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Lucky

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Except for a wedge of mottled sunlight, muddied with floating dust, it was dark. The thin shaft broke through a torn section of ceiling, creating a lopsided puddle of light on the landing at the top of the stairs, but illuminating little. Even the breath of air the hole allowed into the close interior was fetid, heavy with the powder of disintegrating plaster and the scent of rotting garbage.

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Steve unconsciously held his breath, trying to keep the cloying powder from his lungs and the scent from his nostrils. It was as instinctive a gesture as it was a futile one. He shifted his shoulders slightly against the wall, listening, grimaced as a cobweb tickled his face.

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Nothing. Not a sound.

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But the whirl of the plaster powder in the broken beam of light told another story - someone had been by here, and recently. And there was only one other point of egress from this old building. Cheryl had it covered.

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He eased himself carefully up one more step, jaw tense, listening for the telltale creak that could give him away. The step sagged, but took his weight. He stood poised. It was safer here around this corner, but he might need to surrender this scrap of cover. Gun at the ready, he took a deep breath, coughing as he choked on a mouthful of dust.

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"All right, Drummond! I know you're there and there's no way for you to get out - we've got the exits covered." The rickety fire escape on the crumbling wall outside didn't reach as high as the attic. Of course, pieces of the wall could be easily torn away, but it was a suicidal drop from here, and he was blocking the stairs. No way to get down to a safer level without going past him. He peered carefully around the corner, up the last flight of the steep and narrow attic stairs.

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These old places are firetraps. Not enough exits, dry and rotting timber just waiting for a random flash of lightning or some vagrant's carelessly dropped cigarette. They should be pulled down.

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Maybe he'd recommend it.? He directed his voice around the corner again. "Come on - let's not take all day. I've got better things to do and so do you. Come nice and peaceful and I'll even put in a good word for you. You can't hide out here forever - it's just a matter of time."

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This silence was really starting to get on his nerves. Shouldn't the guy make at least some sound - a rustle - something? He couldn't have actually gotten out, could he? Could there be some means of exit that they hadn't considered? Steve paused. Going around that corner left him out in the open - completely vulnerable to attack, without much room to maneuver in the narrow confines of the staircase.? But if Drummond had found another way out and past Cheryl…

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"Come on, Drummond - we can do this easy, or we can do this hard." He waited, swore silently as the silence stretched.

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Evidently Drummond had his heart set on doing it hard.

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Hugging the wall with his back and keeping his gun high, he slid cautiously around the corner, found the first step with one foot and stepped up.? The silence seemed to deepen, waiting, and a spot between his shoulder blades itched a warning. Damn, he'd give a lot for some hint of sound - even some of that scary music that always accompanied this sort of scene in those old horror movies he used to watch as a kid. He climbed onto the next step, the itch between his shoulder blades growing to a quiver.

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Then again, maybe not.

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His dad had been right - those darned things did stick with you through the years. Polluted your imagination. Maybe after he'd processed Drummond and made his way home for the evening he'd let him know that - as a special treat. His dad did love to hear that he was right. But of course, first he had to apprehend Drummond. He glanced ahead at the attic door, yawning half off its hinges, hinting at, but not really revealing, the shadowy aperture beyond.? Something cold quivered deep in his abdomen and he clicked his tongue softly in disgust. Don't let your imagination run away with you, Sloan - there's nothing behind that door except a pubescent felon robbery suspect and a whole lot of dust. He slid his foot onto the next step, eyes on the door, gun poised, slowly shifting his weight to minimize any accompanying sound. A sound came, but not the one he was expecting.

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There was a violent flutter of movement, an angry flapping, shocking in the portentous silence, a flurry of motion just past his face. Startled, Steve jumped, spinning his gun in that direction and skittering to find his balance, even as one mocking corner of his brain catalogued his attackers as pigeons. He bumped the wall, teetering dangerously on the steps for an instant before his weight landed hard and sure on the right foot poised on the upper step. There was a dry, cracking sound, an explosion of powdered air, and the foot disappeared beneath him, dropping him abruptly so that both his knees barked against the stairs.? His gun jumped from his hand. He heard it land with a hollow bonk on the step behind him, slide over the warped wooden landing, repeat the echoing bonk a couple of other times, then stop. For a wonder, it didn't fire.

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Stunned, he stayed on his knees for a second, choking on the newly clotted air, coughing to clear his lungs and waving to dissipate the cloud that hung about him. He had landed in some skewed way, and for a minute the odd imbalance left him disoriented, his right leg unsupported, freely dangling in space. As the air cleared, he got a better look at what had happened - his foot had gone right through the stair. Wonderful. Pushing off with his left leg and using the wall for support, he got himself standing again, balancing on one foot, tugging carefully to free the foot from the broken stair. The violent shock of pain tore a cry from him that reverberated through the empty walls and down the rickety staircase.

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He reeled back against the wall, trying to maintain his balance, perspiration drenching his scalp. The splintered stair shredded his leg, chewing into it like the teeth of some horrible carnivore. Something lanced deep into his calf muscle and he stumbled, slapping a hand hard against the wall to keep from dropping to his knees again. He saw blood well up around the jagged hole in the stair, felt it soak his pant leg, run into his shoe.? A hot wave of sickness poured over him and he tugged at his foot again, more gently this time, frantic to have it free. The pain came in dizzying waves and the surrounding world bleached away.

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Tilting precariously between consciousness and unconsciousness, he had a sudden glimmer of reason and fumbled for his phone to contact Cheryl for help. His nerveless fingers were still trying to close around it when he became aware of another sound - the shuffle of footsteps. He went cold all over.

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Drummond.

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No doubt he had heard him cry out and was curious to see what all the noise was about.

