Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.

Summary: The days following Charlie Lincoln’s death.

He Was Here

Part Two

Cops. Cops interviewing a cop. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Michael gave them exactly as much information as they gave him, which was precious little.

“What do you remember?”

Well, that’s a specific question.

“Do you remember shooting Laszlo?”

Yes, yes he did.

“You felt threatened at the time you shot him?”

Yes, yes he had.

“What do you remember about Detective Lincoln during the incident?”

He was killed.

“Do you remember what he was doing as you were shooting?”

Um, dying?

“You’ve been in their shoes, Mike,” Dan scolded after the officers left. “You could have been a little more helpful.”

“I told them what I know.”

“It would have been nicer for them if they hadn’t needed to use the monkey wrench.”

“Either way they got it, right?”

Dan threw him a glare laced with an intolerable amount of pity.

Wednesday afternoon. Charlie had been dead over two days, and Michael had been awake on-and-off for almost one of them. The “incident” itself, as the cops had so politely called it, was still a vague and hazy concept in his head. He was of two minds about this: on one hand, it prevented him from reliving his partner’s final moments, and the anger and terror he must’ve felt as he watched Charlie die.

But on the other hand, it turned his decidedly vivid imagination lose on the scenario. Over the past day, he’d watched Charlie die a dozen deaths, a hundred times. Sometimes he was shot multiple times: wounds in his limbs and torso cutting him down before the final blow to the head. Other times, he was shot from behind, a single quick bullet that came out the other side, between his eyes. Michael wished listlessly for the coroner’s report, so at least he could understand better exactly what had happened. Dan said he’d died instantly. Did he believe him? Not that it mattered, really.

But sometimes his mind theorized that Charlie had spoken to him before dying. That he’d given him messages for Lisa, Jack, himself. Had he? Whether or not this was true might be addressed by knowing how quickly he’d died.

Whether or not he’d spoken to him…

That was the kicker, now, wasn’t it? That was the question. Charlie’s appearance in the hospital room was slipping slowly from his mind, but it slipped away more like a hazy memory, not so much a dream. But that was absurd; it had to be. Michael didn’t believe in ghosts. Or angels, for that matter.

“Can I get you anything?” Dan perched himself precariously on the arm of the chair. A small man, yes, but still Michael waited for it to tip over.

“Uh, clothes?” The hospital gown went, at best, to the middle of his thighs, making it very awkward to walk around the hallways. So much so, he’d been asked if he’d hurt a leg in the accident too.

“One day at a time.”

Michael flipped him off. Very calmly.

Dan ignored him. “Michael… the, um. The funeral is Saturday.” Beat. Michael’s chest tightened. “The doctors say you’ll probably be able to go.”

Silence. What was the proper response? Thank you? Oh joy?

“Just so you know,” Dan added lamely.

Michael nodded.

“If they, um…” Babbling, not speaking. “If you’re looking okay, they might release you Friday, actually.” Release him to what? A world of pain pills and unwanted sympathy?

“When can I get back to work?”

Pause.

“I want you to take some time off.”

Pause.

“Ehh, how much is some?”

Dan sighed. “A month?”

“A month?” Michael was surprised by the panic that crept up on him suddenly. The thought of doing nothing for an entire month somehow inspired more overt emotion in him than the news of Charlie’s death had, discounting the initial moment and its confusion. “Not that long, Dan, please. A week. A week is all I need.”

“Michael…”

“It’s all I want.”

Silence. Dan was visibly turning over the request in his head. Michael did his best to project a persuasive sadness from his eyes; it wasn’t hard.

“Two weeks,” Dan said at last. “You get out Friday. That gives you a week home to recupe. You can start two Mondays from now.” Michael smiled. “But no field work. All office. Phone calls, paperwork, for at least a month. And, that’s only if the doctor approves.”

“Thanks, Dan.”

Michael’s smile was not returned. “It’s somewhat against my better judgment.”

Michael opened his mouth to say something about Dan finally learning not to trust himself so much, but he stopped. Dan was not in the mood for play.

---

Thursday. Bad day. Three days and counting since Charlie had died. Two days since Michael had lived, or so it felt.

And less than one day, really, since it had sunken in.

What were those stages, again? Denial? Check. Anger and bargaining? Always. The last was acceptance, which meant the fourth was the one he was currently experiencing.

Depression.

