It was three days until Christmas, and I’d gotten the best gift of all.

Of course, Bill didn’t really see it that way.

Bill grumbled, scratching lightly at the tape on the back of his hand. I gently took the hand, not moving it but keeping it from dislodging anything. He seemed to have good days and bad days, most of the latter stemming from the fluctuating fever that was brought on by the infection in his leg. Sometimes he was Bill, and other times... he was out of it. As it turned out, the tests showed that the bone had been infected, and they’d have to keep him until his fever disappeared and the infection was under control. But, steadily, he was improving, this day being a big indicator, especially when he flashed the patented Strannix Charm at me.

He grinned lazily.

Dr. Kimble. The Dr. Richard Kimble, hero of the movie and take-no-bullshit surgeon of one William E. Strannix. He’d never been chased by a one-armed man, but his wife had been killed... he’d just never been convicted of the crime. He’d never been a suspect. But he had worked with Sam to find the killer. It was obvious that Sam hadn’t expected to meet him again, because he looked uncomfortable when the doctor entered the room. Deb had no idea why, and she’d never gotten around to asking him. Bill, who always enjoyed seeing Sam look... nervous, was obviously using it as an excuse.

He was still smiling.

Oh, yeah. There’s my Billy.

Sam... always my rock, came through. He stuck his head in the door.

I gave Bill a kiss on the forehead, which made him squirm, and departed with Sam.

The figures entered and closed the door quietly behind them. His hand groped for the call button, but he couldn't find it. Even worse, before he could grasp it, both men applied the restraints. His fingers curled around the nylon straps and he waited, focused, tried to see through the medical fog. Ryback stepped back beside the door and crossed his arms, apparently only there to watch. Andy looked nervous. Even in the dark, he could feel it coming off the man in waves.

Ryback locked the door. Bill wanted to say something, but couldn't get his mouth to open. He felt drained, paralyzed. They spoke in soft whispers, but he could hear every breath.

Much time? Trying to get back before the Punk and Gerard, maybe?

The light came on, harsh white light upon his pale skin. He slitted his eyes against the pain and saw Andy standing next to the bed table, preparing a syringe of… something. The man looked much too young to be in the profession he was in. But Bill knew exactly how old he was, knew nearly everything about him.

Andy looked up and stopped his ministrations. He stared at Bill for a long moment.

Ryback sounded perturbed.

Ryback sounded as if he had thrown up his hands.

Andy had been trained as a surgeon for the Navy. The boy was very good at his job. Problem was, he was better at doing the opposite, which was killing. They all had been, unfortunate as that was.

Stochanski's face grew stony. Words came in low, angry bursts of fire.

Ryback's answer was cold, flat, final.

Andy's answer was made in same, only with an underlying thread of anger. He was still young enough to let it get under his skin far enough to fight it. Dangerous… yet enviable to anyone who had been doing the same job for years.

Andy twitched. He looked back at Bill, who studied him for a moment. Yeah, entirely too young. It was going to get him killed, probably as soon as Ryback could get to a phone. Or a gun. I wonder if the kid knows it.

The boy gave him a compassionate look, the first he'd seen on an operative in fifteen years.

Yeah, he knew.

Andy abruptly turned on his heel and left. Ryback seized the syringe and began filling it with a clear liquid. Bill blinked, and flexed his fingers. The argument over, Ryback was going to finish what he'd started. Bill finally found his voice, his words coming out slurred but comprehensible.

Ryback stopped, placed the bottle of whatever he'd been filling the syringe with into his pocket, and removed the cap on the needle.

Ryback walked around the bed and stopped at the IV. His eyes searched the bags until he found one that was basic Ringer's solution. Bill's fingers tightened around the restraints.

Bill choked out a short laugh. His chest ached.

Ryback's finger was resting on the plunger. He looked straight at Bill, the same look of compassion on his face that Andy had worn, but it felt less sincere. He wanted to scream.

Bill's eyes focused on the needle. Ryback released the liquid into the bag, and as he watched the solutions intermingle, he spoke, Annapolis ringing in Ryback's ears.

Ryback withdrew the needle, quickly wrapped it in a clean, white handkerchief, and stuck it in his jacket. He started for the door, turned off the light, and was nearly out, when he turned back.

Bill tried to answer, but the words caught in his throat. The door swung shut and he was left to himself. Instantly, he twisted the hand that held the IV needle and tried to pull it free. He couldn't get his wrist to turn far enough to knock it out. He strained against the straps, but he didn't have the strength to free himself.

Christ, I walked through two countries and flew thousands of miles to die in a hospital… this isn't happening…

Bill’s eyes were frantic when Sam and I got back to the room, his fingers gesturing towards me. I trundled my way to his side. He wanted something.

Bill’s ragged voice cracked angrily, interrupted me.

He had so many lines running in and around him that he looked like a mad scientist’s dream. Which line, I thought frantically?

I had learned the instant obedience he demanded, if nothing else. I pulled the tape holding the big needle to the back of his hand, and slipped the thing out of his vein. With my thumb I stopped the blood and with the other hand I pinched off the line, folding the plastic tubing over on itself.