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He saw a dark figure silhouetted against the off-kilter door, the door panel swinging slightly on its single hinge behind it. Steve glanced nervously back over his shoulder and down the stairs, hoping to spot his gun. It had fallen around the corner and out of reach.

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With a measured, almost casual tread, Drummond moved down a step, taking in the scene. The anemic shaft of sunlight through the broken ceiling illuminated his face. It was wreathed with a broad, almost beatific, smile.

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Steve reached down the staircase behind him, straining to feel around the corner, to find his gun and grasp it. The ragged wooden teeth razored themselves deeper into his leg, clinging to him, the pain almost sending him under. The staircase groaned warningly.

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Drummond glanced around, nonchalant, moved lightly down another step to nudge something with his feet, then bent to pick it up. When he straightened, he was holding a broken piece of 2 x 4, dusty and splintered with age, probably a remnant from the hole in the ceiling. He studied it thoughtfully, swinging it slightly, making sure that Steve was watching.

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Steve felt his heart trying to push its way out of his chest, wondered what he could do to save himself.? He couldn't get to his gun. He couldn't even see it. His leg was well and truly caught and if he moved too much he could go through the rotten stairs altogether, hurtling four stories below to a near certain death.? But depending on what Drummond planned with that 2 x 4...or if Drummond got his hands on his gun…

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He remembered the phone almost in his chilly grasp. His thumb found one of the buttons and he pressed it, not sure what it would do, not sure how it could help, but feeling better for doing something.?

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Drummond took a sudden, decisive step closer, swinging the board in front of him, firmly this time, clasped in a two-handed grip.

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Steve lifted an arm to block the blow. The shock of the hit reverberated down his arm, numbing it. It dropped nervelessly to his side, this new pain startling and distracting.? Before he could collect himself or assess the latest damage, he saw the board rise again. He heard something whistle through the air, felt a thin rush of wind by his cheek. The sound was a dull thud this time, disconnected for a minute from any feeling.

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And then the white lights exploded in his head.

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PART II

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"…have an officer down…"

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Officer down. Bad. If they were close by, they should respond.

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"…rush the bus. Suspect seen fleeing towards…"

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Or they could go after the suspect. Unless there was a black and white closer? They should radio.

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"…out."

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They should radio. Someone should radio. Where was the radio…??

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He realized, with a sense of faint surprise, that he wasn't reaching for the radio, wasn't actually moving. In fact, he seemed to be pinned down, held in place by a broad steel band that kept tightening around his head. Which made no sense, if they were driving…muddled, he lifted his hand to feel the band, to maybe loosen it and see what was going on. His hand seemed weak and uncoordinated though, wandering aimlessly until something grasped it and pushed it gently back down.

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"…easy. Don't touch that. There's an ambulance on the way."

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Yeah. The bus - he'd heard. Officer down. They should…he tried to reach for his head again, to rub the crushing weight away so he could think more clearly. His hand was stopped again and, frustrated, he tried to lift his other hand instead. Oddly, he couldn't find it. His heart thumped loudly. There was nothing where it should be, just empty air…

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Okay. Okay, this was a nightmare, that was it. All he had to do was wake himself up and everything would be fine. He inhaled a slow, careful breath, drew in a lungful of - something - and coughed.? That sent a blade slicing through his head, so ferocious that for a second darkness plucked at him again and he groaned aloud before he could stop himself, arching his back against it.

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"Ssh, ssh, easy, now - help's on the way. Just try not to move."

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Try not to move. That was pretty funny, considering that he couldn't move, but a few of the broken shards of memory were starting to fit together and after a second he licked his dry lips and offered tentatively, "…Cheryl…?"

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"Yeah, that's right." Something caressed his cheek lightly, and even though it sent a ripple of pain through his scalp, it felt good. "You just relax, okay?"

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Another of couple of bits of memory swam to the surface and he coughed again to clear his throat. Man, the air was bad in here. "Drummond…?"

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There was a pause, but the light, rhythmic motion against his cheek continued. "They're looking for him. He can't get far."

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He hissed his disappointment, trying to shift into a more comfortable position. It was just starting to come to his attention that he was lying at an awkward angle, almost upside down, a series of hard projectiles poking into his back at regular intervals. Something else flashed into his memory and he made a move to sit up.

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"Hey - " The hand left his cheek and pressed gently just below his clavicle instead. "I said easy. I'm already going to catch it with some paramedic for shifting you without a cervical collar so don't make it any worse, okay? You just looked so uncomfortable…"

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The word "uncomfortable" was such an understatement of what he was feeling that Steve felt inclined to laugh, but that would require more energy that he had available. Besides, there was a funny note lingering in Cheryl's voice, despite her efforts to disguise it, that gave him pause. He tried to twist his head, to relieve some of the burgeoning agony there, grew still again as the clamor inside his skull rose to a roar. "My …gun…" he choked.

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"I have your gun. " Cheryl seemed to understand what he was asking. "He must not have seen it on the stairs. Guess we got lucky."

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This time Steve did laugh, an abrupt, strangled sound that pierced his brain like a dagger. He groaned again, trying to twist away from the pain.

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"There, you see? I told you not to move. I'm trying to keep some of the bleeding down here, so it would really help if you would keep still."

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This time he obeyed, drained from his efforts to focus. He licked his lips again, letting the memories of the past hour flicker through his mind. "Bagged…the weapon…?"

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He heard Cheryl sigh. "No. Not yet. I was a little busy with you. The crime scene team will take care of that, I promise. They should be here soon."

