Interception

John was asleep when Jill returned to the plant just before dawn. She closed the door behind her as quietly as she could and drew up a chair, sitting by his side, watching him carefully. His breathing was regular enough despite a tiny quaver at the apex of each inhalation, and she could see his pulse skipping beneath the paper-thin skin of his throat.

It was a harrowing vigil. John had never been a powerfully built man, but she'd watched him wither with the passage of time and the progress of the cancer, watched his graceful, nimble hands start to shake and fumble at the simplest of tasks, watched him bite back the worst of the pain when the headaches struck, each and every one a damaging brain-quake. At least now, for the time being, he lay in a cocoon of dark quietude, the only sound the sonorous click of the wall clock and the endless hiss-pause-hiss of the valve on the oxygen tank.

Strahm had left her apartment in a quiet and thoughtful mood, leaving Jill with little more than a puzzlingly chaste kiss and a sombre look. For a few seconds she'd been tempted to ask him to stay, but knew at once that it would have been the wrong thing to say. She had simply watched from the window as he drove away, waited until he turned the corner, then curled up tight on the couch and stared at the wall for some time.

She was brought back to the present by a soft cough as John turned over onto his side in his uneasy slumber, one hand wavering above the blankets as if searching. Instinctively, Jill reached out and slipped her fingers into his palm.

(Now you don't come back)

She stroked the back of his hand and closed her eyes at the sour memory. He wasn't the man she'd married, this hateful, hurtful stranger, but she'd stood her ground in the hope that she could recover some small fraction of what had been torn from her.

(You do it for yourself if you can't do it for me)

She'd come back, of course. There was no other option but that of leaving John alone with his apprentices, neither of whom she trusted enough to provide proper care for him once they'd finished sniping at one another. As if hearing this thought, John's eyes flicked open, focused on her for half a second and then drifted closed again; she suspected that he'd not even woken.

(I lost him too...)

No response. John had locked the door of his grief and thrown away the key. She had no access to him, within or without.

“What are you doing here?”

Her back stiffened of its own accord. Jill thought before reacting, however, letting go of John's hand and tucking it back beneath the blanket to keep him as warm as possible. Only once this was done did she turn and lay a finger across her lips.

“He needs his sleep,” she hissed, “so either keep your voice down or go outside.”

Without waiting for a response, she stalked past Hoffman and into the workshop, turning, her arms tightly folded. The yellow glare of the strip lights in the room cast a deep vault of shadow beneath the hood of his raincoat, and before he moved closer to Jill, all she could see of him was a faintly mocking smile. Finally, he pushed back the hood and regarded her coldly.

“I asked you what you're doing here,” he said.

“What does it look like,” she snapped. “I'm watching John. Where's Amanda?”

“Medication run, I assume. Who cares?”

“I do,” said Jill. “God knows how long he's been left alone. Can neither of you take the slightest bit of responsibility? Damn it, Hoffman!” Her eyes flared, and was gratified to see him take an instinctive step back in the face of her fury. He soon recovered, however, and reclaimed what ground he'd lost, adding a spark of his own.

“You didn't seem too concerned about John a few hours ago,” he said, his tone drenched in acid. Jill recoiled, mouth opening in shock, trying to form a coherent comment. “What,” Hoffman continued, savagely, “did you think I wasn't going to keep an eye on you? Still, I'm guessing he showed you a pretty good time. Not as good as me, but hey...” he spread his palms, grinning nastily.

The blow came out of nowhere, surprising Jill herself almost as much as Hoffman. She loaded it with every ounce of her anger and humiliation, delivering a ringing roundhouse slap that echoed around the room. She subsided, rubbing her stinging palm, and watched Hoffman raise a hand to his face, slowly and deliberately, every movement communicating disbelief more than anything else. Finally, he refocused on her.

“You get that one for free,” he said, teeth bared.

She hit him again, and this time the action was not quite pure reflex; she felt a clear bolt of satisfaction behind it. Hoffman snapped his head to the side, and when he swung back there was an ugly red flash on his cheek and undiluted malice in his eyes. Jill took two halting steps backward and fetched up against a table. Not wanting to take her eyes from him even for a second, she reached out without looking and closed her shaking fingers around what felt like a scalpel.

“Seriously, Jill?” he said, watching the wavering blade with something like amusement in his expression, “I don't think so.” He shook his head slowly. “See, that's really not the way you threaten someone. You do it like this...”

One crowded moment later, Jill was slammed down on the cold steel table on her back, breath knocked out of her, and the remainder of the instruments were still tumbling to the floor as she landed. Hoffman's hand tightened around her wrist so hard that her fingers seized up and she let go of the scalpel in shock.

