across his consciousness.

"Hey," said a man to his right, "Big Eden's a good one. If you're in the mood for a romance firmly entrenched in a fairy tale."

Jack turned; the man was younger than him but by how much was anyone's guess, with light brown hair curling over his coat collar, and what looked like blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Buff body. Smiling. Jack said, "Yeah, I've seen it. But--" He shook his head. "Not in the mood."

The man nodded. "Ah. I see."

Jack felt a surge of frustration. What in the world could this stranger see in another total stranger? He returned to his perusal of the shelves, trying to make sense of the titles.

"What are you in the mood for?" Another smile.

Jack sighed. He couldn't imagine that this was some sort of weird pickup, that men actually hung around the gay section of his neighborhood video place waiting to see who would approach.

"Hey," the man said with a shrug, "I'm not trying anything here. Honest." And there was another smile. "Not that I wouldn't mind hooking up for the night. But, if I can be brutal, you look a little lost, or worse. Thought I could help." Another shrug. "In case, you know, you needed some... guidance. About anything. Or... just the movies."

Jack had to smile at that, though it almost hurt his cheeks. "Thank you. I don't need any guidance, as you put it, in the anything. I-- My lover and I are, have split. It's-- complicated. I just want something...." He couldn't continue, and thought about walking away.

The man nodded sagely. "Gotcha. So, do you wanna wallow and brood, laugh, or dream of the perfect man? Or do you wanna remember how great falling in love is, and therefore consider the possibilities that are waiting for you just around the next corner?"

Jack was forced into smiling again. "I, uh-- I guess I'm not sure. And I am sort of lost here. I only know those that he picked." As quickly as his pain faded, it returned, having to continually refer to Ed as a former, when he was anything but that, still, in Jack's mind.

"Okay," the man said. "Let's get to it, then." He grinned and ran his finger along the video boxes in front of them, speaking of this one and that, interrupting once with a rueful, "I guess you're not interested in hooking up, too," with which Jack could only agree. After twenty minutes he had three choices, a phone number the guy had shoved into his coat pocket, and one of his own favorite movies always guaranteed to make him laugh, This is Spinal Tap, that he added to the pile on his way to the cash register. Numbness, and distraction, awaited.

What a difference hours could make, Jack thought, hanging up the phone on his desk. He thought about how the world spun faster on some days than on others, and how much he wished he could be given some indication when he awoke that everything would be on its head by dinner, and how much a physical body simply can not take, no matter how strong, or how stubborn its occupant was. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, calculating how many steps it would take to get to the kitchen and how many more would then get him to the couch, bottle and glass in hand. Yvette Green had called within minutes of him arriving home. Ed was in trouble. Serious trouble. Possibly heading into critical trouble. Jack couldn't understand it.

He moved away from the phone, forcing his legs to carry him back to the kitchen counter. The doctors were not certain what was wrong with Ed, but their preliminary diagnosis was pneumonia. According to Yvette, not an uncommon event after being on a ventilator, but Jack could tell that this piece of news hadn't made her feel any better than it was making him. The medical treatment was to bombard Ed with yet more drugs, continue to run tests, see what bacteria grew from the blood drawn out of the main line in Ed's artery. The man had had so much blood taken by this point, his mother was worried that his body couldn't keep up with the depletion. Jack had done his best to calm her fears on that point, and that point only. To the rest, he had replied with automatic and mostly sincere reassurances. As sincere as he could make them. Above all else, he cared deeply for her, and the doctors had said they were "cautiously optimistic."

In the kitchen, he grabbed the supplies he had bought: a can of nuts, crackers, cheese, Scotch and his glass. Shoved them unceremoniously on an old tray, tossed some napkins and a knife into the mix and stalked to the living room. He no longer cared how drunk he got.

Three glasses later, Jack was relaxed into the back of the couch, his legs and arms heavy. However, the alcohol hadn't helped his viewing of Spinal Tap, which for once was not particularly funny. Nor had the next glass helped a French movie that his new friend Frank--who said his buds called François--had recommended, Come Undone, which was close to incomprehensible in terms of plot. Jack suspected his inebriation might be interfering, since the subtitles were becoming more difficult to read in the allotted time the further into the film he got. The sexually charged scenes between the two men at first made him uncomfortable, then made things seize up inside.

Jack watched the men making love on a beach in the south of France, with the bright heat of the sun turning their fair skin pink, and tan, and found himself desperately wanting to see dark skin against pale skin. He had always loved looking at his and Ed's legs intertwined, or his hand as it ran across the crevices above Ed's hip bone, or gripped Ed's shoulder. He had always loved the sensation of Ed's goatee along the side of his neck, or dipping down the length of his chest. The feel of Ed's soft, supple lips when they had caressed every inch of his body. His long arms when they had enveloped him, holding him tight.

"This was a good idea," Ed murmured, his hands moving slowly up and down Jack's back. "Mmhmm," Jack said. He was propped by one elbow on Ed's shoulder, the lower half of his body draped over Ed's, stretched out on the sofa bed. The tall living room windows were both open to the night air, their sheer curtains waving in the cool breeze, drying their sweat slicked skin. The only light came from the television and the streetlights two flights down.

Ed gently gripped one globe of Jack's ass, then shifted that hand to the top of his thigh. "Sometimes I think I could stay like this for about a week. Or two." One side of his mouth lifted. "We could rig up the door so food could be shoved through a panel. Never have to leave, or get dressed."

A laugh bubbled up from the depths of Jack's gut; he felt so great. "Kinda like Attica, huh? Is that some twisted cop fantasy?"

Ed let out a short, rich, quiet burst of laughter, too. "Not hardly. I'm not into having an audience."

Jack cupped his face, relishing the freedom to touch when for so much of his daily life he could do no more than talk to the man. This was Ed, who loved him, whom he loved. "I think I could stay here for a week. Might want to use the other bed whenever possible, though. This mattress...."

"I've been on better," Ed said with a soft smile which faded quickly. "We're-- We're good, Jack. Together. This is good."

Jack inched closer; Ed embraced him more tightly. "Yes, Ed, this is good. Damned good."

"We've way passed the stage of 'let's see if we're gonna keep goin.' You know. One eye on the door."

Jack nodded. He hadn't looked at the door, for the door, or glanced in its direction in more than a year. There was no point. Everything he had been searching for was right in front of him. In his grasp. "I'm not letting you go," he said, running a thumb along Ed's lips. The man caught its tip and gently sucked. A shot of lust intensified the afterglow. Jack had pulled out his thumb and kissed Ed, slowly, deeply, sinking into the hard body under him, melting into the warm envelopment of those long arms. They had writhed together lazily, contentedly, passionately. They had been more than good. They had spent many night hours last summer on the sofa bed, in front of the tall windows open to the city air, catching whatever breeze came their way.

Jack focused on the glass in his hand, downed the remaining Scotch and poured another. It was becoming clear that alcohol-induced numbness was a vastly overrated concept, or maybe it was a matter of how much emotional turmoil a person wanted to bury. He was caught in the very real urge to break down and sob, to curl up on the couch and cry into the pillow. The urge rolled over him like a torrent, again and again, only to be stopped by sheer force of alcohol-affected willpower. The truth was staring him in the face. Relentlessly. He had totally fucked it all up. All the good they were, all the great they were, and everything that could have come their way in the future was gone. He had told Ed he would never let him go. That was a lie. He had even promised Ed he would never lie to him, and he did, about the most crucially important thing of all. He stopped the movie and hit rewind, deciding in an instant that he was done with angst-filled French men and whatever trauma they were going through as their relationship disintegrated for whatever reason. He drank half of what was in his glass in one gulp, heaved himself off the couch and walked rather unsteadily to the VCR, exchanging tapes. It was time for the next movie, which was supposed to be a romantic comedy, and even if it was obvious he wouldn't find it very funny, he still might find something in which to lose himself.

An hour into All Over the Guy had proved him right about the humor, which was more dry wit than outright. The setting was his most hated city, LA, but once he got past that glitch, he found the movie a rather serious look at two men grappling with love and lust and screwed up childhoods as they pushed and pulled each other in ten different directions. Jack was enthralled. He rapidly became invested in the will-they-or-won't-they plot, riding the emotional roller coaster without very much resistance. He wanted them to work it out. To at least try. There were parallels with his own life of the past two and a half years, even if he and Ed had fallen in love quickly and had accepted it in the beginning as pretty much all good with some minor bads. As the two men came together one more time at the movie's end, Jack's throat ached to the point of pain, hot tears burning behind his eyes. He silently cheered them, clutching a pillow to his chest with one hand, the glass of Scotch in the other.

The two fictional men had managed a happy ending. Jack looked away from the credits and imagined one for him and Ed. Thought about how deeply he needed him, and whether he could push and prod Ed into giving him another chance. It did not seem even remotely possible. But, he wanted it. He longed for it.

The murky sound of a ringing telephone woke him up, and as Jack stumbled off the couch, the room lit with pale, early morning light, his brain tried to engage. His head was immediately pounding with every ring of the phone. He reached the desk and answered; the clock said seven-twenty. Yvette's voice in his ear made his heart start hammering along with his head.

"Jack, I'm sorry to wake you so early, but Ed is-- He's--" She paused, making some muffled noise. Jack's heart stopped cold. "Ed has taken a turn for the worse. He's critical, and they don't know if he's going to--" She paused again, but didn't continue as more noises came through the receiver.

"What don't they know? Ed's going to what?" He wanted to shout.

"I'm sorry," she said in a softer tone. "The doctors are telling me that we have to take this-- hour by hour. He doesn't have the strength to fight off the infection. He's back in ICU, intubated again, and he's so sick that he's no longer conscious. Jack-- They're saying that he might not make it."