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Cheryl's voice had an edge to it. She sounded nervous and upset, so he tried to push down the other questions that were prodding at him. He coughed again. The air in here was so…suddenly remembered his leg. "Oh. I think -" he gave an experimental pull, to see if it was still trapped. A sickening fist gripped him, squeezing, digging in sharp talons, swallowing him; and everything went black again.

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*

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When he came round again, he couldn't tell how much time had passed, but he thought not more than a minute or two. He heard Cheryl barking something into her phone again, something about ETA, but she must have seen or felt him shift because she stopped talking abruptly and turned her attention to him.

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"Hey. See what I mean about not moving? Do you ever listen to anybody?"

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He started to nod, but even with his eyes closed the world slewed into a wild, vertiginous spiral and he stopped, reaching for his head again. His hand was knocked away.

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"I said not to touch that. See what I mean? You don't listen."

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"Do." He couldn't imagine why he was arguing about it. He tried to focus on feeling his foot, but didn't try to pull on it again. "Can't - get it free."

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"I know. Me either. It's - well. Needs a professional. They'll be here in a minute."

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The air was heavier than ever, sitting leaden in his lungs. It had an odd, pungent tang to it - familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "What's - that - smell…?"

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There was a longer pause. "Which one? It's a pretty aromatic place."

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The words were light, but there was that odd note in Cheryl's voice again. He tried to squint open his eyes to study her face, but even the faint glimmer of light available stabbed at them, blinding him, and he closed them quickly again. Hot in here. He didn't really remember it as being so hot before.? "Help me…sit up?"

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"Steve, I don't think that's such a good idea."

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"Please…" He was upside down - sort of - stretched out along the steps head downward as he must have fallen when he was struck. His awkward position made the? blood pound in his temples and the shattered stair gouge into his leg against the drag of his weight. "I - " He tried to sit up again, but he would never be able to pull himself up against gravity without help - not in his current condition. All those stomach crunches for nothing.

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"All right, all right, all right - just let's do it nice and slow or you'll pass out again. And if the paramedic asks, I found you like this."

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"Deal." The word got swallowed on a grunt of pain as Cheryl tried to move him forward, using the wall to help balance him. He could feel the muscles strain in the arms she had clasped around his chest and the moist heat of her breath against his cheek. She almost had him upright when his right shoulder jostled against the wall. He let out a howl as lightning struck there.

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Oh, God. There was that right arm, all right. Might be better if it went away again.

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"What? What? Steve, what hurts?"

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It was Cheryl's frantic voice that kept him from going under this time. He slumped back against her, breathing through his mouth and through the pain, trying to make it go away or at least to ratchet it down to some manageable proportion.

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"Is it inside? Are you bleeding inside?"

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Unable to speak, he raised his good hand slightly to show her he was okay - at least he hoped that was what it showed her. He felt her arms tighten around his chest, her cheek press against his hair. Which couldn't be very pleasant, because now he was soaked with sweat. "Sokay…" he managed at last.

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He heard her half-hysterical giggle in response, felt her the shake of her laughter where his back pressed against her.

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He couldn't quite suppress a ghostly grin in response. "Know what I …mean…"

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"Oh, yeah." He felt her sink further backwards, pulling him close. He tried to spare her some of his weight, but it was impossible - every ounce of strength had been sucked out of him. "Does that feel better?"

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"Mm." Except for his head. And his arm. And his stomach. But at least it took a little of the pressure off his leg. He tried to pry his eyes open again, just the slightest bit, to get a look at his arm. If it was hanging at an odd angle Cheryl would have noticed, so maybe it was just fractured? Or even bruised. The light didn't seem so oppressive this time and he blinked, trying to clear his vision. It stayed foggy, and it took him a minute to understand that that wasn't just him - a smudgy haze hung in the air. He stared at it, wondering where he'd seen something like it before.

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It was hot in here. But now that his head was a little clearer, he realized that he was hotter on one side than the other - a growing, grasping heat that seemed to reach for him, almost like a living thing.? The sounds were familiar, too, now that he realized that they were real and not just the blood roaring in his ears. He had volunteered to fight too many of these over the years not to recognize the sounds and smells and sensations - that realization came quickly.

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The implications came more slowly. All the details of the building: the exits, the height, the tinder, wheeled in slow review in his head, ending on the broken stair, the monster that gripped his leg relentlessly in its jagged teeth.

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Trying to keep his voice calm he said, "Cheryl. The building's on fire."

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PART III

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Cheryl's silence told him that she had figured that out, too. Probably, he realized woozily, before he had. The silence grew and he blurted finally, "So what are you waiting for? Go!"

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Cheryl didn't answer right away. Finally, she said, "I will. Once the paramedics get here."

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Steve coughed harshly. "This place could go up - in a second. Get out of here. Now." He couldn't sense any movement from Cheryl behind him, so he tilted his head gingerly back and tried to get a glimpse of her face. He couldn't see anything except the slant of the ceiling whirling in a sickening circle, so he closed his eyes again quickly. His lungs ached as he tried to push words through them. "Don't do this, Cheryl."

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This time the answer came, though slowly. "Do what? I'm just waiting for the emergency crew and the crime scene team."

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"Too long. Go. Get help."

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"Get help. What am I, Lassie? I told you - I called for help. They're on their way. Welcome to the twenty-first century."

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"Too long," he insisted. The smoke was getting heavier now, the crackling noise underneath more pronounced. Heat hung in the air like a blanket.

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"I think the stairs are out of the question now anyway."

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Steve sighed, then choked, trying to clear his lungs. He knew he could come up with a convincing argument if only he could think, but the pain saturated his brain, crowding everything else out. He flashed on the image of Drummond silhouetted against the attic door. "Try - attic. The window…fire escape…"

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"That fire escape is one full floor down. And it looked like it was made out of coat hangers and held together by pipe cleaners - not something I want to try a long drop onto."

