"Hey, Jim!" Rafe called out across the bullpen. "Come and sign my cast while there's still room."
Jim rolled his eyes, but wandered over to Rafe's desk good-naturedly enough. The white cast on Rafe's arm was scrawled over with messages and drawings. One, a smiling face done in neon pink, stood out. Rafe followed his gaze and laughed. "That's from the villain of the piece. Not bad, huh?"
Rafe's fractured arm had been sustained not on duty, but at the rink, teaching his six-year old niece to skate. It turned out that she was a lot better at it than Uncle Rafe.
Jim signed the cast on automatic pilot, teasing Rafe because it was expected of him, though he felt more sympathy than amusement. He could see the lines of pain etched around Rafe's eyes and guessed that the guy was hurting more than he'd admit. With a friendly nod and a pat to Rafe's good arm, he turned and walked away. He'd only gotten a few yards when Rafe called out, "Something you want to tell me, Jim?" the words laden with meaning.
Jim frowned and then felt his jaw drop as his brain caught up to what his hand had done and the message he'd left.
Get better soon, Jim and Blair.
Oh, shit --
Return to Home
Click here if you'd like to send feedback