Disclaimer: NBC, MCA/Universal and Wolf Films own them. Original characters are the property of the author.
Rating: PG
Summary: McCoy/Green. Angst.2 Flashfiction. Sequel to Inevitability. #5 in the overall Genre Flashfiction series, which is only going to get confusing since this is part of a mini-series... etc.
Copyright March, 2005 Cassatt
Memories of the bullet piercing his body washed over Ed at the oddest times, and seemed to be connected to nothing in particular. A nurse pulling back the curtain around his hospital bed, and wham, the jolt, pain, and his forehead meeting hard cement became his momentary reality. Or a tray clattering in the hall. The old man in the other bed coughing up his guts. Lennie telling him he was gonna string the shooter up by his balls. A pigeon startled off the sill outside his window.
At the precise moment he was shot, Ed had felt only anger. Rage. Disgust. He remembered rolling enough to fire five or six shots at the perp before the hot flame spread in his stomach, and he was forced to close his eyes. He didn't remember his partner shooting, but Lennie was just tearing out of the car when it happened. Propped in his bed, being fussed over by nurses in scrubs patterned with colored balloons, the replay gave him chills, a rapid heart beat, and sweaty palms.
Two days post-surgery, and his wound was healing nicely. Those were the surgeon's words. Like any complications would be considered mean, or nasty, or antisocial. When the dressing was changed, Ed studied the incision. From his perspective, it even curved like a smile. He considered having an arrow tattooed near it, with "don't fuck with me" underneath. Then he could lift his shirt during interrogations and show uncooperative suspects how little patience they could expect from him.
Three evenings post-surgery, he told Jack about the tattoo idea. The man who had been visiting him seemingly every free hour he had. Who'd slept in the chair that entire first night. Whose touch was getting more frequent, and longer-lasting, and more stomach-fluttering.
"Don't fuck with you," Jack said, a small grin crinkling his eyes.
The grin was distracting, and doing its now well-known number to Ed's pulse. "Yeah. The mess-with-me, I'll-mess-with-you thing. Make 'em think twice."
"But -- I'm done thinking."
Their eyes locked. Oh. That other thing -- the one they hadn't yet discussed. Delineated. Ed hadn't realized he'd spoken in innuendo. He smiled. He could go with it.
Four days post-surgery was Saturday, and over his breakfast tray of unbelievably inedible foodstuffs, Ed felt a frisson of expectation up and down his spine. He might be discharged that day. The evening before, Jack had been there for the doctor's rounds. The discussion had been about Ed's recovery, and the fact that he lived alone, and therefore who would be available to help him out. Jack had stunned him by stating that he would be very happy to move in, temporarily of course, and help Ed during the evening and nighttime hours, suggesting that perhaps the city's disability might swing a nurse's aide during the days. Ed's doctor assumed this was the perfect solution and left after making note on the chart, clicking her pen, and shaking Jack's hand. Ed had not yet voiced his reaction. Albeit a positive though trepidation-filled one, he found himself still tongue tied as he listened to Jack discuss the details. He smiled, and nodded.
Then the thing Ed had been dreading happened, again. Someone in the hallway dropped something, making a loud enough noise for Ed's body to sweep a clear, crisp memory from his brain on down. He was lying on the sidewalk, the smell of filthy cement under his nose, gunshots ringing in his ears, the butt of his police-issue still pressed against his palm, pain radiating through his torso. Lennie's voice, yelling, muted, unintelligible.... His heart beat reacted, and sweat broke out on his forehead. Jack spoke. He focused on him, on those deep, intense eyes, and his tongue untied, and he told him about the memories. The body rushes. The inability to control any of it.
Jack gave him one of his touches, taking Ed's hand in both of his, asking him if he wanted some help sleeping, and Ed surprised himself by saying yes. Maybe the meds would keep dreams at bay. After the nurse left, Ed got another surprise. Jack must have thought he was already asleep, for he had bent over, and caressed Ed's hair, and placed the gentlest of kisses just above the small bandage on his forehead. Ed had inhaled Jack's scent, replacing the stink of sidewalk with the essence of Jack, and this time the erratic beat of his heart had nothing to do with stress and everything to do with the nearness of the man. He had fallen asleep wondering what Jack would have done had he demanded more.
Ed pushed his bed tray away, and willed the nurse to arrive for his morning cleanup. He gingerly reached to his left and opened a drawer, retrieving his watch. It was time. He heard voices in the corridor, and one of them was way too familiar. Here came his mother, striding toward the bed, her black and brown silk top shimmering, her eyes blazing with more than one emotion.
"Why didn't you call, Edward?! What were you thinking, leaving me to find this out from a message on my machine?!" The hand she was waving in his direction quivered. She pressed her lips tight. "Sweet Jesus," she said in a low voice, "look at you."
"Mom, you were on your trip," he tried, but she stopped any further talk by cupping his face, and gazing into his eyes, slowly rubbing her hands over him, as if she could tell the extent of his injuries by feel alone. "Mom."
"By the grace of God," she said softly. She took his hand. "I'm so grateful that you're okay."
A hard lump formed in his throat. That was much more than he would have ever expected her to say. A nurse arrived, and began Ed's cleanup routine, and his mother fussed, and gently wrestled control of it all from the overworked nurse, leaving Ed to assure him that he would make certain his mother did the right things, and yes, he was fine to get to the bathroom with her help. He had walked the corridors six times already, once with Lennie by his side; three times with a good friend; twice with Jack.
After the trip to the bathroom, his mother began wrestling control of an even bigger task away from him. She would come to his apartment and take care of him. Period. And it was while they were in the middle of this discussion that Jack came, walking slowly toward the bed, his demeanor changing with every step until he was only EADA McCoy by the time he met Mrs. Green. Answering the "why are you here" implication behind her questioning eyes with a report on the shooter being arraigned in his hospital room the afternoon prior.
Jack stood at the foot of Ed's bed, their glances locking together, and lifted his hand. "Take care of yourself, Detective. Let me know if you need anything." He made a move to leave.
"Jack--" Ed said in desperation.
"You're in good hands." He gave him a small smile that didn't come anywhere near reaching his eyes, or Ed's insides, and left, walking quickly across the room and out the door.
The lump returned, harder than before, burning his throat. He listened to his mother talk at him as he looked out the window and tried to breathe. Sunlight streaming through blinds painted white stripes on the institutional-beige floor. The pigeons were back. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled.