Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

The first earthquake hit at 4:17am. Of course, first can be a relative term. There was nothing to distinguish it from the twenty-three other minor tremors that had hit Southern California the day before. Registering barely a two on the Moment Magnitude scale, it would hardly have been felt even by someone standing directly on the epicenter. As it was, there was not a soul within fifteen miles to notice, only an analog seismograph in one of the 350 stations that are scattered through the lower half of the state. It obediently relayed this data down the phone line to the central computer on the Caltech campus. The computer calculated a preliminary location and magnitude and saved the data, but it was programmed only to monitor for anomalous readings, and an M2 quake was not considered worthy of an alarm. The swarm of foreshocks that followed would only be interpreted in retrospect as a warning that the awesome power of the earth was about to be unleashed.

Thursday 7.48am

Steve Sloan awoke slowly, two unaccustomed sensations seeping into his awareness. The first was the luxurious knowledge that he had successfully closed a case the night before and, as a consequence, had nothing to do for most of the morning. He contemplated a return to sleep, but the second sensation was becoming more insistent. He had a headache, nothing major, just a sense of pressure at the back of his head wrapping round to the side, and a slight feeling of nausea. He was tempted to blame the discomfort on the impromptu celebration he had indulged in with his partner, but, as it had been late and he had to drive home, he had only had one beer, so a hangover could not provide an adequate explanation.

Steve yawned and stretched, absently rubbing his head in a futile attempt to ease the tension there. Deciding that a run was what he needed to clear the cobwebs from his brain, he quickly dressed in some suitable clothes and let himself out the door, pausing for some perfunctory stretches. A dog howled in the distance, and unconsciously this determined Steve’s choice of direction. He started jogging at an easy pace along the almost deserted beach, enjoying the slight early morning chill in the winter air. He quickly recognised the source of the barking as Bob, the bassett hound, and as he approached the Kilmer sisters’ house, he slowed in concern, the doleful sound sending shivers of apprehension down his spine. This sudden presentiment of danger was abruptly banished by an unladylike yell from the house of, --“Shut up, Bob!” and, reassured, Steve continued his run. He started picking up the pace, his stride lengthening. The rhythm of his feet pounding on the firm sand near the water’s edge seemed to replace the pounding in his head as if the two couldn’t exist in counterpoint. The ocean worked its wondrous magic, the waves temporarily erasing all his worries as well as washing away his footsteps in the sand.

After a couple of miles, he turned round, taking the return journey at a more leisurely pace. The sound of Bob’s howling reached him again, at first wavering faintly on the breeze, then gathering volume as he approached the house. It was a sound redolent of misery, and his sense of unease returned. He saw one of the sisters, he was unable to identify which, attempting to comfort the distraught hound and he called out a greeting. Her relief at seeing him was evident, and Steve took this as an invitation to check Bob out for himself.

As Steve reached them, she gave him a slightly nervous smile. “I was afraid someone would call the police and complain about him disturbing the peace or something. I’ve tried to take him inside but he just puts on his brakes and flatly refuses to budge. Do you think I should take him to the vet?”

She seemed to have a flattering faith in his ability to know what to do, but erratic canine behaviour was not Steve’s forte. Slobbery jowls rested on his leg, and lugubrious eyes fixed on him as he knelt down next to the animal, stroking his head, gently feeling for any physical cause for the dog’s distress.

“He doesn’t look sick to me, just....miserable.” Steve frowned, unable to offer more by way of comfort. He stood up, brushing at the wet stain on his sweatpants ruefully. “If he doesn’t improve, let me know.”

The dog’s aberrant behaviour left Steve with a strange sense of unease, but he pushed it to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on how great he felt after his run. A shower only served to increase his sense of well-being, and he took the steps upstairs to the kitchen two at a time, his smile broadening to a grin at the smell of bacon and eggs emanating from the warm room.

“Hey, Dad,” he greeted his father, who was sitting drinking coffee with a crossword in front of him. He paused in appreciation at the sight of a plate of steaming breakfast waiting for him. “That’s great timing, Dad. How did you know when I’d be ready?”

Mark was just about to confess to seeing him return from his run when Steve interrupted him with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

“Never mind, I’d rather just believe in your omniscience this morning.”

Mark regarded his uncharacteristically exuberant son with amusement. “I gather the Mansfield bust went well last night.”

“It was perfect, Dad. We got him cold; no lawyer in the world is going to get him off this one. How did you know we’d find the papers in the drainpipe?”

Mark buffed his fingernails with false modesty. “Discerning mind,” he suggested. “Boundless sagacity, dazzling intellect, sheer brilliance.” He waited for his son to amiably deflate his ego, and was taken aback when Steve merely nodded with satisfaction.

“That’s what I told the guys at work,” he said thoughtfully. “Believe me, they didn’t take much convincing. You could tell them the moon was made of green cheese and they’d believe you at this point. The only thing I haven’t managed to convince them of yet is that it runs in the family, but I’m still working on that.”

Mark looked up sharply at this, afraid that it showed a disparagement of his son’s own contributions to the case, but Steve’s mischievous grin persuaded him that he was merely planning a way to hoodwink his co-workers.

He smiled back, relieved and, once again, amazed by his son’s generosity of spirit. He was always concerned that Steve might resent his father’s interference in his cases, but instead he showed nothing but pride in Mark’s accomplishments. In the first few years after Steve had made detective, Mark had blithely involved himself in cases without thinking of the effect it might have on his son’s credibility. That had come to an abrupt halt after inadvertently overhearing one of Steve’s colleagues making derisive comments about not being able to close a case without Daddy’s help. Mark had frozen in place, dismayed, afraid that his son’s temper would erupt, but knowing that any attempt at assistance or even distraction would merely exacerbate the situation. He had been comforted and deeply touched by Steve’s cool-headed, almost dismissive reply of, -- “You use what resources you have to get murderers off the streets, and my Dad is the best. Get used to it.”

Steve had no doubts as to his own competence in his chosen profession. He knew he lacked Mark’s intuitive leaps of deduction but he believed his father was unique, and it didn’t detract from the fact that he was still extremely successful as a cop, meticulous and persistent. He excelled at following Mark’s sometimes convoluted thought processes and translating them into arrests that would hold up in court. Throughout it all, he held a boundless and unshakeable faith in his father. Mark found himself rather regretting his earlier flippant attitude.

“If I was half as smart as I think I am, I’d be able to finish this crossword,” Mark observed self-deprecatingly. “I’m totally stuck here, -- ‘Egyptian Goddess, loves silence’, ten letters beginning with.....”

“Meretseger,” Steve interrupted nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair and pretending not to notice the classic double-take demonstrated by his father.

Mark gazed down at the newspaper, coughing to disguise his surprise at this unexpected erudition from his son. “Let me see...M - E - R - E -T.....”

“S - E - G - E - R,” Steve supplied helpfully, sipping his coffee and successfully suppressing his glee at his father’s discomposure.

“That fits...um, thank you.”

Steve continued casually, -- “I believe she was the goddess of punishment and mercy. She blinded or poisoned criminals. I always kind of approved of her.”

Mark stared at him suspiciously, on the cusp of asking him to explain the source of his esoteric knowledge, but unable to think of a way to phrase it that didn’t sound like he thought his son was ignorant. Steve gazed back at him innocently, hoping not to have to divulge that a thriller he had recently read had provided him with the serendipitous trivia.

Mark dropped his gaze back to the paper. “Let me see, 9 down is.....”

“Whoa!” Steve got up laughing and hastily started to clear the table. “I’m resting on my laurels. I have to use my genius sparingly.”

Mark smiled too, happy to see his son so relaxed. He threw the newspaper down on the table and for a while just watched Steve doing the dishes, enjoying the sheer domesticity of the moment. “What are your plans for the day?”

Steve dried his hands on the cloth as he pondered his schedule. “Amanda promised she’d have the Gilman autopsy ready by 11:00, so I need to leave fairly soon. Can I give you a lift to work?”

Some of Mark’s lightheartedness dropped away at the mention of the recent murder. “That would be perfect. I left my car at the hospital yesterday when Amanda brought me home. I’m not on till 2:00, but I’ll come in with you anyway. I’d like to see that report for myself; after all, he was my patient for 10 years.”

Steve reseated himself to concentrate on the conversation. “How well did you know him, Dad?” he asked curiously.

Mark shrugged. “Not very well. He was a very private person.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about him?” Steve persisted.

Mark frowned, his attention caught by his son’s insistence. “I thought it was just a break-in gone wrong. Do you suspect a different motive?”

Steve shook his head. “It probably was just a bungled robbery, but when someone that rich dies, the amount of money involved creates a proportionate volume of suspicion, so we have to check all angles.”

Mark obligingly thought back to try to glean some background information from his infrequent meetings with the Gilmans. “Lisa is his second wife,” he said at last. “I believe he had a daughter by his first marriage, but that they are somewhat estranged. I don’t think he could have been the easiest person to live with, he was always...” Mark paused, trying to find the best word to convey his impression of Jack Gilman. “....uncompromising. Actually, I vaguely remember some scandal just before he became my patient, something about his ex-partner suing him for his share of the company. I don’t recall the details.”

“That sounds like a lead worth following. Thanks, Dad.”

“Would you like me to come with you when you talk to Lisa?” Mark asked hopefully.

Steve pretended to weigh that suggestion carefully. “Let me see.....me and a grieving widow or you and a grieving widow. That’s a hard one, Dad.”

Mark chuckled. “We should have time for that after getting the autopsy report. I’ll get ready and meet you at the car.”

Steve returned to his apartment to pick up a jacket, his enjoyment of the day already enhanced by the prospect of working with his father again. He pondered wryly on the difference that a few years could make. For a time after he had become a detective, his father had jumped enthusiastically into his cases while he had tried, without too much tact, to keep him out of them, terrified that he would be hurt. Somewhere along the way, that had all changed. Mark tended to be more diplomatic in his involvement, and Steve actively welcomed, indeed sought, his contributions. They had become a team, meshing flawlessly in their abilities, complimenting each other’s strengths and weaknesses. With his father’s assistance, Steve had a solve rate on his cases second to none.

In a brief spurt of introspection, born of contentment, Steve took stock of his life. He loved his job, he was facing a new challenge with his Dad by his side. It was going to be a good day.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Thursday 12:17pm

Steve pulled up into the driveway of the Gilman residence. He was mildly surprised to find that it wasn’t as imposing an edifice as the Beverly Hills address and wealth of the owner would have led him to believe. It was a large house, but it lacked the trappings of conspicuous consumption so common in the area. The only visible security was a plain metal gate blocking the entrance and a wall surrounding the property, both of which could be easily circumvented by a determined intruder.

“Have you been here before?” he asked his father, who was also eying the surroundings curiously.

Mark shook his head thoughtfully. “It reflects his personality, though --unostentatious and very private.”

Indeed, trees and bushes blocked all signs of neighbours, but Steve made a mental note to interview those nearest for possible witnesses to the disturbances the night before. He checked his watch; they were scheduled to meet with Lisa Gilman in about fifteen minutes. While the forensic team scoured her house, she had stayed with a friend in the neighbourhood, but had consented to meet with them to answer some questions. Mark and Steve had arrived early since they wanted to get a feel for the murder scene before the interview.

The CSU had finished their preliminary explorations, and the house had been left empty. Inside, the unnatural presence of police tape and forensic accoutrements seemed to accentuate the echoing hollowness. The front door opened into a large living area, on the far side of which was a large spiral staircase leading up to the next floor. The infamous chalk outline was at the top of the staircase, spectral hands outflung imploringly. Steve regarded the shape grimly, accustomed to the lingering ambience of death, but never inured to its silent pleas for justice.

The autopsy had revealed little, despite Amanda’s customary, painstaking efforts. Gilman had been stabbed to death, four deep blows with a stiletto-type knife to the torso, any of which could have been fatal. The direction of the wounds indicated that either the assailant was much shorter than Gilman or had been below him. There were also some defensive wounds on his arms, showing that he had made an attempt to protect himself. The only anomalous finding in the autopsy had been the presence of Zolpiden, the narcotic ingredient of a prescription sleep aid. Together with a low blood alcohol level, it would have been enough to dull Gilman’s reflexes and render him less than usually capable of defending himself.

Steve watched in fascinated anticipation as his father paced round the chalk outline, noting the position of the rooms upstairs, then walked a little way down the stairs and up again, looking over his shoulder at the front door. His intent expression indicated that he was mentally recreating the crime, and Steve wondered, not for the first time, how many of his father’s conclusions were inductive rather than deductive. Not that Mark wasn’t very capable of ratiocination, but sometimes he seemed to start with a hunch and follow it back to its logical roots. Steve temporarily forgot his own investigations in the enjoyment of watching his father analyze the crime scene. Mark had dedicated himself to preserving life and tended to take its cavalier termination personally. Steve knew how much his father loved the challenge of pitting his wits against the criminal element, but he also knew better than anyone that it wasn’t the excitement of the chase that drove Mark but a passion for justice, an innate sense of fairplay. Steve had been the beneficiary of his even-handed dispensation of justice growing up, and had learnt to greatly appreciate its fairness, leavened as it often was by a glimmer of humour.

Finally Mark looked up, and the familiar gleam in his eye brought a smile to Steve’s face.

“OK, Dad,” he prompted, with mock resignation. “What have you got?”

“This wasn’t a straightforward burglary. He knew the murderer.” Mark quirked an eyebrow at his son invitingly, but Steve, aware of his father’s love of the dramatic, refused the offer of speculation and gestured for him to continue. “We know the intruder broke the window and entered through the kitchen. Whether it was the noise that alerted Gilman or something else, he came out of his bedroom and spotted him downstairs. He was no threat to a burglar, he was unarmed, and if theft were the sole motive, any burglar worth his salt would have escaped either back through the kitchen or out the front door while the going was good. Burglary isn’t worth the death penalty if there’s an alternative. No, the intruder deliberately mounted the stairs to attack Jack. He was probably on the last step when he stabbed him, which would account for the angle of the wounds. I’d say it was premeditated murder and the burglary was just a cover.”

Steve stared down at the hallway, envisaging the scene as his father had depicted it. Although he could poke some holes in the scenario, he trusted his father’s instincts. Mark’s attention to detail and uncannily accurate reading of human nature had provided the basis of suppositions that had proved to be right countless times.

“Sounds like a good working theory to me,” Steve agreed. “I don’t suppose you could supply the name of the miscreant? Oh, and a current address would be nice.”

“Haven’t a clue,” Mark admitted cheerfully. “But it’s early days yet.”

They continued their examination of the house until Steve’s sharp ears picked up the sound of a car arriving. Realising how traumatic it would be for the widow to return to the scene of her husband’s murder, they went outside to help ease her entrance. As they stood on the steps, Mark’s attention was caught by a flock of birds wheeling haphazardly in the sky. Their movements were unusually frantic, and he frowned, a random memory simmering just below the surface of his mind, but, before it had time to bubble to a conscious level, he was distracted by Lisa opening the car door. She seemed genuinely relieved to see Mark standing there. He introduced Steve and then walked her inside, talking gently of inconsequentials until he had her ensconced in a chair, her back to the staircase and the devastation it represented. With a glance, he signaled Steve that he was transferring control of the situation to him.

After a brief but sincere expression of condolence, Steve started his interrogation. “I know this is very difficult for you, Mirs. Gilman, but could you tell me what happened yesterday evening?”

Lisa waved her hand in distress. “I told the officer last night...”

“I understand that, ma’am, but I need to hear it in your words,” Steve persisted firmly, but pleasantly.

Lisa started her story reluctantly, with many distraught pauses while she twisted a handkerchief around in her hands. Steve listened intently, more to the intonations and manner of delivery for possible prevarication than to the narrative itself. He already knew she had an iron-clad alibi for the time of the murder, which Amanda had placed at around 9:30 pm. She had been a prominent figure at a charity function that had been attended by many dignitaries who could vouch for her presence all evening. Gilman had also been expected to attend, but had apparently felt unwell at the last minute and decided to stay home. It was no secret in their social circle that the Gilman’s were both supposed to be out of the house that night, and their presumed absence bolstered the assumption of an intended burglary. Lisa had been driven home by a friend after midnight and found her husband dead.

It was obvious that Lisa Gilman had not killed her husband, but the suspicion of complicity remained, and Steve had to ask the questions that would eliminate that possibility.

“Mrs. Gilman, do you know anyone who would want to hurt your husband?”

Her shock at the question was unfeigned. “But....it was a burglary....you don’t think that someone meant...?”

Steve reassured her that the inquiry was merely routine, but he had even more pointed questions to ask. “Can you tell me who will inherit your husband’s money?”

To his relief, Lisa didn’t take the question personally, merely stating that the money was to be divided equally between her and her step-daughter. Further interrogation elicited the information that the sleeping pills, Ambien, were hers, but that Jack occasionally resorted to taking them if he felt the need. She claimed that she was unaware that he had done so the night before.

As he continued the interview, Steve found himself increasingly distracted by his father’s movements. Although he was undoubtedly listening to Lisa’s answers, Mark had taken the opportunity to continue to explore the living room. Now, he was perched precariously on the arm of a chair, attempting to reach something in a plant pot hanging from the wall under the top of the stairway. Even as Steve watched, the chair tipped slightly, throwing Mark off-balance. Steve’s reaction was instantaneous, honed reflexes kicking into overdrive. He lunged past the startled Mrs. Gilman, whose position had prevented her from following the action, and caught his father’s frantically windmilling arm, assisting him to an ungraceful but safe landing on the floor.

Steve had lost count of the number of times he had helped avert a fall from roller skates, motor scooter or assorted other unconventional methods of transportation that his father favoured. It should have been a routine occurrence, but Steve harboured a secret and, he admitted to himself, irrational fear that his father was going to escape the multitudes of serial killers and vengeful murderers who seemed to float effortlessly through his life, to break his neck falling in just such an accident. The adrenaline jolting through his system provoked an uncharacteristic glare at his father who attempted unsuccessfully to look sheepish in response. It was at times like this that Steve felt like a parent with an errant child, but he also knew that he wouldn’t change a thing about his father even if he could, and as usual Mark’s unabashed grin deflected any remaining ire.

Mark was holding something wrapped in a handkerchief, and he waved it in triumph before turning to Lisa who was staring at him with her mouth hanging slightly open as if she didn’t see elderly doctors performing acrobatics in her living room everyday. Of course, she probably didn’t, Steve decided. It was only in his life that this was commonplace.

Steve released the grip he hadn’t realised he was still holding on Mark’s arm, as his father showed Lisa his find. It was a pen, black with an intricate gold design etched onto it. “Do you recognise this?” he asked.

The question quickly proved redundant as Lisa’s reaction provided a non-verbal affirmative. She turned a sickly white colour and burst into tears. Steve heard the disjointed explanation of ‘anniversary ....two weeks ago....final present’ before turning away, resigning himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be able to extract any more useful information from Mrs. Gilman that day. Dealing with lachrymose females was not his forte, and he was deeply grateful for his father’s assistance. He marveled at the many facets of his father’s personality that he’d seen in the last hour: the dedicated sleuth, the mischievous boy and now the caring grandfather.

Everyone, young or old, seemed to respond to that aval quality in Mark. The kindness transparent in his gentle blue eyes and the very genuine interest he displayed in their troubles convinced even strangers to confide in him. Steve thought wryly that he knew from experience that it was the best interrogation technique he’d ever seen. As a teenager, he’d believed his father could extract the truth with one glance, and even now, it was a good thing that Mark usually respected his privacy since he was never able to withstand that bright, inquisitive gaze fixed on him for long.

While Mark comforted Mrs. Gilman, Steve took the opportunity to explore the other rooms in the house, more to get a feel for the family, its relationships and interests than because he expected to find clues to the murderer. He found several photographs taken over a span of years of a girl he thought was Gilman’s daughter, but on the whole the house was strangely impersonal.

When he returned to the living room, Lisa was more composed and was talking with some animation about her recent anniversary while Mark admired the pen. An almost imperceptible headshake from his father warned Steve not to attempt any more questions, so he merely thanked her for her cooperation, promised to keep in touch, and escorted her back to her car as she swore she couldn’t sleep another night in the house.

There was no time for further sleuthing as Mark needed to get back to Community General to start his shift. For a while in the car, neither of the men spoke as they considered their impressions and the evidence presented so far, but finally Steve turned to his father. “So, what do you think?” he queried.

Mark was still looking pensive. “I’ve only met Lisa Gilman twice before and I don’t know her well enough to predict her reactions. Not all her responses quite rang true, but I don’t know if she’s guilty of complicity in her husband’s murder.”

“Ninety-two million dollars, or half that sum, is quite an incentive.” Steve pointed out.

“True, but it’s not like she didn’t have access to that money before. I don’t think that Jack begrudged her anything. If she was involved, there’s something more to it.” Seeing that they were nearly at Community General, Mark asked. “What are your plans now?”

“For now, I think I’ll head back to the station and do a bit more background digging on the daughter and the former business partner.” Steve stopped the car in front of the hospital to let his father out.

As he watched his son start to drive away, Mark was suddenly seized by a strong impulse. “Steve, wait!” he called out sharply.

Steve braked quickly and, when his father didn’t move, reversed and wound down the window. “What’s wrong, Dad?” he asked with some concern. For a long moment Mark didn’t answer, trying to pin down the source of his trepidation. He was no stranger to the feeling of fear for the safety of his son, he’d had to learn to live with its continued discordant presence in his life, but he could never claim prescience. Each of Steve’s lamentably frequent injuries had come as a jarring shock, despite the dread and anticipation of such an event.

There had to be an explanation for the sense of foreboding that gripped him, some hint of danger that his mind had subliminally recognised but was unable to consciously grasp. He stared helplessly at this son, unable to articulate a reason for the sharp stab of fear that urged him to keep his son close.

Steve waited patiently, curiosity apparent in his expression.