His legs threatened to buckle. "No."

"He was doing so well for so much of yesterday, and he was initially responding to the antibiotic they gave him, or at least that's what they thought. But some time this morning, Ed's body seemed to-- give in...." Even over a phone, he could hear the thickness in Yvette's voice. "I just wanted you to know."

Her implication was sinking in through the hangover, enough that he thought he might throw up. "I'll be there as soon as I can. I have-- there's something I need to do. For Ed." He almost handed her another platitude about Ed's youth and resiliency, but found he could not do that to her. After asking her if there was anything he could bring, anything she needed, anyone she wanted him to call, there was only one person. Lieutenant Van Buren, and subsequently ask her to proceed with the appropriate notifications. They hung up.

Jack stared at the phone, his hand still resting on the receiver. He would also need to call Joanna, and even Abbie. People had to have the chance to come by the hospital. Just in case. Jack strode quickly to the bathroom, his stomach rejecting whatever was churning inside, like it had not done in almost a decade.

After ten minutes on the riser in front of his pew, Jack's knees had no feeling in them; he was concentrating on them in an effort to think of something physical, concrete. Something that was relatively uncomplicated to think about. The comfort of his too old knees. The nave was empty; there were sounds near the altar, boys or the priest preparing for Sunday morning mass due to start in an hour. The rosary clutched in his hands had stopped moving through his fingers; his recitation of the prayer sequence long stalled. It was the Hail, Marys that had stuck on his tongue, ancient emotions bubbling up from a childhood of struggling with the crap his father dished out, when he had begged the Holy Mary to do something, mixing her up in his head with his own mother who was supposed to protect him from the bad of life. Never understanding why neither of them did a thing.

Now, asking Mary to pray for men at the hour of their death was hitting too close to home, and he floundered, simply unable to face any of this, this completely unreal day, on top of days of elations and devastations. The firm control he had corralled the day before was slipping away, and suddenly thoughts about his knees no longer worked. His chest seized up; hot tears welled behind his lids; his control disintegrated. He cried, his head falling onto his clasped hands, the sounds muffled against a fist. Ed couldn't die, he simply could not. Jack needed him; he needed to love him, and be loved by him; he needed a life with him; he needed to work with him and fight the good fight and be passionate about all of the things they adored, and all of the things they hated. He cried with Ed's smile burning in his memory. His honey-rich voice humming in his ear.

Jack clamped down on his tears by another act of sheer will, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, blindly groping for the package of Kleenex the church provided in each pew. He stayed on his knees, blowing his nose with one hand, his other still holding the rosary. With his first slow, deep breath a memory from the night before came out of nowhere. It was the end of the movie he watched, the LA one. The scene in which, after a long period of separation, one of the two men gave the other some unexpected, unselfish support. Encouraged his ex- to find love with someone else because the man deserved it, but more importantly because he believed the ex- could make a relationship work, no matter how much the other believed he couldn't. It was an act of unconditional love.

The memory made Jack's throat ache, again, but whereas last night it was because of the romanticism, now, he was seeing it in an entirely different light. In a moment of perfect clarity, he knew he was doing exactly the opposite with Ed. Before he had fallen asleep, he had decided that he was going to make Ed forgive him, no matter what it took. The hard truth was that his plan had included the vow, "no matter how much resistance Ed gave."

Jack opened his eyes and looked at the crucifix in his palm. There were more hard truths to face. He was guilty of trespasses against the man he loved: greed, lying, and most of all, pride and ego. He had been so self-absorbed, and so sure of himself, that he deliberately ignored the evidence in front of him. Paid no attention to what Ed would want, or what Ed needed. Or, even what Ed had said, and how many times he had said it. Jack fingered the rosary beads, slowly, the revelation settling in his heart and mind though it made both burn with loss.

He no longer believed in original sin, that Christ died to atone for the sins of all men, much less that he, himself, had done something that required a demand of atonement, or punishment. But, he had repeatedly caused Ed to suffer, and shouldn't that require some suffering of his own? Had he, himself, suffered enough? Did he have something he could offer, could sacrifice, as potential penance? The most important thing was for Ed's life to be spared. That was why Jack had come to church, to talk to God, to make a plea on Ed's behalf. To do whatever it took. There was one thing he could give up. Jack began the rosary from the beginning, and when he reached his usual place for speaking personal prayers, he took a slow breath and said one from deep in his heart. If Ed lived, Jack would give him exactly what he wanted. A life separate from his. No pushing. No obligations. No conditions, and absolutely no lying.

He heaved himself back and sat on the hard, wooden pew. The priest genuflected at the front of the church, bowing his head, his voice a low murmur floating back through the still empty nave. Jack felt a sense of peace; even if it was like a thin sheet of ice on a fathomless lake, he took its presence as a sign of a decision well made.

As each hour passed at the hospital, Jack drifted between two disparate states of mind. An hour more that Ed fought was a good sign; he hadn't given up completely. But another hour with little or no improvement, and Jack had to wonder how much longer Ed could possibly keep up the fight. He remained unresponsive, on the ventilator, completely still. Silent. Jack sat, or walked, or read, talked with Yvette, Van Buren, and Briscoe. Joanna arrived with Abbie; the three of them left the building for a coffee run. The vigil's routine, by now, was well established, and even Fontana's pacing presence for an hour couldn't interrupt it.

Jack had one minor accomplishment during the remainder of the day. He reached numbness, the lack of emotional reaction both startling and a comfort. It had nothing to do with the mild hangover he was carrying, and might have had to do with the wrenching angst with which he had been dealing for too many days, but he suspected it had more to do with his epiphany that morning. Ultimately, he didn't care why. He relaxed into it. Whatever the state of his emotions, there was one fact that he held, almost preciously: he would prosecute the bastard who shot Ed. He would have that satisfaction, at least, knowing he was doing his absolute best for the man he loved.

By the time he collapsed in bed, Jack was more ready for sleep than he had been in days. He shut his eyes, unconsciousness closing in quickly. He thought about two conversations from that afternoon, one with Yvette, and one with his daughter in which he had lied by omission. There would come a better time to tell Joanna that Ed would never be a part of their family again. Jack hoped the sole reason would be because of his and Ed's choice.

Eight in the morning found Jack in his office, cup of coffee already downed, second phone call to the hospital already completed. The continuation of Ron Drexler's trial would start in an hour; Jack was ready to see that it lasted no longer than midday with, maybe, a verdict by dinner. He was ready to be done with this case. Nathan Fogg's testimony should take care of it.

"Good morning," Alexandra said as she walked through the door.

Jack looked up from loading his briefcase; she was not smiling. "Good morning. We'll leave in about twenty minutes." He tried on a smile; it felt forced but not too phony.

"I just called the hospital. They told me they couldn't tell me anything, and when I asked to speak to Detective Green they said he was unable to take calls? I thought he was awake...." Her voice trailed off, her face pinching tightly.

Jack's stomach dropped as he realized he had not contacted her at all. He had forgotten, for which there was no excuse. He did not want to talk about this now. "He's in critical condition. Pneumonia. He's unconscious again. His doctors are taking it hour by hour."

"Oh, no--" Her hand flew to her mouth, tears welled in her eyes and she took two lurching steps to a chair, sitting heavily. Her fingers trembled on her lips as she stared at the tabletop, gulping harshly with an audible gasp.

Jack's body threatened a reaction. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly during the time it took to walk around his desk, pull out a chair, and sit. She was still fighting her tears. "Alex, he'll be okay," he lied. "He's young, and strong."

She mumbled something.

"What?" he said, working hard to keep his voice evenly modulated.

She sniffed, running a hand through her hair, finally meeting his glance. "It's my fault, Jack. If I hadn't asked him to escort Poluso--"

"No. It's no more your fault than mine--"

"Yours? You didn't tell me to call the police. That was my call."

"And like you're not responsible for some bastard showing up and gunning down Poluso," he said quickly, shaking his head, "I'm not responsible for Ed's complication developing right after I talked to him. Those events are not correlated. They're just coincidences."

"What do you mean, after you talked to him? He was awake enough to speak to?" She wiped her cheekbone with a brusque flick of her fingers.

Yet another realization come to light too late, he thought, like the fact that he still needed to be careful about what he said, and to whom. Damn it. "Yes, on Saturday he was awake enough to speak to." He got up and went around to his desk, picking up the rest of the papers he would need in court.

"Did he give us a description of the shooter?" She stood.

Jack sighed. "The conversation-- didn't get that far." He glanced at his watch. "We should go." He shoved what he held into the briefcase.

Alexandra parked both chairs under the table; before leaving the room she thanked him for talking to her, saying that she had faith Detective Green would come out okay, touching the cross around her neck as she did. Jack could only nod, and smile an excruciatingly difficult smile, knowing he had lied again and sincerely hated every second of it. Still, it was ultimately irrelevant, given that there would never be a need to lie to her in the future. And he was telling the truth about something: it wasn't his fault that Ed had collapsed after yelling at him. It wasn't. That was one of the few things for which Jack held no guilt.

It wasn't until after a quick dinner that the jury returned its verdict on Drexler, leaving Jack, at five minutes to seven, to grab some work and his coat and head for the elevators. Ultimately the hospital. He ran into Arthur in the corridor; the other man was going home.

Arthur gave him a wry smile. "I heard you nailed the son of a gun."

Jack sighed. "Thanks to Nathan Fogg." The two of them reached the elevators.

"Well," Arthur said, hitting the down button with the side of his fist, "you did a helluva job, Jack. Really. We needed this one."

