AN: Thanks for reading! :)


They hit a bit of a snag when EMTs try to take Riley out of Ben's arms. He shoves at their hands with a thunderous expression and his eyes keep flicking to all the exits. Riley is of no help whatsoever since he's already passed out again, shivering even unconscious with blood loss and shock. It's a miracle he's still alive, though no one has had the guts to tell Ben that yet. Sadusky suspects he already knows.

But after a few minutes, that logical, big brain wins out and Ben relinquishes his friend—very reluctantly, mind you—so the EMTs can whisk him away. Ben insists on riding in the ambulance.

It takes a few grueling hours before Sadusky wraps up his current cases, along with giving his statement for this one, and finds a discreet moment to sneak away from work.

There's something comforting about hospitals, the greater equalizers, in that their number one priority is keeping people alive and healthy. To do that, they don't care one lick about who those patients are or anyone else of note who might be clinging to the periphery of their care.

This is the first thing Sadusky notices upon entering the emergency room. None of the staff are whispering or hovered around the door of a particular room. Their eyes are tired yet alert, like this is a normal day.

And for them, it is.

They don't care one iota that two-timed treasure hunter—sorry, protector—Ben Gates or his famous author friend Riley Poole are currently sitting in one of the rooms, nor do they bat an eye when Sadusky flashes his badge, brown wrapped package under his arm, and asks where they are.

"He didn't need surgery after all and while one of the broken ribs was sitting on his lung, it didn't puncture," says a nurse, eyes already on oxygen readouts for another patient. "They stitched him up and reset the bone but he'll be spending the night for observation. Down the hall, second door on the right."

"Thank you."

Sadusky finds the scene pretty much exactly how he imagined it—Ben, now dried off in fresh clothes, slumped across one of the visitor chairs with his cheek propped on his knuckles at a wonky ankle, Riley asleep on the bed hooked up to a dizzying amount of machines but resting peacefully, evidence of Abigail's previous presence in her coat on the wall hook and the smell of that lavender perfume.

Riley's left shoulder is swaddled in so many bandages that it looks like he's wearing half of a football brace under the Johnny gown. His breathing sounds better, though it's clear he's still in pain, even in sleep, each breath sighing out in a thin jet stream.

Ben is drifting off himself when the door creaks open. He startles to his feet, eyes again making the rounds to each exit, which is really just the window, bathroom, and the door Sadusky is currently standing in. His hands are stiff in fists at his sides.

Peter forces himself stay unruffled, to keep his arms where Ben can see them.

Ben is still on the alert. Hospital should have noted that for anyone coming in.

Then the man seems to realize what he's doing and comes back to himself. "Sadusky?"

"How many times have I told you? Call me Peter." The agent smiles, showing none of this concern on his face.

Ben shakes his hand before drooping back down into his seat. "Thank you for dropping by, and for earlier."

Sadusky pats Riley's blanket covered shins before taking the empty chair beside Ben. "I've learned to be proactive and ready at a moment's notice when it comes to you lot."

A brief, wry look steals across Ben's face and he concedes this with a nod.

"I'm sorry for my behaviour earlier." Ben looks disturbed, a frown creating a divot in his forehead. "I don't know what came over me, I just…"

"Ben?"

This continued use of his first name seems to be what makes Gates stop the self-incriminating spiral and look Sadusky in the eye.

Peter pats him too, on his jittery knee. "You have nothing to apologize for. I read the report of what happened, no matter how well you've tried to cover up Mitch's actions—it hasn't even been three months since you almost drowned, and two men tried to kill you today. Your behaviour made complete sense. You were under threat and you reacted accordingly."

"I got…lost." A tint of colour appears along Ben's neck, though his expression says troubled more than embarrassed. "Some part of me knew where I was but it was like it didn't matter. The sound of rushing water, the blood…"

Sadusky leans forward. "You were back in the tunnel under the city."

Ben is quiet for a long moment. His eyes stray to Riley, then to Abigail's scarf, draped over the coat. Something about the sapphire blue fabric darkens the conflicted gaze.

"Yeah," he says, barely there. "It's like I was back in the tunnel and someone was trying to murder my family all over again."

This one doesn't require an answer and the two men just watch the steady rise and fall of Riley's bandaged chest, the whistle of oxygen being fed to the mask over his nose and mouth. He's pale, with an empty blood pack sitting on the IV pole next to saline and a concoction of pain killers.

Needed a blood transfusion after all.

