First We Take Manhattan (7 page)

"Shh, shh—you're getting ahead of yourself." Dave looks over at Archangel, waiting for its pilot. "You're still MED, Gabe. You're gonna get through this. I'm gonna help you." He glares at the discarded cane. "We're going to do this together."

*~*~*

It doesn't snow much in New York City these days, but it does get pretty cold. Stonewall's thermostat started malfunctioning about an hour ago, but Dave hasn't had time to head back to the station to be serviced. Naturally, a routine stop goes south, and he ends up in a high-speed chase while he's flying an icebox.

"Oh, man," Dave says to the stolen cab. "You picked the wrong day to tangle with me."

"Who even steals cabs anymore?" Alan wonders. His comm is clear as day, as though he's in the room, but Dave knows he's a couple of miles behind, trying to find a way to pull out in front.

"I guess it's not enough to be busted for stealing a cab," Dave says, banking a sharp turn. He's too focused to be shivering, dodging civilians and other vehicles. He's gaining on the stolen cab, but not fast enough. "Your buddies aren't impressed unless you lead Enforcers on a jaunt through a sector or two."

Alan doesn't answer for a moment. Dave hears him grunt. "Hey, what street did you just pass?"

"Hang on—148," he replies, glancing at the sign while he whizzes past.

"Okay, brace yourself. I think I can manage to flank him."

Dave starts. "Wait, what? Negative; we're going too fast. Pull up ahead of him, like I told you to."

"I'll never get there in time," Alan argues. "Who knows how long he'll go on before someone gets hurt? We should end this now. I'm on it."

"Damn it, Bennett, I said—"

"Three o'clock, Cortez."

Whatever retort Dave had dies in his throat. Alan's Enforcer, Comet, comes ripping out from between two buildings. He rams into the cab and tackles it as though they've been playing football. Dave swears and tries to pull up before he crashes into them both. He barrel-rolls, something unnatural for an Enforcer, and kills his jets before his heat sink warnings kick off. Stonewall hits the pavement with a loud thud.

160 Avenue looks like a war-zone. Civilian cabs and cycles are scattered throughout the street. Some parked cabs are buzzing, their alarms having been triggered by Stonewall's landing. In the center of it all is Comet, pressing down on the grounded cab's roof to prevent any further movement.

"Trapped him in there," Alan says. "Let's let him stew for a few minutes and think about what he's done."

Dave snaps. "What the hell is
wrong
with you?" he demands. "What kind of move was that? It was reckless! Look at all the people you nearly injured. And you were talking about the
perp
endangering lives?"

"The chase was putting more people at risk." Alan sounds taken aback. "Dave, what I did is a perfectly reasonable tactic. Jesus, it's in the books."

Dave glares at his dash. The cold is getting to him now, anger further chilling his bones. "I told you not to do it. I told you what our plan was!"

Alan scoffs. "Yeah, Dave, I know. You often tell me what
our
plan is. Now can you cover me while I arrest this guy?"

"You know what your problem is?" Dave asks, hands tightening on Stonewall's controls. He levels the stun gun at the hatch of the cab, ready to fire at the first sign of trouble. "You're impulsive, and you don't know how to follow instructions."

"You using the past few months to back up that claim?" Alan snorts. "No, David, I'm not the one with the problem; you are. And your problem is that
I'm not Gabe.
"

Even if the perp had elected to run, Dave would have been too stunned to bring him down. He doesn't say a word while they wait for a cruiser to swing by for a pick-up. He doesn't speak at all until they get back to the station and have to fill out paperwork.

Alan's right.

Act III

Winter melts into spring. Gabe has never before noticed how gradually the seasons change. This past year or so, he's had a lot of free time. With that free time came a lot of pain. But spring is the season of fresh starts and new beginnings, and Gabe is ready.

Dr. Richmond had signed off on his gradual return to work. Starting today, Gabe is allowed to use the station's facilities to help improve his physical condition. He's not fully recovered yet; Dr. Richmond had made it very clear that he should not expect miracles. Actually, Gabe figures his real physical therapy is just getting himself
to
the gym. Still, progress is progress.

Gabe listens to the birds chirp for a few minutes. As usual, his leg has seized up overnight. The ache comes in dull spasms. Overall, it's leaps and bounds better than it used to be. Now he barely winces when he sits up to start massaging it.

