Jameson shrugged.
“I don't care. Leave the door open, she'll be back soon.”
Sanders pressed his lips together hard, resisting the urge to say anything else. What right did he have, anyway? He hadn't been home in half a year, he was pretty sure that meant his right to dole out advice had been taken away.
He fretted for a moment, unsure of what to do with himself. Should he go outside, see if he could stop her? It had only been a moment or two, she couldn't have gotten that far. Should he at least shut the door? It was freezing out, a draft was already creeping through the house. But Jameson had said to leave it open. But it wasn't Jameson's home. It was Sanders', he should be the one to say whether or not -
The sound of tires screeching on the pavement broke through his reverie. Both he and Jameson looked towards the window as they listened to the sound of a car crash in progress. Rubber loudly slid over ice, then metal screamed as it crashed into more metal. A horn started blaring, and didn't let off.
Someone's had an accident.
Sanders wasn't inclined to think much about it. The roads were icy, accidents were common. But when he glanced across the room, he paused. Jameson was completely frozen in his seat, staring at the front door. Then he slowly stood up, the paper sliding out of his grasp. It wafted to the floor, fluttering once on a tiny breeze rippling through the space.
“Sir?” Sanders asked.
Jameson didn't reply. He started walking towards the door. By the time he reached it, he was moving at a brisk pace. Sanders followed behind him, but when Jameson hit the sidewalk, he broke into a jog. It took Sanders a second to realize what was going on.
He's running in the direction Tatum ran in.
It was ridiculous. It was a car crash, she was on foot. Running on a sidewalk. A honking horn did not mean she was in any danger. They were being ridiculous. She was probably jogging around the block and would come home to an empty house, wondering where they were and why the door had been left open. Sanders knew all this with his rational brain.
Yet he still ran, and his blood still began to pound in his ears.
The accident had happened a few blocks up. A large, old Buick looked to have slid across the intersection and had slammed into a parked car. Even though he was still half a block away – and gaining on Jameson – Sanders could tell the driver was a man. He was slumped over the steering wheel, obviously unconscious, which was why the horn was still blaring. That didn't interest Sanders, though.
No, it was the gray form in the middle of the street that caught his eye first. He went from a run into a sprint, and when he got to her side, he actually beat Jameson there.
“Tatum.”
“Tatum!”
He couldn't be sure who had whispered it and who had yelled it. Jameson was on his knees, leaning over Tate, clearly wanting to touch her but afraid he'd hurt her even more.
“Jesus, fuck, baby girl, talk to me.”
Sanders wanted to shut down. To hide. To curl up into a ball and rock himself until all these emotions passed over him.
You can't. She needs you.
He took a deep breath and stared at her. She had scratches down one cheek, most likely from where she'd hit the road. On the same side of her forehead there was a nasty looking gash which was pouring blood into her hair and onto the street.
Her jacket sleeve was ripped at the elbow, and he saw more blood there, as well as on her hand. The rest of her seemed fine, until he got to her leg.
Not much disturbed Sanders, he could normally handle just about anything. When he realized he was looking at an exposed broken bone, though, he thought he might be sick in public for the first time in his life.
“Don't move her,” he breathed.
“Tell me what to do, Sanders! Tell me what to fucking do!” Jameson was yelling, still hovering over her.
“She could have a neck injury – don't move her,” he repeated himself, then he turned to some onlookers and switched to Russian. “You there, did any of you call an ambulance?”
They answered that they had, and as if to confirm it, he heard sirens in the distance.
“Did you see what happened here?” he asked. A pretty, young brunette nodded her head, her eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, she was jogging across the street, the walk sign was on. He turned against the light, he must not have seen her. He slammed on his brakes, but it was no good. He hit her.”
“What are they saying?” Jameson shouted. Sanders glanced up as a police car and ambulance pulled onto the street, then finally turned his attention back to Jameson. To his guardian, his father figure, his friend.
“The man ran a red light and hit her as she was crossing.”
“Fuck,” Jameson breathed. “Goddammit, Tate, open your eyes. Do you fucking hear me? You don't get to do this to me! Open your eyes right fucking now!”
Their relationship had always been interesting, to say the least. “Fucked up” was how Tate herself described it, but always laughing and winking. They used curse words and insults the way other people used pet names and endearments. They were a contradiction. She'd explained to Sanders once that when Jameson commanded her, he was actually begging her. It was all an illusion. She held the power. And that's why whenever he told her to do something, whenever he commanded it, she did it. Because in their language, he was asking her.
He was begging her.
“What happened?”
Sanders gasped and Jameson let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. Tate was blinking her eyes, staring up at the sky.
“Baby girl,” he chuckled, smoothing his hand over her head. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Did someone have an accident?” she croaked out. She was clearly in shock – they probably shouldn't let her speak.
Sanders kept his mouth shut.
“Just you,” Jameson breathed. “Stopping traffic, like usual.”
She chuckled, then coughed, then let her eyes fall shut.
“You're still in trouble,” she sighed. “You can't flirt your way out of it.”