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Steve fought to control his breathing, to keep it slow and steady, wondering how the heck Cheryl was managing to breathe. It felt like he was trying to inhale and exhale something solid.? But he had to make her see his point - to leave. "Go. How do you think I'll feel…if you die…because of me?"

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He felt Cheryl shrug. "Way I figure it, if that happens, you'll be dead too - so I guess you won't have a whole lot to say about it one way or the other."

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Steve barked a breathless half-laugh.

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There was an answering smile in Cheryl's voice, but a steely determination, too. "Nobody's gonna die."

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Steve slid further down against her, his mind filled with troubling images. "Not - so. Firetrap. Fire'll spread - building to building. Place must be full of - vagrants. Homeless. Somebody - somebody needs to - "

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This time he did feel Cheryl's uncomfortable shift, then the movement of her chest as it rose and fell in a resigned sigh.

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"Damn you," she said quietly at last.

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"Go." She still seemed to be hesitating so he added, more urgently, "Try - just one flight down. Then the fire escape."

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She eased him forward. "Let me try one more time to get you free."

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"No time." He wished he could shake her, push her, force her down the stairs, but he tried something that he hoped resembled a smile instead. "C'mon - go. Help's coming for me. You…said so."

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"I hate it when you do that," she muttered uncomplainingly, sliding out from behind him and struggling to settle him comfortably.

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He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood to keep from crying out when the motion jarred his right arm, hoped to hide it and sound natural anyway. "Hate - when I'm right?"

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"No, when you do that "for me" thing."

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The movement had brought on another flood of vertigo, accompanied by a churning clutch of nausea, so he took a second to collect himself before protesting, "Didn't."

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"You didn't say it, you looked it."

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He held at bay an almost overwhelming desire to curl on his side and throw up, knowing she would never leave him alone in that condition no matter how polished his arguments, and swallowed hard instead to keep things in place, forcing a tiny smile. "Always - works."

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"Yeah. That's why I hate it."

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He couldn't find the energy to laugh this time. He could almost feel the heat deepening in the surrounding air, scalding his lungs, pressing in on him. Go, Cheryl, go on, hurry - get out of here! "Move." It came out sounding like an order.

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"Yeah." Cheryl didn't sound particularly offended. "On my way." He felt the awkward clasp of her right hand in his left and tried to return the pressure. "I'll be back with help. Just call me Lassie." Her hand disappeared from his and he thought she was gone until he heard her voice float back at him, "You be sure that you're here!"

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Yeah. I'll be here.

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A scuffle of feet, then silence, except for the crackling, which was growing to a muted roar.

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She was gone, then.

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An overwhelming wave of relief followed almost as quickly by an overwhelming wave of loneliness and despair swept through him, sapping at his remaining energy.? Setting his teeth hard, he shut his mind down against it, blocking everything out. He could focus on that later. Right now, he needed to try and get his foot free. He felt his way forward with his left hand, down his right leg and to the splintered mess where his calf joined the stair. His fingers brushed something hot and wet and sticky, then the forward position became too much for his head and he had to lean back again, letting the world re-steady itself. That throwing up thing was sounding better all the time.

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He had no desire to maim himself, but he had even less desire to become a stack of charcoal briquettes, so refusing to let himself think about what he was about to do, he drew a deep breath and pulled gently. Things twisted deep inside skin and muscle, tearing, ripping, opening fresh blood flow. He gasped, slid sideways down the wall, swallowing a mouthful of smoke. He hit the floor on his right side, his arm bouncing off the boards. The white flash of agony there was the last straw, and everything was devoured by darkness.

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*

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"Steve."

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God. What…?

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"Steve."

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Go away.

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"Steve."

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I don't want to get up yet.

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"Steve, can you hear me?"

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Yeah.

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"Steve, I'm talking to you!"

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The stern edge to the voice provoked a habitual, reluctant response. "Yeah?" His voice sounded foggy to his own ears and he coughed to clear it, kept coughing. Man. His lungs hurt.

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"Steve, are you listening to me?"

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Hm. Sounded like a lecture coming. What had he done now? "Yeah." And, remembering that that was rarely considered an adequate response in these cases, "I'm listening." Hurt to talk. What had he been up to now? He couldn't remember.

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"Good. I want you to keep listening to me, all right? I know you're tired, but it's important that I talk to you."

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"Okay." Better to just get it over with. Then maybe he could sleep in peace.

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"How's your leg?"

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His…oh. All at once he recalled everything - his trapped leg, the fire…but what the heck…?

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"Dad?" What was his dad doing here?

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"That's right, Steve - it's me. You still listening?"

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Dad's voice sounded small and tinny and far away. "Yeah."

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"Good. You were going to tell me about your leg?"

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Yeah. Okay. He must be hallucinating.? Funny, he'd always sort of assumed that any dying hallucinations would involve his mom. Not that he'd thought about it a lot, but somewhere inside he'd always sort of assumed…

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"Steve? Steve!"

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"Yeah."

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"Your leg?"

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That was definitely his dad, relentless about his injuries. "Hurts," he offered finally. No point in putting on a brave face for a hallucination. Besides, he was so tired.

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"Can you tell me the damage?"

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Oh, great. That was going to involve a lot of thinking and a lot of talking, and he didn't feel much like either. Maybe he could coax the hallucination to go away and let him sleep. "Can't…really see it."

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"Can you tell me what it feels like?"

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Typical Dad. "Think I'm - impaled, sort of."

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"I see." The Dad-voice sounded calm and clinical - briskly detached. "Where else are you hurt?"