Arthur's brow knitted, and though he was meeting Jack's glance, the other man sighed rather than saying anything. Jack couldn't think of a response to the compliment; he was simply grateful the damned case was over.

Arthur continued, "What's the word on Detective Green?"

"Still fighting for his life," he said, hoping he wouldn't have to go into any more detail than that. It was difficult to talk about Ed, with Arthur. Jack watched for signs of disapproval while Arthur seemed to pick and choose his words too carefully. He assumed this dynamic would relax once more time went by, when, perhaps, Arthur's memory of his EADA's love life faded back into obscurity.

Arthur shook his head, his mouth a tight line. A moment passed before he could meet Jack's glance. "And the investigation?" he said, his voice low.

"The police are all over it, especially Fontana. But so far, no leads."

The man's disappointment was obvious. "When Green gets back on his feet, maybe he'll remember something."

Jack was overcome for a brief moment, Arthur's assumption of recovery so matter-of-fact, silently supportive, he almost thanked him. "Maybe."

Arthur hesitated again, then said in a low voice, "If you have any faith in the man upstairs, Jack, it might be time to call in a chit."

Jack's chit was about as big as they could be, not that he would ever tell his boss a thing about it. "Already did," he said, smiling softly at the other man. He was more sure as the hours went by that he had done the right thing by making the deal with God, and the sense of calm he had felt in its beginning stages, the morning before, was now settling in his stomach and chest for minutes at a time. The elevator arrived; he followed Arthur into the empty car.

The other man punched the one and let out a long sigh. "We need to discuss, soon, the issue of you prosecuting the man who killed Poluso."

Jack's pulse skipped. "What issue?"

Arthur gave him a sidelong glance. "Your personal involvement. It could be a problem."

Jack shook his head. "I don't think it will be."

The elevator reached the ground floor; the door opened. Arthur didn't answer immediately. During the minute they traversed the lobby and exited the building, Jack formulated a number of arguments in his favor depending upon what the other man presented. A cold wind swirled up the sidewalk, cutting through Jack's shirt, whistling in his ears. He hadn't yet put on his coat. After tucking his briefcase between his ankles, he slipped it on. Arthur waited until he was finished.

"Jack. We'll talk about it. Pass along my regards to Detective Green's family. And-- Between you and me, I've got a few chits of my own," he finished in a gentle voice. Jack nodded as Arthur turned, signaling to his driver before lumbering across the pavement to the waiting black car. Jack left for the parking garage, his insides suddenly clenching.

"How is he?" Jack said as he approached Van Buren, sitting outside of Ed's ICU room. Fontana was on the other side of her, staring at his hands hanging between his knees. He didn't glance up; Anita stood and came toward him.

"Not so good," she said, her voice low, her distress clearly heard.

Jack's heart pounded; he looked into Ed's room, but there was no change from the day before. No doctors hovering; one nurse and Yvette, who was holding Ed's hand as she stood over him. When last Jack had spoken with Ed's nurse, by now almost three hours ago, 'not good' was not part of the message. She had sounded relatively upbeat and Jack had assumed that meant Ed was making some progress, however slight. He turned away from the window and took a few steps in Anita's direction, trying to think of something to say with Fontana right there. "How's the case?" She didn't respond, so he looked to Fontana.

The man spoke in a voice so low Jack almost couldn't hear him, the words coming forth so slowly it was frightening. "Like I said before, I'm just thinkin'."

A loose cannon of a detective was not what Ed needed, and a case tanking because of Fontana acting stupid would only make everyone's life hell. Jack approached him. "Just be careful, Detective," he said, working hard to keep his tone even.

Fontana's response was to fix Jack with a burning glare for a long moment. Jack's heart pounded again. The other man suddenly stood and came at him, in his face, and said in a threatening whisper, "You work your side of the street, Mr. McCoy, and I'll work mine."

Jack stared at him, wanting to shove him away; his hand clenched at his side. He had five retorts running through his mind, none of which were acceptable, or would do Ed any good at all, much less maintain the relationship between the two-seven and the DA's office, and right then he tried to hold onto that as the most important consideration even if his instinct was to tell off Fontana with the most colorful language he had at his disposal. But Fontana was not moving, and Jack could think of nothing smooth to say.

Anita broke in, touching the man's arm, saying in a gentle voice, "Fontana, come on." He didn't respond. "Let's go get a cup of coffee."

Fontana finally cut the eye lock after one last increased glare, and allowed her to lead him away, while Jack took an involuntary deep breath. He watched them go, his feet following them almost by their own volition as he gave the man a few seconds of thought before dismissing him and his overt hatred, or whatever it was that was still behind his hostility. There was nothing to be done about Fontana, for now, nor was there a reason to worry about him for the future. Not any longer. Jack turned toward Ed, and with the relative solitude allowed himself the indulgence of really looking at him. He took another deep breath, deliberately, to subdue an unexpected surge of emotional pain. Ed didn't look worse, but he was still so damned motionless, and it was all so damned wrong that Jack wanted to pound his fists against the window and yell at the top of his lungs for this extraordinary man to wake up. To fight back. Jack had made his deal with God, and it was time for God to step up and kick Ed in the ass. To cradle him. To love Ed as he himself could not. To pull him back from death.

Yvette was talking to Ed, holding his hand, caressing it. Listen to her, Ed. For the first time in your adult life, listen to your mother. She needs you, damnit.

On Tuesday morning, Jack rode his bike to work, the weather transforming overnight into an early burst of spring. One or two days of mid-sixties and sunshine was a tease, but one Jack accepted without a second thought, or twinge of potential regret. Snow was predicted for the coming weekend. Winter was due to return with ferocity.

Jack changed his clothes and settled behind his desk, sipping coffee he had picked up, hoping a double shot of espresso would wake him up. He was exhausted, having stayed at the hospital well into the night, unwilling to leave until he heard either some good news, or was told there was no hope for a change any time soon. With Yvette asleep on a waiting room couch, her head on a pillow near his thigh and him drifting off, other family members dozing on nearby couches and chairs, two nurses gently shook them all awake. They had finally been given news that the infection was losing; Ed was winning, and the doctors had no reason to suspect he would slip backwards again. Jack had gone home with a heart light from relief.

Upon waking, reality finally sank in completely, dragging depression and desolation behind it. Numbness was firmly pushed aside. He and Ed were finished; they had no more chances. A promise was a promise.

There were two things still on the table, as far as he was concerned, one of which could wait, the other he planned to take care of sooner rather than later. So, when he heard Arthur arrive with a greeting to his assistant, Jack waited for the man to drop his things in his office, casually walking to his own side door, following their usual good morning routine.

Arthur came back to the assistant's desk, nodding to Jack before picking up his messages. "What's the latest on Detective Green?" he said.

The answer was complex; Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to simplify it. "Some improvement," he said, following Arthur into the DA's office.

Arthur's face tightened. "Are we going to be able to get a statement any time soon?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't know. His doctors' say--" He hesitated, his glance dropping away from his boss's expectant stare. "--that there's a chance that he may not even remember getting shot." It was a hard fact to consider, given his worries about any potential brain damage from blood loss; they still didn't know to what extent Ed's memory might be impaired. Jack took some needed support from the chair in front of Arthur's desk, leaning on its back.

The other man had stopped moving; he was standing next to his executive chair, holding the message slips in a tight grip. He was still looking at Jack, however, saying nothing in response.

In the heavy silence, Jack took the initiative. He sighed, let go of the chair to stand at full height, and shook his head again. "I really wanna get whoever did this," he said, his pulse thudding, unable to look directly at Arthur, waiting to see if he would pick up the opening.

Arthur paused. "Well, we all want that," he said, his tone serious. He studied his desktop for a long moment before sighing deeply and looking up.

Jack, in that instant, discarded his original idea of demanding the right to prosecute based upon his seniority, demanding the respect he deserved. He smiled, even though it felt phony as hell, preparing for something possibly more effective: a little humility. "I'm asking you to make some room for me on this. This is still my case."

Arthur's mouth pressed into a straight line, his eyebrows knitted. "And you're starting another trial next week," he said, giving Jack as intense a look as he ever gave.

If this was the argument, it was a no-brainer. He carried multiple cases all the time; it was the way the office worked. He turned away in a move toward his office and shrugged, a grin forming. "Okay. I can handle both." He started to walk away.

"Kibre's freed up," Arthur said with force.

Jack stopped; his heart kicked. He turned back to his boss, frustration surging, an argument forming. He took a breath--

"You know she'd get it done right," Arthur continued.

Jack shook his head emphatically. "I don't want--"

Arthur's voice cut him off, speaking slowly, delivering all of his authority. "Let's be realistic."

He stared at him, his heart pounding in his chest, frantically trying to think of an answer that would get him what he wanted. After an interminable moment, he concluded there wasn't one. He did not have a leg to stand on, and if he hadn't told Arthur about his relationship with Ed he could have handled the case and done something concrete. Something permanent. For Ed. Jack looked away, taking a deep breath, then met the other man's glance. "All right," he said in resignation, "I'll bring her up to speed." He walked out without waiting for an empty acknowledgment, not wanting Arthur Branch to know the full extent of his turmoil.

He crossed the hallway, pulling the door almost shut behind him, his chest constricting, his legs like lead weights. He sat, turning the chair to the windows after grabbing his coffee. It was nearly impossible to swallow the sip he took, but he managed, staring through the glass to a sun filled blue sky, seen here and there between buildings across the street. Calling Tracey Kibre could wait five or ten minutes. Or longer.