“Just be careful,” Mark said lamely.

Steve could sense there was something more his father wanted to say but, unsure how to help, he settled for what hoped was a reassuring but light-hearted reply of -- “I always am.”

Mark snorted. “If that’s your best effort at careful, please spare me your demonstration of careless,” he said dryly.

Steve laughed, the familiarity of the complaint reassuring. “See you later, Dad.”

Mark watched him drive away, resolutely pushing his anxiety aside. Even Steve couldn’t get into too much trouble at the station, and maybe his subconscious would come up with the answer as to what was bothering him quicker if he was distracted by his work. But as he entered the building he found himself wishing that he had at least worded his warning more forcefully.

Chapter Text

Thursday 5:55pm

Steve had driven away from the hospital puzzled and mildly unsettled by his father’s uncharacteristic behaviour. Police work was in his blood; he found it a natural outlet for his talents, and he loved the constant challenges it offered, but the one drawback to the occupation was the constant worry it afforded his father. Mark almost never mentioned his fears, but, since Steve had suffered his first life-threatening injury in the field, he had noticed the occasional shadowing in his father’s eyes as he left for work. Steve hated causing that relentless, gnawing worm of worry that undermined Mark’s peace of mind. He wished he could promise that he’d never be hurt again, but such a reassurance would be meaningless. While Steve would never indulge in heroics for their own sake, he was constitutionally incapable of standing by while someone needed his help.

Mark had always understood his son’s need to protect and serve, and so rarely displayed the anxieties that the job engendered, that Steve was curious as to why his father’s fears had broken through his habitual reticence on that particular day, especially since they echoed his own inchoate sense of unease. There didn’t seem to be any obvious threat connected to the current case that might have sparked concern, but Steve trusted his father’s instincts, and he was determined to proceed with extra vigilance.

His time at the station researching the case had proved fruitful. Mark had been correct about Gilman’s involvement in a lawsuit with his former partner, Brain MacKay. Judging from the newspaper reports, it had been a bitter fight with Gilman emerging victorious. Gilman had bought out his partner’s share of the business when MacKay had been in desperate need of cash to pay off some gambling debts. Gilman had then turned round and launched a new software program, simultaneously going public with the company and becoming an instant multi-millionaire. MacKay had sued for a share of the profits, citing his input in the programming, but the judge had ruled that he forfeited all rights to the company in the sale. Brian MacKay was now the head of the Computer Science department at the University of California, Hilton Heights. He had been in a seminar all afternoon, but the department secretary expected him back in the office after it ended at 6:00, and Steve had driven fifty miles out of the greater Los Angeles area towards the San Gabriel mountains in the hopes of catching the professor before he left for the day.

UCHH was one of the oldest campuses in the state’s higher education system. Originally built near an affluent neighbourhood, the money had long since drained out of the district, leaving it run-down and impoverished. The university was all that was left of its former glory. Its architecture was impressive; elaborately constructed towers and columns adorning formidable stone edifices.

The computer science department was obviously a more recent addition to the campus, and its design was considerably more modern. Steve climbed to the third floor, observing with nostalgia the trappings of academia. Posters festooned a plethora of notice boards, advertising everything from protest rallies to pep rallies, from roommates to chess tournaments. Steve stopped for a minute to peruse one of the boards, lost in a pleasant haze of reminiscence. His job exposed him to the underbelly of society, and he constantly faced humanity at its worst. It was refreshing to recall the high ideals of youth and see evidence of its guileless innocence. Somehow, even the smell of the building seemed to pull him back to the halcyon days of football games and infinite possibilities. He resumed his climb with an extra spring in his step.

He only had to endure a short wait outside MacKay’s office before the professor arrived. The secretary, barely more than a teenager herself, had been sneaking glances at him laden with avid curiosity. Now, she leapt up to introduce the two men. MacKay hitched the pile of books and papers he was carrying against his left side and proffered his hand. As Steve shook it, the first thought that entered his mind was that MacKay did not fit the stereotype of the computer nerd. Although not quite as tall as Steve, he had an athletic build and a firm grasp. His only concession to a sedentary lifestyle in front of a computer was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

The secretary handed MacKay his messages. “You also had several calls from some woman, but she refused to leave her name,” she informed him.

“A student wanting an extension on a paper, I’m sure,” MacKay remarked dismissively. “Lieutenant, please come in.”

The professor preceded Steve into the room and placed the stack of books on the floor next to several other similar mounds, permitting Steve a brief chance to assess the surroundings.

The walls of MacKay’s office were liberally adorned with framed awards and shelves containing trophies. Steve knew it was traditional to display a degree certificate in a professional situation, but this seemed a gratuitous overabundance of conceit. The ostentation hinted at a man with something to prove to the world.

Something vaguely familiar caught Steve’s attention on the desk, but before he could focus in on it, his view was blocked by MacKay, who hitched his hip on the front of the desk. Such a position might look informal, but it also gave him a considerable height advantage on the man sitting in the chair, and Steve got the impression that it was supposed to imbue MacKay with an aura of authority. It might work on students, but Steve was too experienced to feel anything but amusement at this obvious power play.

MacKay launched into a smooth offensive. “I thought I’d get a visit from the police when I read about Jack’s death in the newspapers. A terrible shame. I suppose you know about the lawsuit?”

Steve inclined his head in affirmation. “It does seem like a good motive for murder,” he remarked without emphasis.

“Ten years ago maybe, but not anymore,” MacKay scoffed. “Oh, I admit at the time I was furious, but everything’s different now. I’ve found my niche here. I’m well respected in my field, and I enjoy what I do. I even make a quite respectable salary.”

“Not exactly in the millions though, is it?” Steve asked dryly.

“Killing Jack wouldn’t change that. In fact, if you’re looking for a financial motive, killing him would scupper my last chances of acquiring my share of the company.” MacKay sat back, anticipating the effect of that pronouncement with enjoyment.

At Steve’s raised and slightly skeptical eyebrow, he explained the conditions of their business deal that Jack had insisted upon. If Gilman had died first, the company would be left to Lisa. But if she predeceased him, control would revert back to MacKay on Gilman’s death. “So,” he concluded with a smile. “I really had no reason to wish Jack dead, at least not while Lisa is alive.”

If this were true, and Steve didn’t think he would lie about something so easy to verify, it did cast doubts on MacKay’s motivation. However, Steve wasn’t willing to capitulate yet.

“Would you mind telling me where you were last night?” he asked, mentally calculating how many times he had phrased that question in the last few years.

“Not at all; though I’m afraid it won’t be of any use, one way or another. I was at home watching Law and Order while I graded papers. If I had known I would be needing an alibi, I would have invited someone over, but as it is, I’m sorry to say there is no one to corroborate my story. However, feel free to talk to my neighbours; they might remember that my car was there all evening.”

MacKay’s answers were too suave, almost practiced, and, although Steve accepted that the man was an experienced lecturer and presumably had the ability to extemporise plausibly, he still felt an instinctive distrust of him. He tried to remain objective to prevent his personal impressions of the man from clouding the facts, but his instincts told him that MacKay was involved even if there was no hard evidence to support his theory. He wished that Mark had been able to accompany him to the University. He could do with some of his father’s “boundless sagacity” right now.

After a few more routine questions into MacKay’s earlier business dealings with Gilman, the phone rang again, and Steve took it as a sign to leave. MacKay shook hands with an easy smile and a promise of future cooperation if needed, and picked up the phone as Steve walked away, unsatisfied with the progress he had made during the interview. He contemplated the long ride back home with a sigh, feeling a sudden spasm of hunger. At least the drive over the Soledad Canyon Bridge wouldn’t be so bad now the rush hour was over.

Once down in the parking lot, he pulled out his phone on an impulse, automatically pressing one on the speed dial.

“Dad. It’s me,” he greeted his father as the phone was answered.

“Steve! Where are you? Is everything all right?”

Steve caught the immediate anxiety in his Dad’s voice and hastened to reassure him. “Everything’s fine; except I starving.” He ignored the sardonic muttering from the other end. “I’m just about to leave the University. How about I grab some Chinese and bring it to the hospital, and I’ll catch you up on the latest developments during your break?”

Mark’s response was immediately enthusiastic, and Steve promised to bring enough for Jesse and Amanda too. He was happy to hear relief easing into the tone of his father’s voice at the prospect of his imminent return. “I’ll see you soon, Dad,” he said in farewell, the words casual, but with a deeper assurance understood between them.

As he replaced the phone, some instinct told him he was being watched, and a brief glance upwards revealed MacKay at his window. There was something menacing in his silent regard, and, for a moment, Steve was tempted to return to question him some more, but the desire for food and good company won out, and he got into his car.

The dilapidated buildings on either side of the road created a depressing backdrop to his thoughts as Steve drove through the old Main Street of Hilton Heights. His mind was focused on the interview he’d just finished, and as the car started to jiggle slightly, he automatically dismissed the bouncing as a result of potholes or possibly an excessively deflated tyre. However, the motion rapidly deteriorated into a strange swerving lurch that had him mentally cursing the mechanic who had recently serviced his car. His professional racing experience had left him confident in his ability to handle most driving situations, so it didn’t occurred to him to be concerned until, looking up at the street ahead, his stomach gave a lurch of alarm at the loss of his sense of equilibrium. The car swerved out of his control as the road seemed to quiver like gelatin, and, for one horrifying moment, he feared he was having a stroke. His ears were filled with a dull roaring, and everything in his vision was swaying queasily. It was only as the car veered into a telephone pole beside the road with a sickening crash that the truth hit with an equally forceful impact. Earthquake!

Chapter Text

Thursday 7:02pm

The seat belt prevented Steve from suffering a serious injury, but the impact of the crash left him momentarily stunned and helpless, while the car rocked violently beneath him, slamming him against the door. A brick smashed into the windscreen inches away from his face, causing him to jerk back in surprise, and a staccato percussion on the roof announced the arrival of several more projectiles. A sudden, shocking intuition had him fumbling for the release of the seat belt and, slamming his shoulder against the door, which had jammed uncooperatively, he dived into the street, hitting the ground hard as it surged up to meet him. Unable to regain his feet as the earth jumped savagely, he rolled away from the car, covering his head with his arms for protection. His precipitous exit from the car was only just in time, as the outer walls of a three-story building crumbled like stale crackers in an avalanche of bricks and mortar, collapsing the roof of Steve’s car and burying it under several tons of debris.

Gritty dust billowed thickly from the pile of rubble in choking waves, part of a violent assault on all his senses. A roar like a freight train approaching through a tunnel built to a deafening crescendo, adding to the disorientation of a world gone insane. The ground rolled and swelled under him, a carnival ride from hell. The thunder seemed to emanate from the very depths of the earth, accompanied by the crash of falling debris, but Steve still heard a faint cry for help. Focusing through the visual haze, he saw a young boy, maybe six or seven years old, whom he vaguely remembered had been riding a bicycle on the opposite side of the street before the arrival of the temblor. He now lay on the road, his face contorted with terror and pain, an expression that channeled straight to Steve’s protective instincts.

He attempted to stand, but the earth had become a living entity, a demon possessed, capriciously dancing and cavorting under his feet, and it punished him for his temerity in challenging it by flinging him to the ground. He clambered over to the boy in an undignified sprawl which ended in a desperate dive as, with a split-second warning, he saw impending disaster. He pulled the child into the shelter of his body, covering their heads with his leather jacket as the windows in the apartment building nearby shattered and fell in a deadly cascade of razor-edged fragments. If these had scored a direct hit, they would almost certainly have been lethal, but they fell just short, hitting the pavement and sending ricochets in all directions. The main energy of their descent was blunted, but they still contained enough force to slice deep into flesh protected only by a thin layer of clothing. Steve flinched, the pain almost irrelevant under the circumstances, and kept his head down, murmuring strained reassurances to the child until the barrage was ended. The ground continued to leap and roll underneath him, and when the storm of projectiles tapered off, he raised his head, relief tempered by the realisation that the ordeal was far from over.

Californian born and bred, Steve had been taught from an early age the proper procedures to stay safe in an earthquake. Outside, you were supposed to head for an open area, stay away from buildings, power lines, trees, anything that might choose to use your personal space into which to fall. However, as Steve attempted to assess the best route to safety, he realised with wry, and slightly morbid, incredulity that it would have been hard to have found a more dangerous place to weather the cataclysm. This narrow street was a death trap, loaded as it was with a generous abundance of the worst kind of hazards. To even try to find sanctuary would mean running the gauntlet of shattering glass and collapsing overhangs and awnings, while the ground imitated a bucking bronco beneath his feet. Arches and doorways were supposed to be the safest structures to shelter under, but none of the buildings still standing looking particularly promising as a haven, so Steve reluctantly decided that their safest choice was to stay where they were, and hope the area had already thrown the worst it could at them.

To those experiencing the quake, it seemed an eternity, but in reality it had only lasted 30 seconds, and was now building to the final onslaught. With a rending groan, the ground began to open up in giant fissures, buckling the road and tearing it into jigsaw-puzzle shapes which moved up and down and tilted at all angles. A crack opened in the street mere inches from Steve’s head, and he scuttled away from it, his heart pounding savagely, but his movements were hampered by the child in his arms and the violent jogging of the ground. Then a chasm opened beneath him, and he plummeted helplessly into it, a split second of freefall allowing him to anticipate the worst and send a heartfelt mental apology to his father.

He braced himself for the inevitable impact, but his landing was surprisingly soft, the soil warm and fragrant around him. He struggled to find his footing in the yielding dirt as he realised that they were on the verge of being engulfed by the sundry rubble tumbling into the fissure. He fended off the wreckage as best he could, and successfully boosted the boy to the top of the crevasse. He struggled unavailingly to find a foothold in the continually churning and slippery earth, suppressing a shudder of horror at the thought of being buried alive. His scrabbling feet finally found a purchase on the embankment and, with the aid of a whimsically helpful nudge from the roiling earth, he threw himself over the lip, gasping, just as the gaping chasm suddenly slammed shut with the ferocity of an alligator’s jaws grabbing at escaping prey. The force of the impact was enough to cause a ridge where the two sides met which looked uncannily like the elongated grave it had almost become.

This last violent oscillation completed the virtual annihilation of the area. Steve watched in amazement as a nearby grocery store slid off its foundations to rest mostly intact at a thirty-degree angle from the vertical, spilling food, shelving and other assorted debris out through the shattered window. A palm tree, its roots loosened by the shifting earth toppled over and, in its descent, knocked over a telephone pole, resulting in a cascade along the line accompanied by the groaning and snapping of splintering wood. Steve found himself like a hapless protagonist in a sadistic video game, dodging splintering wooden posts and their attached wires that had ripped apart and now writhed menacingly as he evaded their grasp. Exhausted, with numerous minor injuries, Steve was near the end of his physical endurance, but his spirit was as indomitable as ever, and he grimly summoned his waning resources to fight to the end.

He was granted a surprise reprieve when the roaring died sullenly away to a dull rumble and then was replaced by an ominous silence. Steve sat up carefully, taking his first real breath since the air had been knocked out of him on his first contact with the heaving pavement. He suddenly became aware of the multitude of aches assaulting his body. He absently plucked a few shards of glass from easily accessible areas as memories of previous earthquake experiences played in his mind. He remembered that the first shock was frequently followed by an immediate aftershock, so he wasn’t surprised when the end of the brief respite was signaled by a return of a muted but intensifying rumble, and the ground started to convulse and shudder once again. He muttered a brief invective before crouching wearily once more over the boy, who uttered a pitiful whimper at the realisation that the terror was not yet over.

Chapter Text

Thursday 7:04pm

This time the shaking was comparatively brief, only twenty seconds in length, and seemingly tame after the earlier shocks. The greatest danger Steve faced was that the rolling and pitching of the street would make him seasick. Up till then, he had only been able to think about surviving the immediate crisis, reacting to each new threat with the speed and decisiveness he had learned on the battlefield and on the streets to keep himself and his self-appointed charge alive.

Now, for the first time, with the imperative of survival dimmed, Steve felt real fear. A cold sweat swept the length of his body, chilling his skin and stinging the multitude of abrasions and cuts scattered along his back and legs. Questions tumbled dizzily through his mind. Was this ‘the Big One”? How much damage had been done? Had Mark and his friends escaped the quake unscathed? Steve was not the type to habitually assume the worst, but the sheer power and breadth of the destructive force he’d witnessed made it all too easy to picture his father lying buried and bleeding under the rubble. “Been there, done that, don’t need a replay,” he muttered darkly in an effort to distract himself from the disturbing images roiling in his head.

The gnawing uncertainly regarding Mark’s fate, coupled with the instinctive need to protect his father, created a powerful sense of frustration in Steve as he realised how stranded he was at his present location. With all forms of communication disrupted, and travel severely impeded, it would be impossible to determine his father’s status or to go to his aid if he was in trouble, especially considering the fact that his car was doing its best imitation of a pancake. The Gilman murder case suddenly seemed trivial in the face of such devastation, and Steve bitterly regretted traveling so far from home that day.

He was brought back to the present as the earth gave a final groan and shudder then subsided into exhausted quiescence. For a deranged moment, Steve felt an atavistic desire to scream his defiance and triumph to the heavens. There was an exhilaration in being aware of the earth’s tremendous power and surviving the extraordinary experience. However, sanity quickly prevailed, and Steve struggled to focus his attention on the community in which he found himself, starting with the bundle that still lay trembling in his arms. He sat the boy on the ground, carefully assessing him for injuries.

“I’m Steve. What’s your name?” he asked as he gently wiped the blood from a nasty gash on the boy’s face, an injury he had sustained falling off his bike in the first sharp jolt.

“Carlos,” the boy answered shyly as he stared in wide-eyed admiration at the tall stranger who had rescued him. “You’re hurt,” he pointed out, aiming a grubby finger at a large shard of glass buried deep into the back of Steve’s right arm.

Steve gingerly pulled it out, feeling the blood flowing freely from the wound. He couldn’t help but feel a new appreciation for the phrase ‘death by a thousand cuts’ as he ruefully contemplated the gory array of lacerations decorating his body.

However, he smiled reassuringly at Carlos. “I’m fine, nothing to worry about. Now,” he adjusted his jacket around the boy’s frail shoulders. “You sit here while I have a look around. I’ll be back.”

He stood up shakily, his sense of balance as unstable as if he had just finished a violent ride at the carnival, and gazed around in awe and horror at the effects of a 7.6-magnitude earthquake. A peaceful, if impoverished, neighbourhood had been reduced to shambles, a drunken caricature of its former appearance. The sun glinted off the deluge of shattered glass intermingled in the mounds of brick, stone and mortar from collapsed walls and buildings.

The structures left standing resembled a bizarre cubist’s painting of queasy lines and angles. Pavements were buckled, displaced chunks of sidewalk added to the debris, and buildings listed at crazy angles, sunk partly in the ground. The silence, eerie after the constant rumbling, was broken by the continuous blare of a car horn and the mounting cries of the injured, the frightened and the trapped.

Steve’s mouth set in grim lines as he realised that his paltry first-aid skills, garnered on the battlefield and from hanging around with doctors, would very likely be the only medical attention available for quite a while. It wasn’t the kind of responsibility he relished, but he accepted the exigencies of the situation. The first two people he encountered were beyond medical help of any kind, crushed under falling rubble, but an elderly lady he found clinging to the remains of a parking meter had only suffered a broken arm. There were plenty of wooden fragments from which to fashion a splint, and her gratitude for this basic first-aid bolstered his confidence.

The next few hours were a blur of exhausting activity. As people trickled out of their apartments, stunned by the loss of what little they had, Steve evaluated their injuries and organised those capable into search and rescue parties. He sent out some scouts to find basic medical supplies and water, others to make a reconnaissance trip to the nearest hospital. When he found a small park off the main street, he arranged for the injured to be transported there to await assistance in relative safety. Finding a middle-aged woman named Maria with nursing experience, he happily passed over the medical duties to her and concentrated on his search for survivors. His greatest fear was the possibility of fire, as the air was heavy with the smell of gas intermingling with acrid dust, and Steve ensured that everyone took precautions to minimise the risk.

Steve was a natural leader. He had the dubious benefit of many years of experience dealing with life and death crises, and he didn’t have to contend with the emotional impact of the destruction of his home. He automatically inspired trust, and he seemed to the team he gathered around him, and to the people he extricated from the ruins, to be the only stable, permanent fixture in a world turned treacherous and shifting. He was in the midst of all the rescue efforts, a tall dynamic figure, with indefatigable strength, providing unceasing encouragement, even though his hands were torn and bleeding from sifting through the rubble, and his clothes were splattered with blood and caked in dust. He was the first into every dangerous situation, the last to leave, and his resourceful and brave example inspired the stunned victims to take care of themselves, their families and their neighbours as best they could.

As the crepuscular light darkened towards night, operations continued and flashlights twinkled in the ruins like swarms of fireflies. Word had filtered back to Steve that the nearest hospital had not fared well in the quake. The Emergency Room had been crushed when the south wing of the hospital had collapsed, and the walls still standing had ominous fractures, so all patients were being evacuated. He couldn’t expect any help from that direction. However, recently, the sound of helicopters nearby had indicated that outside rescue efforts were underway.

The cave-in of the Hilton Heights hospital drove the sliver of fear deeper into Steve’s heart. The horror of searching frantically through the wreckage of Community General, desperate to locate his father, but dreading what he might find, was indelibly branded into his memory in glorious Technicolour with Dolby Surround sound for good measure. His cell phone had been smashed at some point during the quake, but he already knew that the phone service wasn’t working. For that matter, neither were the water, electricity or sewer systems.

He had been able to force the corroding fears for the safety of his father and friends down to a manageable level in the recent intense activity, but the news from the local hospital had propelled them back to the front of his mind. As his search efforts drew further up the hill whose summit overlooked the greater Los Angeles area, Steve could no longer prolong the agony of uncertainty. Leaving the scene of an imminent rescue, secure in the knowledge that the elderly man involved would now survive, he started the scramble over the debris.