"He saved my life, you know."

Peter turns at Ben's awed voice. It's solemn and airy, a simultaneous and arresting combination. Sadusky mentally sifts through the report.

"At the house?" he finally asks.

"No, in the tunnel." Ben gestures to Riley, exasperated. "He hates swimming. But my leg was stuck under the door and he dove down into the water to pull me free. Can you believe that?"

Sadusky's smile grows. "Yes, I can."

Ben startles for a second time, eyes bigger than they shoulder be. "Why? Why would he put up with all the danger and be so loyal, when it has cost him so much?"

It's probably meant to be a rhetorical question, and coming from any other person, Sadusky wouldn't bother to try and respond. But this is not Gates asking a question—this is Ben asking a question. And he's not asking Sadusky the agent, he's asking Peter the friend.

This, even more than handing over the gun, is the biggest gesture of trust between them today.

So Peter leans back, enjoying this whole moment. "Because he looks up to you, Ben."

"Well, he shouldn't," says Ben, harsh, eyes angry at himself. "I nearly got him killed today! I'm the one who invited him over!"

"That doesn't make it your fault."

"Like hell, it doesn't."

Sadusky's volume climbs too. "Ben, he loves you."

"Maybe he shouldn't do that either."

"Would you dare send him away?"

Flustered, Ben shakes his head. He's no saint, but his version of an ego is reserved for academic, intellectual points and at least a sketched out understanding of how the world works—how he feels it should work, and right now it's taken a serious blow.

Stronger men than him have fallen apart from far less.

"That's not the point," he argues.

"I think it is."

"You're being an idiot, Ben."

The two men hush, wondering if they imagined the gravelly voice. But then Sadusky gets the privilege of watching Riley's eyelashes flutter open and his deadpan stare come to rest full force on Ben's face.

This clearly isn't the first time he's woken up, as Ben is calm about it, but his eyes still light up with a mixture of guilt and delight. He immediately stretches out his hand to close it around Riley's, careful not to disrupt any of the leads.

"Riley, what are you—"

"Let me stop you right there." Riley pulls down the mask and then holds up his left, free index like a professor. It wobbles with impaired motor function and possibly vision issues, as his glasses are missing. "If you're responsible for this whole attack, then I'm Lee Harvey Oswald."

Ben's face scrunches. "That metaphor doesn't even make sense—"

"First off, I asked if you wanted me to bake something for Abigail. So if anything, I initiated this slew of bad choices. Does that make it my fault too?"

"No, but—"

"And secondly, unless you personally invited over Thug One and Thug Two, I highly doubt all of…this is your doing." He gestures up and down at his torso.

Ben pales, swallowing at what is probably a vivid mental video of the rushed, hostile shooting. Sadusky was present at the station when Ben gave his statement, how his first choice was just to run, but then they shot Riley at point blank range—and it turned into a vicious, life and death fight. Without a weapon until he wrestled one away at the very end, Ben had thrown everything within reach and toppled anything he could to slow them down. He caused most of the mess that police found.

Peter's chest squeezes at the violence and brutality of it all, so tightly that he forgets to breathe for a second.

"I'm still sorry, Riley."

"Shut up, Mr. Guilt Complex."

Ben rubs his thumb over the bruised knuckles. "You're insufferable, you know that? My life was much less complicated before I met you."

"I love you too, Ben." Then Riley spots Sadusky and brightens. "Secret Agent Man! Is that present for me?"

Sadusky can't help but chuckle at the childish tone and its matching enthusiasm. He holds out the package. "I'm glad to see you're okay. It's only polite to bring someone in hospital a present when you visit, right?"

"Absolutely right. Ben, take notes. You never brought me a present."

"I saved your life," Ben points out. "Best gift of all."

"Fair. Have I thanked you for that, by the way?"

Ben sighs. "About a hundred times while you were out of it, yes, along with various epithets over how uncomfortable nylon is on a bullet wound. No more hiking bags for a while."

Riley doesn't quip back, blinking off at the far wall. "They were really angry."

"Who," Ben asks, eyes narrowed. "The intruders?"

"Yeah. I kept thinking that while stumbling up the stairs. They were shouting and furious—but they were in our house. Like we had the compunction to catch them in the act. Rude, am I right?"

Ben and Sadusky throw each other a quick look. It's a taste of the emotional fallout they've both been waiting for, but not in the context either expected.

Ben leans forward with a mischievous look in his eye. "Maybe they just wanted some of your famous cupcakes."

