A/N: Huge thanks to Teri who faithfully reads every word and leaves comments such as: Huh? Did you mean that? as well as the occasional, great job, ohmygosh you've made me cry. Teri, I couldn't do it without you.

Other than that the usual stips apply, don't own 'em, make no money off 'em, got no inside knowledge into 'em, nobody associated with 'em knows me.

Repercussions:

Chapter 1:

Eight weeks. It was eight weeks since he and Danny had taken a prisoner on a late night transfer, eight weeks since a man named Emil Dornvald had pulled a blue van in front of the car he was driving, opened the back doors and changed everything, eight short, eight long, eight agonizing weeks.

Martin was exhausted. It was 10:00 a.m. Wednesday morning the third week of July, the summer heat was already blazing in the New York City furnace yet he wore baggy khakis with a drawstring waist and a long sleeve Henley shirt. He was cold. 45 minutes earlier he'd caught a cab from his apartment and was just now slowly making his way with the help of his new friend, Mr. Cane, up to the 12th floor.

He had an appointment with Dr. Lisa Harris, hooray for therapy, and Jack supposedly had some papers for him to review and sign. All in all he would be gone from his apartment for a little over four hours including the two-way commute and the appointments in the office yet, only 45 minutes into his 'workday' and Martin was exhausted.

Eight weeks, eight damn long, painful, hazy, lonely, claustrophobic, God I hope I never have to go through this again weeks, all he wanted to do was get back to work, forget Emil Dornvald, forget hospitals, forget physical therapy and forget this damn cane. Yet as the elevator signaled each ascending level to the 12th floor Martin felt something he hadn't felt for a long time, since his first day joining the MPU, Martin was nervous.

He leaned heavily against the paneled wall thankful for small gifts that allowed him not only an empty elevator car in the lobby but an uninterrupted trip to his destination, two events almost unheard of in this building. As he saw the light for Number 12 blink and felt the elevator stop he pressed down on the cane to assist in standing straight. As he straightened as best he could he closed his eyes as soft tissue and muscles protested, reminding him they still had yet to complete their healing.

The doors opened and Martin schooled his face so that the mask of confidence and good spirits, neither of which he felt, slipped into place. He slowly moved forward, turned right and walked down the corridor. His first stop was going to be the bullpen.

Sam had mentioned something about new work stations in the bullpen and that she and Danny had carefully transferred all his things from his old station to similar locations in the new. She said that some of the things he had pinned up didn't fit anymore since none of them had backs to their stations, so she'd collected those items and put them in an envelope and left it in his inbox.

Moving slowly down the corridor he slowed briefly to take in the sights and sounds of the office, experiences absent from his life of late, it was oddly comforting. A couple of agents and office personnel noted his arrival and greeted him cheerfully. He nodded and smiled in return, yep, thank heaven for all those forced Fitzgerald social gatherings and 'must attend events'—appearances Martin, must keep up appearances, the sound of his mother's voice echoed in his head.

Making his way to his desk he noted how orderly everything looked, Danny and Sam had taken care. He touched the new light over his desk looking for the switch—oops, touch activated, all right.

"Well, look who is back." A warm voice spoke behind him.

Martin slowly turned allowing an easy grin to appear on his face, Vivian.

"Hey."

Giving her a gentle hug he was barely able to hold back the wince and moan of pain as she squeezed, gently but still too much for his healing body.

"You look good."

"Thanks, you too, when did you get back?"

"Been back a week now."

"Great." Martin suddenly felt awkward. "I have an appointment with Lisa and Jack has some stuff for me."

"Good. Any idea of when you'll be back? I miss you."

"Well, I'm coming along. Physical therapy is slow but, you know how that goes, probably another month and a half."

"All right. Well, don't get too used to sleeping late in the morning, people go missing, we have to find them."

"Yeah, right." Martin felt like he was missing, where was he going to find himself?