Dread mounted with every step he took, urging him to move faster and faster as he neared the brow of the hill. His heart was pounding with exertion and tension, and he could taste the dust in his mouth as he struggled to draw in enough oxygen to replenish lungs that seemed paralyzed. He braced himself in anticipation of a Sodom and Gomorrah style leveling, but his first glimpse showed the Los Angeles skyline seemingly unaltered in the moonlight, and relief crept through his veins, allowing him to relax for the first time since the ground had started shaking. This proved to be a mistake as it allowed the pain from the lacerations in his back and the deep bruising he had suffered to ambush him. He put out a hand to steady himself as he swayed wearily, then fought back the moment of weakness, concentrating harder on the scene ahead. Closer examination revealed scattered darker areas in the sky, indicating either smoke from fires or, more likely, concrete dust from buildings that had collapsed. However these were few and far between.

All uncomfortable physical sensations and worries were forgotten as lights flashing in the canyon caught his gaze and drew it downwards. At first he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing in the gloom, or to be more accurate, not seeing. The bridge crossing the Soledad Canyon had collapsed, its supports unable to resist the violent shearing. Even as Steve watched, two helicopters descended on the Los Angeles side of the ravine to assist in the rescue efforts there.

His horrified contemplation of the scene was interrupted by the scrabble of approaching footsteps, but, before the sound had consciously registered, he felt a tremulous tugging on his trousers. He looked down to see Carlos, still enveloped in the large leather jacket Steve had lent him. He had noticed that the kid had disappeared earlier, and had hoped that he had found his family safe, but from the desperate expression on the kid’s face, he doubted it.

“Please, Mr. Steve, come quickly.” As he uttered the plea, the boy gave one last pull and then darted off. Steve responded automatically to the unmistakable urgency projected in the boy’s demeanor, and followed as fast as he could, afraid he would lose the agile urchin in the dark maze of streets. Steve thought he understood the nature of the emergency when the boy eventually dropped to his knees next to a woman lying on the street. She was obviously injured; Steve could tell even by the dim illumination of his flashlight that she had a broken leg and probably internal injuries, but his examination was hampered by her attempts to push him away as she cried out in a foreign language.

It was Carlos who explained. “It’s the babies, Mr. Steve. They’re still in the apartment.” Steve swung his flashlight round to investigate the indicated building, and took an involuntary step back as the building loomed above him, listing like a sinking ship. Several floors had collapsed in on each other like a pack of cards, and it looked like a deep breath would bring down the rest on top of them.

Steve shut his eyes as the pain of failure flooded through him. He couldn’t save them all, but the knowledge of this family’s loss still hurt. He couldn’t imagine that anyone could have survived inside, and he was struggling for a way to break the news to his new friend when a tiny sound reached him and his eyes snapped open. He looked at Carlos in astonishment, and the boy beckoned him eagerly towards an irregular, small opening through which the weak cries emanated. The building had subsided, and the angle at which it had settled had contributed to the difficulty of ingress. Although the first floor had partly collapsed into the basement, it had done so mostly as a solid slab and this had undoubtedly been what had saved the children. It had acted as an unorthodox umbrella, protecting them from cascading wreckage.

Steve cautiously stuck his head into the aperture, but his line of sight was blocked beyond the initial drop, so the view didn’t prove enlightening. However, he glanced across at Carlos, who was staring at him with a touching mixture of hope and trust, and winked at him, nodding with more confidence that he felt. The boy’s face lit up, he turned to his mother and in a stream of excited words obviously passed on the news. As she relaxed somewhat, Steve bent down, picked her up gently and carried her to a safer location. Holding up a finger, he gently conveyed the message -- wait.

Returning to the apartment building, he passed his flashlight to Carlos, tacitly enlisting him as his only potential helper. “I won’t be able to hold the babies and this, so I need you to shine it as far as you can into this hole,” he instructed. “Stay here so I can pass the babies up to you.” With a last encouraging smile, he lowered himself over the threshold. He let himself drop down the initial steep descent, reflecting that the return journey with the children would be more problematic. As he landed, he slipped on the sharply inclined block of concrete that was covered with a slick coat of dust and plaster, but caught himself on a slab which lay crosswise and slightly above the first one. He had to navigate his way beneath this in a narrow, sloping tunnel until it dropped off into another void. The darkness beneath him now was so total that he couldn’t see to find footholds, and, as he dangled precariously by his fingertips, searching for a ledge by touch alone, he decided that nocturnal rock climbing would never become his favourite pastime. A questing foot brushed against a broken beam, driving a splinter into his unprotected ankle, and he was struggling to banish the image of upturned stakes waiting to impale him, when he lost his footing on the crumbling wall and slid the last four feet, landing with a splash in a few inches of water. The descent had been a lot more abrupt than he intended, and he told himself it was the adrenaline rush that made him lightheaded.

Taking a deep breath, he started to squelch along the sodden floor, arms extended in front to alert him to unexpected obstacles. He followed the mewling of the babies, and located a crib by the wall on the side nearest the road, a fortuitous placement since they would surely have died in any other spot. He groped for the occupants, and picked up the first child, feeling its hiccuping sobs soften in the security of his arms. He had little experience with babies, but rather enjoyed its trusting acceptance and the warmth against his shoulder. He climbed carefully, finding the ascent easier than he had feared with the faint reflection from the flashlight slightly illuminating his way. Bracing himself against a wall as he neared the top, he passed the child through the gap to Carlos before returning for its twin. Tactile memory made the repeat journey easier, but exhaustion slowed him down. As Steve started the last leg of the journey, a wet and somewhat squirmy infant cradled securely in one arm, the burning in his muscles informed him just how far he had overtaxed his reserves.

As Steve neared the top, he felt a slight vibration under his hand, and froze in place for a split second, hoping it was just his own movements causing local subsidence. The now familiar escalation of sound and agitation convinced him otherwise -- another aftershock was building momentum! Throwing caution to the wind, he leapt for the opening, using all his height and strength to get a grip with his left hand. Boosting the squirming infant in his right, he threw him the last few inches into Carlos’ outstretched arms and, as soon as he was the sure the boy had him safe, he shouted -- “Run!”

The boy hesitated briefly, reluctant to abandon his friend, but as Steve repeated the command even more forcefully, he vanished from the opening and Steve caught a brief glimpse of his disappearing legs as he fought to keep his balance. Just as he got a grip with both hands and started to swing his body up, a sharp jolt broke his hold, and he plunged helplessly into the darkness as the building folded in on top of him.

Chapter Text

Thursday 6:59pm

Mark tucked the cell phone back into his pocket, feeling inexpressibly lighter after the contact with his son and with the assurance of his imminent return. He still hadn’t pinpointed the reason behind his disquietude, but for now the storm cloud that had hovered ominously in his vicinity all afternoon had been dispelled.

“Hey, Jesse,” he called out merrily, seeing his young colleague standing near the nurses’ desk perusing a patient’s chart. He was surprised to receive a slightly wary look in response but, knowing that he hadn’t been his usual cheery self that day, Mark gamely forged on. “If you can take your break in about an hour, Steve’s bringing over some Chinese.”

The peace offering was received with enthusiasm. “Moo-shu Pork?” Jesse asked hopefully.

“Knowing Steve, I would say that was a sure thing,” Mark promised him.

“Um....Mark, could I talk to you now about Mrs. Wolansky’s surgery?” Jesse asked tentatively.

“Sure, Jesse, anytime,” Mark assured him, surprised by his young friend’s uncharacteristic diffidence. The brief expression of skepticism intermingled with relief convinced him that something was amiss. “What is it, Jess?”

“Well, ..um.. when I asked you before, you..... well, you growled at me,” Jesse finished in a rush.

Mark was surprised into a splutter of laughter. “Growl? I don’t growl.....do I?” The last question held a note of apprehension.

Jesse gave an emphatic nod, but softened the implied criticism with a burgeoning smile and the comment, “There’s a first time for everything.”

“I’m so sorry, Jess,” Mark apologised. “I really don’t remember the conversation. I know I’ve been preoccupied, but....”

He broke off as a distant boom set the windows rattling. An instinctive fear blossomed, but, almost instantly, the sound of a low but rapidly growing rumble brought comprehension. He noticed everyone in the area was frozen in position, staring at the still vibrating glass, and he reflected on the difference the terrorist attacks on September 11th had made to the public sense of security. A suggestion of the unfamiliar, the anomalous, was transformed instantly into a threat, provoking the incipient panic Mark could sense simmering.

“Earthquake!” he announced crisply, pitching his voice to carry over the roar. “Rosemary, get away from the windows. Everyone take cover, under a desk or in a doorway. Don’t try to leave the building. Everything’s going to be just fine.” He truly believed that statement, knowing that, thanks to modern materials and shrewd design, Community General should ride out the quake without too much damage. However, as the building pitched back and forth, the steel beams inside the walls creaking, some doubts crept in.

Mark noticed that Jesse hadn’t joined him in the relative security of the doorway, but stood immobile a few feet away. He reached out a long arm and yanked him into the opening, bracing himself against the frame to withstand the waves. He could feel the tension in his friend’s shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze of encouragement, but there was too much noise to offer verbal reassurance. Each sway of the building was accompanied by a sickening, rending sound, as if each nail and joint was being tested to the limit. A food cart crashed to the floor, pictures swung and everything was shaken off the nurses’ desk. Mark watched, fascinated, as the wall in front of him seemed to twist into a series of crazy parallelograms.

Strangely enough, his initial response to the earthquake was relief, although it took him a moment to analyse that particular reaction. The pieces of the puzzle that had been bothering him all day fell into place, albeit with a more than usually resounding thud. He remembered reading that animals tended to be more sensitive to vibrations, magnetic fields and electricity than humans, and their bizarre behaviour before a quake had been successfully used to predict a quake. Bob’s howling and the antics of the restless bird flock must have tripped a reminder in his subconscious. He derived comfort from the realisation that, even if the abnormal animal behaviour was an infallible prediction of earthquakes, which it very definitely wasn’t, a warning to his son would have served little purpose since he could not predict a time or place where he would be safe. It was an ironic consolation that, on this day, Steve was in no more or less danger than any other citizen of Los Angeles. He offered a prayer for the well-being of his son, hoping he had found a safe place to ride out the storm.

After a particularly violent lurch, the lights went out, but, with a brief flicker, the hospital’s back-up power system kicked in, and Mark caught his breath in relief at the thought of the patients on ventilators and other life-saving machines.

The tremors gradually lessened in severity, but were followed almost immediately by a violent aftershock. As peace finally resumed, Mark strode over to the nurses’ desk, picking up the PA microphone off the floor and testing it to make sure it was still in working order. “This is Mark Sloan. As disaster coordinator for this hospital, I’m declaring the city-wide disaster plan in effect.” He paused, tempted to say this is not a drill, but decided that the words were redundant. “Everyone report to their posts. Check every patient and report to your floor supervisor.” He replaced the mike and turned to one of the nurses on duty. “See what news you can get on the radio as to the extent of the damage.”

He noticed that Jesse was still standing in the doorway, his eyes glazed and swaying slightly from side to side, and the realisation struck him that it was the young man’s first earthquake experience. “Hey, Jess, if you’re ready, let’s head on down to the ER,’ he suggested, trying to gently break through his abstraction.

Jesse’s gaze swung up to meet his with a start. “Yeah, wow.....that was really.... oh wow! I mean the floor really.....” his hands dipped and waved in the air, expressing what his words lacked. “If I’d had my surfboard, I could almost have.... That was awesome!” Mark was amused to see that his irrepressible friend was recovering quickly. By the time they arrived in the Emergency Room, Jesse’s burst of adrenaline was spilling over in an attack of verbal loquacity that more than compensated for his earlier inarticulation. “You think the earth is solid, but an earthquake just sets your entire belief in stability as the underlying basis of human life itself in question!”

Mark was entertained by the extemporaneous philosophy, but had no time for a reply. The ER was intensely busy for the next several hours, although it was never totally overwhelmed, supporting Mark’s theory that the area had, on the whole, escaped lightly. The first wave of casualties were victims with projectile wounds, people in the wrong place at the wrong time, bombarded with the detritus easily shaken loose from buildings. Mark was happy to hear that no one had suffered serious injuries in the hospital itself. As head of the committee for safety, he had studied all recommendations for minimising damage, and insisted on all internal lighting fixtures and utility equipment being fastened to structural elements, and filing cabinets and other top-heavy furniture being anchored to the walls. Even the medicine storage cabinets had shelf lips and equipment restraints to prevent spillage. Now all his decisions and the time and expenses involved seemed justified.

The long night wore on, the next aftershock barely rating a pause in the bustling ER. Mark worked tirelessly in charge of the triage unit, organising the first line of assistance, rotating the nurses and doctors to avoid mistakes and burnout. However, in his heart, the ache of uncertainty over his son’s fate had long since turned to a throb of worry, and only repeated injunctions to himself to remember that the communication systems were still inoperable prevented a full blown cramp of fear.

During the last earthquake to hit Los Angeles, Steve had successfully relayed news of his survival via his watch commander, but no such welcome tidings had arrived this time. Mark reached into his pocket, his thumb playing nervously with the buttons of his cell phone, but he reluctantly refrained from attempting to place another call. He knew that although communication towers would certainly be damaged, it was often the sheer volume of calls from anxious relatives that overwhelmed the system. However, understanding intellectually that there was a reasonable explanation for the persistent silence was not the same thing as accepting it emotionally.

A new wave of casualties centered Mark’s thoughts more constructively on the positive contributions he had to offer. He finished setting the broken bones in a twelve year old boy’s hand that had been broken by a slamming door, just as Amanda entered looking harried. He greeted her warmly as his patient left with grateful parents.

“Any news from the boys,” he asked, immediately interpreting the look of strain in her eyes from personal experience.

She shook her head. “I’ve not managed to get through to them. But I’m sure they’re just fine at Irene’s,” she added with attempted brightness.

“I’m sure they are too, honey,” Mark agreed, but in a rueful tone that let her know he understood how little that belief consoled.

She smiled gratefully at him. “Heard anything from Steve?” she enquired with reciprocal interest.

“Not a bean,” he answered cheerfully, trying to conceal from her just how much this disturbed him; but she wasn’t fooled by his nonchalance.

“But you’re sure he’s fine,” she teased him gently, and they shared a hug of parental absurdity and mutual reassurance.

“I do have some bad news, though,” Amanda continued. “We’ve got choppers bringing in more casualties. Apparently, a hospital collapsed and they’re transferring the survivors to surrounding hospitals. ETA for the first chopper is,” she glanced down at her watch, “five minutes. Who can you spare?”

Mark looked around at his busy team. “I’ll go,” he decided. “Jesse and Dr. Ling should be almost finished. Tell them to follow me as soon as possible.”

Mark hesitated in the corridor, deciding if the stairway or elevator was the more secure choice in the event of another aftershock. He concluded that at two o’clock in the morning, he was too tired to worry over the prospect of being stuck between floors, and he chose the more comfortable option.

He reached the roof without incident, and moved over to the edge, looking out over the city. He could hear the distinctive, rhythmic thunder of the approaching helicopter, but, for a brief moment, there was a strangely peaceful sense of isolation. With most of the metropolis dark, the stars shone in bright relief, and Mark idly picked out a few constellations as he pulled out his cell phone for one more try at reaching his son.

The attempt proved fruitless once again, but he had no time to reflect on his frustration as the helicopter swept in for a landing. Hunching his shoulders against the gale generated by the blades, he shifted the patient onto a gurney with the help of a burly EMT, whose nametag identified him as Johnson. He swiftly assessed the extent of the young woman’s injuries, talking to her all the while in a quiet, reassuring tone as they moved her down to an operating theatre, where he left her in the capable hands of the surgeon.

As the doors closed behind her, Johnson let out a big sigh and leaned against the wall. “What a night! I’m bushed....and starving come to think about it.”

Mark smiled sympathetically. “I can offer you a cup of coffee and some junk food if you’re interested.”

He led the EMT into a staff room, and, in exchange for plying him with refreshments, he pumped him for news on the conditions he’d witnessed around the city.

Johnson was only too willing to share the information he’d acquired. “It’s not too bad, considering. I think the epicenter was near the mountains somewhere, thank goodness. Only a couple of communities up there were really hit violently. Most of LA got off lightly.”

Mark felt a chill creep into his chest, a ghostly hand wrapping icily around his heart. “Where?” he asked, his voice hoarse, praying that the terrifying intuition that permeated his core was merely paternal paranoia.

“Here, I can show you.” Johnson pulled a map out of his pocket, cheerfully explaining the technology behind it. “The US Geologic Survey team and some other agencies produce this shaking intensity map which shows the estimated severity of shaking and the level of damage it’s caused. They send these out to all the emergency managers to help us locate the areas hardest hit so we can send appropriate help.”

Mark’s eyes scanned the unfamiliar contours of the map which had six levels of colors radiating out in extremely irregular concentric circles of orange, yellow, greens and blues. Gradually the image resolved itself into the greater LA area and part of Southern California, and he zeroed in on one of the two small red blotches in the top right corner, instinctively identifying red as the level of highest destruction.

“Where’s that?” he managed to choke out, not recognising his own voice.

“Hilton Heights. Those old masonry buildings just toppled over like pins in a bowling alley.” Johnson paused, sensing he’d lost the attention of his audience. Mark was staring at the paper in front of him as fixedly as if the laser printed dots held the answer to the question searing an agonising path through his mind. “Dr. Sloan, are you alright?”

The face that turned slowly to acknowledge his concern was pale with shock and taut with worry.

“My son’s there!”

Chapter Text

Friday 12:40am

Johnson was well versed in the symptoms of psychogenic shock, and he urged Mark to sit down, knowing that there was little else he could do but offer emotional support. However, he wasn’t familiar with Mark’s resilience, founded as it was on his natural optimism and a boundless faith in his son’s abilities. Mark fought off the sense of panic engulfing him, needing to act and knowing more information was a prerequisite to acting productively.

“Was your son at UCHH?” the EMT asked sympathetically.

“No...yes....he’d just left.” Mark took a deep breath, aware he wasn’t being too coherent. “Is that where the damage is the worst?” he asked, clutching for any straws of comfort.

Johnson nodded. “The whole area’s badly hit, but the University’s the worst. Lane Auditorium and Main Hall collapsed completely. Luckily, it was the evening, and most of the students were finished for the day or we’d be seeing far worse. The kid in there,” he nodded his head toward the ER, “was one of the luckier ones.”

“What are the roads like?” Mark’s mind was working furiously as he sifted through possibilities, trying to ascertain the most efficacious plan for locating and assisting his son.

“I don’t know, I think.....” Johnson was interrupted by Jesse flinging open the door and sticking his head through. “We’ve got eight criticals coming by chopper and many more.....” He broke off as Mark’s haggard appearance registered through his haste. “Are you OK? Is something wrong?”

“I’m fine, Jess.” Mark stood up, duty warring with paternal instincts and, with no definitive proof of harm to Steve, temporarily, at least, winning. “We need more gurneys on the roof; the blood supply is running low, so send a call out for donors. I’ll round up some more personnel.”

Habit enabled him to direct the preparations while feeling curiously distanced from the proceedings. However, all sense of emotional detachment was shattered by the arrival of the casualties, their injuries suddenly intensely personal. The guillotine slash of shattered glass, the crushing impact of fallen masonry could easily have been inflicted on his own son. With a sudden jolt, he remembered the time Steve had helped out in an emergency drill. Now he thought about it, the staged crisis had been an earthquake, and Steve had arrived faking injuries caused by being buried under rubble and with a bar sticking out of his chest. At the time, they had laughed about the strange things they did together in their spare time, now the situation didn’t seem funny any more, and Mark prayed it wasn’t prophetic. He examined each new patient upon arrival with mingled hope and dread, each unfamiliar face eliciting a counterpoint of disappointment and relief.

The night unfolded, long and unrelenting, leavened only by the small triumphs of medical success and the satisfaction of a job well done. There should have been no time to think beyond the constant demands of the overflow of patients, but Mark’s increasingly exhausted mind was assailed by haunting images, snatches of suppressed nightmares. The last few years of Steve’s career had certainly provided fodder enough for countless sleepless nights, but Mark had noticed that it wasn’t the egregious instances of terror that forced him upright, sweating, his heart thudding furiously in the dark.

The most unnerving dreams started innocuously, approaching gently and sliding insidiously into the subconscious under the guise of normalcy. Mark would be standing in the operating theatre, as he had innumerable times, confidently wielding a scalpel over the inert form on the table before him. He couldn’t see the patient’s face, but, as the operation continued, the body beneath his hands gradually assumed an eerie sense of familiarity. As the sensation intensified, his hands grew clumsier, finally faltering into near paralysis as recognition struck. This epiphany inevitably accompanied an abrupt return to consciousness although, on awakening, Mark was never sure which particular element of the dream it was that terrified him so deeply. Now he realised that it was the slow escalation of dread that sapped your strength and leached the warmth from your bones.

That feeling of imminent doom followed him into the early morning, transforming his fatigue into a state of preternaturally heightened alertness. His only solace during those anxious hours was a brief phone call with Captain Newman, Steve’s superior. He apprised Newman of Steve’s situation, and the Captain promised to contact the appropriate authorities at the scene in an attempt to find him.

During a lull in the frenetic activity, Jesse wound his way through green-tagged patients, for whom no space could be found in the overcrowded wards, to make his way to Mark’s side. He rested his hand gently on Mark’s shoulder to attract his attention, and drew a quick intake of breath at the despondent expression on the older doctor’s face before he rearranged his features into a welcoming smile. Jesse knew there was only one thing that could bring out that distracted worry in his friend.

