Jamie was floating, drifting through the darkness on a satin pillow woven from shadows. It was sweet and peaceful, unlike anything he had felt since his mother had tried to bribe him into hosting a cocktail party for her best friend by letting him borrow her ex-husband's catamaran. He had spent the entire day floating out on the water, the weave of the net pressing into his back as the boat rocked from side to side and the clear blue sky stretched away to eternity above him. For a moment he would have sworn that, if he could just open his eyes, he would see that sky again.

So, he tried, only to snap them closed a moment later as a bright, fluorescent light seared into his eyes. That was no clear, azure sky. A moment later, he tried opening them again. Slowly, the blinding glare resolved into the commercial fluorescent lights evenly spaced across the ceiling. A faint beeping began to fill his ears, the steady beat of a hospital heart monitor, as well as the rasping sound of forced air being released in rhythmic pulses.

It was then that he remembered. The party The thief. The gun. He was sitting up before he even had a chance to complete the thought, or worry exactly what kind of pain it would undoubtedly bring to his tormented head. His body moved lightly and easily, more easily than he could ever remember it moving. There was no pain in his head. He blinked, and then, only moments after the thought entered his head, he was standing next to the bed. He couldn't remember uncovering himself, swinging his feet around, pushing himself to his feet. One moment he had been down, the next he had been up. He was also wearing his favorite blue t-shirt and black sweatpants. An uneasy thought began to enter into his mind, and he slowly, timidly, turned around. 

The head of the man lying in the hospital bed was swaddled in so many bandages it almost looked round, but Jamie had seen that face in the mirror every single morning for the past twenty nine years. He reached out hesitantly, wanting to touch it, feel the line of his cheekbone and the sharp bump on the bridge of his nose, to prove it was actually himself laying there.

He found the proof he wanted, but not in the manner he was expecting it. Rather than having his fingertips come to rest lightly on the skin of his cheek, they instead passed right through, coming to settle with half of his fingers buried in his own face.

Why wasn't he panicking? Wasn't this the moment where he was supposed to start screaming, to try and stick himself back into the wounded body that had apparently just spat its own soul out into the world, to roam independently? He was supposed to be afraid, confused, filled with dread and trepidation. Instead, all he felt was calm. He wondered if he would remember this when he woke up. Jenna would be fascinated to hear it. She loved those stories of psychics and shamans. Then, Jamie began to wonder if he was going to wake back up. It was clear from the massive number of tubes and hoses that led back to an equal number of pumps, machines, and IV bags, that he had been badly damaged. But this was a very strange way for his mind to try and comfort him.

He turned away from his own body, mildly perturbed, and decided it was time for him to try and leave the room. In an instant he was standing next to the door. It was quite an efficient method of travel, he decided. Much easier and more comfortable than actually having to walk across the room, muscles contracting to move pounds and pounds of bone, organ, and flesh. He reached out a hand, trying to grab onto the doorknob, before he remembered. Shrugging, James walked out of the room, right through the door.

He thought he was roaming the hospital randomly, curious about the bustle, but he was brought to a sudden halt when he saw a face through the middle of the crowd. It was a face that was branded into his memory, because it was the last face he had seen before the world went black. What was she doing here? He couldn't remember what had happened. He could remember the thief, the guns. Is that what had happened? Had the thief shot him when he saw that his escape route was cut off by the other FBI agent? He ducked back around the corner of the hallway, breathing heavily, momentarily forgetting that he was a specter until he slid right through the wall he tried to lean against.

It was then that he heard Jenna's voice. She must have left work the moment she heard. He hoped he hadn't torn her away from anything important.

She was as calm and collected as ever. He had always respected that about her. Even when she had been threatened by the mob when she had gone to trial against one of their number men she hadn't panicked, hadn't shown an ounce of fear. "Virginia Thompson, here to see James Weller. He should just be out of surgery."

The voice of the nurse was bored, as she directed Jenna to take a seat in the waiting area, because Mr. Weller was in too critical of a condition to take any visitors at the moment.

Oh, god. That was him. He was in a critical condition. His head was spinning, and he wondered if he was about to pass out. But, no, he was only floating a few inches above the ground. He lowered himself back down carefully, uncomfortable with the sight of his own feet firmly planted on nothing a foot above the floor. He moved forward to the corner carefully, only to have a young woman suddenly pass through him. She shivered faintly as Jamie let out a surprised gasp. He pressed himself towards the wall, passing halfway through it, before carefully edging his way around the corner.

Jenna was halted in the middle of the hallway, her wide, hazel eyes locked onto the FBI agent. "You..." her voice cracked. "You. Was it you? Did you shoot Jamie? Did you!?" He had never heard Jenna make that kind of noise before. Not when she had botched a case and nearly gotten fired from her firm. Not when she had received the news that her mother had finally passed away, after three years of fighting breast cancer. He had never seen her so completely and utterly lose control of herself. With a hoarse scream, Jenna threw herself bodily at the FBI agent. 

The FBI agent who had [i]shot him[/i].