An impish dimple appeared. “I’ve called him worse.”

She sighed, her expression slightly lovesick. “We already have the license. It’ll be so romantic.”

“Cook, I’m not sure we can manage this all tonight,” I said, loving her enthusiasm.

“You’d better,” Reyes said. “We leave at dawn. Saints or sinners, we are going to holy ground.”

I sighed aloud. “Fine. We can manage it tonight.” I looked at her. “How hard can it be?”

18

mawage ’mah-’wahge n.

1; a bwessed awangement

2; a dweam wifin a dweam

— T-SHIRT

The hospital staff actually let us all go into the ICU: the captain, Reyes, Cookie, a couple of detectives, and me. Gemma came rushing in as well, her face as pale as Ubie’s sheets. We hugged, the cuffs making it awkward, before we continued inside.

When we walked in, the Iron Fist was there, the judge who hated me. Or at least she used to hate me. I doubted her feelings had changed very much, but she seemed to tolerate me rather well. It was nice. And had been at the hospital visiting her grandmother when she heard the news about Ubie. It was kind of her to stick around to see him.

Ubie was groggy, which made him all the funnier. They gave him free rein on a morphine drip, which could not be good. He gave me a sleepy wink and told Cookie she looked like angel hair pasta. Not sure what that was about, but she literally melted. Clearly I was out of the loop. Either that or Ubie meant an angel but was thinking of food and in his dazed state blended the two. It happened. I once stayed up for two weeks straight and blended coffee and sex. I asked a server to bring me a coffeegasm. He said they didn’t serve them but if I’d wait until he got off work, he’d do his darnedest to fill my order. He was cute.

I leaned forward and hugged Ubie’s big head, afraid I’d hurt him if I hugged anything else.

He managed a drunken smile and said, “It’s all taken care of, punky.” He hadn’t called me punky since I was a kid. It brought back fond memories. And a few disturbing ones, but nobody was perfect. How I loved this man with all my heart.

“I’m so mad at you,” I said into his ear, partly to hide the annoying onset of wetness gathering between my lashes. How could he risk his life like that all to set up a scene to make sure Reyes didn’t get arrested for murder? Or, at the least, manslaughter. Maybe he felt he owed Reyes. He was indeed the arresting officer over a decade ago.

“I know, sweetheart.” He tried to pat my arm and patted Will Robinson instead. Normally that would be awkward, but considering the circumstances…

I laced the fingers of my cuffed hand into his. The deal was done. He’d been thoroughly and undeniably shot. Everyone saw that. He’d almost died. He’d heard the confession of Sylvia Starr before she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. He’d almost become a charcoal briquette for Halloween, not nearly so effective a costume as his Spidey outfit, in my humble opinion. Uncle Bob in tights was a sight to behold. Sure I’d needed therapy afterwards, but who doesn’t need a little counseling now and then? And he’d tried to save Mr. Trujillo, Sylvia’s final victim. If there was anything I could do, now was the time.

I kissed his cheek, whispered one teensy word in Latin, then stood back and let the others take turns wishing him a speedy recovery. His cheeks flushed instantly, his pallor returning to health as he gave me a sideways, suspicious glance. I didn’t think I healed him completely. Just enough to ease the pain and mend his innards. Just enough to make what I was about to ask him tolerable.

We spoke a few minutes more before we were all ordered out. “I have one quick favor to ask,” I said before we got run out completely.

“Anything, pumpkin,” he said, his gaze glassy with a morphine haze.

Now was certainly not the best time, but I explained our situation to a room full of smiles, and thirty minutes later we were standing beside Uncle Bob’s bed in ICU again, this time with a more matrimonial purpose.

Cook fetched Amber while Reyes and I ran to the apartment for the license and a couple of other trinkets. I’d insisted on being de-cuffed so I could clean up my face, brush the grass out of my hair, and throw on a white cocktail dress with silver slingbacks. Reyes donned a black dinner jacket and a gray tie. He’d shaved and tried to slick back his hair, but the dark locks fell over his forehead anyway. When he strolled into my apartment, he left me speechless – me! – and we almost didn’t make it back to the hospital.

But Cookie and Amber insisted as Gemma fussed over my hair, pinning pieces here and there back with baby’s breath–covered bobby pins and trying to hide the onset of tears.

“All my plans,” she said, devastated that I’d ruined her big wedding plans.

Score!

Nurses and a couple of doctors had gathered outside, most likely because of the bizarreness of the situation more than for the romance, as Judge “Iron Fist” Quimby married us. Uncle Bob gave me away from his hospital bed, insisting that under no circumstances could Reyes give me back, while Cookie and Gemma stood beside me.

Reyes had to ask Garrett and Osh to stand with him, which was so ironic, it was unreal. He’d started out disliking both, and now they served as groomsmen to witness our journey into wedded bliss. I tried Dad one last time before the ceremony began, to no avail. I didn’t bother calling Denise. I could surprise her with an announcement of my nuptials next time we met, though hopefully that would be in hell.