“Is it Steve?” he asked without preamble.

Mark gave a rueful grimace at being so transparent, but readily explained the situation. He hated to worry his young colleague, but he fully intended to enlist his services in searching for Steve.

“What can I do to help?” Jesse asked immediately, concern apparent on his countenance.

“Nothing, at the moment,” Mark answered, though the inactivity was clearly galling to him. “I spoke to Newman, and he’s putting out feelers to try to locate Steve. However, he recommended that we didn’t try to go anywhere yet since many of the roads are apparently impassable, covered with shards of glass and other debris. They’re distributing the casualties from the area via helicopter among about 20 surrounding hospitals, so, once we can safely move around, we can divide them up amongst ourselves to search for Steve.”

“We’ll find him, Mark,” Jesse promised, although his heart was not as optimistic as his words, and he couldn’t help but contemplate the alternative institutions in which they might locate Steve, or his body. However, he had no intention of allowing Mark to sense his doubts, and he continued on firmly. “Meanwhile, you need to take a break. You haven’t stopped in the last 16 hours.”

“Neither have you,” Mark pointed out reasonably.

“Yes, but I’m closer to my internship than you and so more used to crazy hours,” Jesse improvised.

“Is that a polite way of telling me I’m old?” Mark asked with some amusement.

“Nobody would ever call you old,” Jesse said with the utmost sincerity. “But some rest would do you good.”

Mark acquiesced, acknowledging the good sense behind his friend’s suggestion. He resolutely settled himself on the couch in his office and closed his eyes, attempting to nap and build up his reserves. However, worry for his son sent jolts of adrenaline through his system, as effective a stimulant as a double espresso, and he soon surrendered to the inevitable and started pacing restlessly around his room. He knew Steve would move heaven and earth to get a message through to him under the circumstances, and it was becoming an inescapable conclusion that his silence signaled something more drastic than a lost or broken cell phone. The longer the night went without contact, the more ominous it became.

He gently reached out to touch a favourite photograph, then picked it up and sat down heavily in his chair. The picture had been taken on their white-water rafting trip, one of the few real vacations they had successfully coordinated between their busy schedules. It had been taken by someone on the shore with a zoom lens as the raft launched itself into the preliminary waves of a Class 4 rapid. The expression on Mark’s face was a strange mixture of grim determination and unholy delight. Steve had been caught glancing back protectively, reacting with pride and enjoyment at his father’s evident enthusiasm. It had been a rare time of undiluted pleasure, and, even now, Mark couldn’t help but smile at the memory. He made a mental promise to himself that when this was over -- he refused to contemplate an if -- they would find a way to recreate such an experience.

For a short time, the memories were soothing and, even though sleep was out of the question, Mark was able to avoid further pacing by focusing on the comforting reflection of his son’s formidable aptitude for survival. However, as the minute hand crawled round the clock with the speed of a geriatric tortoise, Mark found himself obsessively watching the phone, mentally willing it to ring until finally he decided that exercising his patience was the most strenuous activity there was, and he’d rather be doing something less stressful -- like open-heart surgery.

Just as he was contemplating escape, the door slowly opened and Jesse peered in, hoping Mark would be asleep, but clearly unsurprised to find him wide awake. “Mark, there’s something I think you should see.”

Jesse’s face was set and bleak, and Mark felt a new serpent of fear coil inside him ready to strike. “Jesse, what is it? Is it Steve? Have you heard something?”

Jesse held up a placating hand. “Nothing like that. We’ve just got our first television coverage and ... well...I think you should watch it.”

Jesse evasiveness did nothing to quell Mark’s concerns, but he followed his friend to the staff room without further questions, unsure if he really wanted to hear the answers that would soon be forthcoming.

There were people crowded round the TV making it impossible for Mark to see the screen, although snatches of commentary filtered through, littered with technical phrases like “previously unknown blind-thrust fault” and “subsurface liquefaction causing widespread ground failure”. Jesse created a passage for them both with judicious use of his elbows and insincere apologies until finally Mark could see what held everyone’s rapt attention.

A news reporter, with the unctuous expression of regret assumed by all TV announcers covering a disastrous event, spoke earnestly into the camera. Behind her was a scene of intense activity as people worked frantically around lumps of concrete and twisted metal, through which occasionally the dull gleam of a vehicle could be glimpsed. In the background there were several army helicopters, occasionally drowning out the commentary as they took off. Mark gazed at the tragic scene in horrified empathy, only half listening to the reporter’s over-dramatic patter.

“As you can see, the inadequately reinforced concrete columns that support the upper deck were sheared off, causing it to cave in. Observers say that that the quake rolled along the two-decker Soledad Canyon Bridge like a colossal ocean wave, behind which section upon section of the upper deck collapsed. Dozens of cars and trucks lie crushed beneath the pancaking of the two decks. Despite fears that aftershocks will bring down the remaining structure, fire crews are risking their lives to rescue drivers trapped in what has become a gigantic concrete tomb.”

It took a moment for the name to register, then the anguished dawning of comprehension sucked the strength from his body in a dizzying rush. He automatically put his hand out to steady himself, not even noticing Jesse grabbing it and guiding him over to a hastily vacated chair. The shock seemed to disconnect a small gibbering part of his mind from his bulk of his emotions, and, while devastated by the possible implications of this revelation, he had a sudden, inane flashback to his seventh grade math class and a question that had caused him severe problems. If a train leaves Philadelphia at 6 pm traveling at an average of 40mph what time will it arrive in New York? He could see the text as clearly as if the workbook lay in front of him, then suddenly in his mind the words morphed into a very different question - If Steve left the University at 6:58pm traveling at an average of 40mph, what time would he cross the Soledad Canyon Bridge? His mind seemed as incapable of figuring out the answer as it had been when he was twelve, although for very different reasons. The picture his mind conjured up of his son in the midst of the collapsing bridge was so vivid that Mark closed his eyes in anguish, trying to block the distressing images, but they seemed to be burnt onto his retina and he hastily opened them again preferring the distance of the more impersonal wreckage on the screen to the gruesome possibilities dredged up by his imagination.

It couldn’t take longer than thirty seconds to cross a bridge that size. What were the odds of the earthquake hitting in precisely those seconds? Steve had beaten the odds before. But there hadn’t been a phone call. Mark was aware that his thoughts were slithering around aimlessly like a writhing pit of poisonous vipers, but the shock had deprived him of the will to curb them.

Jesse had been dividing his attention between the screen and his friend, observing him with concern. Mark seemed almost mesmerised by the TV, yet Jesse was no longer sure he was even watching it. “Mark?” he said softly, laying a hand on the older doctor’s arm, not surprised by the rigidity of the muscles. The gaze Mark turned to him held no sparkle of its customary mischief, his eyes blind with grief at a horror only he could see, yet if shock had banked the flames of vitality, the spark of determination was already starting to rise like a phoenix from the ashes, and Jesse knew the kindling necessary to feed the flames. “It may look bad, but Steve always makes it through,” he whispered softly.

His words seemed to provoke the reaction he desired, because suddenly Mark stood up and was on his way out the room. Jesse attempted to match his speed, but, despite his more slender build, he couldn’t easily force his way through the crowd that seemed to melt before the elderly doctor’s obvious determination. As Jesse emerged from the staff room he saw Mark entering an elevator on the opposite side of the hall, and it took a mad dash to squeeze in between the doors as they closed.

“Where’re you going?” he panted, relieved that Mark’s strength of purpose had reemerged, but still slightly concerned. In the past, Mark’s decisions when Steve was hurt had not been his most rational and prudent. He had been known to threaten mob leaders and plunge into the middle of forest fires when driven by the need to protect his son.

“My son is out there somewhere, and I’m going to find him.” It was said with quiet resolve, and Jesse found himself convinced that Mark would do just that, his own heart lifting in response.

As the elevator doors opened, Mark swept out, an inexorable force carrying Jesse along in his wake, and he didn’t pause until he rounded the corner of the parking lot. “I need to talk to Newman. With the police radio, he is more likely to have heard something, but I can’t contact him. He may be able to give us some ideas as to where to start looking. It may be best if you stay in the hospital for now and make sure we’re covered here. If you get the chance, talk to some of the chopper pilots about getting three doctors on an outgoing flight to Hilton Heights, that would be good.” He gave Jesse a slightly distracted, but genuine smile at his immediate assent. “Thanks, Jesse. I’ll be in touch soon.”

The senior doctors all had reserved parking spaces next to the building, and Jesse watched as Mark made his way to his car. He’d always envied the deep bond between father and son, but knew how sharp a double-edged sword it could be in a situation like this. For the first time, Jesse also allowed himself to feel the full measure of fear for his best friend. With a big sigh, he started to turn to go back inside the hospital, only to whirl around as an aberrant movement caught his eye. To his horror, a large piece of concrete had toppled off the roof and was hurtling straight at Mark as he unlocked his car.

Chapter Text

Friday 9:18 am

Jesse screamed a warning, breaking into a run, although it was a futile gesture given the distance, but he was unable to stand by passively. It was all over in a split second, but to Jesse, it was an eternity. The lump seemed to tumble lazily end over end like an asteroid approaching Earth in a science-fiction movie, then abruptly, with an earsplitting crash, it smashed onto the hood of Mark’s car. Jesse stopped and blinked, suddenly disoriented. He had been as focused on the block as an out-fielder catching a fly ball, and hadn’t even seen Mark throw himself to the ground with admirable reflexes for a man his age, just before the missile passed through the space where his head had just been.

By the time Jesse reached him, Mark was on his feet again, picking pieces of mulch off himself while inspecting the damage to his car. He glanced up as Jesse approached him. “That’s quite a dent,” he observed ruefully, gesturing at the crater in the metal work of his car. “I don’t think my head would have fared as well. Thanks, Jess.” He gazed up at the roof, frowning. “Maybe there was another aftershock. Well, I’m not going anywhere in my car. Can I borrow yours?”

Jesse was amazed how easily the older man could dismiss such a narrow escape, while he himself was still shaking. Neither was he so ready to discount the episode as an accident. “Mark, I’m not sure, but I think I saw someone up there just before that thing fell. I don’t know, it all happened so fast, but it might have been a trick of the light as it started to fall.”

Mark looked doubtful. “You think it was deliberate? I wouldn’t rule anything out, but it seems unlikely. I can’t think of anyone who would want me dead ....at the moment anyway. I’ll keep a look out, but.....” He broke off, but Jesse understood what he had left unsaid. With Steve missing, worrying about his own well-being would not be on top of Mark’s list of priorities. Jesse promised himself a look at the roof at the first available opportunity, and, after watching Mark drive off in his car, he returned to the building.

The traffic was extremely light on the roads, as most people had obeyed the police advisory to stay home. The main streets had been cleared of debris, and Mark experienced few difficulties en route. He noted that the residential homes, with their wooden frames, had fared well in the earthquake, but here and there, brick chimneys had collapsed in pathetic heaps of rubble, poignant reminders of the larger destruction that seemed to have engulfed his son. The silence in the car and the routine task of driving provided no distraction from the fear that pounded in his heart and pulsed agonisingly along his veins in cruel jabs, and Mark was relieved when he finally arrived at the station.

The building seemed to echo emptily, and despite Mark’s eagerness to hear any information that Newman might have, his steps faltered as his eye fell on Steve’s vacant desk. Even knowing his son wouldn’t be there, the room was so inextricably linked to his presence that Mark expected him to walk in at any minute, and his sense of loss at his son’s absence intensified unbearably.

“Dr Sloan.” Captain Newman’s voice broke through his reverie, and Mark spun around, a lifetime of experience in breaking bad news to families allowing him to instantly read the Captain’s face. There was sympathy there, so there was no good news, but there was none of the deep gravity mixed with evasion of eye contact that would signal a man trying to soften a fatal blow, and a spiral of tension unwound slightly in Mark.

Newman ushered Mark into his office and gestured towards a chair, but before he had the chance to speak Mark jumped in. “You haven’t heard anything about Steve.” It was a statement, not a question, and Newman eyed him appreciatively.

“If you ever decide that you’ve had enough of doctoring, I can predict a wonderful career for you as a cop.”

Mark smiled at the vivid mental picture that popped into his mind of Steve’s reaction to the news that his father had been accepted into the police academy. However, the accompanying realisation that he might never have the opportunity to discuss anything with his son again wiped the grin quickly off his face, and he attempted to concentrate on Newman’s words.

“I’ve talked to Captain Peters who’s in charge at Hilton Heights, and he’s put the word out to his men. It’s hectic over there, and you know Steve, he’s always in the middle of things. It’s possible that he just hasn’t had the chance to contact you.”

“No,” Mark said with certainty. “He would have got a message out with one of the helicopter crews if nothing else. Something’s happened to him.”

Newman looked at him warily. “I suppose you’ve heard that the bridge...” He broke off as the look on Mark’s face made it obvious he had. “Well, I don’t need to tell you how resourceful Steve is. He always turns up. However, I don’t expect you’re going to sit at home waiting for him.” He received a small but unequivocal headshake at this hopeful suggestion. “So how can I help?”

Mark had already considered that. “To start with, I need to know who’s in charge of the rescue efforts at various places, and a list of your contacts and where they have already searched.”

“No problem, there are a couple of officers there who......” Newman broke off as the telephone rang. “Excuse me.”

Mark was mentally planning his next move when he noticed the involuntary sideways glance that Newman slid in his direction. All his senses snapped alert, and he leaned forward, every instinct telling him that Steve was the subject of discussion. His heart lurched painfully, then seemed to hang inert, heavy and aching with fear as Newman turned slightly away, his side of the conversation consisting mostly of a series of noncommittal grunts ending with “I’ll see you in about an hour.”

Newman replaced the phone but didn’t look up, toying with a pencil on his desk, clearly considering what to say. The silence stretched between them, swelling up and encasing them in a bubble of tension which Mark couldn’t bring himself to shatter as it offered the only protection from the reality that words would bring.

Finally, the Captain forced himself to meet the unspoken plea in the eyes across his desk. “It may be nothing,” he offered lamely. The news was some of the most difficult he had ever had to convey, knowing the devastating effect it would have on the other man. “They’ve recovered a body from a building; they, um, think it was an aborted rescue attempt. Identification is inconclusive on account of the...” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, “...the severity of injuries sustained, but he matches Steve’s description.”

The past and future coalesced into that single second of time, and everything seemed suspended in an unbearable yawning emptiness as the words dropped into the well of Mark’s soul, rippling outwards in acid waves of anguish. It was the culmination of Mark’s worst fears, fears that had taken shape many years before when the Police Commissioner had pinned a badge on his son and sent him out onto the streets to face drugged-out gang members armed with automatic weapons and ruthless murderers with vengeful agendas. These fears had been frequently thrown into sharp relief as Mark saw other officers fall in the line of duty and his own son receive terrible injuries and still return to the job. However, this was no criminal act that might be avoided by professionalism and a modicum of good luck, and it seemed to make it worse that this was so senseless. It was an “Act of God”, a demonstration of the power of nature at its most relentless and capricious, ultimately a stupid, pointless accident.

Newman averted his gaze from the grief-stricken man in front of him in an effort to afford him the privacy that his innate dignity demanded. He had seen people react in many different ways to the news of the violent death of a loved one - with anger, tears and disbelief, but after an initial flinch, Mark hadn’t moved, just sat as rigid as a statue, his eyes dull and unfocused. However, there was an indefinable sense of diminishment, as if something irreplaceable had drained out of him. The Captain waited for several minutes to allow him time to process the information, then started speaking with gruff sympathy.

Too many hours without sleep, and the series of shockwaves that had battered at the inner bastion of his emotions all evening, had lowered Mark’s normal resilience, and this last news had been the tidal wave that swamped his defenses. He was tempted to surrender and slide beneath the swell of despair, but he clutched at the lifejacket of hope that floated in his direction. There was no confirmation that it was Steve, no matter how likely it looked. The intensifying mental chant of denial rang so loudly in his head that it drowned out all external noises, but he gradually became aware that Newman was talking, and he knew it was important that he listened, yet, although he could hear the words, he had to concentrate to decipher them almost as if they were spoken in a foreign language he’d learnt a long time ago. It took a while to register that the Captain was talking about going to the morgue.

“I’m going with you,” Mark said abruptly, the words shocking in their clarity and forging a bridge for him back to lucidity. The intent to accompany the Captain had formed before conscious awareness of the fact.

Newman instantly objected. “Mark, you know that’s not necessary at the moment. I think it would be best if....”

“I’m going with you,” Mark repeated with quiet insistence. He had to do this. If it was the last interaction of any kind he would share with his son, he would do it, even if every atom in his body rebelled at the notion.

Newman watched him in resignation. He knew that despite his boundless amiability and good-humour, Mark possessed a steel core of determination and tenacity, and, if his son was in trouble, all the logical arguments in the world would not dissuade him from his resolved course of action. He picked up the telephone. “I’ll have a car brought around.”

The journey to the morgue seemed interminable to both driver and passenger. Newman could think of nothing appropriate to say, and Mark discouraged desultory conversation by leaning back in his seat and shutting his eyes. It was sheer torture for him to sit still as the aching fear of loss ripped through his gut and the anticipation of the coming ordeal clamped a vice around his heart. He craved the oblivion of sleep, but his mind was a jumble of disjointed thoughts, visions and memories and provided no respite from the pain that cut deeper into his soul with every passing mile.

Newman pulled up in the parking lot outside the dilapidated set of buildings that housed the Coroner’s Office for Los Angeles County. He looked across uneasily at his passenger whose eyes were still closed, though the tension emanating from his rigid form belied the appearance of rest. As the cessation of movement registered, Mark opened his eyes, a terrible bleakness in his expression reflecting his inner turmoil. Newman got out of the car and moved around to assist him, arriving just in time to steady the older man as he stumbled.

Mark felt such a sense of revulsion for the cold hard building ahead, he could scarcely force his legs to move. He wished he had the comfort of ignorance, but he knew it intimately, from the storage capacity for dead bodies to the exact procedure for the arriving corpses and the autopsy - Oh god, he hadn’t thought about the autopsy, the final indignity inflicted on the dead. Grief built thickly in his chest, choking the breath from his lungs, and he sat down numbly in the chairs provided, while Newman filled out the paperwork necessary to receive a visitor’s pass. Mark inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, but the effort backfired as he became abruptly aware of the unique odors of the morgue. Under normal circumstances it was too familiar to impinge on his consciousness, but now the components of the smell had personal implications that sharpened his awareness: the mixture of stale urine, bleach, formaldehyde and, worst of all, the whiff of decay that lingered so abhorrently in the nostrils. It all added up to the smell of death, that beckoned to the living from beyond the grave, and Mark felt bile rise in his stomach, but somehow it couldn’t get past the pain in his chest.

Their visitor’s passes were swiped over card slots and permitted them access to the elevator that carried them to the third floor. There were approximately a dozen people of varying ages already sitting in the room, and Mark realised with dismay that the waiting wasn’t yet over. The area was unnaturally silent, a pall of depression smothering the room, and none of the occupants made eye contact, merely clinging to a loved one, if available, for comfort. Mark sat heavily on a salmon-coloured vinyl sofa, the closest seating accessible.

Newman cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Mark, I really think it would be a good idea for me to call Amanda.”

Mark merely shook his head, unable to summon the energy to explain that no one could make this easier, although part of him yearned for the brand of support that only Amanda could provide,

Periodically, an assistant would approach a set of mourners, carrying a clipboard which held a white card and a Polaroid photograph face down. She would introduce herself quietly and then usher them into a private room from which they would emerge some minutes later, usually white-faced and tearful. The whole occasion took on a surreal edge for Mark. The choreography of death was all so familiar, yet he had always been an observer, never a participant, and it seemed impossible that he was actually here to identify his son’s body. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening , the mantra ran repeatedly though his head, and he prayed with no awareness of doing so.

All too soon, the woman was moving in his direction, and Mark eyed her with the mesmerised fascination of a mouse watching an approaching snake. He noticed a gap between her front teeth, a smudge of ink of her forefinger and an odd-shaped mole on her neck - a plethora of minutiae, as if his mind were trying to bury all emotions under the landslide of trivia. He followed her into the private room, his mind still preternaturally aware of the unimportant details like the pattern of rust in the pipes leading to the sink in the corner of the room and the chips knocked out of the small table at which they sat.

“Dr. Sloan?” Mark started, and his eyes were drawn unwillingly upwards from the clipboard she held till he met her sympathetic gaze. “My name is Holly Mitchell. On behalf of the Los Angeles Medical Examiner’s office, I offer my condolences.”

Mark wanted to protest that they weren’t even sure yet that it was Steve’s body, but no words could make it past the constriction in his throat, and after a short pause, Holly continued. “I want you to know that we have professional grief counselors on staff here, and we strongly recommend that you meet with one. They can not only assess your needs, but also help you with some of the practical aspects of losing a loved one. They can also give you details from the autopsy so you are not left to imagine the worst. I can tell you that, in this case, death was instantaneous, there was no suffering. Now, Dr Sloan, I understand you are familiar with the regular process here.”

Mark nodded. He knew that the scene, so beloved of TV shows, of the bereaved family identifying the corpse in the morgue, was more fiction than reality. Most identifications were verified by fingerprints or a recent driver’s license, and if a family member was called in, they made the identification from a Polaroid picture taken by a staff member and presented on the clipboard.

“In this situation, I’m afraid that the injuries to the head and torso are too severe for a photo identification. Did your son have any distinguishing marks that would help us, a birthmark or tattoo?”

“Nothing obvious,” Mark answered dully, unable to bring himself to describe the innumerable scars Steve had picked up in his career. “I need to see him; I’ll know if it’s him.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the response was delivered automatically. “Viewing is not permitted in the Coroner’s Office.”