Every time Ed woke up from being so deeply asleep it was harder to pry his eyes open. His naps--as his mother liked to lightly refer to them--were more frequent than before he had developed pneumonia. That was how the doctors referred to it: developing the disease like he had created some pointless lead in a case. They couldn't explain to him how he caught it, but he was coherent enough to know that being in a hospital put a person's life in danger. His mother tried to encourage him that being moved out of ICU, again, was a move toward release. But, he wanted out now, and if he had had any strength at all he would pull out every one of these tubes, get up, and leave. As soon as the notion came over him, he knew it was pointless. Then a brightly smiling nurse would poke at him, or hang another bag to drip into him, or take his vitals until he wanted to push them all away. He would lift a hand in protest. They ignored it.

His mother was discussing with one of the cuter male nurses that he really did need a sponge bath, that it would make him feel better. Ed agreed with her. "I realize," she said, "that he's not due for one until four o'clock, but what difference does the schedule really make? My son has been through quite enough for a man injured in the line of duty, don't you think?"

Ed smiled to himself. His mother knew how to both turn on the charm and hit the guilt buttons, and sure enough, the guy gave in. He left for supplies.

"Thanks, Mom," Ed said, giving her as much of a grin as he could. His face felt as dead as every other part of him. His stomach lurched as he quickly promised himself to stop using that word.

She stroked his face, his forehead. "You could use a shave, too," she said softly. "We'll see if he can figure out a way to accomplish that. After all, they have razors somewhere in here; they shaved your chest--"

"What?" Ed wasn't sure he understood. He hadn't really looked at himself.

"Of course, they shaved your chest in order to perform the surgery," she said, tilting her head slightly. "It's necessary for infection control. Don't you remember when your father was in the hospital?"

Ed tried to lift the gown away from his neck and peer down. The opening wasn't big enough to see much more than a vast expanse of white bandages. His insides lurched again and he let go. "I guess so," he said. He tried to not think about his father's battle with liver cancer; it had been a horrific time.

So, he had been shaved, and wasn't that another joke on him. He did not particularly like men's bodies which were free of all but the tiniest trace of body hair. He thought the culture's obsession with it was too ridiculous; it was one of the things about which he and Jack were simpatico. He sighed aloud, catching his mother's glance out of the corner of his eye. Jack had been on his mind off and on all day, and at first his confusion had caused him to forget that, oh, yeah, he had yelled at the man to get out of his face what was it by now almost three days ago. Three days during which he had nearly died. Again.

"Anyone other than family come by?" he said in the silence. "You know-- while I was sick?" Dying.

His mother stopped fussing with the covers over his feet. She looked out the glass door to the corridor, maybe beyond, for a long moment, eventually meeting his eyes. "Yes. People from work."

His pulsed skipped. "Who? In particular."

Her lips pursed, then she smiled, but Ed was not sure it was sincere. "Your partner, Lieutenant Van Buren, Detective Briscoe, some other people from your precinct stopped by yesterday-- I'm sorry to say I wasn't paying that much attention, since I was with you most of the time."

"Hmmm. Nobody from the DA's office, then," he said, immediately regretting the question.

She tilted her head again. "Would you have wanted some mysterious someone from the DA's office to check on your progress?"

He chuffed in frustration. "Never mind."

The nurse walked in with his tray of things, and Ed took the distraction as welcome. He ignored his mother as she folded her arms, covering her mouth with one hand. What she was thinking about, other than the stupidity of her son, was beyond him. He closed his eyes, waiting for the nurse to do his thing, wishing there was a window in this damned room so he could catch a glimpse of the world outside this damned hospital. He had been told it was sunny and almost warm. A beautiful day.

When Jack entered his apartment at the end of the day, briefcase, mail, keys, and helmet in hand, the first thing he saw was a neat stack of videos on his coffee table. "Shit," he muttered to the empty room. The movies were due that evening; he had forgotten--with good reason, given the prior three plus days of hell--but he had planned on being in for the night. He glared at them, dropping what he was holding on the couch. His helmet bounced and almost rolled off, stopped only by the face guard. He let out a nice, healthy sigh, reconciled to a walk to the video store, deciding to take himself to dinner afterward. Some place quiet, and dark, without memories of any kind. Now all he had to do was remember where he had stashed the video store's bag.

"Wow, do you believe in fate?"

Jack looked over his shoulder, recognizing the voice. Frank, a.k.a. François, was just inside the front door of the store, grinning widely. "Hi," Jack said as he shoved the last movie in the return slot and left the bag on the counter. He turned around, intending to make some quick chat and be on his way.

"Seriously," Frank said, "what're the odds?"

"About even, since the movies were due tonight."

Frank's grin didn't waver, but three people pushed through the door, causing the two of them to move a few feet, Frank returning a DVD as he did.

"So," Jack said, seeing the slim case disappear, "you were hanging around the video shelves looking to hook up. Maybe with someone more technically challenged?"

That made the grin fade slightly. "Nah," Frank said in a quieter voice, "I was picking up a tape for a friend to watch. A technically challenged friend."

Jack sighed to himself. "Sorry. Bad--" Week? Four, five months? Ten years? "Bad day."

"No problem, man."

There descended an moment of awkward silence, which Jack was about to fill with a good-bye, when Frank asked him how he liked the recommendations. That led to a few minutes of mostly vague commentary about the movies, which led to Jack saying his good-bye with an "I'm on my way to dinner," which somehow led to Frank inviting himself along, not that Jack honestly put up much of an argument. The few minutes of chat made him realize that being alone was the last thing he wanted. Being with a gay man--someone who could truly understand even one small part of what Jack was going through--might be exactly what he needed.

"This is not a hookup," Jack said as they walked toward the restaurant.

Frank shook his head. "This is just two men eating Italian and getting to know each other."

"Good."

Ed was being rolled quickly down a hospital corridor, the light fixtures on the ceiling flying by, almost impossible to focus on. The sound of a voice paging someone, or declaring some emergency reverberated through his slightly drugged haze, in and out, as they passed speakers up high. Somewhere. Ed's gurney received a jolt as the three people maneuvering it pushed him through a double door; he saw it swing rhythmically beyond his feet. His heart was pounding; he did not want to be here, not again. Fear gripped him, hard, now that he had been brought to his destination. He almost wished he were unconscious like the first time. The relaxation shot they had given him in his room was working too well; he could not keep up with the activity around him, follow what everyone was doing over his head, and to his arms, and chest. He shut his eyes and what came to him was an organic urge to bury his face in the crook of Jack's neck and feel his strong arms around his shoulders. Tears welled, maybe spilled. He felt someone wipe his temples.

"Mr. Green," said a woman's voice near his ear, "I'm going to.... your mouth.... count backwards from one hundred...."

He wasn't sure he understood. The woman repeated herself and he got it, nodding. Maybe he hadn't moved his head at all.

"Okay," she said.

"One hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ni--"

Jack sipped his wine and debated how much detail to impart. "He's a cop."

Frank's eyes widened. "High stress job. No matter how sexy."

"It's hardly a sexy thing--"

"Tell that to the men who make porn," Frank said with a deep chuckle. "Besides the uniform, and the high boots, there's the whole 'gee what can you do with a pair of handcuffs' thing. It has no bearing on reality, I know; I've known a cop or two in my life."

Jack took a longer sip of wine, shaking his head. "No bearing at all. He was shot last week, on duty." He shrugged. "He's finally better as of last night."

"Jesus, I'm sorry. No wonder you looked like you were, I don't know, struggling Saturday afternoon--"

"You couldn't have seen that much in me," Jack stated. "A complete stranger? Come on."

The other man held up his hands. "Hey, I can't help it. It was obvious." He dropped them. "But, I confess, I'm doing my residency in psychiatry at Bellevue, so I have some practice at reading people's body language. Don't hold it against me."

"What? The reading? I'll try not to."

"No, the psychiatry. Seems to turn men off for some reason...."

Jack shook his head. "I have a certain-- degree of respect for the mental health profession."

"And doctors?"

Jack sighed. "Overall? Don't like 'em. But, I am eternally grateful that they saved Ed's life. How could I not be? He deserves to live."

Frank twirled the stem of his wine glass, watching the liquid roll for a moment. "Can I make another observation?"

Jack waved him to continue, though he didn't want to hear what he assumed was coming.

"You're still in love with him. And before you start arguing that with me, why don't we simply accept it as fact and you can spend the next hour telling me all about him, and you, and what happened, and even why, and I'll be nothing more than a new friend. No white coat. No pad of paper. Just an ear. It might help." He sat back in his chair and fixed him with a blue eyed gaze.

"Why would you want to do that, on your off hours, when you have to listen to everyone's stories all day long?"

Frank shrugged. "I love what I do. People intrigue me. You intrigue me. It's not all altruism on my part. I suspect this is an interesting story, and hearing about two men who found love in this insane--and I don't use that term lightly--city, not to mention one of them being a cop, who knows, maybe it'll give me some hope for my own love life."

Jack smiled. "So, you are a romantic, after all, no matter what you said about Big Eden."

Frank smiled, too. "Hell yeah. I loved that movie."

Jack's smile faded, though it had felt real, and sweet, and was another thing for which to be grateful. "Okay," he said. Their food was served. Jack began to talk.

Jack keyed his door for the second time that evening, feeling better than the first, though it was later than he had planned on getting to bed. But at least he had not succumbed to the slight temptation of some no-strings-attached sex offered as a friendly stress reliever by a man who had done more for Jack by listening than he could ever do otherwise. "Maybe in a week or two," had been his reply; Frank yielded with what appeared to be a basic, easygoing manner. What Jack took away from their encounter was sincerely appreciated. The conversation had helped; Jack accepted his future more easily, having been reminded that letting go was a lengthy process and even if it hurt like hell there really was an end to it. He was deeply in love with Ed; a gaping black hole of longing would be his for, quite possibly, an equally long time. But, he would be okay.

