Chapter 7

It was the bright sunlight shining through the blinds the next morning that woke Steve. He lay still for a minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the confusing images of pain and violence that were his last memories with the soothing serenity of his present surroundings. Experimentally, he moved slightly, and was pleasantly surprised when his movements were met by only a dull ache. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he tried to sit up anyway, bothered by an untenable feeling of restlessness. As he shifted position, his eyes caught on his father, fast asleep in a cot beside his bed, and he relaxed back against the pillows. He scanned what he could see of Mark, but there were no obvious injuries, and he seemed to be resting peacefully. The last residue of tension departed, leaving him half asleep and feeling remarkably contented. He dozed for an indeterminate length of time before rousing again at the entrance of a nurse. Seeing he was awake, she soon departed to fetch Jesse.

Jesse bounced into the room "So, you're awake at last; I thought..." Steve quieted him, indicating his sleeping father. "Sorry, I thought you'd never wake up. How are you feeling?" Although the last question was considerably lower in volume, the damage had been done and Mark started to stir. He yawned and stretched, moving stiffly at first, but as he saw Steve awake and alert he smiled, swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood up beside his son's bed.

Automatically assessing his son's condition, he asked, "How're you feeling?"

"That's what I was just trying to ascertain," said Jesse without rancor. "Mark, why don't you have a shower and grab a bite to eat while I check Steve over."

"Go on, Dad," Steve urged. He expected the exam to be uncomfortable and didn't want his father to suffer through it with him.

Recognizing the concern behind the request, Mark reluctantly complied knowing Jesse would fill him in later. When he returned 20 minutes later, feeling much refreshed, Steve was sitting up in bed, albeit a shade paler, but tucking enthusiastically into his breakfast.

"He's doing fine, Mark. No sign of infection, and he's certainly got a good appetite," Jesse reassured Mark.

Steve paused between mouthfuls, ready to launch an interrogation of his own into the events of the previous day, when he was interrupted by the entrance of two familiar figures. He wasn't surprised to see Amanda, but he had not anticipated the arrival of Chief Masters.

Mark quickly filled him in on the Chief's role in the hostage negotiation.

"I don't even know what happened. Are the kids alright?"

Masters smiled enigmatically. "They're fine. Your father had no difficulty talking them down quite peaceably."

Steve looked at his dad, pride evident in his eyes. "I had no doubts you could manage it Dad. How did you persuade them to give up?"

Mark opened his mouth to explain, but was beaten to it by a smooth interjection by the Chief. "I believe his exact words were 'shoot me or give me the gun.'" This conversational equivalent of a hand grenade thrown into the room was followed by a dumbstruck silence, then a crack of laughter from Jesse, echoed by an ominous "What!" from Steve. Mark looked at Masters, his mouth now hanging open in shock, as he wondered if the Chief knew how deeply into trouble his words had dropped him. From the bland expression on Master's face he knew exactly, and had intended this as a subtle form of revenge for Mark's actions outside the store the day before.

"It's not how it sounds," he hastily tried to extract himself from the approaching storm.

"What were you doing inside the building anyway?" Steve's demeanour did not bode well for Sergeant Adams. Mark winced. It had been a while since he had heard his son's "you're not a cop" speech directed at him.

"It wasn't like that...I wasn't really in any..." Mark floundered, his usual verbal facility deserting him. He risked a glance at his son, but his glowering countenance did nothing to reassure him or enable him to coherently justify his actions. Caught off guard, his thoughts were disordered, the emotional turmoil of the previous day at odds with the present tranquility and familiarity of his surroundings. He tried again, stammering a few more disjointed phrases before sputtering to a stop. Another quick look at Steve revealed a twinkle in his eye as he enjoyed the spectacle of his father squirming like an errant schoolboy. Mark immediately changed tack.

"It's not like you set me a good example," he said accusingly, the echoes of a long-ago confrontation reverberating in his mind. He saw a glimmer of recognition in Steve's eyes as his son picked up his cue and obligingly completed the role reversal.

"Don't think we won't be talking about this later." His tone was a perfect mimicry of Mark's distant attempt at stern parenting. They grinned at each other in perfect understanding, 40 or so years of shared experiences and love creating a bond that couldn't be damaged, never mind broken.

Steve knew he could never stay mad at his father. When he had first become a detective, he had tried hard to keep his father out of investigations, fearing for his safety, but he had soon come to realize the futility of such actions. However, his father's blithe disregard for his own safety and tendency to jump into perilous situations with both feet still had the ability to terrify him. He remembered with a clarity undimmed by the passing years, the time Mark had driven himself into the middle of a forest fire to find the evidence to identify a murderer, and he remembered still more clearly the moment of utter despair when he believed he couldn't reach him and save him. However, he recognised that then, as so often since, it was Mark's curiosity and his sense of justice and compassion that drove him to such lengths, and Steve knew he wouldn't change anything about his father for the world. So now he merely maintained a steely determination to extricate his father from whatever danger his enthusiasm had led him into.

"Next time, I'll use my handcuffs," he threatened, only half joking. Then he turned to the Chief, who had been watching the proceedings with a sardonic half smile on his face. More soberly he asked ,"What's going to happen to the boys? They're not bad kids. Shooting me was as much as accident as anything and I would hate to see the full force of the law descending on them."

"Social Services is placing Tim in foster care for now. As for Rick," the Chief shook his head, "only time will tell. Well, I'm glad to see you're doing well. I'll send someone along to get your statements soon and, Lieutenant, I expect to see you back at work in...?" He paused expectantly for the doctors to fill in. Steve's "a week" was overridden by a chorus of "two weeks" from the assembled doctors. He gave Steve a sympathetic nod and confirmed "two weeks" then let himself out of the door.

Steve looked disgusted. "I don't need to stay here for two weeks," he told Jesse firmly.

"Of course you don't," agreed Jesse lightly but quickly extinguished Steve's

relieved smile by following up with "but no strenuous activity for two weeks. In the meantime, while you're here, you will stay quiet or I'll be the one using handcuffs."

"So what am I supposed to do for 2 weeks?"

Amanda pulled out a deck of cards from her pocket with a flourish. "Poker time!"

"Not again," Jesse groaned. "I still owe you about 200 jelly beans from last time."

"You've just got to work on that poker face, Jesse. Practice makes perfect."

"Let's raise the stakes," suggested Steve. "We'll play for those mini chocolate eggs instead. I love those."

"Ha, what makes you think you'll win?" scoffed Amanda. "I couldn't eat all the chocolate I'd win."

"You could give it to the boys," suggested Mark, grateful that her distraction seemed to be working. He deftly removed the deck from her hands and shuffled dextrously.

"I don't let my kids get addicted to junk food," Amanda said virtuously and not exactly truthfully.

"Are you insinuating it's my fault that Steve has such bad taste in food?" Mark asked, deliberately provocative.

"There's nothing wrong with my taste," Steve protested.

"Not if you're an orangutan," Jesse interjected.

"Aren't they vegetarians?"

"OK, so I picked the wrong animal, but the concept was right."

The amicable bickering continued as Mark dealt the cards. But despite the casual insults peppering the conversation, any hospital personnel passing by would have seen four heads bent together over the bed in a close circle of friendship and belonging.

Author's Note: Thank you so much to all those people who took time to review this story. Your comments were very encouraging. If you enjoyed reading my story you have Nonny to thank in more ways than one. Not only did she inspire the writing of this story but when my computer proved unequal to the task of adding chapters, she posted each installment for me. Without her you would have been stuck at Chapter 1!