“Excuse me, Ms Mitchell.” Newman pulled out his credentials. “Could I talk to you in private for a minute?” He escorted her out of the room, leaving Mark alone with his misery. The need to see the body for himself was painfully urgent for many reasons he didn’t try to analyse, but most importantly, he couldn’t face the long wait in this limbo of uncertainty for a fingerprint identification.

It wasn’t long before Newman returned with a rather bemused-looking assistant. “Dr Sloan, the Captain has convinced my superior that, considering the circumstances, and your position in the department, we can be flexible in our policies. I’ll take you downstairs to see the body.”

Mark didn’t question the ‘circumstances’ but followed her into the elevator on unsteady legs that no longer seemed connected to his nervous system. The elevator descended to the basement where the stench of death intensified, as did Mark’s nausea, although the cause was more psychological than physical.

The body had already been laid out on a table, decently covered by an off-white sheet. Holly tried gently to prepare him for what he would see. “I suggest that you look for identifying marks exclusively on the lower half of the body, since there is so much damage elsewhere. You’ll still see some gashes and bruises from injuries sustained in the earthquake. When you’re set, lift the sheet. Take all the time you need. We’ll wait until you’re ready.”

She then faded into the background, and Mark was left to face the worst nightmare he could ever imagine. Now that the moment had arrived, he would have given anything to postpone it, to preserve the semblance of hope just a little longer. The next few minutes could see his world shatter into a million pieces, and he would have bargained his soul to see his son alive again. It was hard to breathe with the sick vice of dread constricting his lungs, and the pain in his heart was so intense that he idly wondered if he was having a heart attack, but neither sensation seemed relevant as, bracing himself for what he might see, he raised a leaden arm towards the table.

Chapter Text

Friday 12:37 pm

Mark’s hand hovered shakily, seeming to operate independently of his control, then gently, almost reverently, lifted a small section of the sheet, revealing only an inert hand tucked against a thigh. His reaction was instantaneous. “It’s not him,” he said, in a low, surprisingly toneless voice.

There was silence behind him for a while, then Holly moved into his peripheral vision again. “Dr Sloan, we need you to be sure. I know this is difficult, but please look carefully.”

Mark looked at her uncertainly, unable to explain the instinctive recognition of a parent for his child. He knew the long, strong lines of his son’s limbs, the unexpectedly graceful length of his hands better than he knew his own. Even the brutality of a violent death could not disguise his son from him. However, he obligingly continued with his examination of the body, eager to confirm beyond a shadow of possible doubt that a stranger lay before him.

He moved to the foot of the table, folding back the sheet to the knees. The shapes and colors displayed were foreign to him, and he allowed himself the luxury of belief. Finally, he indicated the right knee. “My son was involved in a serious car accident about six months ago and needed surgery. There was a small scar here,” he pointed at unblemished skin. “This is not my son.” The words rolled compellingly off his tongue, the verbal repetition finally convincing not just his audience but also his own heart.

There was a rush of congratulations and apologies which Mark brushed off as graciously as he could before he excused himself and hurried into a bathroom he’d noticed in the corridor on the way in. He braced his hands on either side of the sink, afraid his stomach was going to lose the battle it had been waging with his mind. As the emotional reaction finally hit him, relief threatened the stability of his legs. The urge to sink to the floor and give way to the multitude of feelings roiling inside was almost irresistible, but on the heels of this impulse was scalding anger, directed entirely at himself for indulging in foolish emotions. His son might not be lying in the morgue, but neither was he back safe where he belonged. There was no time for pandering to futile distractions. Mark splashed some water on his face and took a couple of deep breaths, releasing fear and tension with each exhalation and inhaling hope and determination.

Newman found it hard to reconcile the composed, purposeful man who emerged from the restroom with the distraught, defeated individual he had escorted to the morgue. The shadow in Mark’s eyes remained, but he had recovered his equilibrium and, at his request, the Captain drove him straight back to Community General, reflecting wryly on his changed status to a chauffeur. He even offered to have Jesse’s car driven over later.

After stopping the car, Newman wrote down the information that he felt would be most helpful and handed it to the waiting Mark. “Here you go. I recommend you contact Captain Latham first. He’s in charge of the University police department, and knows Steve by sight.”

Mark briefly scanned the notes, then raised his eyes to meet Newman’s. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and my son. Steve has always held you in the highest esteem and I can understand why. Thank you.”

Newman cleared his throat, pleased but also uncomfortable with such stark gratitude. “Well,” he said gruffly. “It’s too much trouble to break in another officer. Just bring him home.”

Mark merely nodded, but the resolve to do just that was clear in every line of his body. His son needed him and he wasn’t about to let him down.

******************************************************************

Pain rode the tide of Steve’s returning consciousness, lapping tantalisingly at the fringes of his mind, surging higher then receding, encroaching in small increments until a sudden wave flooded his awareness. The pain was overwhelming, and Steve couldn’t help recoiling, instinctively trying to escape the assault. This involuntary movement proved to be a mistake, exacerbating the white-hot agony that inundated his body, exploding in an exclusive pyrotechnic display behind his eyelids and sending him back along the descending spiral of unconsciousness.

Experience bred caution, and the next time he was capable of rational thought, he fought the urge to tense up again. OK, I’ve got the message, no moving. How hard can that be? Just relax, deep breaths. OW! OK, ribs hurt, shallow breaths. An attempt to figure out exactly how much trouble he was in by use of his senses proved to be an effective, temporary distraction from the discomfort he was suffering.

Any detective work is going to have to be done without the benefit of sight, because it’s so dark, I can’t see an inch in front of my face, which is, however, irrelevant since that’s how far I estimate it is to the nearest object, so the view probably wouldn’t do much for me anyway. In fact, I’m bored with it already.

He was lying crumpled up on his left side, his face squashed against an unyielding coarse surface, it’s gritty surface biting uncomfortably into his cheekbone. The throbbing matched the headache located elsewhere in his skull, and he could already self-diagnose a concussion, the symptoms lamentably familiar. Let me see, nausea - check, headache - double check. Blurred vision - well, I’m sure it would be if I could actually see anything. What else? Inability to maintain a coherent line of thought - some people would say I can’t do that at the best of times. Amnesia - actually a little of that would go down rather well at the moment.

There hardly seemed an inch of his body that didn’t ache, but all his bruises faded in comparison to the agony that radiated from his right arm. That limb had been outflung in the fall and was lying, almost certainly broken, under an unidentified, but undeniably heavy, object. The slightest movement jarred it unbearably, and Steve continued his game of exploring his surroundings without stirring as a diversion from the pain.

His hearing offered little by way of constructive information. His own breathing seemed loud, and his unanswered shouts for help succeeded only as improvised attempts at echolocation, convincing him that he was in a small space. The only other sound was the faint dripping of water which increased the thirst that was tormenting him as the settling dust dried out his mouth. His throat and lungs felt as if they’d been scrubbed with sandpaper, and the dust and a pervading smell of damp filled his nostrils, which only left taste, and Steve decided to forgo any experiments with that sense.

Well, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into......... Steve could hear his father’s voice mimicking the famous Laurel and Hardy lines. Actually, Dad, I think I got myself into this one. Still, I’m alive and planning on staying that way until you find me. Things could be worse, you know, at least I’m not claustrophobic. Heights are a different matter, and I could be stuck in a small space at the top of a very tall building instead of buried in the basement. Actually, never mind. As soon as that thought occurred to him, Steve mentally crushing it into oblivion. He didn’t want to examine the details of his predicament too closely; survival was the imperative here.

The image of his father’s face in the midst of a comedic routine helped to ward off the incipient panic that was building inside him. Although he had no fear of enclosed spaces per se, his inability to stretch out and move freely was unnerving, and his muscles were cramping in response to the enforced inactivity. The thought of lying, trapped in this one restricted position, while waiting for rescue was unendurable. He couldn’t do it. With the utmost care not to jar his arm, he painstakingly shifted his weight onto his knees, his torso and bruised ribs twisted at a painful angle. He rested for a minute, panting, dismayed by the effort even such limited movement had required, then, balancing his weight cautiously, he extended his right leg probingly behind him, encountering solid resistance almost immediately. There would be no relief for his cramped legs in that direction.

His muscles were trembling with the strain of holding such an unnatural position, and sweat beaded his forehead. A tendril of thought concerning the declining availability of air insinuated itself inside his mind, but before it could blossom into alarm, Steve stamped on it ruthlessly. He stretched his left arm upward as far as he could, which wasn’t any great distance since his shoulder joint was at the wrong angle for full extension. He was surprised when his questing fingers met the cold smoothness of metal. Now for a game of twenty questions. We used to play that in the car on the way to visit Grandma, but it’s been a while. Definitely mineral, horizontal, large. Ahah - pipes. He had fallen underneath an old sink, which had almost certainly saved his life by providing a sturdy shelter. However, a wall lay to his left which meant the only direction he couldn’t feel any barrier within his limited reach was in front of him and that was his only hope of egress.

With all possible exploration completed, Steve knew he could delay no longer. He had to make an effort to free himself, and he doubted he would have the strength to try twice. It was impossible to achieve a position from which his right hand could assist in lifting the block, but he wedged a foot underneath in the forlorn hope that it might provide leverage. He cleared his mind of all reservations and indecision, directing the discipline of both mind and body into one single focus, then lifted and pulled simultaneously. The cry that was wrenched from his lips contained as much frustration as it did agony, as the knowledge of failure followed him into the darkness that claimed his mind.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, but his awakening was abrupt as he spluttered through a mouthful of water to full consciousness. The water was less than an inch deep, but, with a shudder of horror, he remembered the water he had landed in earlier and realised that the level was slowly rising, the tilt of the building having kept him out of it so far. The idea of feeling death inexorably inching its way up his body while he lay incapable of flight was truly terrifying. Death by drowning, death by asphyxiation, by blood loss, hypothermia. I don’t think I’ll last long enough for starvation to be a problem. Well, isn’t it nice to have so many choices. You know, Dad, this would be a really good time to find me.

Chapter Text

Friday 4:17 pm

Steve knew there would be people searching the wreckage for survivors and that he had to find some way of connecting with them. Shouting was a waste of both air and energy, as the sound would be smothered by the immense mass of material separating them. The adrenaline rush sparked by his discovery of the rising water, and the rehydration it offered, clarified his thinking, and he evaluated his options in alternative communication. Telepathy would come in handy round about now. Semaphore is out, as is sign language. Morse code is my best bet.

He remembered the pipes he had found earlier. They had presumably been connected to a central system throughout the building and would carry sound efficiently. He just needed something with which to strike them. Lying flat, keeping his mouth out of the water, he groped around to the full extent of his reach and located a yard-long piece of unconnected pipe. It was awkward to wield, and the reverberations of pipe hitting pipe sent shock waves of agony up his injured arm, but he was confident that it could be heard by anyone nearby using monitoring equipment.

During the next few hours he fell into a pattern of beating out an SOS every fifteen minutes or so and reserving his energy between messages. The unremitting exposure to the chill of the water was sapping his strength, and he was shivering uncontrollably. He clenched his teeth in a futile effort to stop them chattering, but it merely seemed to exacerbate the tremors in the rest of his body. His arm wasn’t hurting so much, but he knew enough about medicine to recognise that this was not a good sign. He was so tired he couldn’t think straight, his thoughts drifting like leaves before a strong breeze. The situation was grave and deteriorating by the minute, but he still clung to hope. His father was looking for him. He knew that with a certainty that resonated deep inside, providing a warmth of spirit that helped counteract the cold of his surroundings.

He also had no doubts that, if no one else was able to find him, Mark eventually would. Meanwhile, it was his job, his duty, his responsibility to survive. His mind shied away from the image of his father discovering his dead body, as he knew just how devastating an effect that would have. It would have been bad enough if he had died in the initial quake, but his father was strong and, although things would never be the same, he would eventually come to term with such a loss. However, if his son died waiting for rescue, Mark would never forgive himself for failing to find him in time.

There was one other possibility that Steve had so far tried to avoid contemplating, yet it slithered unbidden into his thoughts. He remembered his father reading an article to him concerning a hiker whose arm had been trapped under a boulder. After five days, he had freed himself by amputating his own arm with a pocketknife, and walked miles before finding help. It was an extreme method of self-extrication, and Steve didn’t know if he had the cold-blooded courage to emulate such an act. Was he willing to pay that price for survival?

He searched gingerly about his person. He didn’t know at what point in the proceedings he’d lost his gun, but his Swiss army knife was still buried deep in his front pocket. He pulled it out, awkwardly extracting the largest blade and testing it for sharpness. He grimaced at the concept of hacking through flesh and bone with that relatively dull edge, and tucked it back carefully. It was a last resort, a decision to be considered only if all other options had been exhausted. For now, he hadn’t reached that level of desperation, and he sought to channel his thoughts in a more cheerful direction.

The service in this place is terrible, I really must complain to the management. The floor is way too hard and wet, the ambience lacks that certain something, the decor is dreary, and I’m so tired of listening to myself breathe. The next time I find myself stuck in an earthquake, I really must make sure I have better provisions. A few Snickers bars and a heaping pile of steaming ribs. I’ll never go anywhere without them again. The mental image of himself pounding the streets of Los Angeles with ribs dripping out of every pocket followed by half the canine population of the city lightened his mood considerably, and he gave himself over to a pleasant fantasy of what he would rather be doing at that moment.

First, I’d have a hot bath and soak in the luxurious warmth until I turned into a prune. Then, I’d sit on the couch in front of the TV, with my feet on the coffee table, sharing a plate of BBQ Bob’s best with Dad. It must be......Friday night by now. We’d watch Monk and I’d make fun of the travesty they call police procedures and Dad would figure out who’d done it five minutes into the show, then we’d .............we’d.........

His mental narrative trailed off as the words triggered a cascade of memories that took on a new relevance upon reexamination. When he’d questioned MacKay about his activities the night of the murder, the Professor had replied that he’d been watching Law and Order. Yet Steve had never mentioned a specific time, so was it just a coincidence that MacKay had offered an alibi for the exact time of the murder? With the earthquake and its aftermath following so close to the interview, Steve had lacked the opportunity to pursue his suspicions concerning MacKay, but now it made an effective distraction to his own predicament.

All the evidence seemed circumstantial, yet something was teasing at his subconscious, something he’d seen, or MacKay had done, that had convinced him that the Professor was not the innocent he claimed. He concentrated his powers of recall and mentally replayed the interview of the previous day, isolating each incident and examining it from all angles. He could feel the vital piece of incriminating evidence float tantalisingly just outside his reach, lazily evading his efforts to grasp it; then, in a sudden illuminating flash he had it - the object of which he had caught a glimpse on MacKay’s desk before his line of sight was obscured. It was an ornamental pen set with a black and gold design. There was a letter opener and a pencil, but the space for a pen was empty, and Steve knew why. MacKay had lost it in the struggle at the top of the stairs when he’d murdered Gilman, and Steve had last seen it in his father’s hands while he’d admired it with Lisa who had claimed it as an anniversary present.

Everything fell into place: motive, means and opportunity. Lisa was an accomplice to her husband’s murder, and had drugged him before driving to the charity dinner, leaving him an easy victim for her co-conspirator. MacKay had found his perfect revenge; he had not only stolen Gilman’s life but also his wife and fortune. This has to be the strangest place that I’ve ever solved a murder in. Kinda inconvenient too. If someone would just hold my place in line, I’ve got to go make an arrest, I’ll be right back. Damn it! I really don’t want that murdering SOB to get away with.......Oh my God, Dad!

A flutter of fear swelled into a cold chill that had nothing to do with the icy conditions around him, as the full ramifications of Lisa Gilman’s collaboration with her husband’s murderer sank in. Images of his father holding up the pen, the phone ringing as he left MacKay’s office and the last glimpse of MacKay watching him from his window, tumbled relentlessly to the front of his mind, dropping into place with the inevitability of a slot machine. The ghastly jackpot was the inescapable conclusion that, with Steve himself out of the picture, only one man stood between MacKay and forty-six million dollars, and that man was Mark Sloan.

Steve tried to convince himself that MacKay wouldn’t take the risk of going after his father, but he knew with an instinct deeper than pure logic that Mark was in terrible danger. He recognised the attributes of a natural killer in MacKay - the conviction of his mental and physical superiority tipping a healthy self-confidence into arrogance, and a moral deficiency that placed his own needs paramount and saw other people merely as obstacles that could be disposed of. Steve emitted a groan of despair as he realised that his father was oblivious to the significance of the pen and the existence of any danger. Even worse, his instincts for self-preservation, unreliable at the best of times, would be subsumed in the search and worry for his son.

Frustration bubbled corrosively through his veins at the knowledge that not only could he not protect his father, he couldn’t even warn him of the existence of the imminent threat. Steve thought back to the many times Mark had faced down a killer, his courage, curiosity and sense of justice allowing him to coax the incriminating evidence needed for conviction, but also secure in the knowledge that his son was, covertly or not, guarding his back. The image flashed through his mind of Delaney, holding a gun to his father’s head and the satisfying pain to his knuckles as he put all his anger and fear into a blow that leveled the rogue cop. That was how it should be -- Steve’s strength and physical abilities at his father’s call when required. It was utterly intolerable to passively await rescue when Mark was in danger.

Escape was imperative, and Steve was seriously considering the knife in his pocket when inspiration struck. He thrust the end of the pipe under the block that held his arm captive, then, after groping blindly in all directions, he found a piece of brick to act as a fulcrum. MacGyver I’m not, but I still remember some basic physics. Who was it who said, “give me a lever long enough and a place to stand and I could move the world”? I’ll have to ask Dad, it’s just the sort of thing that would come up in his crosswords.

Failure was no longer an option, and he cleared his mind of the anticipation of pain before pushing down on the other end of the pipe with all the force he could muster. He found the strength he hadn’t been able to summon before, and his arm came free. Cradling it protectively, he sat up, banging his head on the underside of the sink in the process. The relief of a different position to his cramped muscles was exquisite, but quickly offset by the agony of returning feeling in his arm. An incautious touch had revealed jagged edges of bone projecting through the skin, and the compound fracture allowed for the blood returning to the compressed area to flow liberally. He could feel it running, oddly warm against the chill of his arm.

Good thing I’m sitting down already. Bloodloss 3, Steve 0, or at least there will be soon if I don’t do something about it. The heavy nauseous feeling was a good indication that an already serious problem had been exacerbated and, employing a torn-off piece of shirt, Steve attempted to fashion a tourniquet. In the dark with only the use of one hand and his teeth, it almost proved too much of a challenge, but finally he was satisfied with the results and flopped back against the wall to ride out the worst of the pain with gritted teeth and the occasional subvocal imprecation.

The red-hot fire that consumed his arm eventually subsided to a manageable level, leaving him limp and exhausted. The lack of sensory input, combined with the cumulative effects of his untreated injuries, was making it progressively harder to keep track of time or even consciousness. He knew he’d been fading in and out, but, awake or asleep, his world was dark and full of pain. But now, a greater sense of purpose bolstered his waning strength. Using the brick, he hammered out another SOS on the pipes before shuffling gingerly forward, his left hand exploring for weaknesses in his prison. It was only about four feet ahead that he found the wall, completing his mental picture of the confining area. However, at the furthest extent of his space, he believed he could feel the gentle exhalation of fresh air through a small cavity next to the wall, and there was a slight yield as he pushed upwards on his makeshift ceiling. Determined to get a warning to his father as soon as humanly possible, yet grimly aware of the probable futility of his actions, he pulled out his knife again to start the long job of chipping away at the hole in an attempt to widen it enough to fit through.

******************************************************************

As Newman drove off, Mark marched into the hospital, determination radiating from every pore, most clearly discernible in the intent expression on his face, the tilt of his head and the speed of his walk. Such powerful internal focus, however, precluded the application of his usually acute powers of observation and he paid no attention to the stranger who fell into step beside him, merely throwing him an abstracted smile of thanks for the information that the elevator was not in order. Without breaking his stride, he headed towards the stairs, the stranger close behind.

Chapter Text

Friday 2:20pm

The stairs were slippery with dust and littered with plaster that had fallen from the ceiling and walls. It was an area that seemed to have experienced more damage than the rest of the hospital, and Mark made a mental note to inform the janitors of the potential hazards in the stairwell. However, his preoccupation blocked the realisation that if the elevator had truly been out of order, there would have been signs of greater foot traffic passing through the area. As it was, he was too intent to even feel the effects of the extra exertion on his already weary body.

“Excuse me. Could you tell me where I can find the maternity ward?”

Although he was peripherally aware that someone was coming up the stairs behind him, Mark was startled to be asked a question. He turned round in mid-step, ready to give directions, when the stranger’s eyes widened in alarm indicating something in front of him on the stairs. “Watch out!” Mark looked back hastily in confusion, then somehow, he was never really sure how, he tripped up over something and was falling backwards. As his centre of gravity shifted irretrievably, he windmilled his arms in an instinctive attempt to save himself. A flash of deja vu took him back to the morning of the previous day as he had tipped off the chair in the Gilman house. This time, however, his son’s strong arm was not there to steady him, and with more of a sense of loss than fear, he toppled down the flight of stairs.

A grab for the railing succeeded in slowing his momentum, but he still landed in an ungainly heap at the bottom of the steps. As he lay, too stunned to move, Mark was aware of the sound of footsteps descending to his side, and was dimly grateful that help was so near. As the stranger bent over him, the door to that level swung open, narrowly missing his head, and twin gasps of horror echoed through the stairwell.

“My God, Dr. Sloan. What happened?”

“He fell, I’ll go for help.”

“Betty, stay with him. I’ll get Dr. Travis.”

Mark recognised the new voices as belonging to two of the ICU nurses, but the exchange largely went over his head as he muttered reassurances and concentrated on testing his limbs for broken bones.

As he struggled to sit up, Jesse was suddenly by his side. “Don’t move, Mark. You’ve had a bad tumble down the stairs.”