Three days since Charlie had left the world. Two days that Michael had been living without him. How many more to go? Three hundred sixty-five times maybe thirty, forty years? Unless…

The doctors had detailed for him just how close he’d been to serious injury. The rib shot was just centimeters away from the lung; the arm shot just millimeters from his artery. As it was, both had been comparatively superficial.

Was he happy about that?

No Dan today. Life went on, he supposed, although that was hard to imagine. Lisa didn’t visit, either, although he hadn’t expected her to; she did send flowers, though, via her sister, which sat forlornly on his bedside table. Other flowers had been there once. They had been fake, in more than one way. But he missed them.

Lance visited, briefly. Carolyn sent her regards. No Mark. He supposed that for the loose relationship they had, a flight from New York for a non life threatening injury was more than he should’ve expected.

And so: boredom. Public television and imitation Jell-o. What was worse: the details of Monday were slowly coming back to him. He couldn’t remember much still- couldn’t remember exactly what he’d done or felt. But he could remember Charlie and how he’d died; the fact that it was instantaneous, that they hadn’t actually spoken. He wasn’t sure which was worse: imagining it like he had been; or now, reliving it. He didn’t prefer either, though. It was around four in the afternoon that he decided he simply couldn’t take it anymore.

Sudden groans of pain and desperate pushings at the call button sent two nurses into Michael’s room fairly quickly. His face contorted, pleading. “Please… it hurts…” Left hand tensing from the pain in his arm, right hand clutching at the bandages on his chest.

“When did this start?”

“Just a… minute ago…” he panted. “I was… all right… this mor-argghh-” He broke off, gasping.

The nurses went about checking his stats, taking too long. Another moan, more heart in it this time. “Please… do something…”

“Your current dose of morphine should be enough,” one nurse said, glancing at his chart. Young woman, nervous-looking. Play to empathy.

“It hurts,” Michael panted.

The second nurse, older, hardened, wasn’t so easily swayed. Clutching harder at his chest, shortening his breaths. Pause. Then…

Victory. Morphine pushed into his IV, and Michael let his hands go limp as silently applauded his acting abilities. Sure, it hurt, but the pain was tolerable. Consciousness was the thing he couldn’t stand at the moment. He tried not the look too content as he slipped into drug-induced slumber.

---

“Michael! Hey, hey Michael!”

His name, spoken soft and quickly, pulled him completely from a sleep that he’d been drifting in and out of for a few moments.

“Mark?” His voice was hoarse.

“Mark?” Laughter. “It’s Charlie.”

Eyes shot open. Heart racing. Charlie’s face, smiling, peering down at him.

“This is a dream.”

“It’s not a dream, Michael.”

Panting, stomach swooping with nerves. “What do you mean it’s not a dream? What else could it be? I can easily dream you saying it’s not a dream!”

Pause. “You’re right.” Charlie sighed, and disappeared.

Relief. Michael woke up, gasping for air. Head spinning; nausea. “Oh… my God,” he whispered roughly. A glance at the clock told him that it was the middle of the night. Wipe the sweat out of his eyes; felt his hair for a moment, damp and greasy.

“You okay, Michael?”

Freeze. Turn (don’t turn). Charlie, sitting at the edge of his bed. Panic.

Fresh sweat broke out almost instantly across Michael’s face and body. “Help,” he whispered. “Hello? Anybody?” Shouting now. A tiny flash of common sense: he pushed the call button.

Charlie sat patiently as the door opened and the lights sprung on.

“Mister Raines? Are you all right?”

“There’s someone…” Stop. Charlie was gone. “There was someone… here,” Michael told the nurse, a different one now, a tall middle-aged man. “There was a man here.”

“I didn’t see anyone leave.”

“He was here, I, I swear,” Michael insisted. His heart hadn’t slowed much.

“What did he look like?”

“Um.” Like my dead best friend. Logic: illogical. “In his thirties… kinda short… bald.”

“There’s no one here now.”

“I can see that,” Michael snapped.

“I’ll have security keep a lookout.” Read: you were dreaming, you nutcase. Go back to sleep and leave me to my newspaper. “Should I leave the lights on?”

“Sure,” Michael said quietly, trying not to look too excited by the idea. The nurse left, shutting the door behind him.

“You should’ve mentioned that it was a bald black guy,” a voice said from behind him. “Maybe he would’ve taken you more seriously. And since when am I short? Just because you’re freakishly tall?”

“Okay, okay,” Michael sighed, struggling to sit up, unable to keep his eyes off his dead partner’s face. “Who-whoever you are, I’m giving you to the uh, count of three to leave me alone.” Eyes closed. “One, uh… two… three…” Eyes open. No Charlie.