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Steve relaxed. This was kind of nice - he could talk to his Dad about it without worrying him and he didn't feel quite so all alone in here. Hallucinations had their good points. "Head."

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"Um hm. And what's wrong there? Steve?"

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He realized he'd been drifting again and tried to drag himself back. "Um - hit. 2 x 4."

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"I see." The hallucination still sounded calm, thoughtful. "Is it bleeding?"

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Was it? Wait - Cheryl had said something like that. "Think so."

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"All right. Can you put pressure on it? Stop the bleeding?"

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Steve sighed. Heat rushed into his lungs and he coughed, kept on coughing.

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"Steve? Steve? Steve, are you still there?"

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The coughing triggered what felt like a sharp-edged projectile thrusting into his head again and again and it was a little while before he could gather himself enough to answer.

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The voice continued inexorably. "Steve? Are you still with me, son?"

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"Yeah." The word was dragged out from between his teeth, but it somehow kept the blackness from taking over again.

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"All right. Good. Steve, I want you to be sure your face is as close to the floor as possible - away from the smoke. Can you do that for me?"

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He wanted to point out that his face was practically in the floor at the moment and that there was no getting away from the smoke anyway, but that was too hard, so instead he managed, "Am."

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"All right, good. Now, do you have something that you could cover your nose and mouth with to filter out the smoke? Your shirt would do."

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Oh. Why hadn't he thought of that? He didn't want to move his right arm again if he could help it, but if he could even get his left arm out of the sleeve and the sleeve over his nose and mouth, that might help diminish some of the terrible smoke and heat he was breathing. "ll'Try."

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"Good boy."

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Steve smiled to himself as he tried to squirm his left arm free. Been a long time since he'd heard that one.? He felt the shirt fall away from his body and he fumbled blindly for the loose sleeve, pulling it over his nose and mouth and breathing through it for a minute. It did feel better. He let it drop away, just for a second. "Dad?"

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"Yes, son?" There was an almost crooning tone to the hallucination's voice.

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He smiled again, because that was familiar too. "I'm - glad you're here."

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"Me too, son.? And I'm going to stay right here, I promise. How are you feeling otherwise?"

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"Hot." He really meant "scared" but he couldn't quite admit that out loud, even to a hallucination.

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"We'll have you out in the fresh air before you know it. Just keep talking to me, okay?"

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"Yeah."

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"Steve? Steven!"

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Oh. Sorry. "…sleep?"

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"You can sleep later. I promise. Right now I want you to talk to me."

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Darned hallucination was starting to get annoying - maybe he'd hallucinate about something else instead. Something cool would be nice. Still. He didn't want to be alone.

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"'kay."

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"Good."

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The heat was growing unbearable now, making it hard to think. He tried to focus on breathing through his shirt, wondered if he could find a position where the searing, oxygen-starved air would have less access to his exposed skin. If his head had been clearer he might have remembered that trying to move hadn't paid any big dividends so far, but all he could think about was getting some respite from the scorching air. He tried to turn himself over, face down and away from the heat.? He thought he had prepared himself, but the nauseating sensation of splintered bone and torn flesh scraping against each other still caught him by surprise. His own shout of pain echoed in his ears.

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"STEVE!"

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Steve screwed his eyes tight shut, chewing on his lower lip to distract himself from the other pains. You had to say this for the hallucination, it was as persistent as his real dad.

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"Steve! Are you still there?"

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"Yeah." It was more of a gasp than a word, so he licked his bloody lips and tried again. "Yeah." That sounded better. Marginally. Cheryl had told him that he should stay still. She was right, he didn't listen. He needed to work on that.

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"Are you all right?"

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C'mon - deep breath. Deep, smoky breath…"…yeah…" He was downright swell. For a guy whose leg was being eaten by a wooden step and who was preparing to become a serving of roast pig, that is.?

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"Steve? Steve, do you remember when you were a little boy and you broke your leg and a couple of ribs trying to fly to the rescue like Superman? Do you remember?"

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Steve exhaled heavily through his nose. Yeah, yeah - he remembered. The moral to that story, he guessed, was that he hadn't got any smarter with the years.

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"Steve?"

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"I? - remember."

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"Do you remember how I used to sing to you? To help you forget how much it hurt. Do you remember?"

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"…yeah."

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"Do you remember the songs? I'll bet you can remember all the words, if you try."

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Oh, come on - that was about a hundred million years ago, and right now he could barely remember his own name.

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"I'll bet you do," the voice pressed, then started to sing softly.

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He had been, what? Six? when he'd made that fateful flight? Long time ago.

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He found himself listening in spite of himself as the familiar voice sing-songed into the chorus.?

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Okay, maybe he did remember some of these words…really had seemed to make things hurt less back then. He did remember that.

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"You must remember this one. You used to sing along with the chorus."

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Yeah. He knew this one. He managed a shallow breath. "You did this whole…routine…"

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"You liked the faces.? This was your favorite part - listen…"

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Yeah. He had loved this part - made his dad do it over and over…there was a loud crashing noise somewhere nearby and he tried to block it out to hear the song. The crashing got louder, followed by thumping and stamping - he wished they'd quiet down because they were too loud…he almost couldn't hear …he couldn't hear…he felt something grab his arm and he opened his eyes, squinting swollen lids against the smoke, blinking in surprise.

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He was surrounded by a group of aliens with huge, goggled faces. They were breathing deep and slow, like…like…Star Wars. Like Darth Vader.

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Wow. This was one weird hallucination.

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He'd liked the singing better. One of the aliens removed his goggled face. He looked suddenly normal - just a regular guy, covered with soot.?

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Huh. Good special effects.

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A small radio crackled in the huge, misshapen hands. "Okay. We got him."