“Actually, I think I bounced quite nicely,” Mark retorted. He patted his generous waistline. “This has to be good for something. I’m fine, Jess, just a little bruised.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that,” Jesse responded gently. “OK, pupils equal and reactive, that’s good, but you’ve got a nasty contusion on your forehead.”

Mark endured the poking and prodding patiently for a few minutes, but when Jesse announced his intention of ordering some further tests, he rebelled. He grabbed Jesse arm in a plea for his full attention. “Jesse, we don’t have time for this. It’s been nearly 24 hours since the earthquake, and they say the first 72 hours are critical. There’s little hope of finding anyone alive after that. I promise you nothing is broken.”

Jesse sat back on his heels, regarding his friend dubiously. His instincts as a doctor were warring with his instincts as a friend. He knew how desperately Mark wanted to be out looking for Steve and seconded that desire. However, such a fall should not be taken lightly -- especially for man of Mark’s age. He stalled any immediate decision with a question. “What happened?”

“I suppose I tripped over my own feet; I really don’t know how it happened,” Mark confessed with some embarrassment.

“I can guess,” Jesse said with some asperity. “You’re exhausted. You haven’t slept in two days. Breaking your neck falling down the stairs or collapsing through fatigue is not going to help Steve.”

He regretted the words as soon as he’d spoken them and tried to change the subject. “Why did you take the stairs anyway?”

Mark looked puzzled. “The elevator is out of order.”

“Since when?” was the immediate reply.

Mark looked around vaguely for his erstwhile good Samaritan but, not seeing him anywhere, dismissed the topic as unimportant. His head hurt too much to waste time on extraneous details. “I guess it was a misunderstanding.”

He levered himself up, trying to make it look as effortless as possible, but the skeptical expression on his young friend’s face was proof that he was fooling nobody. He gave Jesse his best scapegrace smile. “Well, a couple of pain killers wouldn’t go amiss.”

He walked into the hospital, ignoring the clamor that renewed movement set up in his newly acquired bruises. Jesse prescribed some extra-strength analgesics and explained the plans made in Mark’s absence. “Amanda has already set out in her car. She’s heading for Mercy and will check out all the other hospitals they’ve evacuated people to in that area. They’ve transported a large number of people to UCLA. Do you want to try there?”

Mark started to shake his head, but quickly changed his mind as the pounding in his head reached a new crescendo. “I want to go the University at Hilton Heights to try to retrace Steve’s footsteps,” he said decisively. “Hopefully, I’ll find someone who’s seen him or knows what happened to him. Maybe you could check out UCLA.”

Jesse might have raised stronger objections to Mark’s precipitous departure from the hospital so soon after his fall, but the suspicion had crossed his mind that recently Community General and its environs hadn’t been too healthy for Mark. Although Jesse had found no suspicion of foul play, two near-fatal accidents for his friend in one day were too much of a coincidence for his peace of mind, and he was glad to see him off the premises.

The problem of transportation proved easier to solve than Mark had dared hope, and before long, he was in a medivac chopper heading for Hilton Heights. The city looked remarkably peaceful as they swung out over it, and now he was on his way and ready to do something constructive to find his son, Mark felt some of his tension dissipate. To his surprise, he actually dozed on the flight, the demands of his exhausted body impossible to banish any longer.

The helicopter landed in the nearest open space, a field that looked like it was primarily used for soccer. Mark alighted slowly, his body having stiffened painfully during the journey. The university was in shambles, though the damage was not uniform. The newer buildings remained structurally intact though windows were smashed and facades had collapsed. The older buildings, however, were crumpled masses of brick and stone, and Mark made his way over to the location of the largest rescue effort. A tall black man in a hardhat was directing operations, and, after a quick glance at Newman’s list, Mark approached him. “Marcus Sheldon?”

The glance he received in return was distinctly unfriendly. “And you are....?”

“Dr. Mark Sloan.” He held out his hand and it was grudgingly shaken.

“Medical or academic?” Mark almost smiled at the taciturnity which this man seemed to have raised to an art form.

“I’m head of Internal Medicine at Community General,” he elaborated.

“Then you’re welcome to stay.” Sheldon unbent enough to throw a nod of acceptance in Mark’s direction.

Mark was nearly certain that Steve had left the campus. Newman had reported that his car had not been found in any of the lots, but the slender possibility that his son was buried under that immense heap of rubble kept Mark rooted to the spot. It was a scene of intense activity. People, mostly firefighters dressed in heavy yellow coats and sturdy helmets, picked painstakingly through the rubble. Some formed bucket brigades, passing the debris down the line to the next man. Others searched with dogs, or wielded blowtorches or other equipment. There were two large, yellow cranes which occasionally lifted wreckage but, to Mark’s surprise, were largely standing inoperative.

Impatient for results, he queried this inactivity. Sheldon seemed willing to provide explanations, though all the while his eyes roved incessantly over the scene ahead, watching vigilantly for signs of trouble. “If anyone is left alive, they’ll be hidden in small pockets and niches. The bulky machines might destabilise the wreckage and jeopardize any survivors awaiting rescue. We have to do this the hard way.” He pointed out the sophisticated listening devices that were used to detect signs of life, and the tiny cameras that could search crevices that might shelter a body.

The efficiency of the operation and the competence of the personnel involved gave buoyancy to Mark’s floundering hopes. He pulled a picture of Steve out of his pocket but, before he had time to show it to Sheldon, there was a shout -- “There’s another one coming, Boss!” and Sheldon sprang into action.

Pulling a klaxon out of his pocket he let loose a loud blare. “Everyone off, right now!” People streamed off the rubble like ants fleeing an ant hill, Sheldon assisting those with heavy equipment. For an instant, everyone froze; then the familiar rumbling began and the earth began a gentle rolling motion. It wasn’t a violent aftershock, but Mark could see that such a movement would most likely settle the debris and trap potential rescuers. He swallowed painfully at the realisation of how easily it could crush someone already enclosed in the collapsed building.

After a minute, Sheldon sounded the all-clear and operations resumed. “How did you know?” Mark was genuinely curious, wanting to learn everything he could that might be useful in saving his son.

Sheldon shrugged deprecatingly. “Luckily, radio waves travel much faster than seismic waves. A seismograph network is set up near the epicenter, and the instruments detect any aftershocks and broadcast warnings to the work sites. We get about a twenty-second warning here.”

Mark held out his photograph of Steve, his hand shaking slightly despite his best efforts to control it. “I’m looking for my son, he’s a cop. Have you seen him?”

Sheldon picked up on the implications of the question from the intensity of Mark’s delivery and the unspoken plea in his eyes. His eyes flickered back to the ruins in front of him. “Was he here?” he asked, a gruff sympathy in his voice.

As Mark followed his gaze, the anguish of uncertainty with its wrenching counterpoints of fear and hope was clear in his expression. “I think he’d just left, but I don’t know for sure,” he admitted.

“If he was heading back for LA, he’d probably have gone that route.” Sheldon pointed out the road. “But you should know that the center of town is not in much better shape.”

It was a considerate warning, but words could not prepare him for the destruction of a community. The main street was ripped apart, the pavement shattered with fissures running haphazardly through the ground. Houses were tumbled around like child’s toys, the demolished remains of homes horrifying at that close proximity. He knew that other families had suffered greatly, but his innate empathy was stifled by his own heartache.

He showed everyone he met Steve’s picture, but received only head shakes. It was as if Steve had vanished off the face of the earth, worse, as if he’d never existed, and with his disappearance, Mark himself had lost his anchor to reality and was merely a phantom drifting through the evening with no tangible connection to the world.

It was not only that Steve himself was still missing, but there had been no sighting of his car. The light was fading, making discovery less probable and as the minutes slipped into hours, time trickling inexorably through his fingers, the conclusion was becoming more inescapable that the car and it’s owner were buried under the Soledad Canyon Bridge.

With determination, Mark pushed his morbid thoughts aside, refusing to surrender the last of his hope. He needed his son back, the alternative was unthinkable. He reached the center of town, which had indeed suffered considerable damage, and was making his way towards a group of people halfheartedly clearing some fallen telephone poles out of the street, when his eye was drawn to a glint of metallic colour. Unaware of his own movements, he was pulled to it as irresistibly as iron filings to a magnet.

Thrusting his hands between the bricks, he pushed them aside without finesse or strategy, uncaring of bruised knuckles, broken nails and bleeding skin. It was Steve’s car, he knew it was. The colour and the place were right, even if it had been crushed out of any recognisable shape by the force of the collapsing wall. In a frenzy of horror, he tore through the debris, dreading what he might find inside. The driver’s door had been torn off, so it didn’t take too long to be sure that no one was within, and a more careful inspection revealed no signs of blood.

Mark sank limply to the ground, sitting on a conveniently upraised piece of sidewalk while his mind raced in circles, trying to sift through the implications of his discovery. One mystery was solved, and the spectre of the bridge could be laid to rest, but it didn’t bring him any closer to finding his son or answering the question of his survival.

There was a gentle nudge against his knee, and he opened his eyes to see a water flask offered. He gratefully accepted the anonymous gift and took a deep swallow before looking up into the kind eyes of a Hispanic man of around his own age.

“Are you OK?” The gentle concern nearly undermined his fragile emotional control.

“I’m fine,” he answered automatically, although it was patently untrue. His whole body ached unmercifully, though it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. Wearily he held out the picture of Steve again, wiping off a smudge of blood with his sleeve. “This is my son. Have you seen him?”

“Yes, yes, good man, very good man.” His new friend nodded enthusiastically and tapped the photograph for emphasis. “He saved my son’s family and many others. Good man.”

Mark had got so used to negative responses to his enquiry that it took a moment for his tired mind to register the words. As comprehension dawned, Mark’s heart seemed to leap violently into his throat. It hung vertiginously for a split second before slamming back to pound with almost painful intensity against the wall of his suddenly tight chest.

“You’ve seen him? He’s alive? Where is he?” The questions tumbled almost incoherently from his lips in his thirst to hear the answers.

The old man didn’t answer at once, his frown of concentration indicating an effort to recall, but the delay, minimal as it was, stretched Mark’s patience to the limit. Finally, with an apologetic shrug, the man, who introduced himself as Jorge, admitted defeat. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. However, Maria will know. You need to ask Maria Fernandez.”

“Where can I find her?” Mark asked eagerly.

More questions revealed that Maria was a nurse who had worked with Steve to assist the injured after the quake, and that she had gone to the City Memorial Hospital with a group of wounded. Mark thanked his new friend sincerely, and made as quick an exit as he could. Like a bloodhound finding a scent at the end of a fruitless hunt, he was quivering with eagerness to follow this promising trail. The knowledge that Steve had survived the initial quake was like a swig of iced water in the middle of the Sahara, but, as invigorating as it was, only the sight of his son alive could truly quench the thirst the burnt within him.

Chapter Text

Friday 11:28pm

Steve had no warning of the approaching aftershock, but, as the concrete on all sides started an ominous groaning, he realised the perilous nature of his position, squeezed as he was between the wall and a giant stone slab. The world once more shifted around him, and he dropped down, blindly seeking the shelter of the sink.

Somewhere in his precipitous descent, he knocked his injured arm against the wall, and, as he slid into safety, the fireburst of agony faded to gray and he fought to remain conscious. The savage sound and movements of the tormented building soon ceased, and weakly, he rested his face against the cool pipes. The tremors that shook him at decreasing intervals were now those of fever, and he could feel the heat radiating from his arm as once again he tried to stem the flow of blood.

Steve’s faith in his father remained unshakable, but he had to face the possibility that his time was running out. If I die not knowing that you’re safe, Dad, I swear I won’t rest in peace. I’ll come back and haunt you for the rest of your life. Just imagine that, a big klutzy ghost, tripping over things in the middle of the night and messing with the coffee machine.

Despite the attempt to maintain his spirits, Steve felt a mounting desperation at his inability to warn his father. As a final resort, he decided that a possibly posthumous message was better than nothing, and gave thanks for deep and well-stocked pockets as he fished out a pen and a small notebook. It seemed a simple idea, yet writing on a slightly damp piece of paper in the dark with only one hand proved to be a tricky proposition, and Steve could only trust that the result was what he intended, and not totally unintelligible. A few succinct words explained the danger he believed was threatening his father, but after this warning he hesitated, leaning his head back against the wall and shutting his eyes. This might be his final communication with his father and, if it was, for both their sakes, there needed to be some closure. Yet, how could he say goodbye to the man who meant more to him than anyone in the world, and what words could he possibly find that would make this any easier for Mark?

It should have made things easier that this wasn’t the first time he’d thought about the contents of a final letter. A couple of years ago, Mark had been trapped inside an air-tight room controlled by a computer programmed by a vengeful father. As the oxygen ran out, Mark had started to write a letter to his son, but anoxia had prevented him from getting beyond the first few words. Steve had found the improvised note scribbled on the flap of a box and, although he’d never told his father, he still had the scrap of cardboard enclosed in a box of his personal possessions. The incident had left him with an ingrained distaste for real estate, an immense gratitude that Mark had escaped alive and a profound curiosity as to what his father had intended to write. He had attempted to introduce the topic while Mark was still in hospital, but when his father had seemed embarrassed by the topic, he had made light of the situation, yet he still wondered what advice or sentiment the note would have contained.

Two years ago, he had thought that nothing that Mark could have written would have assuaged his grief, or the guilt of his father dying in his place, in his house, but now he felt that after time, he would have derived some comfort from the attempt. However, now it was his turn, he could think of nothing to say that didn’t seem trite and useless. The truth was, he was no good with words, he’d never had to be. He and his father always understood each other perfectly without words.

His reminiscing proved too relaxing for his exhausted body, and he fell into a restless sleep. He dreamed in vivid detail that he was by the ocean, a little boy again, holding his dad’s hand, although in the anachronistic way of dreams, Mark was the white-haired, moustached father of the present day. He could smell the brine and the decaying odor of kelp washed up on the beach, and hear the raucous call of seagulls. They had come to jump in the waves, but his child-self was apprehensive, intimidated by the size of the breakers. His father smiled down reassuringly at him from a great height and squeezed his hand. “I won’t let go, I promise.”

At first, there was an exhilaration in the buoyancy of the salty ocean and the anticipation and timing of the leaps through the rolling water, but it wasn’t too long before a larger than usual wave and an ill-timed jump sent him tumbling helplessly under the sea, disoriented and winded. He seemed to be submerged for an inordinate length of time, the clouds and birds in the sky at first clearly visible through the now motionless water but slowly the pellucid liquid became viscous and opaque as it turned first pink, then a deeper and deeper shade of red, and he knew with the certain knowledge of a dream that he was drowning in his own blood. Strangely, he felt no fear, a mystery that was solved when, with a jerk, he was pulled upwards and his lungs took a deep, refreshing breath of sweet air as he looked at his father’s concerned but smiling face. Mark shook their joined hands. “I told you I wouldn’t let go.”

He woke up with a start, clutching frantically at the notepad as it started to slide off his knee. He wasn’t sure if his dream was mostly memory or a thinly disguised metaphor that his mind had dragged up after the earthquake, but it seemed to supply the inspiration he needed and, for several minutes, he wrote as steadily as the circumstances allowed. After he finished, he folded the paper over, wrote ‘Dad’ on the outside and, with exaggerated care, tucked it into his shirt pocket, hoping it would arrive at its intended destination sooner rather than later.

The effort to finish his missive exhausted him in every way. He told himself that it was merely a precaution, but saying goodbye, even in theory, to his father left a heaviness in his heart that overshadowed mere physical pain. He knew without being told, though Jesse commented on it frequently, that he and his father shared an unusually close relationship. Personally, he credited Mark with the strength of its forging. Few fathers so successfully made the transition from patriarch to best friend, accepting and affording respect in equal measure. Although not given to emotional introspection, it had occurred to Steve on several occasions, seeing other cops self-destruct and crumble under the pressure of the job, that his father was his ballast, Mark’s unfailing love and acceptance steadying him when life got rocky. Steve didn’t overanalyse it, he just enjoyed his father’s companionship, the intellectual challenge of working together, the unpredictability and laughter of their downtime and the mutual support of living together.

Realising that he was wallowing in maudlin sentiment, Steve tried to channel his emotions into anger, an emotion with which he was much more comfortable, but it was hard to maintain even that in his present condition. His heart was pounding too fast in his chest, straining for the oxygen his depleted blood supply couldn’t provide, and he felt light-headed and nauseous. However, with more stubbornness than good sense, he shuffled back to the hole, which had narrowed slightly as the building had shuddered in the latest aftershock, and doggedly resumed chipping away at the concrete until unconsciousness claimed him again.

Chapter Text

Friday 10:51 pm

The roads around Hilton Heights were still impassible to most motor vehicles, and Mark returned to the University in the hopes of taking a flight to City Memorial Hospital. He wasn’t disappointed. Sheldon listened to his story and, with an eye to his injuries, bundled him onto one of the medivac helicopters where the paramedics were only too happy to bandage his hands and redose him with painkillers on the way back to LA.

City Memorial was a large, amorphous hospital catering largely to the growing number of people without insurance and those on medicare. Its halls were clogged with red tape, but Mark slashed ruthlessly through all the bureaucracy, using his position and reputation without compunction to achieve his goals. He found Maria asleep next to the bedside of a young teenage amputee victim. Even slumbering, she looked as exhausted as Mark felt, and he was loathe to wake her up. He pulled another chair up beside hers as ingrained consideration for others warring briefly with his impatience for answers, the latter winning without much of a contest. He gently reached over and shook her shoulder. A bleary eye opened, then Maria bolted upright looking frantically towards the patient in the bed.

Mark had seen and experienced that reaction too often to be in any doubt as to its meaning, and he hastened to reassure her that the girl was in a stable condition.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Ms. Fernandez, but Jorge informed me that you knew where I could find my son, Steve Sloan.”

At her puzzled look, he pulled the now-worn photograph out of his pocket and presented it to her, his eyes never leaving her face, and followed the rapid succession of emotions crossing her expressive countenance: recognition, surprise, shock, guilt, distress.

“I’m sorry,” she began, and Mark tensed fearfully, unsure if she was apologising for ignorance of Steve’s whereabouts or something worse. “I wish I had better news for you, but there’s no easy way to say this. From the reports I’ve heard from the men working with him, it seems that your son was lost in the first big aftershock.”

“No!” Mark’s reaction was immediate, but lacked the force of conviction as an overwhelming matrix of anguish replaced the fragile hopes that he’d nurtured.

“I don’t know anything for sure, but he disappeared around that time. Soon after that, the helicopters arrived and evacuated the wounded, and I never got the chance to follow up on his whereabouts. I’m so sorry.”

Mark got heavily to his feet. “I need to go back and keep looking.” He forced the words out of a numb throat, and turned to go, but Maria caught him by the hand and urged him back to his seat.

“Please wait. It’s the middle of the night, and there’s nothing you can do in the dark. I’d like to tell you about your son.”

Mark reseated himself, a reluctant nod acknowledging the truth of her statement. The electricity was still out in Hilton Heights, and it would be impossible to perform an efficient search under those conditions. Besides, the temptation to hear news about his son was overwhelming.

“Your son......” Maria hesitated, trying to decided in which tense to place her encomium, “....is a very brave man. Although he himself was hurt in the earthquake, he worked tirelessly to help the people around him. He went into very dangerous situations to save people who were trapped.” She continued on for a long time, detailing Steve’s efforts to help her friends and neighbours, her face glowing with compassion and conviction, but Mark could no longer see her, his eyes blinded with tears that he refused to shed. But he listened intently to her mellifluous voice describing what might have been his son’s last hours. Every word fell like acid on his heart, etching images that would remain with him forever.

The information that his son was a hero was not news to him. For a second, he felt a bitterness that Steve would so readily endanger his own life, but the memory of a little boy in a Superman costume dissipated the heat of the emotion. It was in Steve’s nature to protect those around him, and Mark was the main beneficiary of that compulsion. It was impossible for him to stand by while others were in trouble. Pride and love swelled in Mark’s heart in equal measure with terrible grief, and he leaned forward in an effort to contain the pressure that threatened to burst out of his chest.

As Maria finished talking, Mark was unable to speak past the constriction in his throat but she seemed to understand and gently patted him on the knee, undemanding of a response. Finally, Mark straightened up, lifted his chin and took a deep breath.

“Thank you, Maria. Your words mean a great deal to me. My son has always been a hero to me; that’s why I have to go back out to find him. People have told me he’s as good as dead before, but he’s always pulled through, and I am not going to give up on him now.”

Mark’s quiet dignity and obvious love for his son strengthened Maria’s resolve to do everything she could to help him. “It’s easy to see where Steve gets his courage from.” She gave his knee a final pat then stood up. “Come with me. Let’s see if we can narrow down who saw Steve last and where he disappeared.”

City Memorial was as crowded as Community General, and less critical patients were spilling into the corridors as the most seriously injured took the available rooms. Many of Maria’s neighbours were found nearby, and she questioned them in a fluent exchange of English and Spanish. It was clear that she was much beloved in her community, and equally obvious that Steve had also won their respect and gratitude, and Mark had to endure many pats on the back and compliments, but no one had any definitive news to offer. The general consensus was that Steve had last been seen climbing to the top of the hill as darkness set. The aftershock had hit, and help had arrived soon after.

Despondent and weary beyond measure, Mark was on the verge of admitting defeat, when, on a small trundle bed, clutched in the hands of a sleeping child, he spotted a familiar object.

“That’s Steve’s jacket!” he cried out. It was his son’s favourite leather jacket; he’d seen him in it often enough to be fairly sure. He knelt beside the boy and tried to extract it without waking him, instinctively needing the connection to his son. He noted with wrenching empathy the myriad of rents and tears, most surrounded by a tell-tale darkened stain, and did his best to block out the images of the damage that must have been caused to its wearer that his mind automatically supplied. Despite his best efforts at finesse, the boy woke up and scuttled back in his bed, alarmed by the looming faces of the adults.