Clearing his throat he tilted his head slightly to the clock on the wall, "I'm due in Lisa's at 10:15, better start the journey of not quite 1000 steps." He quipped wondering if it sounded as dull and forced to Vivian as it did to him.

She squeezed his arm affectionately and gave him a look of concern, understanding and – oh, God, I think that might be pity, Martin thought.

Walking slowly he managed to make it to Lisa's office without giving away the fact that he was trembling all over. He hadn't walked this much since – well, since yesterday's PT appointment and he was still tired from that session.

Stepping into her outer office he was happy to see the door to her private office open. He didn't relish sitting down out here only to have to attempt to gracefully rise and then move into her private office. As if she sensed his arrival Lisa appeared at the threshold of her door at precisely that moment.

"Martin, come on in."

She moved back into the office allowing him to follow unsupervised and at his own pace. He looked around trying to figure the best place to sit, the couch was inviting but he knew once he was down, he would not be able to get back up. The swivel chairs were also out, not enough support, choosing the chair that had a cushioned back yet rigid frame with arm rests he lowered himself down barely stifling the gasp of pain as the movement aggravated his still healing injuries.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Water would be great." Martin had been feeling cold and the air conditioning in the building had chilled him but now that he was sitting in the proverbial 'hot seat' he was starting to feel a bit warm.

Lisa pulled a plastic bottle of water from a small fridge in the corner and handed it to him along with a glass. He appreciated that she didn't twist the top off for him, his mother kept doing that for him whenever she came up to visit and it about drove him nuts.

Yes, he'd been shot. Yes, he was weak. Yes, he couldn't do much more right now besides wobble from the bed to the bathroom from the bathroom to the couch but he could open a bottle of water. He knew it wouldn't do any good as his mother would reprimand him for being ungrateful while at the same time want him to not strain himself and all of it would only draw more attention to his injuries so he just seethed and tried not to let it show, appearances you know.

"So, Martin, what do you want to talk about?" Lisa settled in a seat across from him, a pen and pad of paper in her hand. She'd placed a small recorder on the table between them and flicked it on.

He was a bit surprised at the question; it had been phrased as if he'd requested this session. "You don't have some sort of script?"

"No, we just kind of go with the flow of things." She looked at him calmly.

Great. Martin thought and looked away.

"Ah, the new desks look great." That sounded stupid inside his head before he said it; after he said it, it sounded more stupid.

Lisa just nodded, "Yeah, they seem to open up the bullpen a bit more. I see your desk is all set up."

"Yeah, Danny and Sam took care of that for me."

"Good. So, when you get back to work, you'll have that all taken care of."

"Right." Back to work, if it took clearing these sessions that was a very long way off indeed. Was Danny having as much trouble with these sessions as he was? Was Danny even required to go?

"Look, Martin, I know this is uncomfortable and difficult, once we find our footing, it gets a bit easier."

"Sure, our footing, any idea where to look?"

"Why don't you tell me how physical therapy is going."

"It's fine. It's good." If forced torture can be considered good. Martin thought unconsciously putting one arm across his chest as if to protect the injuries.

Lisa noted the movement. "Martin, it's just you and me. How is physical therapy?"

"I hate it." Martin didn't intend for that to come out. "I mean, I used to run anywhere from one to five miles on any given day, now after an hour which includes water therapy, some light stretches, sitting, standing, walking up and down some stairs – I hate it." Damn, Fitzgerald, when did you become so talkative.

"Water therapy, how does that feel?"

Martin tensed noticeably and placed both arms across his torso. "That's all right. The water is warm and helps keep me balanced so it's nice to just take my time and helps me relax."

"Good." Lisa noted the protective posture Martin had adopted so she remained relaxed and settled into her chair. "I noticed you got quite uncomfortable when I asked you about water therapy, why?" Lisa kept her voice carefully neutral.

"I – I'm just not very comfortable."

"Here or when you're in the water?"

Martin was silent and Lisa sat silently waiting him out.