Then the paramedics arrived, barking out orders Jameson of course couldn't understand. Sanders had to collect himself and step in, explaining the situation. Another ambulance arrived and the driver of the car was removed. The man had regained consciousness, and though he too had a bleeding head wound, he seemed okay. He walked to the ambulance of his own accord.
Tate, however, had passed back out. She was carefully inspected, then lifted onto a gurney. When Jameson was denied entrance to the emergency vehicle, he almost lost control of himself. Sanders gently pulled him away.
“Let them take her,” he urged in a soft voice. “They'll be able to go faster without you. We have a car, I'll drive us.”
It was the longest drive of his life, he was pretty sure. They were dead silent, Sanders driving, Jameson in the passenger seat. A rare occurrence. Jameson held onto the grab handle above the door the whole way. When Sanders glanced at him, he noticed he had blood on his hands and arms.
Is it normal for someone to bleed so much from the head? It can't be normal. How can anything be normal ever again.
She was still in the emergency room when they got to the hospital, so they weren't allowed to go see her. Jameson tried, offering money and stocks and gold and an actual helicopter as a bribe, but Sanders refused to translate, so none of it worked. They had to make do with nurses assuring them every couple hours that “everything is fine, a doctor will tell us if something goes wrong”. He sat stiffly in an uncomfortable wait room chair while Jameson paced back and forth for hours on end.
“If anything happens to her,” he breathed for the umpteenth time.
“They will tell us if it is anything serious,” Sanders assured him for the umpteenth time.
“Will they?” Jameson demanded. “How? It's the fucking emergency room – you think they're gonna stop mid-emergency to come tell us about it? No. They're gonna deal with it and she's gonna die and I won't fucking be
there.”
Sanders took a deep, steadying breath.
“You need to calm down. She will not die.”
“How do you know that, Sanders? How do you know that?”
Of course, he didn't know that. All he knew was he was every bit as scared as Jameson, but he couldn't show it. So he took a deep breath, fought for his words, then eventually gave up and offered a small shrug.
“She can't die,” he finally responded. “Because it would mean she wouldn't be able to annoy you anymore. I don't think Tatum would be okay with that prospect.”
Jameson stared at him for a moment like he'd gone crazy. Then he barked out a laugh.
“Jesus christ, you're right,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “That crazy bitch, she'd stay alive just to torture me.”
“Exactly.”
Before they could continue being ridiculous, a doctor finally walked into the room.
“Kane? Dashkevich?” he asked in a heavy accent while he stared down at a folder.
“How is she?” Jameson immediately started in. “Is she okay? Can we see her? Where is she?”
The doctor held up his hand, a pained expression on his face. Sanders stepped between him and Jameson.
“I am Dashkevich,” he spoke quickly in Russian. “These are my family, visiting from the United States. We have been waiting all night, can we please see Ms. O'Shea?”
The doctor quickly assured them she was okay, and that she'd already been moved to a private room. As he led them to it, he explained to Sanders – who then translated to Jameson – everything they'd done in the emergency room and O.R.
The break in her leg had been a clean one, thankfully. They'd cleaned the injury and had set it, but it would require more work, and possibly surgery in the future. She had road rash in multiple places, lots of contusions, and a concussion, but no permanent brain trauma. They'd had to anesthetize her for the surgical cleaning, but she was already coming out of it and doing well.
When they got to the room, Sanders stood back from the bed with the doctor, watching while Jameson slowly walked around it. Tate was stretched out, a large bandage on the left side of her head. She looked pale and small, all tucked up under a blanket, but she managed a sleepy smile.
“Hey, you,” she said in a soft voice. Jameson smiled down at her as he pulled a chair up to her bed side.
“Hey,” he replied.
“Remember last time we were in a hospital together?” she asked, sounding a little groggy. He nodded and smoothed a finger down the side of her cheek.
“Yeah, I do.”
“This is still better than that time,” she said, startling a laugh out of him.
“That mouth, Tate,” he chuckled. “I swear. It gets you into so much trouble.”
“It does,” she agreed, then she yawned. “I wanted to sleep, but I wanted to see you first. I'm sorry I scared you.”
“Don't be stupid, you don't have to apologize for anything,” Jameson growled.
“I know, but I still feel bad. Is Sanders here?”
“Of course he is.”
Jameson gestured across the room and she turned her head, finally finding him. He got the same sleepy smile Jameson had got, but he couldn't manage a smile to give back to her.
“Hey, Sandy. I'm okay, I promise.”
He swallowed thickly.
“Do you really?”
“Yes.”
“A promise can't be broken,” he reminded her. Her smile got bigger as her eyes fell shut.
“I know, that's why I'm promising.”
Before he could think of anything else to say, she'd fallen back asleep.
SINCE SHE'D FALLEN asleep and the guys had lost their adrenaline high, the doctor promised them someone would come in the morning to finish explaining all of Tate's medical issues.
Both Jameson and Sanders slept in the room. A cot was brought in for them to use, but Jameson refused it. He spent the night in the chair, bent over so he could lay along side Tate.
Sanders stretched out on the cot, still dressed in his suit. He thought over the events of the day. The past week. So many things could change in an instant. Of course, he'd always known that, but it was so strange to see it in practice, first hand.