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, not sure that type of humour will go over well so soon after their traumatic experience.

But to his surprise, Riley actually laughs.

"Ha!" With a sloppy, drugged hand, Riley shoves at Ben's hair, already a disaster from drying out without being combed. "Nice try, Mr. I-can-barely-boil-an-egg. You're just envious of my prowess."

"Uh huh." Ben directs his hand to the package while checking blood pressure readings. "Open your gift, Mary Berry."

Riley doesn't open it in big tears and flung paper, as Sadusky expects from that kid-on-Christmas-morning gleam in his eyes. Instead, he opens it with a careful fingernail slipped under each piece of tape. Slow, careful, reverent. Hand-eye coordination is tough, with all the drugs and painkillers in his system, but he manages.

Sadusky looks to Ben for help only to see him now wearing a fond expression. Peter asks him a question with one quirked brow, if this has happened before.

"Every single time," Ben whispers. "He likes to savour the moment."

Sadusky doesn't ask why, mainly because he already kind of knows the answer. It makes his throat just that little bit thicker.

"I can hear you." Riley's grousing turns to shocked joy when he finally unfurls the paper—without ripping it—to reveal a big swatch of red fabric. "A new MIT hoodie!"

Even Ben looks gobsmacked. "How did you buy one of those so fast? We only got here five hours ago!"

Sadusky laughs again. "I'm a top ranking federal agent and you're asking how I got a hoodie shipped to me on the same day?"

Riley quirks his head. "Touché. My sincere thanks, agent."

He tries to slip it on over his head, and the hospital gown, at once. Ben jumps to standing with an alarmed cry.

"Whoa! I don't think so, Ri. There's too many IV lines you'll mess up."

Riley pouts when Ben tugs the fabric away from his now mussed hair and presses the mask back over his face. "You're no fun."

"You'll thank me when you don't die of kidney failure."

"I was shot in the shoulder, Ben, not my kidney."

Ben doesn't waste his breath explaining the science of dehydration. It's just as well, because Riley's already growing drowsy from all the excitement, though he valiantly tries to keep his eyes open while Sadusky fills him in on the two perps in custody and how he personally will be overseeing their case. Riley keeps the hoodie cuddled up under one arm, since he can't wear it.

"Ben?" Abigail pokes her head in. "They need you to sign some forms for Riley. We'll take him home in the morning."

"Oh, of course!" Ben looks flustered again, and the wan set of his face isn't lost on Sadusky, how he hasn't allowed himself to feel anything yet, still in that shock level of numb. He wonders when it will break, de-compartmentalized and processed.

"Peter!" Abigail lights up too when she sees him. At that one single reaction, Sadusky's chest becomes a ball of static, the sensation foreign after years at this job. He stands, figuring this is his cue to leave. "I can't thank you enough for what you did today, defending the boys since I couldn't be there."

And so saying, she immediately tugs him into her arms. Any reply on Sadusky's tongue goes soaring out the window.

It's not one of those quick acquaintance hugs, tense arms only halfway around the person's back. No, Abigail squeezes him tight, bony chin digging into his shoulder with a smile Sadusky can feel as well as see.

He's not exactly sure what to do with his arms, and so he wraps them lightly around her inch by hesitant inch. She doesn't seem uncomfortable about this in the least. Abigail even gives his shoulder blade a quick rub before stepping back.

Sadusky schools his face into something normal, as if this hasn't completely taken him by surprise.

"It was my honour," he says to her, an intentional word choice. "You're good people and you don't deserve this."

As predicted, Ben unwinds at these words, the subtle reminder that nothing that he did was wrong or something to feel guilty about.

Then they are gone, chattering the whole trip out the door about which of them is going to have to stop by Riley's apartment and pack an overnight bag and 'could we pick up some cupcakes on the way?' and 'he'll love the irony' and…

Peter is confused about it all, about when he became so important to this mismatched family. He has made his living off being observant, yet he has completely missed when they started to absorb him into their circle.

"Sadusky?"

Peter pivots on his heel, hand releasing its grip on the keys in his pocket.

While bleary, Riley is wide awake. His legs don't come all the way to the end of the bed, leaving enough room for Sadusky to sit down.

"Yes, Mr. Poole?"

Riley blinks for a second, assessing Sadusky. His breathing is laboured but even, brows drawn back, and it's the sharpest, most alert Peter has seen him all day.

