Siege

by Sage

URL: http://www.area52hkh.net/ass/sage/siege.php
Summary: Maybourne isn't looking for help and Jack isn't offering

He's a dirty, ragged stray dog the way he stands there, bracing against Jack's front door. It isn't until Jack turns on the porch light that he sees what Maybourne is covering up and how it's leaving little red drops on his welcome mat.

He flashes back to two years ago and sees Maybourne, in dress blues. He came to Jack like a wolf then, all fanged grins and alpha-male howls. A little too happy to welcome Jack into his feral little pack. That could not possibly have been the same man.

"You're bleeding," Jack says, squinting. Maybourne turns his face away and Jack swears that he's smiling.

"I don't know how it happened. All I did was get shot," Maybourne answers. Jack was right, he is smiling. There is some insane part of Maybourne that's probably enjoying this. If only because Jack is going to have to remember to clean up the blood. Or get a new welcome mat.

"Get in here before the neighbors get ideas."

Jack actually grabs the arm Maybourne isn't using to support himself and practically sucks him inside like a vacuum. Irrational and not quite innocently, Maybourne is *still* grinning. Jack drags him to the bathroom, cringing the entire time as Maybourne leaves a red dotted trail like a path on a pirate's map down the hallway.

"Take your shirt off," Jack orders, opening the medicine cabinet. Maybourne stands there for a moment and Jack hears the click of a safety being put on. He looks to see Maybourne taking the clip from his automatic and laying it on the counter, away from the gun, right next to Jack's toothbush.

Jack starts staring when Maybourne isn't moving anymore. Maybourne's grin is gone. Jack realizes that Maybourne is holding his arm just a little funny. He sighs and slides the jacket off of Maybourne's shoulders for him and then goes back to the medicine cabinet. Maybourne isn't moving again.

Jack realizes that he'll need help with the shirt, too.

So he very carefully lifts the shirt and takes it off of Maybourne. For the first time he sees where Maybourne's been shot, and the huge bruise that extends from Maybourne's shoulder to his wrist on the inside of his arms.

None of it is nearly as bothersome as the fact that Jack can see Maybourne's ribs very clearly and cleanly.

"I won't stay long, I just needed to stop running for a few minutes," Maybourne assures him.

Jack's voice is quiet when he tells Maybourne, "You need to go to a hospital."

"I can't afford it."

"Three million dollars and you can't afford a doctor?"

"It's gone," he admits.

The shame in Maybourne's eyes is damning.

"This will hurt," Jack warns Maybourne just a second before he presses the cloth, wet with alcohol, to Maybourne's wound and cleans the blood. Maybourne is breathing a little harder and Jack also can't ignore the whistling wheeze in his throat when he does. The more Jack listens, the more he hears.

Pneumonia.

"I made sure they didn't follow me. I wouldn't lead them here," Maybourne tells Jack. He looks up into the light in the ceiling. Jack sees bruises ghosting on his throat, subtle and light brown, fading into yellow. Jack's touch is delicate when he crouches down in front of Maybourne and tapes gauze to Maybourne's skin.

"You're not going anywhere, Maybourne," Jack insists and he grabs Maybourne's arm *hard*. Maybourne grunts and swallows hard, his eyes wide like he's trying to see past the stars and circle of birdies going around his head.

"They'll be here."

"Good for them, we'll have a party. You're grounded."

And it's just scary how easily Maybourne gives in and nods. Jack leaves for a moment and comes back with an old sweatshirt to put over Maybourne, like he's suddenly this feeble, broken thing.

Jack had a dog like that once, that grew old, melted down the bones and was barely able to walk. He and his grandfather shared a bottle of cheap whiskey on a freezing January morning, put the dog down, and dug a deep, deep hole in a field that Jack doesn't quite remember anymore.

It's a comfort then, when Jack leads Maybourne back to his bedroom, and Maybourne is alert enough to be very confused. Jack smiles and wonders if Maybourne was expecting Jack to make him take the couch, or perhaps somewhere in his twisted mind, Maybourne might have imagined the floor. Jack doesn't even have to push for Maybourne to sink down on to the bed.

"I can take the couch," Maybourne offers. Jack shakes his head and pushes him down. It's all Maybourne can do to slide up towards the pillow and bury his face in it.

One giant heave of breath and Maybourne is drifting off.

On *his* side of the bed, Jack nods.

"I didn't shoot you, Jack," Maybourne mumbles, muffled and his eyes fluttering with sleep. "I swear, I didn't shoot you."

"You think I'd ever let you?" Jack asks. He turns out the lamp and leaves the room. He goes back to his hockey game and his now lukewarm beer. He turns off the TV, leaves the beer, and returns to the room. He sits on the edge of his bed. For a long time there's nothing but the sounds of crickets and the whistle of Maybourne's breathing.

"I know you're not sleeping," Jack says. "You came to my house to die, didn't you, you son of a bitch?"

"I can leave."

Maybourne's clothes rustle and Jack is aware that he's gripping Maybourne's wrist hard enough to leave bruises.

"No."

"Jack, that hurts."

"I know. I'm not going to let you."

"That's why I'm leaving."

"No," Jack concedes his voice turning soft as his grip fades away. "Just stay."

"I can take the couch."

"For the last time, just stay put. I'm not letting you get away with this. You're not going to die in my house, and not on my bed."

"I can tell you where all of my accounts are. There's enough money there -- you'd never have to work again in your life. You and Carter could --"

"Drive each other up the wall. Would you quit it already? I am not going to drag your scraggly ass out of here in a body bag. So just shut up."

Maybourne doesn't say anything. The whistling in his throat starts again. "I told you not to turn around, but you turned around. You never listen to me and you never trust me. Didn't you know I wouldn't have shot you. I never wanted to. I wish you'd let me take care of Simmons. I would have buried him the desert, he never would have bothered you again."

"Harry, you're rambling."

"Thank you."

Jack doesn't know whether the hitch in Maybourne's voice is part of the pneumonia, or if it's what it sounds like. Tears. The idea of a crying, broken, unfixable Maybourne in his bed is just too much and Jack feels like there's a ton of rocks sitting right on top of chest. So he slides onto the wrong side of the bed, on his stomach, and studies Maybourne's breathing.

"You're not going to die in my house, Harry. I'm taking you to a hospital in the morning."

"They'll find me."

"Yeah, and then they'll find *me*. And nobody but me is going to lay a finger on you."

Jack has to wonder if he sounded as angry to Harry as he did to himself.

"Why didn't you let me take care of Simmons?"

"Because it's helluva a lot harder to exonerate a murder."

Another hitch of breath that could be disease or disorder. Jack doesn't bother to ask, because he couldn't stand knowing.

"We make a good team."

"Don't push it, *Hutch*."

And when Jack tries to pull some covers from underneath Harry's dead weight, he realizes that Harry's skin is burning with fever. Suddenly, Jack feels colder than he's ever felt before.

- END -