Jack glanced at his answering machine; the message light was blinking rapidly. His pulse sped up as he crossed the room, and seeing six messages waiting, it only got faster. These days, that many calls in a few hours meant one thing. Ed. He started the replay; halfway through the first message he sat heavily in his desk chair. Ed had been sent back to surgery to repair a sudden bleeder at the original injury site. That was Yvette's description. Jack forced himself to stay and listen to all of the messages rather than bolt to the hospital. Two through five was Yvette simply trying to reach him. By the end of the sixth, he was breathing easier. Ed had come through the surgery without any problems and was recovering well, due to be returned to his current bed somewhere around eleven o'clock p.m.. Yvette was heading home, to pray, and sleep.

It was a little after eleven. Jack called Ed's nurses' station; they told him he was back in his room, sleeping soundly with sufficient pain medications.

"Would you like to leave a message for him, Mr. McCoy?"

"No. Just keep--" He had to take a breath before he could say it.

"Yes?"

"Keep an eye on him, like you've been doing. Make sure he doesn't need anything." She gave him some pat reassurances; Jack thanked her and hung up. He absently straightened a few bills in front of him, sending up another prayer, this time of heartfelt thanks. Added his hope that Ed was over his final hurdle. Enough was enough.

Ed had been awake from that morning's off-and-on sleeping for only a short time, maybe a half hour; his nurse had checked on him; his mother was downstairs in the cafeteria eating some lunch. He was feeling incredibly worn out, still, but better, and able to sit in more of an upright position. Supremely glad the surgery had gone well, more than hopeful he would never have to return to the operating room again, at the same time settling into a disturbing state of boredom, letting his heavy eyelids fall for no other reason than there was nothing to look at, or read, or watch. His mother had said that was a good sign. She promised some magazines upon her return. He was about to call the nurse back and ask for a television, when his door slid open.

"Well," a familiar voice said, causing Ed to smile. "You have no idea the crap I'm goin' through, all because of you." Joe was talking too slowly, and quietly, for him, but Ed was happy he was there. The man came to the side of the bed.

"Hey, Joe," he said, opening his eyes. He lifted his hand to knock knuckles, though fatigue made it nearly too heavy. "You get the guy?"

"No. Not yet."

Ed couldn't understand why not, then realized in a rush that he had yet to tell anyone what had happened outside Poluso's house. He thought he had already tried to describe what he could remember, but maybe that conversation was a dream, maybe not-- He suddenly felt too confused about what the guy looked like, when he had thought he remembered everything. At some point? Maybe he never did remember?

Joe continued, "As a matter of fact... I'm at a... dead end. The only witness I have is you." Ed was about to reply, but Joe kept going. "So, sir--" Joe smiled. "--do you remember anything?"

Ed tried. "Hispanic guy... uh... late twenties..." Damn, he really couldn't remember. Damn it. "uh... I-- I barely got a chance to see 'im before..."

"You sure he was gunnin' for Poluso?"

He nodded; this he was sure about. "Mmhmm. He rolled up--" He looked directly at Joe. "--and said, 'Yo, Kenny'...."

Joe nodded. "Like he knew him."

Ed faltered; he couldn't pull up more, and he needed to. He tried to see the guy behind the gun again. "Uhh--" It was not going to happen. "I wish I could do better for you, man...."

Joe shook his head. "Nah, nah, you did good, really good." Ed let his eyes drift shut. "Really good. Really good."

Ed could hear his partner was lying. Joe stayed for a short time, chatting about bullshit, until Ed gently pushed him out with a phony "go get the asshole" comment, sensing the man was chomping at the bit to at least try to follow Ed's information. He would feel the same if the situation was reversed. For the first time, Ed thought about his case. What if they never caught him? What if months from now this guy shot him again, removing someone he thought was a witness? What if they did catch him? Would Jack prosecute? Ed wanted him to. But.... What a fucking screwed up mess.

"You up for another visit?" That voice could not be mistaken for anyone else. Ed opened his eyes and smiled. Lennie smiled back.

"Yeah," he said. "Mom, you mind?"

His mother rose from her chair, bookmarking her place with one finger, gracing Lennie with a gentle smile. "Hello again, Detective," she said. "And no, I don't mind giving you some privacy."

"Please, Mrs. Green, just call me Lennie. I'm retired."

"I am still trying to get used to that fact." She walked around the bed. "Don't wear him out too badly. Lennie." She smiled again before leaving, the door sliding shut behind her.

"Sit," Ed said, lifting his left hand, pointing to his mother's chair.

Lennie did, sinking into the tight faux leather upholstery which complained with a loud squeak. "How're you doin'? And don't tell me everything's great, either, Ed."

That made his emotional control waver; this man was sorely missed, no matter how many times they had talked, or got together for pizza. "Truth, Len? Not so great." He breathed as deeply as his injured lung ever let him. It was hard to get out, but this was Lennie. "I can't remember the perp's face. Not really. Not enough...."

"Now, you just gotta give yourself a little time. Jesus, you've been through twelve levels of hell, and how long did it take for the guy to shoot and leave? Ten seconds? Twenty?" Lennie's hand clenched on the arm rest.

Ed shrugged his non-sore shoulder. "Don't know. Ten. If that. But--"

Lennie waited.

"But what if I don't ever remember? How're they gonna collar 'im? How is Jack gonna fry the guy's ass?"

Lennie's brow scrunched. "Didn't Fontana tell you? McCoy's not prosecuting. Kibre is."

Ed's chest constricted, and he could feel his emotional control slipping. He tried to breathe.

"Hey, Ed," Lennie said, his voice low, and smooth, "I don't think it was anything personal. Lieu said that Kibre was available, and McCoy wasn't. The decision came from higher up--"

"It's... okay, I'm okay. Honest."

Lennie's mouth quirked. "You're about as okay as the rest of us, partner, and that ain't sayin' a whole helluva lot. And as far as Jack McCoy is concerned, whatever went down between the two of you, he was goin' as crazy as everyone else from what I could tell. I haven't seen him that wracked... in a long--"

"He was here?" Ed's heart was thudding.

Lennie looked at him like he'd grown another eyeball. "Of course he was here." He leaned forward. "And as a head's up, he also pissed off Fontana, because McCoy was let in to see you while you were-- unconscious, and he spent quite a bit of time, alone with you, and Fontana thought that was just plain wrong."

Ed paid no attention to his ex-partner's unveiled discomfort with his current partner; he had heard it before, and it was overall irrelevant. The pertinent information was starting to sink in, but he was simply having a very tough time believing it. Maybe it had only been that once. Maybe his mother had talked Jack into seeing him. Maybe--

Lennie coughed. Ed looked at him. The guy looked terrible, really stressed.

"Lennie?"

"Look, Ed, just let me say this. You know I'm not that good at sayin' stuff like this, but you gotta understand what this has been like for us old guys--"

"Len--"

"No." He held up his hand. "Hear me out." Ed nodded. Lennie pointed at him. "You aren't even forty years old, and you got--" The man swallowed, hard. "--you got a lotta years ahead of you. If anyone should'a been hurt this bad, and been that close to, you know, it should'a been me. Or Fontana. 'Cause, see, we've had a life, and if the end comes soon, that's the way it is. Don't get me wrong, no cop should be cut down. But no young cop should be cut down...." His Adam's apple bobbed again, with force. "Not like that. For no reason."

His chest was constricting again, seeing the pain on Lennie's face. He tried to breathe through it, nodding to the man, letting him know he got the point, but almost unable to consider it. He made an attempt at comforting him, which Lennie pushed aside before he even got started. Instead, he asked Lennie about his family, and listened while the man entertained him with some stories, even letting him talk about years past, some of the things they had been through together.

Too soon his mother returned and gently kicked Lennie out. Though Ed was tired from the visit, before he nodded off he asked his mother the question that was throbbing in his exhausted brain.

"Did Jack come to the hospital, to see me?"

She crossed her arms, as she had done the day before while hitting on this same topic. "Don't you remember? He came on Saturday, before you were stricken with your pneumonia. You two talked, about what I don't know. He was--" She set her lips into a tight line.

"Not talkin' about Saturday. But, he was what?"

She hesitated. "He appeared a bit upset, that's all, when he left."

Ed didn't know what to make of that. "The other days?"

She released her arms, circling to the other side of the bed, to the tray that held his water cup, one for her, and the small plastic pitcher. After pouring some in her own, she did the same for him, and was picking it up when he reached out and touched her forearm.

"Why won't you answer?" he said.

She set down the cup. He let go. "Because, Edward, I made a promise to Jack. And now I'm in the middle of something about which I know nothing, nor do I understand it enough to make the right decision. You are my son and I love you more than my life. In my own way, I love Jack, too." She sighed. "Yes. He was here on other days. If you want to know more than that, you will need to ask him. But as long as we're on the topic of Jack, there is one thing that he neglected to elicit my silence about, so perhaps I should take advantage of that...."

Ed's head was spinning. "A lawyer missed something?"

She looked down her nose at him. "It's been a difficult time for all of us," she said quietly, rubbing her brow with three graceful fingers, her wedding band catching the light over Ed's bed. "He still wants to help, financially, during your recovery. Should we need to hire an aide, or rent equipment--"

"Got it," he said, closing his eyes, turning his head away from her. He was remembering more things that had happened before his pneumonia, stuff his mother said about Jack helping out once he was home and something about how people needed their significant others around... and very little of it was making sense given the information that Jack, the man who had dumped him, had come to see him. Maybe once. Much less that his ex- had wanted that kept secret. Ed could not think it all out.