I was about to reach for the call button but pump alarms were going off, monitors were shrieking. Somebody would come and put this right. I hoped.

He lapsed into unconsciousness and the code-team thundered through the door. A nurse took the opportunity to gently guide Sam and I out into the hall. Sam had spotted a waiting bench and we took places on it. Even as we watched, Bill was rushed down the hall to Christ only knew what.

I was a mess. Poison?! One of the government’s seemingly limitless array of Dirty Tricks.

I was babbling, trying desperately not to think of what had just happened, my mind running mach ten. Sam was all too willing to oblige.

I let my head bounce off the cinderblock wall.

I was shaking. Sam pulled me in under his arm, gave me one of those rough hugs I used to watch him dispense at tough moments.

He was trying hard, I’ll give him that... but my mind was running on two tracks. I couldn’t stop feeling like I wanted to take off down the hall and find Bill... just in case he... if he... no, don’t think about it.

Logical Sam, what would I have done without him. But his words made me feel better. I leaned against the wall and tried to rest.

I landed on a granite shoulder. I smelled cologne, more faintly my laundry detergent and Sam’s deodorant, his nasty-ass cigars. I was comforted, and I was able to doze until someone was sent with news.

As Sam had predicted, Bill had not actually absorbed enough of the substance found in the Ringer’s solution for it to have been fatal. The substance had been insulin, and there had been enough in the bag to make it seem as if he’d died of natural causes; he simply would have slipped into a coma and passed away. They’d been quick in their analysis of the Ringers and had given him glucagon to counteract what had made it into his system. Other complications could arise, to what extent nobody was able to say. What they knew was that Mr. Strannix was stable and we were welcome to return to his side.

I resumed my place in the straight chair, reached through the bedrail to rest my fingers on his arm. The IV had returned to its place in his hand, and I smothered the urge to pull it again. Paranoia will destroy ya...

Was I the only person in the world... left, anyway... who could call the big man Sammy? It was a stupid thing to wonder, but I was so intimately involved with both men anymore that it was worth a shot.

He was sprawling in the other sidechair, trying to fit the length and bulk of himself between the rigid plastic arms. I couldn’t ask my question, now. I didn’t want to give it voice.

I went to the closet and removed the blue wool topcoat from its hanger. Wrapped in it, I returned to my place beside Bill a second time.

I studied Bill quietly, gathering my wits. He was sleeping peacefully, his face devoid of the tension that had masked it a mere hour before.

Sam considered his answer.

Two days later, I was more tired than ever. After Sam came to relieve me one evening, I found myself unable to climb the stairs, I was so tired. I collapsed on the couch. I was just drifting to sleep when someone spoke my name.

Somehow I knew he wasn’t lying. I studied his face, but he sat back so that it was shrouded in shadow.

He held out a key in one gloved hand. Hesitantly, I took it.

The man rose, and I wondered absently how he got in through the security system. He turned to leave.

He stopped and spoke over his shoulder.

He exited through the kitchen and I heard him let himself out the back door. I sat up, staring, shaking, wondering what in hell to do, unsure of who to call. Finally, I settled on simply going back up to the hospital, hoping to talk to Bill about it.

Sam was about to drop from exhaustion. Two days into it, and our plan sucked. Even Bill, in his brief episodes of lucidity, could see it.

It wasn’t a question and Bill didn’t bother to try and answer. Instead, he closed his eyes and pointed in my direction.

He hissed in pain, and I forced myself out of the chair to stand beside his bed. He turned his head away, as though ready to speak to Sam.

Bill’s fingers drummed on the sheet.

A calculated risk.

Damn! It worked! His eyes locked on mine, but not to intimidate. I had distracted him. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d been able to do that.

I curled my fingers around the key Andy had given me, hidden in my coat pocket. I would give it to him later, when he was well. God knows what in hell it was... but he didn’t need to deal with it now, as well.

Andy would be doing a permanent fade. In fact... ‘Andy’ would fade entirely, to become someone else with Mr. Pitt’s help.

He had to stop, regain his breath. I stepped closer to the rail.

Sam cocked his head to the side slightly.

Bill closed his eyes, seemingly lost in thought. I hadn’t seen him as sharp since before he’d left home. He was improving daily, but he was still thin and weak as hell. I thought he’d fallen asleep until he spoke.

Sam eyed him warily.

Sam grinned, a secret glimmer in his eye, and Bill opened his eyes and shot one back. It was the first time I’d ever seen them share such a look... and I couldn’t help feeling at ease myself.

Sam dialed his cell and explained the plan to whoever was on the other end of the line. Bill took the moment to shift his gaze to me.

As Sam hung up the phone, Bill closed his eyes and fell asleep. Poor guy, he was beat.

I jumped. And then I went. Sam humored me and stayed outside of the room until Deputy Biggs arrived, two Subway submarine bags and the latest Sports Illustrated in hand, taking a seat right outside Bill’s room. It was only then that I felt that I could go home and rest, and watch the kids decorate the Christmas tree.