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The singing stopped abruptly. "Oh, thank God."

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"Steve?" Someone was trying to attach something to his face and suddenly vaguely panicked and claustrophobic, he tried to turn his head away. "Hey. Easy. It's just me."

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Cheryl. "You - back?" That didn't make any sense. Oh, wait - that's right - hallucination.

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"You must not have watched enough TV as a kid. Lassie always came back. And brought help."

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He felt a familiar damp chill on his inner elbow and shivered. Getting ready for a needle. He knew that one. So, was this more hallucination, or…? Something snapped over his face and he gulped with surprise. Coolness shot into his lungs, startling him. It felt heavenly, but for a minute it made him dizzy. He closed his eyes.

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Someone was talking into the radio some more. It wasn't as nice as the singing, but he found himself listening anyway. "…request permission to establish an IV." There were some droning numbers…respiration, blood pressure, pulse….all familiar… "Right. What have you got on your end, Ted?"

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Someone was touching his right leg now with impartial, professional fingers and he tensed automatically. "…can't do it here. We're gonna have to take it with us. Normally I'd use the saw, but given the time crunch…"

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The sound of a sharp blade shattering wood startled him out of his hazy state for a second, eyes flying wide. He became aware of other sounds - the steady hum of conversation from the radio, a low toned argument between Cheryl and someone else - evidently someone else trying unsuccessfully to persuade her to leave this time, but it looked like he wasn't the only one who didn't know how to listen. He'd have to rag her about that later. Overlaying everything was the sound of an axe blade biting into rotten wood. If this was a hallucination, then it was a honey.

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Somebody was pushing something into his left arm…one of the aliens. "…ready for the Stokes…?"

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"Give me a minute - I wanna see what I got here - "

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"Well, hurry, cause a minute is about all we got."

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Someone else was fingering his right arm now and he wanted to pull it away, to protect it, but it just lay there, not responding, like a block of wood. A low whistle by his ear startled him.

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"Wow. Let me get this stabilized and we'll move out. What a mess. " He heard the peculiar, tearing noises that Velcro makes and then something stiff embraced his arm from the elbow down. Funny, it didn't hurt so much any more. In fact, everything was starting to seem really far away - even the hallucination. "Okay - I got it. Let's roll. Slow and easy. I want to shift this as little as possible…"

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There were strong hands under his shoulders, lifting, and another set of hands down near his feet. His muscles knotted, ready for the agony that would inevitably follow motion of that one foot, and he felt the light whisper of Cheryl's breath, saying…something…softly, over and over, into his ear. The biting weight was still clinging to his calf but, for a wonder, it didn’t pull - it lifted free. The smoke was thicker now, and even the alien figures were barely visible.

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"…roof. Wait…" Someone pressed hard against the open wound on the side of his head and the world collapsed into a humming greyness. Everything stayed a little blurry after that.

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He had a far away sense of movement upward, at a slant, bumpy and ragged, then of a flying drop - a dangle in space that brought back his vertigo full force. Everyone seemed to have disappeared now and he was alone on his weird down-trip-without-an-elevator - all alone with the dark, acrid clouds that wrapped around everything, eating the air. Still, there was some movement in the air now - it wasn't so close and suffocating, and that was a relief.

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Voices kept shouting back and forth, unnaturally loud, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. His drop came to an abrupt and ungentle halt and rough hands grabbed at him, moving him rapidly forward now in his little protective shell, so quickly that he was sure that he was going to throw up after all. They came to a stop with a thud.??

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"Steve?"

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And there was his buddy the hallucination again. Hands peeled at…at the…blanket! He located the word in his brain with a sense of bleary triumph. There. He couldn't be too out of it if he could figure that out - and he felt a light, cursory manipulation of his bad arm. The touch was eerily familiar and he blinked his eyes half-open to see. He couldn't decide if he was completely unsurprised or downright stunned to see his father's face hovering there. Either way, it was nice to see him. He tried to smile a greeting through the oxygen mask.

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His dad must have seen, because the rigid set to his face faded and he smiled back. "How are you doing?"

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Sounded just like the hallucination. So maybe it was. He made an awkward reach for the mask to move it so he could answer and missed by a mile, but his father must have understood, because he lifted it aside for a minute to let him talk.

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"Good," he croaked. He was starting to understand the piles of hoses around them, the fleets of emergency vehicles, the sounds of bullhorns and high-pressure water and sirens. Must be that help that Cheryl kept talking about. But…"What are you doing here?"

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His father stared at him for a minute or more, his face soft and strained at the same time. Then he dropped his eyes and reached into the protective blanket that covered Steve.? Steve had a passing thought that he was going to do one of his magic tricks - watched with mild curiosity for a coin or a bouquet of? paper flowers or a rabbit to materialize from the depths of the silvery covering. Instead, his hand emerged with a small flourish, clasping Steve's cell phone. Steve stared at the compact phone, its screen lit, not comprehending.

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"You called me." Mark depressed a button on the phone and the lit screen went dark with a muted beep.

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Steve wrinkled his forehead, winced as the motion pulled at the hasty dressing slapped on one side. Then he remembered that moment when he had tried to phone Cheryl for help - that instant just before Drummond had swung. Had he…he must have speed-dialed his father by mistake. So that meant…his stomach did a queasy revolve. "How much…" he stopped to wet his lips. "…what did you…hear?"

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It was a rhetorical question, really. Even if he hadn't been able to put the timeline together himself, his father's face, grey with anxiety, eyes haunted, skin pinched about the mouth even as he tried to summon a genial smile, told him exactly what he had heard.

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"Oh, just enough. Enough to get the idea that you could use a little company."

