Disclaimer: NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films own them.
Rating: PG
Summary: McCoy/Green preslash. Hurt/Comfort type flashfiction. Approx. 1260 words.
Author's Note: The result of some conversation with jessebee was a self-imposed challenge to write a series of flashfics, covering as many genres as I could manage. Here's #1.
Copyright August 2004 Cassatt
Abbie came into his office and said the words that rocked Jack back on his heels.
"There's gonna be a delay in the Colby investigation," she said in a rush, her eyes hooded, "Green got shot this afternoon. Briscoe has to bring his new partner up to speed. So, give it until...."
She probably said a helluva lot more than that, but Jack's heels were threatening to slide out from under him, while at the same time his mind was firing questions in rapid succession. He voiced them, because no matter how hard it might be to hear the answers, Jack was not a man to shy away from reality. He learned that no, Ed Green wasn't dead -- he was in the hospital with a bullet wound of unspecified severity. An anxious and drugged out suspect ran. There was a footchase. A shot. Detective down, and bleeding. Suspect down, by Ed Green's trigger finger.
It was past visiting hours, at Hudson Presbyterian, but Jack ignored the schedule. He pulled out his badge and flashed it at the unsuspecting nurse on the third floor. Officer of the Court needed an update on the Detective. The nurse balked for a moment, then retrieved a chart.
"The patient's surgery was successful," she read. "The wound was extensive, but only to the small intestine -- bullet was recovered and sent to the NYPD -- he's been out of recovery for a few hours. His surgeon checked on him thirty minutes ago." She closed the chart.
Jack bit his lower lip. "And his pain level? Are you managing his pain?"
"Mr. Green knows he can call us if he's in any discomfort," she said, giving Jack a vague smile.
Jack nodded and turned away from the nurses' station, walking toward Ed's room number.
"Hey," the woman called after him, "visiting hours are over."
He paid her no heed. He walked, checking room numbers, the overwhelming hospital smells assaulting him with every open door he passed. He hated hospitals, doctors, nurses, the whole damned lot of them. For what they hadn't been able to do for those people he cared about. For their arrogance. And their stupidity.
He found room 315, and his stomach unaccountably clenched. He didn't hesitate; he walked in and, seeing an older white man in the nearest bed, continued to the windows, past the curtain. It was dark outside, and the lights in the room were low, but enough to see by. Enough for the nurses to do their jobs by. His first sight of Ed, and his heart beat became erratic; he stopped at the foot of the bed, rigid with the need to hold it together.
Ed looked asleep, on his back, with an IV line in one hand, and half of his chest bandaged. A short sleeved gown left open in the front gave Jack a complete view of the damage. There was also a dressing of some sort on Ed's forehead, and what might be another on the wrist without the IV. He looked pale, if that was even possible -- but Jack was sure that there were darker circles under his eyes, and lines of strain in their corners.
He walked slowly around to the side of the bed, to the chair near the window, and pulled it, as quietly as he could, closer. He sat, and watched. Kept vigil.
An hour after Jack had arrived, during which the head nurse for the shift attempted to dislodge him without success, Ed stirred. Gently, at first, but then his head began to roll back and forth, while half-conscious moans came from deep in his throat. Jack was up and laying a hand on Ed's shoulder by the third head roll, saying his name, trying to bring the man awake, thinking it would be better for him.
Ed's eyes slowly opened, and Jack could see the confusion, the murkiness, in them. "You're okay." He said the first thing that came to mind, but it appeared to confuse Ed even more. "You're in the hospital, remember?" he said softly.
Ed's eyes searched his, and then he nodded. "Shot," he said, his voice deep and hoarse. He tried to lift the hand with the IV, the arm closest to the wound, and winced hard, hissing an unintelligible swear word through a harsh breath. The arm stopped moving, and Jack saw beads of perspiration break out around the bandage on Ed's forehead. Ed's breathing wasn't steadying.
Jack grabbed the call button and pushed it several times, telling him what he was doing, squeezing the shoulder he still held under his hand.
"Fuck," Ed ground out. "Hurts like a--"
"It'll be okay in a minute," Jack said, in the way that people not in pain always tried to reassure those in the depths of it.
Ed's eyes locked onto his, and Jack wanted to say a whole lot more than inane words of comfort, even if they appeared to be helping Ed wait for relief. Like what he was doing there, and why he kept his palm resting on a part of Ed that wasn't damaged. Like how he was going to make the asshole who shot Ed pay, if he survived his own surgery. Like why Jack honestly hoped he didn't.
The nurse came in, and added a needle-full of medication to the IV, checked Ed's pulse, and acted as if Jack's presence at eleven o'clock at night was completely within normal limits. Ed's breathing slowed after a few minutes. The nurse left.
Jack told him he'd be right back, and went to the bathroom to retrieve a damp washcloth, deliberately not looking at his reflection in the mirror. He returned to Ed's bedside, and, after a glance into the brown eyes watching his every move, Jack gently wiped the sweat off of his face, then put the cloth on the table.
"Thank you," Ed said, his voice still hoarse, but softer now.
Jack lowered the side railing, surprised he could remember how to do it, then sat, resting a forearm on the edge of the bed. "Do you want some water?"
Ed nodded, so Jack filled a cup from a pitcher he assumed the nurses had left on the bed tray. There were straws, too, and after readying one, he held the cup near enough, and slid the end of the straw between Ed's lips. Ed drank, still watching him. After a few strong pulls, he moved off of it. Jack put the cup aside.
"Thank you again." Ed smiled, but for him, it was wan and barely made a dent in his cheeks.
Jack put his hand over Ed's, glad to feel the skin warm, ignoring how different this touch was from any of their others.
"Why are you here?" Ed asked.
Jack shook his head. "That's a question for later, when you're better."
Ed's eyes closed briefly. "Tomorrow," he said, looking directly at Jack again.
"Tomorrow," Jack conceded quietly.
"Stay?"
Jack nodded. "I'll stay."
Ed tried to smile again, with the same ineffective results, but this time he turned the hand under Jack's until he could grip a few of Jack's fingers. Jack's heart beat fluttered, and he gripped back. Ed's eyelids drooped, then shut. His breathing gradually evened out; his hold of Jack's hand relaxed. Jack continued the contact until he was sure Ed was asleep, then moved the chair even closer, got settled as comfortably as possible, and eventually let himself doze off, keeping one ear on his future, three feet away.
End, sort of. Go here, to the sequel, In the Pink, if you want more. This is now a mini-series.
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