At last he looked her straight in the eye as he answered. "Both."

"Fair enough." Lisa grinned openly.

Another period of silence stretched between them. Finally Martin sipped from his bottle of water before speaking, his voice soft yet somewhat bitter. "It's not like I don't see them all the time."

"True, but it is one thing for you to see them, another thing for someone else, right?" Lisa knew what 'them' meant.

Martin didn't answer, he just looked down.

"So when you look at them, what do you see?"

How could he answer that? If he told her he woke up most nights frantically scrambling for the light to check that he wasn't bleeding, would she admit him to a hospital, anything but that.

Did he tell her that, when he first was able to take a shower again, he winced as the water hit him certain that somehow it would make its way inside his skin and damage his still healing insides?

Did he tell her that, when he used soap over the scars, sometimes he could 'feel' the stinging sensation inside his body as if the soap had come in contact with his injured lung and intestine?

How could he tell her that, when he was doing physical therapy and his body started to sweat, he was afraid to look at his shirt for fear of seeing blood seeping through the fabric.

If he told her any of that, what would she do?

Lisa decided to try a different approach; she could see Martin wrestling with his thoughts. "Do they bother you?"

"Do they bother me?"

Good, he was talking again. "Yes, do the scars bother you?"

"Yes, they bother me."

"How?"

"Well, sometimes they itch." Martin grinned a little hoping his bad humor would help diffuse the tension. Lisa gave him a small smile in return; her eyes were gentle, not judgmental.

"Fair enough, is there any other way that the scars bother you?"

"It's not like—it's not like I'm—I don't know, it's not like I go around with my shirt off or anything thinking I'm some gift or that now I'm damaged or disfigured --" Martin stopped, he hadn't meant for that to come out.

"Martin, when you see someone who has been injured or scarred or burned or beaten or anything like that, what is the first thing that comes to your mind?"

"I wonder what happened."

"Do you think they're scary that they shouldn't be walking in public that they should be hiding away?"

"No. I wonder what happened to them. I wonder how they got hurt."

"Do you feel pity? Do you feel like you want to stare at them?"

"I don't feel pity. I guess I wonder what happened and if they are all right."

"So you want to maybe help them?"

"I want to know that someone did."

"Do you think that is one of the reasons that you got into the FBI?"

"I think I probably did because of my father." Martin warmed to this topic, as it was less about what had recently happened to him. Everyone knew who his father was and Martin had worked here for three years now so no one looked at him as having gotten the job thanks to his father. "I think regardless of the relationship you have with your parents you're influenced by what they do for their career."

"So, your father is in the FBI and you wanted to become an agent, was he happy that you wanted to follow his career choice?"

Martin gave a small laugh. "No."

"Why?"

"I don't think he saw this as the right job for me."

"Why do you say that?"

Lisa watched as Martin's face darkened and she heard the hardness in his tone when he responded.

"More like he had plans of a different direction; you, Dr. Lisa Harris are seated in the presence of Senator Martin Fitzgerald – that is if my father had had his way."

"I see. Well, nice to meet you, mythical Senator Martin Fitzgerald." The poor joke did as she'd hoped; it eased some of the tension in Martin's face for the moment, then he continued and the bitterness she'd heard earlier returned.

"I don't know, I think my father is more concerned with appearances and being seen with the right people and in the right place than helping people. I don't think he thought I'd be very good at such an earthy job. And I don't want anything to do with the fakery that seems to make up so much of politics, all show and very little substance."

After the session with Martin was over and he had left the office with the appointment card for next week, Dr. Harris moved to her desk, opened the file she had created for Martin's sessions and flipped to her notes page. There she transferred some of her scribbled notes from the pad she'd used during the session.