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Steve closed his eyes again. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he was never meant to hear any of that, ever - that he was only supposed to see the complications of his job in a distant, pleasantly theoretical light, but the damage was done and he couldn't undo it. So instead he said, "Oh."

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"Hey."

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He recognized that voice even before his father exclaimed, "Cheryl! Have you been checked for smoke inhalation?"

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"Checked and rechecked. How's my partner? Look at you, tough guy - eyes wide open. Well, maybe not quite wide. I've got a present - just 'for you'." She gave him a knowing smirk.

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Steve tried to turn his head to look at her, just caught a glimpse of a paper evidence bag before it twisted itself into a tight vortex against a backdrop of blackened, whirling buildings. He closed his eyes hastily. "For me, huh?"

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"Mm hm." When he peeked again, she had the top of the evidence bag open and he could just make out a disreputable looking 2 x 4, spattered with blood. "Well, maybe not just for you. I was determined to nail this punk, and not for robbery - I want to see him go down for the attempted murder of a police officer."

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Steve closed his eyes again. She had snatched that thing out of a burning building before all the evidence went up in flames? Now, that was his idea of a cop. "Good work," he rasped. "You get him?"

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"Oh, yeah." He could hear the grin in her voice. "Looks like he set a time delay on the fire, but couldn't resist the urge to come back and admire his handiwork. We nabbed him standing in the crowd, watching. Lucky for us that most of the losers we prosecute are dumber than dirt."

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Yeah. Lucky.

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Steve felt a small flicker of amusement through the pleasant numbness that was settling over him. Funny. That's what Cheryl had said earlier. That they were lucky.

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"We're gettin' him ready to transport, if you wanna ride along, doc!" He knew that voice, too - one of the aliens.? "You guys be real careful loading him with that leg - no jostling. I had to practically take the whole step along, trying not to make it worse. Still might have added to the damage. But hey - beats the heck outta bein' charbroiled, right?" One of the sooty hands loomed near and patted him in the middle of his chest. "Was sure that whole building was coming down around us before I could chop you free. I'll tell ya, bud - you must have one heck of a guardian angel on call. You're one lucky guy."

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There was that word again.

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His eyes were aching with heaviness now, gritty with ash and smoke and begging for rest, but he forced them open just a second longer, letting them light briefly on the paramedic, then Cheryl, and lastly, his father. When they finally dropped shut, he could still see their images behind his lids, familiar even though weirdly aureoled by the sunlight in the smoky air.

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Lucky.

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He smiled. "I know."

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EPILOGUE

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"…still standing, decimated by fire. Bystanders - "

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Mark automatically thumbed the "mute" button. He didn't think the sound could really penetrate Steve's deeply drugged state, but while he found himself drawn to the screen over and over, unable to completely turn away or turn it off, he wasn't quite ready to listen to it, either. He had heard enough for one day.

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Pulling his eyes away from the camera pan of the blackened shells of buildings, quickly replaced by the face of the Fire Chief pushing his helmet back on his head and speaking into a microphone, he turned to glance out the large window instead. He had paced the circumference of the small room more than once, too keyed up on adrenaline and nerves to sit, completely unable to leave. Realizing that he was now seeing absolutely nothing outside of the window either, he turned away. He could sit down, but his heart was still hammering as if he'd run a marathon. He was jumpy - unsettled. Instead, he aimlessly read all the monitors, not really registering what any of the numbers meant, reached out to adjust the IV drip.

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Very useful, he mocked himself. Life-saving work, doctor. You've done a lot of that today.

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He looked back at Steve and took a second to adjust the blankets next. They didn't need it, but what was one more gesture of fumbling futility? He seemed to be having a day for that. He moved around the end of the bed, adjusting the covers at the bottom next, so that they wouldn't irritate the elevated and heavily swathed foot, the result of so many hours of surgery that Mark had eventually lost track. The orthopedic surgeon had patiently shown him x-rays and diagrams, explained what he had done and what he would still need to do, then had been briskly cheerful about the injured arm, pointing out a long, splintering fracture of the ulna on the x-ray and describing the braces and treatments he had in mind. Mark had smiled and nodded and tried to look sincerely interested, but it had mostly gone over his head. This must be what the average relative of a patient feels like, he thought dimly. Ignorant. Numb.

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Steve stirred and he moved closer to the head of the bed, making soothing noises. The head dressing was pristine too, hiding another ugly, messy wound that had required tedious cleansing of splinters and dirt and cinders and soot, then careful closing over the glimpse of exposed bone. Mark shut his eyes to banish the image of it, the memory of which still made his own head lift dizzily from his shoulders.? He fussed with the blankets again, lifting them a little higher to hide the braced right arm.

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The left arm was settled over Steve's chest, wrapped in a dressing to soothe skin burned by the blistering air, probably after Steve had removed the sleeve to protect his nose and mouth. After a brief hesitation, he pulled the blankets still higher, to cover that too.

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It could have been worse, he told himself sternly. Much worse, he remembered with grim vividness. He suddenly needed to sit down.

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He dragged a chair close to the bed and dropped into it. Bits of recalled conversation and sound passed through his brain and his heart picked up tempo again. Part of him wanted to block them out, but another part couldn't quite let go. He didn't want to remember, but he didn't want to forget, either. After all, it had almost been the last thing…it could have been. It had been very close.? He reached over and fidgeted with the blankets again, smoothing them, lining them up to lie meticulously straight. He stared at them for a second, then rose and took another turn about the room.

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Very close.