He listened to his mother get settled in her chair with a deep, slow sigh, as he made every attempt to calm his emotions, and fall into oblivious sleep. He pictured Jack sitting with him while he was unconscious, wondering what he would do. If he would say anything or merely rant at him. None of it made sense. Big surprise, given where he was, and why, and what he had been through and the fucked career he had to look forward to. Big surprise.

On Thursday morning, Ed felt the slightest bit more human, after a good night's sleep interrupted only once in order to push the button--on what Ed called his druggie's box--for more morphine. The doctor lowered the amount coming through the IV each time the button was pushed, leaving Ed less muddled than the day before. He ate some of the breakfast he received, vowing to ask his mother to pick up a fruit smoothie on her way in, after tasting the gluey mess they claimed was oatmeal. The Jell-O went down okay. The milk tasted good.

After his morning bathing ritual with the not-as-cute male nurse, he was left alone to stare at the ceiling tiles, counting the now familiar cracks. He thought about what Lennie had said, about how his brush with death was cosmically skewed in the wrong direction. Was that how it would feel to him, too, in thirty years? Would he be ready for the end? He was certainly not ready for it now, and when he really, truly let himself think about how close he had come, he simply could not stand it. It was intolerable. It wasn't that he was so flippant about the dangers of his profession; he wasn't stupid, or unwilling to accept the consequences of choosing to be a cop. It had somehow never before felt entirely real. Not entirely. Not even when his friend was killed on the job. At the time, he was convinced that he could keep himself alive. Certain people had called that arrogance.

But. He had almost died. He could die tomorrow, or in a week. Maybe he had been arrogant. He didn't feel arrogant now; he only felt frustrated, and kind of scared, and angry. He was also starting to worry--for the first time--that what Lennie said probably applied to Jack, too. That Jack was nearing the last leg of his life, and that fact was something that Ed had never, ever thought about. For that alone, he did feel pretty stupid. But this was Jack, and sure they had talked about their age difference, of course, but hell, the guy was as passionately alive as anyone Ed's own age. Their sex life had never suffered, not so much that it made that big a difference; they'd worked out ways of dealing when one libido was raging hotter than the other. Ways that usually led to the other libido catching up damned fast. Add that to the man's natural intensity, and Ed let himself off the stupid hook a bit. Besides, their relationship before the bad times had been more fulfilling than any other in Ed's life.

But, looking at reality square in the face, the odds of Jack dying at any time, from a heart attack, or a stroke, or any one of a hundred diseases of... Well, people of more senior years than Ed's, the odds were... maybe two to one. With Jack's high stress job? The thought made his blood freeze.

How would he feel if Jack died tomorrow? Overwhelmed with regrets? With grief? With, "hey, you should have taken ME instead?" Ed's eyes stung as the answer came quickly and clearly. Yes. To all of the above. He loved the man, deeply, and sometimes it seemed like that would never change.

Joe came to see him, again while his mother was eating her lunch, and Ed had the fleeting thought that maybe his partner was doing that on purpose, as ridiculous an idea as that was. He brought a six pack along for Ed to look over, and was doing a good job of keeping his mouth shut about who might be the perp in the six photos Ed was studying. Ed still could not quite see the shooter's face in his mind's eye, so he tried to forget that fact and simply look for someone familiar.

"We're in no hurry, here," Joe said. "Take your time, look it over carefully."

He decided to go with his first instinct, and lifted his hand, pointing to the guy in the lower left of the bottom row, the oxymeter on his finger making a tapping noise against the card. "It could be him," he said.

He could feel Joe's excitement as though it were palpable. "Good choice. I'll call Van Buren and see if she has a last known address on him. He's two months out of Rikers. His parole officer will probably know."

He was studying the photo. The guy had a relatively open, friendly face, but there was a goatee, and now he remembered that detail. "Who is he?"

"Emiliano Ortiz," Joe said with a sneer. "A pimp piece of crap; him and Poluso-- did some business." He shook his head, opening his cell phone, putting it to his ear. "Lieutenant Van Buren please."

Ed couldn't tear his eyes away, but he honestly could not say he remembered this face. "Joe--" He tried to poke the man but Joe was ignoring him. "--I'm not sure he's the one."

Joe finally leaned down. "We'll make sure he's the right guy." Ed didn't like that tone of voice. Joe said into the phone, "Lieutenant?"

Ed tuned him out, wondering how he would testify in court, if it came to that. This Ortiz guy did have business with Poluso. But Poluso was also an ex-cop, and somewhat of an ass. How many enemies must he have had? He wished Jack was the one handling the case; the man had to believe in the accused's guilt beyond any doubt. Ed didn't know if Kibre was the same way, nor did he know how zealous the DA's office would be when the case involved him. He wanted to think they would go above and beyond, that he had earned some level of respect with DA Branch. Jack was the only one there whom Ed trusted would do it right, and specifically do it right for him. Professionally he knew where he stood in Jack's esteem. Personally was the wild card, at least that was his more recent conclusion of an hour ago, when he had reviewed with a clearer head everything he had been told the day before. Then again.... Was it a wild card?

Jack walked off the hospital elevator on Thursday afternoon, onto Ed's floor, his hat in his hand, his coat still on. This shouldn't take him more than ten minutes, max, to accomplish. To speak the truth and leave. As long as he was not interrupted with orders to get out, or go to hell. He had talked with Yvette earlier, and although he had not given her specifics, she was told that an alert Ed would be ideal. She had recommended mid-afternoon, before the day's end fatigue hit, and even made it somewhat of an appointment so she would be sure to be out of the room. Two-thirty.

Here he was, at two-twenty-five, with his heart continuing its leaping and skipping, which had begun as soon as Jack hung up the phone. There was no way he would be late; he had taken lunch at one-thirty specifically so he would not be sidetracked in the office. He wanted this meeting over and done with and put to rest behind him. "Closure" was what Frank had called it. Jack had not needed any name for it. He simply knew he had to do it; he had no choice if he wanted to face himself in the mirror every morning without this damned clench in his stomach.

He was yards away from Ed's room. He had not seen the other man since late Monday night, had not had direct eye contact with him since Saturday. His steps faltered. Ed's door slid open and Yvette walked out, purse on her arm, turning toward the nurses' station, toward him. She saw him and nodded, gave him a small smile, then continued on to the counter. Jack told his feet to move, took a deep breath, and walked. Past her discussing something he didn't hear, past the room next to Ed's which held a woman who had been hit by a bus, to Ed's door, which opened at his presence.

Ed was in almost a sitting position; his eyes were closed, hands resting on his belly. Jack crossed the threshold and hesitated, wondering if Ed was asleep. Without warning, Ed opened his eyes and turned his head, a vaguely surprised look on his face as if he was expecting something that had not happened, and when his glance locked with Jack's, surprise blossomed full force.

"Hey," Ed said in a raspy voice. But, a calm one.

Jack came further into the room, near the bed yet not close enough to touch. Safety zone area. "Hello, Ed. It's nice to see you doing so much better." He paused to grab hold of the speech he had prepared, the beginning sentence having slipped away at seeing Ed whole, mostly healthy, with a minimum of medical equipment hooked into him. It made Jack's chest hurt.

"Yeah. I'm feelin' pretty good." Ed almost smiled. "Comparatively."

Jack nodded. He suddenly realized he was slowly turning his fedora around and around in his hands, and stopped the motion with a start. "I have a few things to say, and I would appreciate it if you just listened. All the way to the end." He waited, and attempted a quiet, deep breath.

Ed's eyebrows curled up slightly as he nodded, saying nothing.

Jack tried to relax his shoulders; they did not budge. The silence nearly lasted a moment too long. "The first thing is to let you know that I had to tell Arthur about you, and me, as exes, and I know that I did that without your permission, I'm sorry, but I had to. He didn't understand that I needed time off last week. I had to explain it. He understands now, and he's also promised me that he'll respect your desire for privacy. You'll have to find some way to trust me about that. Arthur will be fine." He waited for the explosion that didn't come.

"Okay," Ed said in a soft voice, nodding again. "I-- Sorry." He pressed his lips together.

Jack took a full, out loud, breath, exhaling slowly. He needed to do it, how it looked be damned. "A few weeks before your-- before you were shot, I came to the conclusion that I wasn't happy being your ex-lover, that I wanted to see if we could give us another try, but I knew you would be hard to convince, since you had said, vehemently, that you wanted nothing to do with me. Then you were hurt. To make a long story short, once you came out of the coma I was going to ask you for that chance. To see if we could fix things. You let me know, again, how you felt, and--" He had to take another breath. Ed's eyes were wide; he wasn't moving.

"And," he continued, "the whole situation forced me to look at some hard stuff. How I had treated you. Or mistreated you. I had lied to you, and didn't listen to you, and didn't respect your wishes--"

"Jack--"

"Ed, please. Let me finish." He paused to swallow down the lump that was forming. This was harder than he had imagined. Ed had quieted. "In my self-absorption, I thought I could force you to give me another chance. Then you got so sick, and the doctors said you might not make it. So, I went back to church, and I made God a promise. A deal. If you lived, I would give you exactly what you wanted. I would let you go, and I wouldn't lie to you again, and I wouldn't do anything to try to talk you into something you didn't want. So." He shrugged. "You're alive, and I'm... incredibly... grateful... for that..." His voice was suddenly giving way, far too quickly. He attempted a smile and a few more words. "You needed to know. That's all. No obligations--" Ed was still staring at him, unmoving. Jack turned on his heel and walked out, glad the door was automatic since his arms felt like jelly and he could barely see where he was going. He heard it shut behind him as he walked away.