Notes from first session with Special Agent Martin Fitzgerald:

In pain, physical, emotional, mental

Frustrated at lengthy recovery; doubts will ever be fit again

Doesn't want to be pitied

Father not happy with Martin's career choice

Martin sees his father as more interested in appearance than substance

Martin is not close to his father yet yearns to be respected by the man, even to the point of defying him

Too proud to ask for help

Too afraid he needs help

Lost

After finishing her notes she sat back and considered a brief conversation she'd had with Assistant Deputy Director Victor Fitzgerald about two weeks ago. Apparently he'd been in the NYC office for some meeting or another and was getting ready to head back, she assumed to DC but perhaps he was staying overnight in the city to spend a little time with his son.

Lisa Harris didn't dabble in gossip for gossips sake but she did listen and mentally catalogue tidbits to be best prepared when she was called upon to work with agents and she'd heard that Victor was in the NYC area a lot since Martin had been shot. She didn't know a lot about the two men's personal dynamic but she hoped this was good for both of them.

Leaning back in her chair Lisa read through her notes from today's session and thought about what Martin hadn't said as well as what he had said and played that back in her mind with the image and soundtrack playing of his father's arrival at her office…

It was Thursday late afternoon and she was ready to call it quits for the day. Since it was early July the days were fabulously long and the weather was perfect. She was looking forward to getting home, changing into her jogging clothes, grabbing her dog and going for a run.

As she gathered her briefcase and locked her desk she heard footsteps in the outer office and then Victor Fitzgerald appeared at her door gently knocking on the frame.

"Dr. Harris, I was wondering if you had a brief moment."

He looked a bit uncomfortable, not something Lisa was certain she could ever recall him looking.

"Yes, Assistant Director, I have a moment, come in, have a seat." Lisa set her briefcase back down ready to take a seat for this impromptu meeting.

"No, no. I don't want to take any time, I just -- can you give me one second?"

Lisa was a bit surprised when Victor disappeared from her office door and waited curiously. A couple of moments later he reappeared at her door, suit jacket draped over one arm, tie folded and stuffed into the inner pocket of the jacket.

"I come here not as the Assistant Director, I come here as – um – I come here as a father. I just wanted to say thank you. I know you're going to be conducting Martin's sessions when he starts them and I just wanted to say thank you. You have a tremendous reputation and as a father, I'm glad to know that you'll be there to help my son."

With that he stuck out his hand awkwardly, Lisa put hers in his and he gave it a professional squeeze and then turned around and headed out the door.

Martin made his way down the corridor slowly, sitting had been great but it had also allowed his body to get used to not moving and it was definitely screaming at him that it was time for some rest. He hoped Jack was in his office and he'd be able to do whatever paperwork needed and get home, he wanted to lie down.

Making his way to Jack's office he looked into the bullpen and noted that Vivian was working at her desk but Sam and Danny were nowhere in sight, seemed appropriate he thought dully, at least regarding Danny. Coming to Jack's door he peered in and was enormously grateful to see Malone sitting at his desk poring over papers. Taking as deep a breath as his sore chest and lungs allowed he knocked.

Jack heard the knock and looked up and saw Martin, pale and thin but fairly close to upright, at his door. Standing up he motioned and spoke at the same time, "Martin, come in, have a seat."

"Thanks, Jack." Once again Martin tried to move as casually as he had in Lisa's office until he positioned himself over a chair and then settled into it biting back the moan that sought to escape, God he needed to go home and lie back down and take a pill, it was getting close.

Jack closed the door, sat at the edge of his desk and eyed his still healing agent. "You look good." Better than covered in blood and unconscious on a wet street, better than hooked to a ventilator, better than…better than a lot of possibilities, Jack thought.

"Thanks, I – I feel pretty good." Did that sound like as much of a lie as I think it does, Martin couldn't help but wonder. He looked at Jack who was eyeing him critically but thankfully without pity, well, Jack Malone rarely eyed anyone with pity and Martin knew at this point he'd about give up if Jack Malone started pitying him.