Tate was the first to wake up, loudly complaining about all the pain she was in. After a nurse came and gave her some medicine, she then informed everyone of how hungry she was – she hadn't eaten since the morning before, she was starving. So while still exhausted and in their rumpled clothing, Jameson and Sanders trooped down to the cafeteria in search of food. As they were carrying it back, they noticed a commotion at the nurses station, which was just a few doors down from Tate's room.
“That's the man,” Sanders blurted out.
“What?” Jameson asked, half a croissant shoved into his mouth.
The man who'd hit Tate. He was leaning across the counter, arguing with a nurse about payment and health insurance. He, too, had a large bandage on his balding head. But he was healthy enough to be walking around and shouting at people, which Sanders didn't think was very fair, considering all the damage he'd done.
“He's the one who hit her,” Jameson double checked after Sanders explained everything. They stood outside Tate's door, staring at the man.
“Yes. His name is Borya Sokolov,” Sanders continued. “The police will have all his information, I'm sure.”
The police were actually standing in the hallway, watching Mr. Sokolov with bored expressions on their faces. They'd wanted to talk to Tatum, to get a statement from her, but Jameson had refused, and for once, Sanders had been in agreement. She'd just gotten out of the emergency room – she was going to be allowed to rest and recuperate before she'd be giving any statements. It now looked like the police were waiting to talk to Mr. Sokolov, instead.
“Good,” Jameson growled, staring hard at the man. “When I get done suing him, he won't even own his own name anymore.”
“It was an accident, Jameson.”
“Fuck you.”
Sanders rolled his eyes, then followed him as he stomped into the room. Tate was sitting up in bed, looking much better than the evening before, but still a little weak. A doctor was also in the room, a different one from the night before, standing awkwardly off to the side.
“He asked me some questions,” she explained, taking the pastry Jameson offered her. “But I didn't know what he was saying, so we decided to wait for you.”
“Apologies, I am ...” Sanders turned to the doctor and introduced everyone. “We were at breakfast.”
“Of course. It's good she has an appetite. I'm Dr. Pavlukhin,” the doctor replied, smiling at Tate. She smiled back, but Jameson didn't. He scowled and moved to the foot of the bed, his arms folded across his chest.
“Ask him about the surgery. Ask him if we have to do that here, or if we can go home,” he asked. Sanders quickly repeated the questions in Russian.
“It would be expensive to move her, and probably very painful. There are excellent hospitals here in Moscow – if she requires surgery, we can refer you to the best doctors,” the doctor assured them. Sanders translated and Jameson nodded.
“Fine – but I'll fly in our own doctor. What about anything else? Her head? Is there going to be any permanent damage?”
“Any hearing loss?” Tate piped up. “So I maybe don't have to listen to him anymore?”
She snickered, but Jameson ignored her. Sanders asked the questions and the doctor began looking through the medical report.
“Let me see here ... she is scheduled for more x-rays today, and for an appointment with an orthopedic doctor. Her head is fine. She hit it quite hard and may experience head aches for a few days, light headedness, dizziness, but it should all go away,” he said, his eyes scanning the paperwork. “Um ... oh, yes, there should be no complications from the miscarriage, she should -”
Sanders' world tilted on its axis for a moment, and he held up his hand to stop the other man from speaking.
“
What? What did he say? What's going on?” Jameson instantly demanded. Tate finished her donut and brushed the crumbs off her chest. The doctor's gaze bounced between everybody, obviously confused.
“I'm sorry,” Sanders spoke slowly and clearly. “I did not understand the last part of your statements. No complications from what?”
“From her miscarriage. Did the emergency room doctor not tell you?” Dr. Pavlukhin asked, flipping through the notes some more.
“No, he did not tell us.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Jameson spoke in a loud voice. “This doesn't sound good.”
“Oh, well, I am very sorry, but your friend here experienced a miscarriage as a result of the accident.”
Sanders stared at Tate. She was looking back up at him, completely calm. Completely oblivious.
She didn't know. Oh god, she didn't know. They didn't know.
“Sanders,” Jameson growled. “What the fuck is he saying to you?”
Sanders refused to look at him. He stared at Tate for a second longer, then went back to the doctor.
“You are absolutely sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“One hundred percent?”
“Yes. They ran multiple tests.”
“She did not look pregnant – how far along could she have been?”
More notes were read.
“It says here ... six or seven weeks. Possibly eight. The trauma of the accident caused her body to miscarry, but she should have no trouble getting pregnant again.”
He wasn't sure when he'd moved, but his stare was back on Tate. Her smile was starting to falter. He was making her nervous.
“Sandy,” she spoke in her normal, light, teasing voice. “Wanna end the suspense and tell us what he's saying to you? Am I gonna live through the day?”
He cleared his throat and looked away from her. How could he say something like this? He finally looked up at Jameson. At the man who was the closest thing to a father he'd ever had.
“He said,” he tried to start, then had to clear his throat again. “He said you were pregnant.”
Tate's jaw dropped and Jameson's eyes nearly fell out of his head.
“What?” she gasped.
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