The birds are quiet by the time Gabe rubs the morning ache from his bones. He gets his good leg on the floor, then follows suit very carefully with the bad. The movement after seven hours of rest still sends tingling pain up through his nerves. Gabe inhales sharply through his nose. He waits it out.

When the throbbing fades, he reaches for the cane propped up against the nightstand. It has a strong handle and four ferrules. Gabe's used to it; it feels like an extension of his arm now.

He makes it to the bathroom and times his morning routine. It's still equipped with the modifications, but he is slowly relying on them less and less. In a few weeks, he might be able to shower without holding onto something for support.

Accounting for the careful movement, he still manages to get ready for the day in less than half an hour. Freshly shaved, clad in jeans and a green pinstriped dress shirt, Gabe looks almost like he did a year ago. Breakfast is downing the smoothie he'd blended the night before.

His gym bag is by the door. It's a small backpack, and it contains only the essentials:  his track pants, t-shirt, painkillers, water bottle, and deodorant. Anything else—shampoo, shower gel, shoes—should still be in his locker. If not, he'll borrow from Dave.

Gabe puts on the backpack, grips his cane, and heads out the door. The walk to the elevator is relatively simple. The ride down gives him time to prepare for the walk through the lobby. He's done it many times by this point, but always accompanied by someone. He's alone now, and there's no one to lean on; the distance seems greater.

Once he gets a cab, he's winded but proud. He managed it all by himself. It's the first step.

*~*~*

There's something wrong. Dave is trying to hide it, but Gabe has known him for years. Their mutual survival depended on being able to read each other like books, so Dave's ruse lasts only as long as Gabe's patience.

Gabe doesn't
have
much patience for others these days, if only because his body demands so much for itself. "What is it?" he demands, bent over in a hamstring stretch.

Dave is spotting him, hands correcting and maintaining his form. When Gabe asks the question, he feels Dave start. "What do you mean?"

"You've been upset all day. You're pissed, or maybe frustrated. Either way, something's got you wound up." He switches legs, slowly bending his bad knee as close as he can so he can stretch out the other leg's hamstring. It smarts, but he does it.

Dave's hands return, one on his shoulder, and one running down his back over the line of his spine. It comes to a rest against his lower back, checking how he bends. That kind of touching isn't necessary for a hamstring stretch, but Gabe doesn't say anything.

"Got chewed out again for disagreements with Alan."

"Bullshit," Gabe calls it. He straightens up and then lies back, settling onto the practice mat. He grits his teeth when he bends his knees, but the pain isn't as bad as he was expecting. "You're always getting chewed out for disagreements with Alan. This is different."

Dave grumbles something and holds Gabe's feet down. "There are whispers … no, look:  Gabe, you don't want to hear about it anymore than I want to talk about it."

When Gabe comes up for his first sit-up, he lingers long enough to glare at Dave. "David, do you know how many times you've patted my head and told me not to worry about something this past year?"

Dave searches his face, looking a mite uncertain. "Uh, I'm guessing often?"

Gabe descends, resting for a moment. "And how much longer do you think I'm going to put up with it?" He comes back up. "As soon as I'm strong enough, I'm kicking your ass."

"Good," Dave says, thinking they've changed the subject. "That can be the goal you work towards. I'm sure it's Alan's goal, too."

They're interrupted by Steve and Diana, who stop by mid-rep and ask how Gabe is doing. Once they're gone, Gabe fixes Dave with a serious stare. "I want to know, Dave."

"Fuck me," Dave mutters. "Okay, fine. You know that Diamondback smuggling ring? The ones bringing in the illegal military tech for the rogue mechs?"

"Doesn't ring a bell," Gabe says dryly.

"Funny. Listen, rumor from Williams's unit is that the smuggling rings are getting ballsy. Cloaking tech was risky and bad enough, got a lot of tongues wagging both in the station and on the streets. But now Williams's team is saying they have intel on an iced salt operation. No details yet, but if that's true, then we're going to have a lot more on our hands than rogue mech pilots." Dave makes a face. "Not anyone can pilot a mech, but anyone can snort enough salt crystals to be a danger to themselves and others."

Gabe closes his eyes briefly. "But nothing is official yet."