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He hadn't known what exactly to think when he'd first taken the call. For a minute he had thought it was a wrong number or a misconnection - but there were Steve's cell phone digits, lighting the small screen. Then he had thought that maybe he was picking up another transmission - a radio or television station. Oddly enough, it was Cheryl's voice that finally jolted him to the realization that what he was inadvertently eavesdropping on was really happening, real time, right now. He'd struggled to recollect and piece together the first parts in his mind, trying to fill in the wordless sounds with pictures, even as he'd reached for his desk phone to call Steve's precinct. When Steve did not pick up his own phone, every wildly improbable but reassuring theory his mind had been busily constructing was blown to pieces. Even as he'd pushed the desk sergeant? for some indication of Steve's location he'd been cranking up the volume on the cell phone, nursing the fragile connection, pulling out his car keys.

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Looking back, for the life of him he couldn't imagine what is was he'd thought he was going to do to help when he got there.? Run faster than a speeding bullet? Leap tall buildings with a single bound? That was Steve's job - he was woefully lacking of skills in that department.

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He glanced back at the television screen. The perky reporter, her face creased with some semblance of concern, was holding? the microphone in another poor soul's face. His eyes skimmed briefly over the closed captions, looked away again.

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He couldn't honestly recall what had happened next. He must have driven, he must have arrived - mostly he remembered hanging on the sounds coming from his cell phone, his heart frozen with both ferocious pride and sick dread as he heard Steve try to coax Cheryl to leave. He didn't know when he had started the talking. The silence had gone on too long, he supposed, and he had really thought for a minute - well. It had been a terrible minute, that was all, one he never wanted to relive.?

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The nurse entered, gave him a professionally sympathetic smile, then set about marking down the different readings, checking for any changes. When she reached the IV she tossed him a tolerantly exasperated look before adjusting it carefully back to its original rate.

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Mark shrugged a helpless apology and her knowing smile deepened. Doctors could really get in a nurse's way, he knew, and worried father doctors must be the worst of all. He made a mental vow not to touch anything else. Maybe he should put the covers back to their original state, too. While she busily fulfilled her duties, he turned back to the television.

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Death toll of zero, it said. A couple of firefighters injured, none seriously, and? Steve of course, a lot of vagrants treated for smoke inhalation, mostly released. That was the one good thing about these old buildings - fewer toxic materials, fewer complications from smoke inhalation. No lives lost.? They were calling it a miracle.

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The nurse bobbed a silent farewell and left. Mark looked back at Steve, brooding over how white he looked - how battered. But he was alive, and he was part of the reason that a lot of other people were alive, too. As he watched, Steve stirred restlessly, shifted his leg as though still trying to drag it from the clutches of the broken stair.

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"Sssshhh…" Mark rested a hand lightly on his arm. "Sssshh…"

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Stuck in the habit of the past hours, he slid into the chorus of one of the songs, sang it softly, using all the silly intonations that child-Steve had loved. He smiled when Steve stilled, settled back into a narcotic-soaked sleep. He wondered what conscious, grown-up Steve would think if he knew that he still responded to the songs his father now reserved for the kids in pediatrics. When he was well again - really well - he'd make it a point to tease him about it. With his hand still on Steve's arm, he sank back into the chair by the bed, picked up the remote. The reporter was still talking, and he switched off the button for the closed captions.

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They were wrong.

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It wasn't a miracle. That was too facile. The only miracle today had been people like his son who had the courage to risk and sacrifice and act - people like Cheryl and the paramedics who had braved the crumbling building to pull Steve out. Then again, he supposed that kind of decency and commitment might be considered a miracle.

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He had known some terrible moments today when he had wished passionately that Steve was just a little less decent - a little less committed. Brave, but not so brave that it would risk him never returning home. He was ashamed of the feelings now - not only because they were unfair to the other lives saved - other people who were also dear to someone, someone else's husband or wife or daughter or son - but because they seemed disloyal to Steve as well.

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He patted the dressing on the arm beneath his hand. "I know how much you believe in what you do, son. I do. But there's such a thing as carrying this Superman bit too far."

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The door opened and Amanda's troubled face peered in. When her eyes caught his, she pushed the door all the way inward and stepped inside. She glanced at Steve. "I just heard," she whispered. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner. How is he doing?"

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He'll be all right. He'll be leaping tall buildings with a single bound in no time.

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Because there are some things that a father just has to get used to being afraid about - some things that he cannot - should not - change. "Oh, he has some recovering to do. But he'll be trying to get out of that bed before you know it."

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No point in trying to explain his struggle with that terrible paradox of parenthood: how you teach and preach and guide, pray about the kind of adults your children will become; all unsuspecting as to how they? might seize on the ideas you sow and take them in a direction all their own, grow further than you expect, further even, sometimes, than you're comfortable with.

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CJ would teach her that in time, better than he ever could.

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Amanda came further into the room, moved around the bed to perch on the arm of his chair and drape her arm around his shoulders. She gave him a squeeze. "And what about you? This must have been terrible for you. How are you feeling?"

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Mark glanced back at the television., at the smoke that hung heavy over the backdrop of buildings, then at Steve, burned and bandaged and pale, but his face surprisingly peaceful in sleep. Staring at the screen for a minute more, he finally reached over and clicked off the remote. The picture disappeared.

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How did he feel, when all was said and done?

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He tried to sort through the emotional detritus of the day, poking through the ashes for an answer. His eyes stopped on Steve's face, that horribly painful, oddly companionable cell phone conversation that was almost their last replaying in his head, and his heart swelled with - something.

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Could the worst moments of your life also be the best? What would he trade for that glimpse of his son that he so rarely got to see up close, for that chance to be there with him, to be there for him? What would he change about him if he could?

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How was he feeling?

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He patted the hand around his shoulders, gave it a returning squeeze.

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"Lucky."

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The End
(September 2004)

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