"Jack!" Ed tried to call out, but his voice had no volume, was too raspy and the opening door mechanism was too loud. Jack strode away. "Damn it!" He grabbed the first thing he could think of, the water pitcher, which thank god was empty, and threw it toward the corridor. It landed a foot inside. The door slid shut. "Damndamnfuckin'shit--" He grabbed the call button, hitting it furiously, over and over, all the while wondering if he could get himself up. He pulled back the covers, still pushing the damned call button. The door opened.

"Mr. Green? What are you doing?" His day nurse walked in and kicked the pitcher, nearly sending her sprawling. She went after it, now under Ed's bed, as the door closed.

"Forget that! Please--" Ed was trying to swing his legs to the side.

"Stop right there," she said sternly, coming to stand directly in his way. "Now. What's going on?"

Ed chuffed with frustration, but moved his legs the incremental distance it took for them to straighten. He pointed to the door. "The man who was just here-- tall, gray hair--"

"You mean Mr. McCoy? What about him?"

Ed's pounding heart stopped. "You know him?"

"Of course. Since we got you, he's called about four or five times a day every day, and ICU said that he was practically camped out while they had you. I saw him up there. They told us to watch for him because he was on their allowed list, up top, and some of them thought he was-- well, high in the looks department if you know what I mean, even if he was, naturally, upse--"

"Okay! Okay. Please, go. Get him. Back here. I need him. Please," he finished, his chest heaving, his strength all but gone. "I promise, I won't move. Just please find him...."

Thankfully, she did exactly as he asked, and after watching her practically tear around the corner of his doorway in her best emergency nurse's walk/run, he closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. Jesus. Camped out? Jack, you big, damned, proud... loving man. Could they really do this? Given everything? Could he do this? Or were they nuts?

Jack finished splashing cold water on his face and turned off the tap. He yanked two paper towels from the holder and dried himself before anything dripped on his tie, or suit. The face greeting him in the mirror looked, frankly, like shit, but now that he had done it, he honestly felt better. After pulling his coat and hat off the top of the stall next to him, he left the men's room, checking his watch. It would be a late night. He had not taken five strides toward the elevators when someone grabbed his sleeve, startling him.

"Mr. McCoy," a woman with a familiar voice said. He turned. Ed's nurse. "Thank goodness I found you. Mr. Green needs you."

"Is he okay?" His pulse started up again, and he wasn't sure he could take any more crises.

She nodded and waved him to follow as she headed back in the direction of Ed's room. Jack did as she ordered. "He's fine," she said, "though he almost wasn't. He was trying to get out of bed. On his own."

"Then what's the problem?" Aside from the guy being bullheaded.

"He just said, and I quote, 'Get him, back here, I need him.'"

Jack's rapid pulse was going at the same clip the nurse was walking. He wanted to ask her if Ed seemed angry, or upset, or anything else, but too soon they were at the door, and too soon it was sliding open, and too soon he was standing once again near Ed, in bed, but this time the man had a small smile on his face. Jack's heart beat slowed nearly to normal.

"Here," the nurse said. "I've delivered him," she finished, squatting, making a move to crawl under the bed.

What the hell?

"Thank you," Ed said genially, though his voice was raspier than Jack thought it had been ten minutes before. "You don't need to get that," Ed said to her, now pulling something forth.

A water pitcher? His eyes locked with Ed's. The brown irises were clear; he looked tired, but his brow was smooth, relaxed. In his peripheral vision Jack saw the nurse stand; she scolded Ed for throwing the thing at the door, telling him he might end up back in surgery, asking him if he was okay. Jack couldn't tear his glance away.

Ed's smile faded; he didn't look at her as he answered. "Yeah, thank you. Would you pull the curtain before you leave? And if you see my mom, ask her to give us some privacy. Please."

Jack felt something he hadn't felt in months, and it almost made him choke up again. A quickening, in the pit of his stomach, like one lone butterfly celebrating the first flush of spring. The nurse pulled the curtain. He didn't know what to say.

"Would you sit down, Jack?" Ed broke their eye contact, looking to a chair Jack hadn't noticed earlier on the opposite side of the bed.

He went to it, draping his coat on the tall back, unsure about what to do with his hat. There was no ledge; he didn't want to hold it or he might crush the brim.

"You can put it on the bed," Ed said, but his tone sounded off.

Jack placed the hat on the very end, at the corner, clear of Ed's feet. He sat and immediately regretted letting go of his hat, because his hands had nothing to do but settle somewhere when he didn't feel at all relaxed.

"So," Ed said, "you've started wearing the fedora."

"It's a nice hat. Fits well." He had chosen to use it that day because the weather was changing again, the cold front zooming in, and since Ed had bought it for him as a birthday present even if right before they split the last time, somehow it made sense to wear it. About as much sense as Ed's motorcycle helmet still stashed on his hall closet shelf.

Ed nodded. "Always thought you looked good in it."

He shrugged for lack of knowing how to respond. Making small talk was feeling--

"Let me ask you a question, Jack."

"Okay," Jack said, girding himself, though Ed's face looked open. No thunderclouds in sight.

"Suppose, in your deal with God, one part of what you offered was-- misguided. Would that rescind the deal?"

"What do you mean? Prayers are not open for negotiation. And what would a rescission look like? You would die?"

Ed glanced down at his hands, shaking his head. When he looked back up, the corners of his eyes sagged slightly. "I have no intention of dying, Jack," he said in a quiet voice. "Not goin' there again. No, I meant that if you were promising to give me what I want, and what I want is something different than what you thought at the time you made your deal, then it seems to me that rescinds the deal...."

Jack's heart beat skipped. "I see," he said, stalling.

"On the other hand," Ed said, "I guess it would depend on exactly what words you used at the time you made the deal. If you said simply that you would give me what I wanted, that's a whole 'nuther ball game."

"But, prayer is all about intention. What I was thinking at the time I asked for your life to be spared. There are no legal loopholes with God," Jack said, letting a small smile out. He leaned forward. "If there were, though, you're implying that you would want me to-- ask you to give us another chance?" Say it, Ed.

"Yeah," Ed said with more strength behind his words. "I want you to ask me, like you were gonna ask me on Saturday before I told you to take a flyin' leap and you actually listened to me. I want you to beg for another chance, and I wanna be able to say what I should'a said if I would've actually let you say what you came there to say.... You know."

Jack almost smiled again, but contained it. He stood enough to pull the chair closer to the bed, words and emotions flying around inside of him so fast he couldn't keep up. He perched on the edge so he could lean on the bed, and held out his hand, palm up. Waiting. Ed hesitated for the briefest of moments, then gently set his hand on Jack's, and this time Ed's fingers moved, and clutched; it was no dead weight, and it almost took away Jack's ability to speak. He cleared his throat, and swallowed, hard. "Please, Ed. Would you try again, with me?"

"And what I would have said on Saturday is 'yes, I want to, but.'" Ed didn't let go, if anything his grip tightened, his eyes were pleading.

Jack's stomach flip-flopped. "But?"

"But what about all the reasons you gave for breaking up in the first place, Jack? Here I am. Shot. The whole thing, just like you said, and like you-- like you said you couldn't handle--"

Ed's hand was suddenly shaking. Jack quickly put his free hand on top of the other man's, holding it, trying to soothe it, soothe him. "Yeah," Jack said in a low voice, "just like I said. And to top it off, I had to sit through days when I didn't know if you would live or die. It was hell on earth. I won't deny it. The worst thing in the world is watching someone you love slipping away and there's not a damned thing you can do--" He had to swallow down another lump. "You're right, five months ago I thought that I couldn't do it again. But-- Turned out there was a very big difference between losing Claire and almost losing you. I'll always have guilt over her death, but at least I hadn't wasted months before it happened trying to convince myself that being alone was better than grieving, because I've still been grieving for the past week anyway--"

"Shhh," Ed whispered, slipping his hand out and cupping Jack's face. "Don't, Jack."

Jack clutched the hand tightly to his cheek, shutting his eyes to keep from losing all of his composure. Shit. Ed's hand was warm; he turned to its palm and kissed it, slowly, gently, because it was there, and it wasn't pulling away, and he hadn't lost anything that was truly important. Not that important, other than a little pride. After a long moment during which, thankfully, his tears had abated, he looked at Ed. The man's cheeks were wet. He made no move to wipe them dry.

"I don't care any more, Ed," he said. "You're a cop. It's dangerous." He shook his head. "Do we need to rebut each of my former arguments, one by one? I'm too old; my job is too stressful; I need a calm life--"

"No, damnit," Ed said, "but what if this happens again? Or what if it sort of barely happens, like some idiot shoots but misses?"

Jack did not want to release Ed's hand. He kissed it again. Ed's brow was furrowed. Jack had only the simplest of answers for him. "Then we face it, whatever it is. I want a life that is not filled with regret. I want to come home at night to you, and I want to be the one who is waiting in bed for you to come back from a call. My arguments were bullshit."

"Not bullshit." Ed shook his head slowly.

"Then not as important as everything else."

"Maybe," Ed said quietly, "it will be moot. They might stick me with desk duty. Permanently...."

"No. Why permanently?"

Ed dropped his hand away from Jack's cheek, but Jack kept the contact, holding it again between both of his. Ed spoke slowly. "The doctors haven't decided if they'll clear me for active duty. Like ever. Something about the bullet hitting near my heart. I don't know...."

