Radclyffe - Honor Reclaimed

"You're doing everything you can, baby."

"Thanks for saying that." Blair hesitated. "Do you feel like I do when we're apart? Like nothing is quite right?"

"Every minute."

Blair laughed. "Even if you're lying, I don't care. I love you for saying it."

"I'm not lying," Cam said with utter seriousness.

"Did you sleep?"

"Some."

"I know you, Commander. That means probably not at all. You can't run yourself into the ground, Cam, or you won't be any good to your investigation or me."

"I know. I won't."

"Uh-huh. Right." Blair made a low murmuring sound in her throat. "But I know how to put you to sleep. We'll take care of that later."

Despite her fatigue, her worry,and her hyperadrenalized awareness, Cam felt herself respond. "Jesus, don't do that now. I have to work."

"What's the matter, did I just make you twitch?"

Absently, Cam brushed her palm over the inside of her thigh. "More than that."

"Oh, good."

Cam laughed and closed her eyes, allowing herself the simple pleasure of enjoying the company of the woman she loved for just a few minutes.

*

Savard bolted awake, bathed in sweat. She rapidly scanned the space around her as if it were a battlefield, searching for danger, until she placed the room— bedroom, Stark's...no, our place now.

With a jerk, she threw the damp sheet aside and stumbled into the bathroom, then directly into the shower. She twisted both knobs on full and barely flinched when the first blast of icy water struck her in the chest. Her skin tingled, and it felt good. She was alive. She was alive.

Five minutes later, wrapped in a towel, her hair still dripping, she sat on the side of the bed and dialed Stark's cell phone.

"Stark."

"Hi, sweetie. Are you busy?"

Stark had to forcibly hold back a surge of wild laughter. Oh hell, no. Not busy. She suddenly was responsible for guarding the first daughter in the midst of a national crisis, with a team of newbies and a reluctant protectee. Hell no, she wasn't busy. "I've got a couple minutes. We just briefed."

"How was it?"

Stark lowered her voice. "My legs aren't shaking anymore."

"You're going to be fine. You were a good agent before the commander came on board, and now you've spent almost a year watching her work. You know what to do. Just do it your own way, and you'll be fine."

"Thanks, honey. What about you? How are you doing?"

"Fine," Savard said quickly. "Is it still a green light for today?"

"Yes. This afternoon."

"Any chance we'll be able to get together later?"

"I don't know. I want to. It's going to depend on...well, you know."

Yes, Savard thought. From now on, my lover's life is going to be determined by Blair Powell's schedule. It's going to be even harder now for us to connect. Maybe it's just as well. Maybe I shouldn't see her until I don 't feel so...crazy.

Stark picked up on the silence. "I'm sorry. I want to see you so mu--"

"Hey. It's okay." Savard glanced at the clock by the bedside. "God, it's almost nine. I'm late. Listen, sweetie, I've got to run. Call me if you can."

"I will. I love you," Stark said hastily.

"Me too. Bye."

Savard pulled the towel off and wrapped it around her hair as she hurried to the closet. She was surprised someone hadn't already called her to find out why she hadn't shown up for her shift. As she pulled clothes from a hanger, her cell rang.

"Damn," she muttered as she grabbed it off the bedside table. "Savard."

"This is Roberts. Where are you?"

"Stark's."

"Good. I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes."

"Uh.. .what about my other assignment? Should I call—"

"Already taken care of."

"Yes, ma'am," Savard said briskly. "I'll be waiting downstairs."

"Very good. Goodbye."

"Yes, ma'am," Savard whispered. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to get herself together enough so that no one would notice she wasn't who she used to be.

*

It was the smell that plummeted Cam back in time—that unmistakable mixture of antiseptic and death that permeated the air in the hallway leading to the intensive care unit. Six months before it had been her lying in one of the glassed-in cubicles, tubes and monitors attached to her body, swimming in an ocean of pain. She had only fragments of recollection of the first three days following the shooting—her mother's voice, Blair's touch, and always the fucking pain. Suppressing a shudder, she shoved her hands into her pockets and shook off the memories. Despite what she insisted to Blair—that the chance of her ever being shot again was infinitesimal—it was always a possibility. And that was something you didn't think about if you wanted to do the job.

"Davis told me they're supposed to move him out of here today," Cam said to Savard as they pushed through the double gray steel doors with the red letters proclaiming Trauma Intensive Care Unit.

"Good. That's good," Savard said quietly.

Two minutes later, after clearing their visit with the nurses, they approached Mac's bedside. To Cam's great relief, he no longer had a breathing tube and was able to croak a hello. Her former second in command, Mac Phillips, was ordinarily a vigorous thirty-three-year-old—tall, blond, and handsome. Now he looked pale and vulnerable, and Cam felt the fury rise again.

"How are you doing, Mac?"

He smiled weakly. "Not bad, Commander."

Cam nodded at the statuesque African American woman with the model-perfect face standing on the opposite side of the bed. "Agent Davis."

"Commander," Felicia replied in her smooth alto voice. "Hello, Renee."

"Hi." Savard leaned over and kissed Mac lightly on the cheek. "Hello, honey."

"My day.. .is looking.. .up," Mac said, grinning.

"We heard they're moving you to a regular room later today. That's terrific," Cam said as she stepped over and closed the door. They were all completely visible to anyone in the rest of the intensive care unit, but their conversation would not be overheard. Turning to face Mac and Felicia again, she said, "The whole team—with the exception of Stark—has been placed on administrative leave until Justice completes the investigation of Tuesday's events."

"God," Felicia said, "that could take months."

"Probably will. But you've been detailed to a special team," Cam informed her. "As of now, you and Savard are with me, and our only job is to find out where those bastards who hit the Aerie came from."

"What about.. .me?" Mac said immediately.

Cam squeezed his shoulder. "Your assignment is to get better. Once you're out of this place, I'll pick your brain to make sure we're not missing anything, but no field work for you."

"The bullet...missed the good stuff," Mac said. "I'll be good...to go...in a week or so."

"That's not exactly what the doctor said, baby," Felicia interjected. "Six to eight weeks is what I heard."

"We'll keep you in the loop," Cam assured him, "but you're an armchair quarterback on this one."

"Yes, ma'am," he said weakly, his eyes flickering closed as he obviously tired.

"So, Davis," Cam said, "we need a new command center. I should have an address for you later today. You can transfer the equipment then."

"Yes, ma'am."

"The first order of business is an ID on the four men who hit the Aerie. You and Savard are on that."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Savard will coordinate when I'm not available."

Savard jerked slightly at the announcement, but Felicia appeared unfazed. "Understood."

Cam looked at her watch. "For now, get copies of everything the FBI has that relates to the attack—forensics, intelligence, background on paramilitary groups and terrorist cells, gossip, rumor, innuendo—I don't care. Everything."