Maria crouched down beside Mark to reassure the boy and to explain quietly the child’s association to Steve. “He was with your son when the quake hit. He’s been through a rough time. His mother was critically injured, although his twin brothers escaped by a miracle. They’re being cared for by a neighbour. Carlos is in shock, he hasn’t spoken since he came here.”

His mind working on an intuitive level, Mark sensed that the boy held the answers he needed locked up inside him, and he projected his best harmless and friendly demeanour. He held the boy’s gaze, creating a bubble of intimacy and security between them, then held out his photograph again. “He’s my son,” he whispered. “He means everything in the world to me. If you know anything that would help me find him, I would be very grateful.” Not wanting to frighten the boy, he tried to keep the depth of desperation out of his voice, but the strength of his love resonated in every quiet word.

Tears welled in Carlos’ eyes, and his face crumpled. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “It was my fault.” Mark gathered him into his arms as the boy’s fragile body shook with the force of his emotion, and soothed him mechanically as he absorbed the implications of the child’s grief and it merged with his own. Finally, as the tremors eased, a torrent of Spanish burst out, too fast for Mark’s meagre knowledge of the language to follow. He turned to Maria for a translation, catching the significance of the story in the finality and defeated acceptance on her face.

He shut his eyes and steeled himself against the wave of despair that threatened to drown him in his own heartache and the agony of failure. He’d been down this road too many times in the last thirty-six hours, and now he refused to believe the worst until he held his son’s lifeless body in his arms. Some might call it denial, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t give up on his son. Opening his eyes again, his face set and hard, he indicated that he was ready to hear the news. He attempted, without much success, to concentrate on the facts and to filter out the emotional import of the words. He could no longer look at Maria, afraid the compassion in her eyes would unlock the door of stoicism he was hiding behind.

“It was Steve who rescued the two babies,” Maria started tentatively. Mark nodded, having already grasped the fact that Steve was the ‘miracle’ of which she had earlier spoken. “He was pulling out the second child when the aftershock hit. I’m so sorry. Carlos saw him buried under the building. He blames himself for asking Steve to help.”

That was a burden no child should have to carry, and Mark knew he had to make things right before he left. He searched for words that would comfort Carlos without shattering his own fragile composure in the process. Gently, he turned the boy’s tearstained face towards his. “Thank you for letting me know what happened to my son,” he said softly. He placed the jacket back in the boy’s hands. “I think Steve would have wanted you to keep this. I want you to know that this was not your fault. Steve knew the risks and wanted to help, it was just bad luck that the aftershock hit at the wrong time. No one blames you, and I’m glad your family is safe.” He sensed an easing in the tension of the muscles beneath his hands and, with a final hug, he left the room.

Maria followed, and handed him the address of Carlos’ home. “459 Hamilton St. The building was mostly abandoned, but their family lived in the basement. Please let me know what happens. I will pray for you.”

Mark made his way slowly to the roof, and was intensely frustrated, though not surprised, to find that no helicopter would be available until morning. He knew he’d been incredibly lucky thus far in using it as a personal taxi service. With the bridge lying on the canyon floor, the car journey, supposing he could borrow one, would take far too long on roads that still suffered from the effects of the quake, so he was stuck where he was for now. Luckily, the telephone service had improved, and he could at least start organising the rescue effort for the next day.

He knew he should call Jesse and Amanda, but they would want details that he felt unable to articulate. At times, he felt as if he was close to crumbling into dust, and their sympathy would be all that was needed to scatter him to the four winds. Instead, he opted for Captain Newman, giving him the bare facts and asking him to coordinate with Jesse, Amanda and Marcus Sheldon. He appreciated Newman’s efficiency and practicality, and the Captain only asked one hard question before he disconnected. “Mark, what are our chances of finding him alive?”

Mark’s reply had been immediate. “I’ll take whatever odds I can get.” But now, as he leaned on the railing watching the quiet city below, he had to ask if he was deluding himself. Throughout the whole ordeal, a core of hope had remained strong inside, at times waning in the face of devastating revelations, but never disappearing. Even now, it provided a small buffer of warmth against the cold emptiness inside and the painful aching of his heart. Was it blind faith in his son or merely an inability to comprehend the magnitude of such a loss? If Steve died, it would be so devastating that a large part of Mark would die too. It might just be a comforting fantasy, but he couldn’t believe that that could have happened without him feeling it. No, Steve was out there and he would find him in the morning. He refused to believe differently.

The whisper floated across the city on the prevailing winds. “Hang on son, I’m coming.”

Chapter Text

Saturday 8:23 am

By the time that Mark arrived at Hilton Heights in the morning, Jesse was already there, and Sheldon and a team of his men were assessing the collapsed building. As Mark eyed the huge mass of rubble in dismay, Jesse approached with an uncharacteristically sombre expression.

“Have they found anything?” Mark asked anxiously.

“When they first started listening, there was some kind of scrabbling noise, but now it’s silent. It may just have been rats but, well.....” Jesse broke off, obviously torn between wanting to give encouragement and not wanting to raise false hopes that would be all the more cruel in the face of their destruction.

Mark understood his dilemma, but he was willing to have faith for both of them. “He’s in there and he’s alive,” he said softly, but with determination, as if sheer will could make it so. He buried his own misgivings as deeply as he could. He knew the chances of his son remaining entirely unscathed in the collapsed building were almost nonexistent, and to be so close but still separated by tons of concrete, unable to render aid or comfort, was torture. To distract himself from further painful musing, he went to greet Sheldon who was dusting off his hands as he climbed off the wreckage. Mark had been impressed by his competence before, and was pleased that he was in charge of the rescue efforts.

Shelton held out a large calloused hand. “Dr. Sloan. Good to see you again. I’m sorry the circumstances are not more auspicious, but we will do our best to recover your son.”

“Thank you so much for responding so quickly. Can you tell me what you’re going to do?”

Sheldon was happy to explain the procedure. “I know how impatient you must be to find your son, but these things take time. Instability is a prime concern for us at the moment. The rains last night have turned dust to mud and lubricated the wreckage, increasing the chances of slippage. Our structural engineer has assessed the debris for risk of secondary collapse, and we need to shore up some unstable elements with lumber and telescoping steel braces.

“We try to assess the likelihood of areas containing survivors by looking at blueprints, the way the building came down, and the physical properties of the debris. The good news is that the dogs have possibly located a body, but they can’t tell us if the person is still alive. I know you want to help, but please sit over there. I promise to inform you if we find anything connected to your son.”

The wait seemed interminable, and Mark was grateful for the supportive presence of Jesse by his side. For once, the young man was silent, seeming to sense that not only were there no words that could provide solace in this situation, but also that Mark was in no mood for casual conversation. In a crisis situation, Mark was used to action, his skills always in demand. Sitting passively at such a juncture went against all his training and instincts. He remembered when Steve had been shot by Oz Tatum, his frustrated need to help his son had transferred into a need to be helpful, to do something useful, and he had spent time giving flu shots to the staff and other odd jobs. Inactivity merely left the mind free to dwell on the worst possibilities and conjure up correspondingly horrific visions.

His hands methodically folded a piece of paper he’d found in his pocket into progressively smaller pieces then unfolded it, repeating the routine until it resulted in a systematic shredding of the inoffensive stationery, but that was the only movement that betrayed the terrible struggle of fear and hope that raged within.

His eyes never left the scene in front of him where the rescue personnel labored on the site, working down through the collapsed levels like peeling the layers of an onion. It was painstaking work. If they moved too quickly, they could dislodge a piece of concrete and send it crashing down on anyone still alive in the rubble. Slowly, the cranes removed the giant slabs of concrete and steel beams on top of the building, then sat dormant as the team of workers picked over the smaller rubble, removing it with blowtorches, pick axes, wrecking bars and saws. As each layer was uncovered, they used dogs, fibre optic cameras and other imaging devices, hoping to reveal air pockets that might conceal survivors.

A fine drizzle started which grew heavier but, throughout the morning, there was no positive confirmation of a body, and Mark’s tension grew. Every fibre of his being was taut with anticipation, knowing that an answer to the question that had burnt inside him for the past two days would soon be forthcoming. But knowledge was a two-edged sword, and it could impale as easily as it could free. The limbo of uncertainty would end, but, if Steve were indeed dead, the comfort of hope that he cradled so close would be sliced brutally away.

A sharp volley of barks split the monotone of droning engines, and, from the excitement it generated in the workers, it signified some sort of breakthrough. Mark was on his feet instantly and striding towards the rubble, Jesse close behind. Sheldon broke out of the group of rescue workers to intercept them.

“Is it Steve? Have you found him?” Mark’s voice rose with the stress despite his struggle to keep it steady.

Sheldon held out a hand in a calming gesture. “The dog has found somebody, but the route he used is too small for any of my men to squeeze through. We can see only the top of his head with the camera, and he’s not moving, but it’s impossible to tell if he’s dead or simply unconscious.”

“So what do we do now?” Mark asked anxiously.

“Wait,” Jesse interjected looking thoughtful. “Exactly how small is this tunnel?”

Mark immediately followed his train of thought. “Jesse!” he burst out, unsure even in his own mind whether his exclamation was a plea or a protest.

Sheldon obviously understood the significance of the question too, and he ran an assessing eye over Jesse’s slim stature before nodding slowly. “It just might work,” he mused. “However,” he continued more briskly, “you have to understand the risks. If another aftershock hits, we’ll only have 20 seconds of warning, and that’s not going to be enough time to pull you out once you’re inside. I can’t guarantee the building won’t collapse further under those circumstances.”

Jesse nodded his understanding, looking apprehensive but determined, and the loyalty and courage behind his offer moved Mark to lay a restraining hand on his arm.

“It’s too dangerous. You don’t have to do this, Jess,” he assured him quietly.

Jesse flashed him a game smile. “Yes I do. Steve went in to save two complete strangers. How could I not go in to help my best friend? Besides, you know he’d to it for me.”

Mark watched unhappily as Jesse was equipped with a rope and harness and a headset for communication. He would willingly have volunteered to go, impelled both by the need to get to his son and a reluctance to see the young doctor put himself in jeopardy. However, he accepted reluctantly that his size and age disqualified him, and he watched tensely as Jesse squeezed through a hole and started inching down the inclined slab of concrete until he dropped out of sight at the end. From there, Mark was forced to follow his progress from the running monologue coming through Sheldon’s walkie-talkie.

“It gets really narrow here. I’m not sure I can....” A series of grunts and gasps were all that were intelligible for a few minutes. “OK, I’m through, but I’m really glad l didn’t have anything for breakfast this morning. This next bit looks tricky. I....” This time the silence was punctuated by a thud and a groan. “I’m OK, just lost the light for a moment. It’s really hard to move around in here. I’m trying to look.....I can see him! The top of his head is sticking through a hole. It looks like he was trying to dig himself out. Hold on a minute...hold on.”

Mark unconsciously stopped breathing, hope strangling in his chest, knowing that the next minute could shatter his world forever. The blood was pounding so hard in his ears that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear Jesse’s pronouncement when it came. Finally, after an eon of waiting, the words came spilling out of the receiver.

“Oh God, he’s alive. Mark can you hear me? He’s in a bad way but he’s alive!”

Relief almost too great to bear exploded within Mark, and his knees buckled. Sheldon caught his arm and guided him over to the nearest available lump of concrete, and Mark sank down gratefully. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, unknowing and uncaring if the moisture trickling down his face was tears or raindrops.

Steve was alive.

Chapter Text

Saturday 1:24 pm

Despite Jesse's success in reaching Steve, it was still over an hour before they successfully extracted him. It was impossible to construct a direct path without bringing debris down on him, and widening the more circular route took time. Ignoring the strong suggestion that he relocate to a safer location, Jesse refused to leave Steve's side, and he monitored his friend's progress as best he could in the dark, cramped conditions. Steve remained unconscious, but Jesse tried to maintain a reassuring patter of conversation at all times.

Mark paced restlessly outside, his clothes soaked from the rain, anxiously watching the radio operator who was listening for reports of possible aftershocks, praying that nothing would interfere with the rescue operation and further jeopardise the lives of the two men deep in the bowels of the building. His very worst fear had been eased; Steve was alive, and, since he had survived this long, Mark trusted his son's strong constitution to hold out until they got him to the hospital. However, until he had the chance to determine Steve's condition for himself and assess the extent of his injuries they had to contend with, he was on edge, anxiety gnawing unceasingly at his nerves. His only distraction had been a call from Amanda, who had been unable to make it through to Hilton Heights. She was now waiting for them back at Community General.

The rain had eased off by the time they strapped Steve to a backboard and pulled him out of the building. As the makeshift stretcher emerged into the light and was set down on a solid base, Mark dropped down beside it, his heart swelling with joy, thrilled to see his son again, but also horrified by his appearance. Steve's face was deathly white, the pallor accentuated by the caked plaster dust that had filled the air. What was left of his shirt was stained with blood, and Mark's hands fluttered briefly over his son, unsure where to touch as there scarcely seemed to be an inch of skin that wasn't marred with bruises or lacerations. He fought back his dismay, and joined Jesse in a brief cataloging of his son’s injuries before readying him for transportation. His composure broke briefly in an involuntary exclamation when Jesse uncovered Steve's broken arm. The area was caked with blood and the white of the bone showed clearly through.

"Mark, are you okay?" Jesse's gentle concern shifted Mark's attention back to his son's needs.

"I've got possible cracked ribs, head contusion, possible concussion, and an assortment of contusions and lacerations but none serious." He sat back on his heels, relieved, knowing that Steve had been incredibly lucky not to have received more critical injuries. Jesse too looked happier, but they both understood that Steve wasn't out of the woods yet.

"We're looking at severe blood loss, shock, sepsis. He’s hypotensive, there’s loss of autonomic tone and slight tachycardia. Let's start him on lactated ringers wide open, piggyback an antibiotic and get him to Community General.”

A way had been cleared for an ambulance to take them to the same park Steve had used as a safety zone for the injured, and before long, they were in a chopper heading for home. On the ride, Mark rested his hand on Steve's uninjured shoulder, needing the physical contact after the interminable anxiety concerning his son's fate. The ride was too noisy to engage in conversation, but Mark's eyes never left his son's pallid face, drinking in the long-delayed sight of his son and hoping for some sign of returning consciousness.

As they arrived at the hospital, Steve was whisked away to X-Ray, the first of several tests before surgery on his arm, Jesse rattling off instructions to the nurses as they went.

“I want a CBC, ABGs, urine, typed and crossmatched packed red blood cells.”

Mark stood and watched them go without moving. Exhausted beyond belief following the release of unbearable tension, fatigue numbed his mind and, knowing he wouldn’t be allowed to accompany his son, decisions as simple as to where to go seemed impossible to make. Suddenly, Amanda appeared at his side.

"Mark, how is he?"

Mark looked down at her in relief, her gentle understanding soothing to his jangled emotions. "He's lost a lot of blood and has an infected compound fracture in his arm, but we were lucky. It could have been so much worse."

Amanda drew him into a hug, and in her sympathetic embrace, for the first time, he allowed himself to really feel the relief of a nightmare ended. After a minute, she stepped back, though she still held his hands, examining his drawn face. "When was the last time you ate?" she questioned him critically.

Mark cast his mind back without success, unsure if it was weariness that prevented him from remembering or if his last meal was really too buried in the distant past.

Whichever it was, Amanda correctly interpreted his delay in answering as a sign that food had played no part in his recent activities, and she dragged him off to the cafeteria. He felt unequal to the task of swallowing solid food, and chose a bowl of soup, but he didn't protest when Amanda pointedly dropped a ham and Swiss sandwich on his tray.

It was late afternoon, and the supper crowd hadn't yet descended, so the cafeteria was sparsely populated, and the two friends were able to eat in relative peace. The soup slipped down easily enough, but, after a few desultory bites of the sandwich, the stodgy bread seemed to stick in his throat and, although he mangled it a bit in an effort to satisfy Amanda's censorious eye, he was relieved when she took pity on him and they retired to the doctor's lounge to wait for news.

When Jesse entered, he looked tired, but his grin brought an answering smile to Mark's face. He opened his mouth to ask a question but Jesse beat him to it.

"He's going to be just fine," he reassured his friend. “We've set his arm, and most of his other injuries were superficial, although I’ve been able to practice my best stitching on him. I'll tell you, he may be unlucky in love, but when you have a building fall on you and escape with little more than a broken arm, someone upstairs is looking out for you. He’s in remarkably good shape, considering everything."

Mark started to speak again, but Jesse anticipated the next question with practiced ease. "Yes, you can see him. He's in recovery at the moment but we'll soon be transferring him to a regular bed."

Mark took another preparatory breath then paused, waiting for Jesse to once again forestall him. However, Jesse sat there silent and nonplused. The silence stretched before he acknowledged defeat. "Okay, you've got me. 'How is he' and 'Can I see him' is as far as I go. What do you want to know?"

Mark looked comically surprised. "I've forgotten! I thought you could tell me."

Jesse laughed, then clapped his hand to his white coat. "Talking of forgetting; this is for you. It was in Steve's pocket." He held out a grubby, bloodstained piece of paper on which was inscribed shakily but unmistakably in Steve's bold hand, -- "Dad".

Mark gazed at it with the antipathetical expression one usually would reserve for a poison frog poised to hop onto your hand. However, seeing the puzzled expressions of his colleagues, he reluctantly accepted the letter, patting his pockets in a spurious search. “I don't have my reading glasses on me," he said evasively, as he slipped the letter away. While this was no lie, the real reason for his procrastination was a deep disinclination to open the note in front of an audience, no matter how friendly.

Mark could remember only too vividly the terror of being trapped in a small room, facing the knowledge of impending death. The memory of his need to say goodbye to his son and the desire, in extremis, to give expression to the feelings that swelled so strongly inside yet were so rarely verbally acknowledged, stayed with him. The image of his son, hurt and alone, desperately penning what he believed were his last words was already painfully clear in Mark's mind, and he needed the privacy of his room to handle the emotions the words would conjure up.

To deflect the curiosity and sympathy of his friends, Mark slipped into a more professional mode, and asked to see Steve's X-rays and the results of his blood work. This occupied the time before the news came through that Steve was settled in his own room and showed signs of returning to consciousness.

Steve's pallor had been replaced by the more hectic flush of fever, which at least had the advantage of making him look less like a corpse. Mark sat down beside his bed and started talking, encouraging his son to wake up.

Steve recognised his father's voice, and it drew him further into consciousness. He swam towards it, fighting the tide that tried to push him back under and submerge him in the rhythmic comfort of lassitude. It was the memory of fear for his father's safety that impelled him to the surface. The details of the threat eluded him, he just retained a strong impression of danger. His eyes seemed glued shut, so he groped blindly in the direction of the voice with a croaked -- “Dad?" His hand was caught in a firm grasp as Mark, sensing his agitation, sought to reassure him.

"I'm right here, son." His voice was lower in timbre than normal and slightly husky, betraying the crack in his composure. Even in his drugged and feverish state, Steve sensed something amiss and forced open his recalcitrant eyelids to stare blearily at his father. Somewhat to his consternation, there were two Mark Sloans by his bedside and, even to his befuddled mind, this seemed like an embarrassment of riches, so he closed one eye experimentally to try to compensate. However, he lacked the coordination for even so simple an act, and the other eye closed too. With determination, he opened them again, focusing on one of the images at random. Mark had a bandage on his forehead but otherwise looked uninjured, though the black circles under his eyes and the residual lines of strain around them told a deeper story. Steve just wasn't sure what the story was. It was like pieces of a giant puzzle were wafting lazily around his brain but he couldn't get them to connect so that he could see the big picture. He squinted worriedly at this father, unable to shake the conviction that something was wrong, but equally unable to pin it down.

"Are you alright?" he whispered. The blue eyes into which he was staring seemed to mist over, and he blinked furiously, trying to dispel the latest hallucination, but it persisted, and he started to lever himself into a sitting position. A strong hand held him down.

"I'm fine, Steve, and you will be too. You need to take things easy for now. Please get some sleep now, we'll talk later."

Steve subsided, not entirely mollified but the urgency dulled enough for sleep to claim him once more. Mark relaxed into his chair, comforted by Steve's brief excursion into consciousness but jolted to his stomach by his son's innocent enquiry. He thought he had plumbed the depth of his son's ordeal in the earthquake, but he hadn't factored in his uncertainty over the fate of his family and friends. Knowing Steve's proclivity for protectiveness and action, he could imagine that his emotional torment had been worse than the injuries he had suffered.

"Mark?" Amanda broke into his contemplation by laying a gentle hand on his knee. "You should go home and rest. You're exhausted."

Mark patted her hand appreciatively. "I'm in no condition to drive home, even if I had a car." He tacitly admitted the truth of her argument and cast another look down at the bed. "Besides, I'd like to stick around for now. I'll have a good sleep in my office but first, I think, a shower."

The wholehearted endorsement of that idea was convincing testament to its necessity. It wasn't only physically refreshing, but it also represented a return to normalcy. In its relaxing aftermath, Mark actually fell asleep half-dressed. When a group of noisy interns entered, he awoke with a stiff neck from resting at a strange angle against the lockers. Finishing straightening his clothes, he resisted the urge to check in again on Steve and made his way to his office, sinking down on the couch with a sigh of relief. His aching muscles relaxed, and his eyes closed involuntarily. He drifted off immediately, but was jolted awake as his door was softly opened. He lazily cracked an eye, expecting to see Jesse or Amanda, but the sight that met his gaze demolished the last vestiges of sleep. It was a gun, equipped with a silencer. The implications of the latter were immediately apparent to Mark, and he sat up slowly. It wasn't the first time he had faced such a lethal weapon, but after the events of the last few days, it seemed so incongruous he wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming.