"Won't happen; you need some time to get better, that's all. It'll be okay." Jack couldn't imagine Ed at a desk; that was a picture that absolutely made no sense. The man would go insane.

"I'm scared, Jack. If I can't--"

Jack rubbed the back of Ed's hand. "I know," he said. "So let's just wait and see; you'll have a long leave and work on your rehab and in a few weeks, a month, you'll be much better."

"So," Ed said with a gentle smile, "you're encouraging me, now?"

Jack nodded, his chest tightening. "That's what I should have been doing all along. But..." He didn't want to bring the subject up, but if they were supposed to be talking everything out he couldn't very well ignore it.

"But?"

"What about Fontana? He was an issue before," Jack said with a shake of his head, "and I have a feeling it might get worse."

Ed sighed, caressing the inside of Jack's thumb with two fingers. "I heard that Joe was kinda upset, that you were allowed in to see me...."

"I had one encounter with him. Last week. I told him you and I were friends outside of work. That seemed to--" Jack almost fabricated a pleasant, jovial response for Joe Fontana, for Ed's benefit, but caught himself. No lying. "He was pissed." Jack shrugged.

"Yeah. He's not all bad. He's still a 'phobe, but you know, I did decide that I was freakin' over nothing, really, if you remember right. I mean, we got back together after that. So, not a lot has changed, well--" Ed smiled. "--unless you consider that he'll be even less inclined to give you or your office a break."

Jack smiled. "Should be fun." He took a closer look at Ed's face; he looked exhausted, his eyes were drooping, his grip lessening. "So, what's your verdict, Detective?" he said quietly. "Do we give it another try?"

"We do. I'm not willing to let you go, Counselor," Ed said with a rough voice. There was a sudden sheen covering his eyes. "Life bein' too short an' all." He tightened his grip and tugged. Jack inched closer. "But, I wanna hear what you said to me. When I was unconscious, and you came to see me that time...."

"Oh," Jack said, speaking softly, "I sat with you more than once."

"Yeah?" Ed's eyes fell shut.

"Yeah. I talked to you, and held your hand, and told you about telling Arthur, and told you that you could yell at me as much as you wanted when you woke up, as long as you woke up...." Ed's breathing was slowing down. "I told you that I still loved you. And about how much I wanted this to happen. Then later on I told you that even if you might not know it, everyone was pulling for you...."

"Think I remember that part...." Ed mumbled.

Jack smiled, as Ed's grip slackened entirely. "Whatever you say, Ed," he whispered. There were things left to talk about, and though he knew some topics would be harder than others, right then, putting his forehead down on Ed's hand, closing his eyes, he set them all aside and listened to the sweetest sound in the mostly silent room. Ed's breathing, slow, and steady. "Love you," he whispered. "And I will never let you go."

Epilogue

On a blazing June afternoon, the balcony upon which Ed stood was one of the hottest spots in all of New York. The corner of Greenwich Avenue and Christopher Street held a high rise of loft apartments, and those gay men with money had grabbed them as quickly as they came on the market. Ed had one such friend, and every summer, on this particular Sunday, he opened his home to friends and their lovers for a party and the best view of the Pride March that money could buy. One story above the throng of people lining the streets, Michael's balcony was decorated with purple streamers, a large rainbow flag which hung down toward the sidewalk below, and boxes of yellow and red flowers. The March had been on the move for almost an hour; the party for longer than that. Some of Michael's friends had been there all weekend. Pride Week was a time for full out partying, dancing, drugs and sex.

The sun was getting to Ed; he tugged on Jack's hand. "Goin' inside, get more drink," he said in his ear. Jack nodded and didn't let go, so Ed took him along.

In the loft the air was cooled; overhead fans were circulating. There was music playing in the living room space and since everyone was on the balcony--other than a few guys in the kitchen--the area was relatively quiet. The music was a typical party mix for dancing, a techno drub-da-da beat. After refilling their glasses with the iced punch of the day, Ed dragged Jack to the stereo.

"Come on, Ed," Jack said in that lovingly threatening tone of voice he got whenever he was getting ready to resist one of Ed's ideas, though at least half the time the man gave in without regretting a thing by the end of whatever. Ed ignored this token protest while he looked through the CDs for something different.

"What do you think I'm gonna make you do this time?" Ed said over his shoulder, grinning.

The man had his hands on his hips. "Gee. I wonder," Jack said drily. A longer than usual thatch of silver hair was falling over his brow; his nose was pink; his tee shirt was a soft green, and the most worn out pair of jeans he owned hugged his hips. He, too, was hot. But he alone made Ed's fingers itch.

Ed turned back to the CDs and found a good one, quickly changing out the music before Jack bolted altogether. Slow, rhythmic, lovers' music came through the speakers. He walked the five steps to Jack, whose hands had not moved, and threw an arm around his waist. Started to sway.

"Ed. I don't dance." Jack was proving his point, too, not moving much at all, though he had dropped the akimbo stance. One hand was now curling behind Ed's neck, the other on his biceps, fingertips slipping under the edge of Ed's tee shirt. His legs, however--

"All you gotta do is move with me, Jack," Ed crooned in his ear. He felt the man bend a bit. Ed took the hand off his biceps and held it, gently, caressingly. He wanted to dance, and feel this man he adored move with him, create a private bubble for the two of them, party as much as he could. Ed nibbled on the side of Jack's neck. "What you got to remember is that dancing is just like sex...." He pulled the man's waist more tightly, bringing their bodies in alignment.

"Yeah?" Jack's voice had dropped at least an octave; his arm was now around Ed's shoulders.

"Yeah. And there is no man in this apartment, hell, anywhere on that street down there who can move like you can in bed--"

Jack let out a soft snort. "You know this, how?"

Ed chuckled. "Instinct, babe."

Jack chuckled from low in his chest, and Ed had to kiss his neck for that, and because Jack's fingers were doing that thing to the skin of his neck. And because the man was loosening up, enough that they were swaying, and taking some steps, and love of his life they were dancing. Sweet, sweet movin' to the music. Ah... damn, it was good, just like he suspected it would be. "I love you," he said.

Jack shifted his head so he could look at Ed directly. His eyes were so green today, and maybe it was the light of the window filled walls, or the color of his shirt, but they were deep, and resonant with love, for him. It made Ed's breath catch.

"I love you, Ed," Jack said in his sultry voice.

"Good to be alive, Jack."

Jack smiled. "That it is."

The door to the balcony opened, and far away cheers were heard. "Ed! They're comin' up Greenwich! Hurry!" Ed grinned as they broke apart and trotted to the doorway, hand in hand, Jack practically pulling him through the people on the balcony, to the railing.

Ed looked down to the corner of Christopher Street. The parade announcer at the corner said something into the PA system that Ed didn't quite catch, but he didn't need to. An NYPD patrol car with a rainbow flag on its hood crawled around the corner. The crowd on the street broke into thunderous applause. Ed's throat closed, hard. Two officers in uniform carried a banner directly behind the car, reading "Gay Officers Action League." Dozens of cops followed, waving small flags, lifting their hats to the crowd. It was the first time they had ever marched in the parade. In more than thirty years.

The people surrounding Ed cheered and whooped, some slapping him on the back. He could only clutch Jack's hand and stare down at the men and women more brave than he, overwhelmed with pride in them. A few of the marchers looked up, toward the noise. Without warning, they stopped their slow progress and turned to face Ed. He knew them. They saluted, causing others around them to look up, and recognize him, and join in the salute. Within thirty seconds the entire contingent had stopped, all arms in formation, serious faces. Ed let go of Jack's hand and returned the salute. As soon as he did, they dropped their hands and smiled, waving flags at him. He waved back as they continued on their way.

But, he could not smile; they had honored him because he had taken a bullet, and it didn't matter why. To them. It did to him. A piece of shit like Ken Poluso--a man who had spit on the uniform--had been killed for being exactly that: a piece of shit human being. And he had suffered the fallout. Escorting the wrong man at the wrong time.

"Hey, Ed," Michael said gravely, directly behind him. "Man, you're our own personal hero."

He turned. Jack was still, and quiet, next to him. "No, Michael, I ain't no hero."

Jack said, "Maybe not for that, but for every Poluso, there are all these guys standing right here. And you know it."

Ed's throat closed again. He and Jack had talked this hang-up of his almost to death, and though he had no fuckin' clue why the man's arguments had not made a whit of difference up to this moment, suddenly they did. He actually felt things shift slightly to the side. It was enough. He cupped Jack's face, and right there in the full sun, in front of thousands of people one story below and fifteen surrounding them, he kissed him soundly. Passionately. Deeply. For love, and honor, and commitment.

End

Yet more notes:
--  The appearance, for the first time ever, of the NYPD Gay Officers Action League in the 2005 NYC Pride March was a real event. Congratulations to them and to the LGBT community of NYC.

--  There are other episodes in the 2004/2005 season that are touched on in this particular Inevitability Redux universe. Fontana's first ep and Gun Play, to name two directly referenced in this story. Also, in this universe, Jack and Ed fell in love right before the 2002 episode, Hitman. Any other episodes after Hitman would, of course, be fair game for inclusion. Which leads us to:

--  There is one other story of mine which fits into this universe, chronologically following Inevitability Redux -- My Shining Hour, which is also an episode addition, for Criminal Law (2005). My Shining Hour was written deliberately with this in mind, though posted much earlier. For obvious reasons, I try to keep their connection a secret until a reader has reached the end of I. Redux, so there is no spoilerfication.

To the L&O home page/index of stories

Feedback? Email me at cassatt2222 -AT- earthlink -DOT- net, but remember that flames will be blissfully ignored.