It had taken hours just to wash the blood out of his skin, in the FBI bathroom, and he'd ended up throwing the shirt away completely, a write off. The image pops into his head again, of Riley inside the bag, like Moses being sent down the Nile in a basket—and Sadusky's gut gives a fresh twist of horror at what happened.

Then Riley sniffs. "Ben was really out of it, wasn't he?"

Sadusky wags his head back and forth with a thinking hum. "You could say that. He was scared for your safety and wanted to make sure they couldn't touch you. With the sound of running water, he lost where he was for a minute."

Or two, or five, or ten minutes, but Riley doesn't need to know these details.

But Riley is much, much more perceptive than even Ben gives him credit for. Sadusky realizes this when the man hums his own thinking sound, shrewd.

"Will you watch out for him?"

Sadusky blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Ben." Riley's right fist clenches in the blankets. "Will you keep an eye on him for me? Please? He gets lost in that head of his sometimes and I'm worried what all this will do to him."

A chuffed note of amazement escapes Sadusky's lips before he can pull it back.

Riley doesn't laugh at all, and it sobers Peter. "Of course, Mr. Poole. I was planning on it anyway. How are you doing?"

His hand comes to rest over Riley's fist almost without permission, like it wants to and hasn't thought to check with him first. The fist slowly uncoils.

"Physically, well, I don't need to tell you that it sucks. I feel like I've been body checked by a Mac truck. But all that feelings stuff is good, totally cool."

Sadusky's lips twitch higher. "Cool."

"Yeah, one hundred percent. A-okay. Chill, chillax, doldrums level uneventful. I'm not going to go ballistic the next time I watch a movie scene with gunshots or something, no pun intended. But Ben's kinda the flip, you know?"

"Barely a scratch on him," Sadusky agrees, "And yet he had a flashback."

Riley's brows disappear almost into his hairline. "I was going to say he lost his freaking mind but that works too. I know he doesn't really need me in his life, but I need him."

It's an anvil of a vulnerable confession but Riley delivers it with the ease of the morning weather report. Like it's an established fact.

"Oh, I think you're wrong, Mr. Poole." Sadusky looks down at his fingers, how aged and weathered they are next to Riley's slender, dexterous ones. "Ben would fall apart without you."

"Really?" Riley's hopeful eyes cut Sadusky down to the quick.

"You bet, and if he hasn't said it, I have the power to make his tax life a nightmare until he does."

Riley settles back, eyes on the ceiling and brimming with happiness. "Awesome."

While it is unclear whether he is talking about his permanent place in Ben's life or Sadusky's federal agent super powers, it causes a heavy, warm blanket of peace to settle over the room. It's so thick and velvety that Sadusky can almost taste it. It is also the very last surprise in this day flowing over with them—that he is the one who caused this weight of contentment, that he has such influence in their lives.

"Are you ever going to tell me how you and Ben met?"

A sly smirk flashes across Riley's face, visible even behind the plastic. "Not a chance. Nice try, Secret Agent Man."

"Worth a shot."

"Thanks for taking care of Ben," says Riley, and now his eyes shut for good. "I'm getting you a reindeer bundt cake mold for Christmas."

Wrinkles around Sadusky's eyes get deeper. "Is that so…why a cake mold?"

Riley's expression curves into one of disbelief, as if Sadusky is insane for not knowing the answer to this. "Do you know how hard it is to find themed bundt cake molds? Christmas themed no less? You'll thank me later, I promise."

Sadusky takes off his glasses, wiping at his eyes when they water from emotion and held back laughter.

He nearly falls clean off the bed when understanding hits a split second later—

"Did you just invite me over for Christmas dinner?"

But Riley is finally, truly, and restfully asleep. The beeps of the pulse ox slow down after a minute. The absence of pain makes him look younger, like the youth he should be.

Somehow, even after only half a day in this hospital room, the Gates family has taken over and made it their own:

Abigail's coat, some book Ben was reading on pre-colonial India splayed face down across a chair (he's about a third of the way through), Riley's Green Lantern watch sitting on the bedside table that they'd clearly had to take off to scrub him down, a pair of glasses that look like Patrick's hung from a hook on the IV pole…

Sadusky's whole world revolves around evidence and how to interpret its silent message. A mute language that only he speaks.

Looking at all these messages, Sadusky's expression goes suddenly soft; very, very soft. He stands, takes a big breath, and nods, affection pulling at his cheeks.

"Goodnight, Mr. Poole."