"Nope. If the Diamondbacks are resurfacing so visibly, it's going to be our chance to deal some serious damage. On the other hand, after the last incident, they are going to be on their guard."

"They were on their guard last time," Gabe says. "Which is what got me into this mess to begin with."

"Yeah. But since nothing is certain for now, I didn't think it would be a good idea to get you wound up."

Gabe fights down the wave of annoyance. "I'm not wound up. I'm going to do my job, once the chief lets me. Besides, any raid would be led by Williams's team; we'd just be the grunts. It's not like I'm going to get a chance to exact personal revenge on the one who gutted Archangel."

One of Dave's hands drifts up to whisper across Gabe's bad knee. "Yeah, I guess."

*~*~*

Spring warms into summer. Gabe and Dave meet at the Sector Twelve station's gym three times a week to train, sometimes four if Gabe is feeling up to it. Gradually, his strength returns, his aches fade, and his apartment loses its modifications. He keeps the cane on Dr. Richmond's advice. Occasionally, he still pushes himself too hard and pays for it the next day.

Chief Burns arranges for his gradual return to police work. He's confined to a desk, not out in the field, and it makes the days drag—but at least he's got a routine. Once he passes the physicals in another month or so, he'll be cleared for return to active duty.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" Lisa asks him one day, walking by his desk. "You know the streets inside and out; you'd make a killer dispatcher. It does come with fewer chances of being shot at. Also, your orange form is supposed to be peeking out behind the blue one."

Gabe curls his lip in distaste, re-arranging his papers into the origami swan the legal department requires. "Not a chance. I'm a mech pilot, not an operator. No offense, Lisa."

"None taken. Ass." She pats him on the shoulder and heads back to her workstation.

Dave shows up during his lunch hour, taking up residence on the corner of Gabe's desk. When they worked the beat together, they would often park their mechs and grab a meal at one of New York's many restaurants. Dave seems to spend as little time as possible with Alan, coming back to the station just to have lunch with Gabe.

Gabe tries not to think too much about it. "Hey," he says around a bite of turkey-and-mayo, "my parents are having roast dinner this Sunday. They invited us." He hesitates, swallowing his bite and hoping that didn't sound odd. "You want to go?"

Dave thinks about it, looking anywhere but at Gabe. "Yeah, your mom makes an awesome spread. For sure, I'll be there. Want me—want me to pick you up?"

Gabe feels like they're walking a strange, tenuous line. "Sure," he says. "We could bring some wine," he adds, testing the waters.

"Sounds good," Dave says, nodding. "Sounds … good."

They eat the rest of their lunch in silence.

*~*~*

"Come on, Dave," Gabe pleads, hands spread out. They're alone in the gym, after-hours. Admittedly, Gabe lured him here under false pretenses.

"No." Dave is resolute. He folds his arms, red tank-top emphasizing his impressive build. His white sneakers stand out against his black track pants, red stripe making a connection from his shirt to his shoes.

Gabe resists the urge to stamp his foot. "Damn it, Dave, the physical exam is two weeks away. I need to start pushing my limits."

"I'm not doing it." Dave glances at the clock. "Ask someone else."

"I'm asking
you
," Gabe says. "I only trust you."

He can see Dave's resolution waver, moved by the admission. He recovers quickly, though. "No, Gabe. What if you get hurt and we're back to square one?"

"I'll tell you if it hurts," Gabe promises him. "The second it starts to be too much, I'll tell you. But I need to know, Dave. I need to know that I'm good enough."

Dave scuffs his shoe against the practice mat, scowling. "You know you're good enough."

"Then help me prove it."

The request hangs in the air for a moment. Finally, Dave nods. He bends to take off his shoes, and Gabe does the same. Soon they are barefoot in their gym clothes, facing off for the first time in eighteen months.

Dave rubs his buzzed hair. "I mean it, if you get hurt …"

"Worry about yourself," Gabe quips, and he darts in.

Dave reacts on instinct, pivoting out of the way and making a grab for Gabe's arm. Gabe twists out of reach, turning on his bad leg out of habit. The sudden movement sends a zing of pain up his thigh, but he tries not to let it show. Dave keeps coming, keeping the pressure on. Gabe leans back, letting Dave's fist get close enough to grab. He pulls, using Dave's own momentum against him. Dave goes down, thumping onto the mat without grace.