Gradually, his gaze shifted to the vaguely familiar face behind the gun, curiosity as to why a near stranger was threatening him temporarily outweighing fear. Recognition hit, but left him none the wiser. "You were in the stairwell." His words were more a statement of fact than an accusation.

"And your death was supposed to look like an accident," returned his assailant. "But you're a difficult man to kill. Too many people around you; but I knew you'd return here at some point, so it seemed the best place to wait."

"But why? Who are you?" Mark slowly and unthreateningly got to his feet. There was an arrogance about the gunman that he intended to exploit by encouraging him to talk. It was the only defense available at that time, but, unobtrusively, he edged towards his desk in the hopes of finding more protection.

"You found my pen, and Lisa told me about your reputation. Apparently, you're quite the Mountie -- you always get your man, and your son talked to you after he left my office, didn't he?"

Since the earthquake, Mark had not given the slightest thought to the Gilman murder case, but now his mind spun into high gear, sorting through inferences, forging connections and making deductions at lightning speed.

"Brian MacKay, I presume." The details of the plot were now clear to Mark, but one vital piece of information was unclear. Did MacKay know that Steve had survived the earthquake? The thought of his son asleep and vulnerable sent a shard of ice into his heart. The shard burrowed deeper at the realisation that, while he had showered and napped, the murderer might already have visited his son. He controlled the instinctive, lethal flash of fury that ignited inside him at the thought, knowing that a wrong word or move might betray his son and further jeopardise Steve if MacKay were ignorant of his rescue.

"I'm afraid you overestimated me," he admitted dryly. "I hadn't linked the pen to you. My last conversation with my son consisted of a discussion of pizza." There was a very real grief in the memory of the phone call that for two days he had feared were the last words he would ever share with his son, and he allowed it to show, still hoping that MacKay was oblivious to Steve’s survival.

It seemed to be convincing, as it was with satisfaction that MacKay continued. "With your son gone, you're the last person standing between me and a lot of money."

Mark had nearly reached his desk and decided that provocation was his best tool to draw out his attacker for now. "Gilman earned his money; you never did."

As he expected, this earned him a diatribe as to how MacKay’s ex-partner had cheated him of his rightful due. Both men were startled by the insistent jangling of the phone ringing, and MacKay brandished his gun threateningly as a warning not to try to answer it. They both watched the phone until it fell silent, although Mark's gaze also fell on the letter opener next to it and the bowling ball which he had never removed from the corner of his desk.

He tensed for a last leap as MacKay leveled the gun meaningfully. "They'll be looking for you soon. Goodbye, Dr. Sloan."

Chapter Text

Saturday 9:07 pm

Fear dragged relentlessly at Steve’s mind, inexorably pulling him awake like a cork bobbing to the surface of a pond. He lay still for a minute, absorbing the distinctive sounds and smells of the hospital to drown out the little voice that whispered that, when he opened his eyes, they would be met with the Stygian darkness of his prison.

As memory filtered back, the reason for his unease hit him, and his eyes snapped open, searching hopefully for his father. To his surprise, the room was empty, a circumstance unusual enough to do nothing to relieve his anxiety, merely whittling it to a sharper point as it prodded insistently at his gut. His right arm was immobilised in thick bandages and a splint, but he levered himself up shakily on his left arm then jabbed savagely at the nurse’s call button.

He knew the nurse who entered, a motherly type named Janice Ebberly, but he had no time for pleasantries. “Where’s my father?” he demanded without preamble, his customary courtesy taking a back seat to urgency.

“He’s just fine, bless his heart, just taking a nap in his office, though goodness knows it’s hard enough to pry him away from your side. He was so exhausted, poor soul. We’ve all been working so hard, after that terrible earthquake. Dr. Travis was right here, but he got called away on another emergency.” All this was uttered in one breath as she bustled around, taking his temperature and blood pressure.

Steve relaxed slightly into the pillows, tolerating her ministrations with the ease of practice. He largely tuned out the nurse’s continual prattle as he tried to sort through his confused impressions of his recent experiences. However, suddenly something in the jumble of words caught his attention, and he seized her arm.

“What did you just say?”

She looked down at him indulgently. “I said we were that worried about your Dad, thinking you were gone for good.”

“No,” Steve interrupted her impatiently. “You said something about accidents.”

“Oh, that. Yes, Dr. Sloan had two near misses in as many days. First, something fell off the roof, nearly took his head off but smashed his car instead. Then there was that accident on the stairs and .....what? Wait! What do you think you’re doing?”

The internal alarm which had been tolling steadily in Steve’s head since he’d awoken, exploded to Def Con One in a cacophony of bells and whistles. With the news of his father’s ‘accidents’, his concern that Mark was in danger became a certainty, and his need to find him the only thought in his mind. His first attempt to get off the bed was thwarted by a Gordian knot of attachments which he started ripping out with ruthless abandon to a chorus of ineffectual remonstrances from the nurse.

As she threatened to call security, Steve employed all the authority of his lieutenant’s rank, which was a challenge while standing in a draughty hospital gown, and instructed her to call Mark’s office and to tell him to lock the door and not let anyone in.

It was scarcely a dignified exit, since he listed significantly to port, and only by dint of a last minute grab of the doorjamb did he avoid falling flat on his nose. Luckily, visiting hours were over, and the nurse on the ward was busy so there was no one to impede his progress to the elevator.

He didn’t know if it was an effect of his confinement underground, blood loss, the drugs they had administered or some combination thereof, but he was horribly weak and unsteady on his feet. The floor seemed to be undulating much as it had during the earthquake, and only judicious bracing along the wall kept him upright. By the time he reached the elevator, his legs were shaking and the blood was pounding dizzily in his head. It was like living through the epitome of his worse nightmare in which Mark was in danger but he couldn’t reach him, and every step was weighed down as if he were running in a caricature of slow motion. In the most disturbing of his dreams, he arrived too late to save his father, and that fear haunted him now, chilling the sweat that trickled down his back.

Even the elevator seemed slower than normal, and he slammed his fist against the wall in an agony of frustration as the floor numbers trickled slowly past, although the delay did at least give him a chance to catch his breath. The door finally yawned open and spat him out, a modern day beserker with the hint of red in his hair, bare legs flashing and grim determination on his face. All he needed was woad and a battle axe to complete the picture. The nurse at the reception desk on that floor let out a bleat of surprised protest as he charged past, and he was peripherally aware of her picking up the phone. For the first time, he became aware of his weaponless state and hoped she was calling security. As he rounded the corner, his breath harsh in his ears, he could faintly hear the ringing of a telephone, then it ended abruptly.

He redoubled his efforts and wrenched open the door, taking in the awful scene in a split second. With the gun already leveled at his father, he knew instantly it was impossible to reach MacKay before he fired, but he had to do something, anything, to distract the gunman from Mark. With a yell of --“Stop, or I’ll fire,” he flung the first thing that came to hand -- a trophy from a nearby bookcase -- with murderous intent towards MacKay. Off balance from the splint on his right arm, his aim lacked its usual accuracy, but, to his grim satisfaction, oblivious to his own danger, he noticed that the violence of his entry had achieved what his throw had not, and MacKay was already swinging round to face him, firing in a panic as he moved. The first bullet bisected the angle between father and son, but he heard the second strike the door behind him.

Mark had been equally surprised, though immensely relieved for more reasons than one, by his son’s abrupt arrival. His joy at seeing Steve unharmed, swiftly turned back to furious fear as MacKay turned the gun on his son. With no hesitation, he picked up the bowling ball from his desk and in one smooth, practiced, underarm move, launched it at the gunman’s head. The heavy, black ball impacted MacKay’s skull with a sickening crack, and his body collapsed bonelessly to the floor.

There was a moment of silence as the two Sloans watched for any signs of movement, then Steve raised his gaze to meet his father’s. “Strike!” he called out, weakly but appreciatively, before his legs no longer seemed able to hold him and he slid limply down against the door until he sat on the ground.

“Steve!” Mark let out a concerned exclamation and moved towards his son, but Steve waved him off and gestured towards the gun. It was an elementary precaution, and Mark swiftly but cautiously picked up the weapon, quickly checking MacKay’s pulse as he did so. He placed the gun in his son’s outstretched hand as he knelt next to him.

“Let me see how bad this is.” He started to gently pull aside the flap of Steve’s gown.

Steve looked at him, puzzled. “It’s okay, Dad. He missed. I’m fine.”

Mark brought his bloodstained hand out and waved it in front of Steve’s face. “Interesting diagnosis, Dr. Sloan, but inaccurate. Luckily, it’s not much more than another graze to add to your already considerable collection.”

Steve shook his head in astonishment. “What drugs do you have me on, Dad? I didn’t feel a thing.”

Mark chuckled. “I imagine it’s as much adrenaline as drugs. But, believe me, both will be wearing off soon, and you’ll be wishing they hadn’t.”

A large security guard stuck his head through the door, his jaw dropping slightly at the collection of bodies in the room. “Uh, do you need some help, Dr. Sloan?”

“Please call the nurse and get a gurney. Oh, and have someone find Dr. Travis.”

The guard disappeared, and Mark returned his attention to Steve. Luckily, the bullet had only grazed him, cutting a bloody furrow that was messy and painful, but not dangerous. He held a hastily contrived bandage against the wound to reduce the blood loss. As reaction set in, he was aware of a mild irritation at his son’s recklessness, but it was easily outweighed by relief that this threat, of which he had only been aware for a few minutes, had been so summarily dismissed. Characteristically, curiosity soon surfaced as his dominant emotion. “How did you know I was in danger?”

Steve reached out unsteadily and plucked his letter from Mark’s pocket by a corner that protruded slightly. “You should read your mail on time,” he remonstrated teasingly.

Mark looked slightly abashed. “I haven’t read it yet,” he confessed. “I thought it was....well....”

“It was....it is.” Steve informed him tersely, not pretending to misunderstand, but the emotions associated with the writing of the note were too raw to revisit. Exhaustion was catching up with him, and he shut his eyes. Mark understood his reluctance to discuss his ordeal, and, suddenly overwhelmed by relief that the letter he tucked back into his pocket did not contain the final words between them, he lowered his head a few inches and rested his forehead on his son’s for a short moment in tacit acknowledgement and support.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

Morning found Mark watching his sleeping son, his elbows resting on his knees, swinging a tattered piece of paper contemplatively between his fingers. After Steve’s new wound had been patched and some of the old ones restitched the night before, they had both slept well. Mark had stayed the night in his son’s room, more by default than intent, as sleep had claimed him in a comfortable chair as he sat, reluctant to leave his son after the scare he’d just received.

He remembered the many photographs he’d taken of Steve asleep as a baby, and thought that perhaps the fascination of watching him sleep now was that it was easier to trace the child he had been in the relaxation of slumber.

He reached over a gentle hand and rested it on his son’s forehead and, with the ease of long practice, assessed his temperature with the accuracy of a thermometer. He noted with satisfaction that the fever was reduced and, shifting his evaluation to his son’s pulse, he was satisfied with the results there too. He relaxed back into his chair and returned to his appraisal of the letter which was as yet still unread.

He wasn’t too sure about the reason for his reluctance to read it. It was addressed to him, intended for him, and he knew that his besetting sin of curiosity would not allow him to leave it unopened. However, he was a private man himself for all his joviality, and, with an innate sense of fairness, tried to permit his son an equal amount of privacy. He wasn’t sure that words written as a farewell in a moment of vulnerability were still supposed to be read in the event of survival.

However, a few minutes later, with a sense of inevitability and a mixture of anticipation and a curious feeling of sorrow, he started to read.

Dear Dad

Be careful! MacKay killed Gilman. The pen was his, matching set on his desk. you’re the only one left who’s seen it. It’s likely he’ll come after you. Be careful.

The writing seemed to change a little here, becoming a little more tentative, although it may only have been in Mark’s imagination.

Dad, I promise I won’t give up, but if I don’t make it, I want you to know I have no regrets, except possibly not giving you the grandchildren you wanted so much. Life with you was never dull. I’ve never known anyone who’s brought so much laughter into the world. Don’t let that change when I’m gone. I’m proud that you’re my Dad. You’ve always been there for me, Dad, teacher and guide when I was young and my best friend and support now I’m older. Give my best to Jesse and Amanda and let them help you. I love you, Dad.

The style was characteristically blunt throughout but with unexpected flashes of eloquence, punctuated throughout with smears of blood. It was scarcely a model of epistological art, but Mark was in no mood to judge it for technique, his eyes almost too blurry to read the end.

He bowed his head, his heart filled to overflowing with the love of his son, the knowledge of a close call and the gratitude that he still had Steve. In his long lifetime, he had experienced the loss of death all too many times - patients, friends and, more devastatingly, his wife and daughter, but the loss of his son was too terrible to contemplate. His life and Steve’s were woven so tightly together that to remove the thread that was his son’s would unravel the fabric of his own existence beyond repair. He took a deep breath to refresh and relax a chest tight with emotion, then looked up to see Steve watching him steadily.

For a moment he felt abashed as if caught in a voyeuristic act. However, the closeness of their bond soon reasserted itself.

“I thought I’d lost you.” It wasn’t what he’d intended to say, and his throat closed tightly after the utterance as if to prevent other painful confessions from escaping. However, it was the right thing to say, and Steve’s eyes lost their vulnerable look and darkened with empathy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and reached out to grasp his father’s knee. For several minutes nothing more was said but it was a comfortable silence. Mark knew he should call the nurse, but he wasn’t ready to relinquish his son to anyone right then. Eventually, Steve spoke again. “The babies?”

Mark recognised it as both a request for information and an oblique explanation for the worry he had caused.

“They’re fine....thanks to you.” The last past of the sentence was emphasised, indicating that Mark understood the circumstances and was proud of him. “Their mother was badly hurt, but her progress is encouraging.”

“And Carlos?” It was easy to tell from the anxiety in Steve’ voice that the affection the boy had shown for his son was reciprocated, and Mark hastened to reassure him.

“He’s fine, and he’ll be very happy to see you. The poor kid thought you were dead and blamed himself. But, if it wasn’t for him, I’d probably never have found you.”

Steve’s eyes dropped to the note that Mark was still holding. “I knew you’d find me, I never doubted that,” he said with a note of apology in his voice. “I just didn’t know if it would be in time.”

Mark was touched by his son’s faith, though when he thought of the two long days his son had been buried alive, he wasn’t sure that trust was warranted.

Something of his guilt must have shown in his face, or maybe Steve was just too adept at reading his mind, because after throwing him a concerned look, he tried to lighten the conversation.

“I was right; you did find me. See, boundless sagacity must run in the family.” He tried to look infinitely wise but stalled at smug. It took Mark a moment to place the reference, but then he remember their earlier conversation. It was hard to believe it was only a few days ago; it seemed more like five months. He wasn’t ready to talk to anyone yet about the intervening time -- the horror of the morgue and the desperation of his search. He knew from experience that the price of suppression would be the reemergence of the memories as nightmares, but, for now, he was happy to focus on the joy of reunion with his son.

He looked for a last time at the letter in his hand before folding it carefully and replacing it in his pocket. “I’m glad you wrote it,” he admitted.

The sense of connection between them was almost palpable and, as Steve relaxed into the pillows behind him, it inspired him to ask -- “What were you going to write?”

Mark had no difficulty following his train of thought to his own aborted letter. “Probably much the same,” he admitted. “To be honest, I don't think I ever got as far as composing. My recollection of the last few minutes is a bit woozy. I knew the air was about to run out and I’d exhausted all my options, and I just remember wanting....needing to say something... to say goodbye. I grabbed the first materials to hand, but it was already too late and I passed out.”

Steve nodded, understanding the impulse and satisfied with the answer.

Mark continued. “It can’t have been easy to write with just one arm.” It was a gentle invitation to talk, and one that Steve could decline without it seeming like a rejection. However, he knew his father was motivated more by concern than curiosity, and that Mark’s imagination was quite capable of supplying the worst details, so a somewhat sanitised version might help give him peace of mind. With a strong eye to the absurd and automatically downplaying the danger and his own heroism, Steve told his story. By the end, although he had spotted the occasional glint of humour in Mark’s eyes, he felt that his father had read between the lines and hadn’t been fooled at all.

Slightly abashed by the open look of pride in Mark’s face, he changed the subject with a gesture at his right arm. “So, how bad is it?”

“You managed to make quite a mess of it, but hopefully you’ll regain full strength and use. However, you’re looking at considerable therapy first and you won’t be going back to work for a while.”

Steve accepted the news philosophically, relieved that the news wasn’t worse. “Maybe we could go away on vacation again,” he suggested hopefully.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Mark replied sincerely. “What did you have in mind?”

“I suppose white water rafting again is out of the question,” Steve said wistfully. The forbidding look on his father’s face quashed that notion.

“How about sailing? With your help, I’d only need one hand and....OK, maybe not.” He tried to think of something that held some appeal but wouldn’t earn him an expression that made him feel like a five-year-old again, and not an overly bright one at that.

His thinking was interrupted by a knock on the door, and it was with more than usual eagerness that he called out an invitation to enter. “Saved by the knock,” he muttered sotto voce, but just loud enough for his father to hear.

Steve’s relief at the distraction turned to genuine pleasure at the sight of his partner, and he greeted her warmly.

Cheryl, in return, looked him over in mock disgust. “Seven days, Sloan. I leave you alone for seven days and look what happens. You need a babysitter.”

A snort that could have been amusement or agreement emanated from beside him, but Steve studiously ignored both his father and his partner’s speech and continued with elaborate and pointed courtesy. “It’s nice to see you too, Cheryl. How are your sister and the baby?”

Cheryl grinned at her partner unrepentantly. “They’re fine. The baby did ..... well, all those baby things a newborn is supposed to do, I guess. I’m no expert. Anyway, the captain sent me over to bring you up to date on the Gilman case. You sure do find original ways to bring in a murderer. A bowling ball?”

“That was him, not me.” Steve gestured towards his father. “I was just an innocent bystander.”

“However,” Mark countered. “You did solve the murder while buried under a building. I think that gets points for originality.”

“Yes, I had it all under control.” There was a slight edge of self-disparagement in the comment that ended the teasing.

“Well, it’s all over now,” Cheryl asserted briskly. “Lisa Gilman rolled over on her lover and is singing like a bird. Talking of which, how is our ten-pin friend?” She quirked an eyebrow at Mark.

“Last I heard, he had rather a severe concussion but is expected to recover.”

Steve snuck a surreptitious glance at his father to check that he wasn’t bothered by the role reversal of putting a patient into hospital instead of healing one, but Mark had no trouble keeping that in perspective. He was glad that MacKay hadn’t died, but when it came down to a decision between the killer’s life and his son’s, there was no contest and no hesitation.

Another knock on the door announced the arrival of Jesse and Amanda. Amanda took the other chair and Jesse perched himself opposite Cheryl on the end of Steve’s bed.

“How’s my patient?” he asked cheerily.

“I’m fine, Jesse. I was just wondering when.....” As Steve tried to continue a chorus of voices drowned him out, all singing, “When can I get out of here”

Steve cursed himself for his predictability as he looked round at the delight on the grinning faces around him as he tried to explain. “It’s not that I’m in such a hurry to leave such wonderful accommodation, but Dad and I are planning to go on vacation, so I need some idea of dates.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Where are you going?” Jesse asked with a polite note of interest in his voice that boded ill for the patient.

“Steve was just trying to decide that,” Mark chimed in with nefarious intent.

The expectant faces surrounding him panicked Steve into an over hasty suggestion. “How about skiing?”

The identical expressions of disgust from the doctors and his partner rejected that idea.

“Besides,” Jesse added. “There’d be an avalanche, bound to be.”

Steve searched around for something to pass muster. “Caribbean beaches, some sunbathing, a little surfing and scuba diving.”

Jesse looked dubious. “With one arm? Shark bait.”

Inspiration struck Steve. “How about a dude ranch. Beautiful mountains, gentle riding.”

Jesse shook his head. “Stampede,” was all he said.

Steve scraped the bottom of the barrel for ideas. “A cruise?”

That got a slightly better reception, but Jesse and Amanda turned to each other and chorused “Tsunami!”

Steve gave up and subsided into his pillows, but his friends were enjoying this new game too much to stop.

“Skydiving,”

“Parachute wouldn’t open.”

“Camping?”

“Lightning strike.”

“Or bear attack.”

“Lightning strike and bear attack.”

Although Steve had a long-suffering look on his face, he was privately enjoying the creativity his friends displayed. But, before long, his eyelids began to droop, and Mark quietly ushered the others out of the room, returning to settle his son back to sleep. With a slight smile of apology, he also answered Steve’s original question. “You’re going to be here for a few days. Sepsis and multiple organ system failure can be a danger for several days after severe blood loss. I don’t think for a minute that’s going to happen, but we need to keep you here as a precaution. I’m sorry, I know you don’t like hospital stays.”

Steve yawned. “Better here than the morgue, right?” It was a casual comment, a standing joke between them, and Steve was unprepared for the stricken look that crossed his father’s face. All thought of sleep was banished.

“Dad?”

Mark turned away, automatically adjusting the IV line to give himself time to control his reaction, but it was too late. Steve knew his father too well to assume that the depth of shock he’d seen had been engendered simply by his thoughtless comment. He reached out his good hand and grasped his father’s arm.

“Dad, what is it? What happened? Please tell me.”

It was impossible to reject the gentle concern and understanding in his son’s voice, and Mark sat down again. Taking a deep breath, he haltingly started to tell the full story of the last few days, the words flowing easier as he progressed. Steve maintained his grip on his father’s arm, trying to transmit his support and empathy through the contact, but he didn’t interrupt, allowing Mark to narrate at his own speed and comfort level.

It soon became apparent to Steve that he wasn’t the only one who had to heal. It was going to take time for both of them, but it would happen. They had taken the first steps in this room with the support of their friends, and even if it was a long journey, they would finish as they had started, together.

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