“Fuck, you look good this way,” he murmured, “so helpless...” and then he ducked his head and sank his teeth into the skin of her neck. She stifled a scream, refusing to the give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He laughed against her flesh and simply bit down harder. She remained silent, but her eyes flooded with tears.

“Get off me,” she snarled, lashing out with her free hand, trying to claw at him, drawing on reserves of strength she'd never suspected existed. Just as he grabbed her other wrist, panting in triumph, Jill bucked and twisted beneath him, driving one knee up into his ribs as hard as she could. Her aim was true and she was rewarded with a hoarse grunt of pain. Hoffman released his grip at once, staggering back, and Jill acted on instinct. She plunged her hand beneath his arm before he could react and pulled his pistol free, swinging it up in a two-handed grip and driving it into the soft flesh beneath his chin.

Behind her, the scalpel teetered on the edge of the table and then fell, hitting the floor with a mild clatter that was now the only sound in the room. Jill held her breath. Hoffman did the same, his pupils dilated with apprehension and his hands raised. She could see several strands of her hair caught around his fingers, and the sight honed her anger to a narrow point.

“Jill...?” called John, his voice sounding weak and disoriented.

“We can stay like this all day,” whispered Jill, still pressing the muzzle of the Glock into Hoffman's neck, “or you can start behaving like a human being. What's it going to be, Detective?” she finished, accentuating this last word with a short jab that rocked his head back. He met her gaze at last, signalling surrender as quietly as possible, and Jill nodded shortly. She dropped her arms and turned the gun around, handing it back to him. She watched the fear leak from his face to be replaced by the glacial calm he habitually wore, but he holstered the weapon without speaking and merely watched her walk away.

“What's wrong?” she said, pushing through the plastic strips. What she saw twisted the cold knife in her heart a little more. John was curled on his side, arms wrapped around his head like a small child, keening in pain. Jill crossed to the medicine cabinet and rooted urgently amongst the boxes on the lowest shelf, pulling out the one she sought.

“Not the morphine,” croaked John, though his eyes were still creased in agony and she doubted he could even see anything properly.

“John, it's all that's going to work right now. Look at you,” she pleaded, still clutching the box of ampoules.

“Have...to stay focused,” he said, his breath rasping. Jill dropped her gaze for a moment, but then shook her head firmly and reached for a clean hypodermic.

“I'm sorry,” she said, drawing off a measure of the liquid and tapping her fingers on the syringe to clear any air bubbles, suddenly all clinical efficiency, “but I can't leave you like this. You're going to do as you're told for once in your life.” She checked the dose and took John's arm, locating a vein with little difficulty and sliding the needle into it. He winced – Jill was aware that the chemotherapy had led to hypersensitivity, and that this made any injection a short but excruciating ordeal – but then it was over, and she was withdrawing it once more and drawing the blankets up to his chin as the opiate trickled through his system. She set the hypo aside and stroked his cheek as his eyes began to glaze over.

“Better?” she asked. Even as she said it, she knew the word was without relevance. There would be no 'better' for John. Still, she stood and watched in silence as his breathing eased up and his eyelids sagged, and she remained with him until she was sure he was lost to consciousness once more. As a precaution, she clipped a heart rate monitor to his finger and switched it on before leaving the room.

Hoffman was standing just where she'd left him, his eyes narrow and watchful. Jill thought she could even see a flicker of respect in there, but if so, it was grudging. “How's he doing?” he asked, nodding at the sickroom.

Jill paused and swept her hair out of her eyes. “He should be out for a few hours, so I'm going home to get some sleep. This time you're going to stay with him,” she added, her tone warning.

“I'm sorry,” said Hoffman quietly, as she walked past him on the way to the door. This pulled her up sharp, and she turned over her shoulder, her brows knitting.

“For what?” she asked. Does it matter, she thought. Have you ever used those words and meant them, Hoffman? Have you?

“Forget it,” he said, turning away, eyes closing momentarily. Jill's mouth twisted, but she said nothing. She pushed the door back and walked down the corridor, head down, pulling her sweater around her in the sudden chill.

The open air, tainted though it was with the faint stink of the nearby harbour, was refreshing. Jill stood at the top of the steps and looked around at the empty warehouses, their windows now glazed with sullen fire as they were painted by the rising sun. She raised her face to the dawn and watched the clouds sail by overhead in long, ragged skeins, then sighed and walked down the steps.

She didn't notice the attentive figure watching her from a nearby car.