"I'm glad this worked out with your appointment with Dr. Harris. I've received the update from your physician and your physical therapist both seem to think you're making steady progress and plan to reevaluate your return to work status in another month, is that what you're expecting?"

Jack decided to get right to the business at hand because, if he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure how to handle Martin right now. If he was really honest with himself, he'd admit he didn't know how to handle any of his team right now.

Viv had returned a week ago and was already chomping at the bit to get out of the office having been cleared for full duty, but he couldn't bring himself to do it just yet. Danny was still unpredictable, more than usual and in a dangerous way this time. Jack hoped that sessions with Lisa would help but it had been eight weeks and it wasn't getting any better. Sam was the only one he didn't have any difficulty with right now and that in itself was disturbing.

He wasn't able to pinpoint exactly what his emotions were having realized that Samantha and Martin had been a couple for almost nine months, it wasn't jealousy after all, he and Samantha had only had an affair and he was well past it having simply needed an escape from a bad marriage and Samantha had been willing and able and while he regretted how badly he had ended it with her, he didn't regret ending it. He loved her, no doubt about that but he wasn't in love with her.

But was she in love with Martin and, if she was, why wasn't she more affected by his near death? True she had been emotional and struggling with her professionalism at the scene but she'd pulled herself through it. Later, after finding out Martin was going to live and coming back from visiting him at the hospital while he was still sedated, she'd seemed--calm, almost fine as if nothing was wrong and ever since then she hardly mentioned him.

Jack realized Martin was speaking and that he hadn't been listening so he tuned back in.

"—therapy yesterday and that's what they told me, another month and they'd do a joint evaluation of my status." So glad everyone else is deciding what my status is, gee, wouldn't want any say in that, then again right now my status is wilting, quickly.

"Good, well, it's—it's good to see you. Probably should stop by one afternoon and see how you are but --" Jack let the words dangle, both of them knew he'd never stop by, they didn't do that. Sure, an occasional dinner after a case or couple of drinks at a bar, but hang out at each other's place, no that was something Sam and Danny did, didn't they?

"Best call ahead so I'm in my best pajamas."

Jack gave a small grin that Martin mirrored.

"I'll settle for an occasional phone call, that way I don't have to worry if there are any dishes in the sink." Hell, Martin thought, he didn't have to worry about dishes being in the sink these days he wasn't all that eager to be eating much of anything.

"Yeah, well, like I said, it's good to see you and I'll be glad when you're back." Jack meant it and he put warmth behind the words and for a moment he saw a flicker of something, appreciation, perhaps even relief in Martin's eyes.

"I'll be glad to get back, daytime television has nothing on what we do everyday. I'll call you when there are any updates and I'll be back next week for another meeting with Dr. Harris."

"Good, she's really good." Jack meant that too. "You got a ride back home?"

"Yeah, I took a cab down, I'll just grab one when I get back down to the lobby. Tell Danny thanks for helping transfer my things over to my new desk." With that Martin hoisted himself back up and started to the door.

Jack stopped him by putting his hand out, Martin took it and the two men shook hands, weird, one had almost died, the other blamed himself despite not having any control over the situation and the best they could come up with was a handshake, still it was something.

"See you next week."

"Right."

Jack watched Martin slowly make his way down the corridor and then he returned to his desk, grabbed his phone, dialed the security desk at the main entrance and explained that Special Agent Martin Fitzgerald was on his way down and Jack wanted a cab ready to take him home. The guard assured him he'd take care of it.

Hanging up Jack felt a little bit better, maybe he wasn't good at the direct contact kind of stuff but he could do a little behind the scenes. It might not be much but it was something. Settling back behind his desk he picked up the file he had been reviewing and started reading where he'd left off. It took only a moment for his mind to click on something Martin had said:

"Tell Danny I appreciate him transferring my things over to my new desk."

Jack removed the reading glasses he'd just put back on and stared thoughtfully out to the bullpen, "tell Danny" wasn't Danny talking to Martin?

TBC…