“Boo.”

Michael screamed, managed to clamp a hand to his mouth before the nurse heard.

Charlie laughed, standing on the other side of the bed now.

“Who are you?” Michael demanded.

“Who do I look like?”

“You look like Charlie Lincoln,” Michael said slowly. “But Charlie Lincoln’s dead.”

“Is he?”

“Dead. He’s dead. I saw him die.”

Sudden horror: a bullet hole appearing in Charlie’s head, blood trickling from it. Michael gagged, tasted acid in his mouth.

“Maybe I’m his ghost.”

“I, I don’t believe in ghosts.” Swallowed, said firmly. Unsure at the moment, to tell the truth. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the wound in his friend’s forehead, slightly above the left eye.

“Do you believe in angels?”

“Are you… an angel?”

“Part of you thinks I might be.”

Idea. “If you were an, an angel, you wouldn’t still look injured, uh, would you?”

The bullet hole vanished. Michael sighed. “Better?”

“So, are you an angel?”

“You don’t really know what else I could be.”

“Well… there’s always the option that I’m… goin’ nuts.” Michael’s hands were shaking, his eyes having difficulty focusing.

“There’s that.” Charlie pulled the chair up to the bed, sat in it leaning forwards. “Let’s think through this logically, Michael. I’m dead, so I’m not really here. I’m not a ghost; at least, you’re not willing to accept that possibility. So you’re left with two doors: I’m an angel, or you’re a lunatic.”

“Is there a door number three?” Michael laughed weakly.

“Not really. There’s always door one-point-five, though.”

“Door… one-point-five?” Michael repeated in disbelief.

“Halfway between one and two,” Charlie explained good-naturedly.

“And, uh, wh-what’s behind that door?”

“I am.”

Michael inhaled sharply, his body shaking under the bleached white blanket. “You’re an angel... come to tell me I’m crazy?”

Charlie laughed at this.

“You’re an angel… in my crazy head?”

“This time, don’t use the words ‘angel’ or ‘crazy’,” Charlie told him patiently, speaking as though to a child.

“You’re… in… my head?” Michael felt his mouth open, his head flailing inside itself.

“Possibly.”

“Why are you there?”

“We never got to say goodbye, Michael.” Charlie’s face, now sad, bore into his.

“Goodbye, Charlie.” Beat.

“Do you remember what the last thing you said to me was?”

“Probably… run…?” Michael guessed.

“Change that station,” Charlie corrected him. “The last thing you said to me was ‘change that station’. Then Laszlo saw us, called us out. You were talking after that- cursing mostly- but that was the last thing you actually said to me.”

“I don’t like rap,” Michael said softly.

“I know.”

“You’re… in my head? Then I’m… imagining you?”

“You always did have a great imagination.” Charlie smiled. “If you didn’t have so much suppressed anger, you probably could’ve written for kids TV shows.”

“If I’m imagining you, then… I’m nuts. I’m nuts.” His heart was pounding. “Why are you here? Why am I doing this?” Hands sweating. “I… I don’t like this. This isn’t good.”

“Calm down, Michael.” Charlie reached out his hands, put them on Michael’s good arm. They felt real enough. “Don’t freak out.”

“No, no, no. If you’re… if you’re in my head… you do what I say. You do what I say.” His face was screwed up, eyes shut. “Go away. Go away. I don’t want you here. You’re dead. You’re dead; I don’t want you here.”

“You really mean that, Mike? You really don’t want me here?”

“No… I really… don’t.”

“Okay. Suit yourself.”

With a gasp, Michael opened his eyes. The room was still, quiet, and unoccupied, save him.

Michael swung his legs clumsily out of bed and stumbled to the tiny, adjoined bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Pause. The tile was cold, and his bare feet left sweaty outlines with every step he took. His heart was racing so fast that his fractured ribs were hurting, and his vision was swimmy.

He leaned down over the toilet, tried to vomit. Nothing. After a moment, he sat down heavily on the ground, head in hands, and tried to cry. Nothing. Something was beating inside of him, something feral, terrified, unreal. But there was nothing he could do to get it out of him. It was frustrating- no, infuriating. He was going insane, just sitting in the hospital bed all day with nothing to do but think.

After a while, he turned on the water in the shower. With his arm and chest still bandaged, he couldn’t actually bathe, but he liked the rushing of water, and the way it drowned out the sound of the blood in his ears.