Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun was sliding toward the horizon, casting L.A.’s streets in a soft orange glow, and for once, the city felt quiet. Lucy sat in the passenger seat of the patrol car, knees tucked under her, a steaming cup of coffee balanced carefully in her hands. Tim adjusted the rearview mirror, then glanced at her with that half-grin he’d perfected over the years, the one that made her forget herself even in the middle of a long, monotonous shift.

“You’re taking forever to drink that,” he said, voice teasing but gentle.

Lucy tilted her head, hair tucked behind her ear, and smirked. “It’s a delicate process, I don't want to burn my tongue. Don’t interrupt the ritual.”

“You make it sound like a spa day.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. “Better than sitting here listening to you complain about LA traffic for the hundredth time.”

Tim chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I do not complain. I make observations. And right now, my observation is you’re ridiculously calm for someone about to ruin my whole patrol by distracting me with your coffee, isn't that your 4th cup?”

“Me? Distracting you?” Lucy feigned offence, placing a hand dramatically over her heart. “I’m helping. You need me alert. It’s part of the job.”

He shook his head, letting out a short laugh, and she caught it, tucked it away in the back of her mind like a favourite song she didn’t want to end. They’d come back together a few weeks ago, after everything that had broken them, and these small moments—the teasing, the familiarity—felt like fragile stitches, holding something delicate together.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, just watching the city roll by: palm trees swaying lazily, the sun reflecting off storefront windows, the occasional pedestrian weaving through the crosswalks. It was quiet in the way that made her chest ache, the kind of silence that felt like a pause before the world snapped back into chaos.

“You know,” Lucy said softly, almost like she wasn’t sure she wanted him to hear, “I keep expecting… I don’t know, something to go wrong. Every time we get comfortable, I…” Her voice faltered, and she pressed the cup to her lips to hide it.

Tim reached over, resting a hand on hers for just a moment. It wasn’t a showy gesture, just a simple touch that said, I’m here. It’s okay.

“You don’t have to expect anything,” he said quietly. “We’re here. Now. I’m not going anywhere this time.”

She looked at him, and for the first time that shift, she let herself breathe a little easier. His words weren’t dramatic or poetic—they didn’t need to be. They were real, grounded in the kind of quiet certainty that only came from someone who’d been there before and had stayed.

Lucy smiled, setting the coffee down in the cup holder. “Promise?”

Tim’s grin softened into something tender, something that made her forget the lingering ache in her chest. “Promise.”

The car rolled past a familiar doughnut shop, the one they’d stopped at half a dozen times during late-night patrols. Tim gestured at it. “You want to grab a quick snack? You know, for sustenance, caffeine, life support, all of that?”

“Only if you’re buying,” Lucy quipped, shoving his shoulder lightly.

He mock-saluted. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll sacrifice for you… You probably shouldn't have any more coffee, though.” He muttered that last bit under his breath. 

They laughed, the kind of laugh that didn’t need to fill the room, just enough to remind them that the other was there, that this—this ordinary, quiet shift—was theirs.

Lucy glanced out the window, watching the streetlights flicker to life as dusk settled over the city. It was beautiful in a subdued, ordinary way, and for a moment, she let herself enjoy it without thinking about past arguments, near-misses, or the fragile state of their relationship.

Tim’s voice pulled her back. “You okay?”

She nodded, but then her voice softened. “Yeah. Better than okay, actually. It’s… nice, being with you again.”

He glanced at her, that careful, calculating look he reserved for when he wanted to make sure she knew he’d heard every word. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this. You. Us.”

A light silence fell between them, not awkward but weighted in the right way. She turned her attention back to the street ahead, but she could feel him looking at her, and she liked it. Liked the steady reassurance of his presence.

The radio crackled, interrupting the calm. “7-Adam-19, we have a possible disturbance at 8th and Main. Sounds like a 415 in progress. All available units respond.”

Tim’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, the light teasing fading as he immediately switched into officer mode. Lucy’s pulse quickened—not from fear, not yet—but from that familiar surge of readiness that always came when the call sounded.

“You ready?” he asked, eyes scanning the street ahead.

Lucy nodded, sliding her hands into position, checking her belt. “Always.”

For a few seconds, they exchanged a glance, a shared understanding that this was just another shift, another day. But beneath it lingered the quiet fear neither of them said aloud: that life was unpredictable, that even this simple moment of peace could be gone in an instant.

The patrol car accelerated toward the call, tires humming against the asphalt. The city stretched out around them, unaware of the fragility of the moment inside the car. Inside, Lucy allowed herself one last breath of calm before the chaos inevitably arrived.

And somewhere deep in the back of her mind, she knew it wouldn’t last.

Chapter Text

The alley pressed in on them, narrow, sticky with shadows and the smell of decay. Trash bins leaned at awkward angles, cardboard soaked and torn, dumpsters spilling their stinking contents into the corners. The single flickering streetlamp cast uneven light, shadows twisting against the bricks like fingers reaching out. Every instinct in Lucy screamed danger before her eyes even landed on him. She could feel Tim beside her, tense, ready, his hand brushing hers for a fleeting second before both of them drew their weapons.

And then she saw him.

The suspect. Pressed against the far wall, gun raised. But it wasn’t the way he moved, or the way he held the weapon, that hit her first. It was the stillness. The pause. They both froze, weapons trained on him, breath caught somewhere between thought and action.

“Drop the weapon!” Tim shouted. Authority sharpened every word, but the man didn’t move. Not an inch.

Lucy’s stomach twisted. Her voice came out sharp, harsh. “Don’t make this worse!” She could feel the tension in her shoulders. Every second stretched impossibly long.

The suspect started to lower his weapon; the gun now aimed at the floor. Lucy relaxed for a small, fleeting second before he brought it back up.

Then, without warning, the shot rang out.

Tim jerked violently, stumbling back as the bullet slammed into him beneath his vest. The world tilted. Lucy’s stomach plummeted. His gasp tore through the air. “Tim!” she screamed, the sound bouncing harshly off the brick walls.

Shock froze her for half a heartbeat. He’d been hit. He was down. The blood bloomed immediately, dark and warm beneath the uniform. Neither of them had expected it. Neither of them had even registered it until it was already too late.

Then instinct took over.

Lucy’s weapon came up, finger tightening before her brain could fully process the thought. She fired. One shot. Sharp. Final. The suspect crumpled instantly, sliding to the ground in the narrow alley, life leaving him like air from a punctured tire.

Her focus snapped back to Tim, and she dropped to her knees beside him. Her hands went straight to the wound. Blood was hot and sticky, coating her fingers in a thick, slick layer almost immediately. She pressed hard, trying to slow the flow, her mind a chaotic swirl of panic and urgency.

Lucy’s fingers dug into the wound, heart hammering. She grabbed the radio. “Officer down! Shots fired! I need backup and medical—now!” Her voice shook, but she forced it sharp and loud, cutting through the chaos.

Her shirt bore the splatters, red droplets dotting the fabric, running in thin rivulets across the cotton. The metallic tang filled her nose and throat, sharp, oppressive. She could taste it on her tongue.

“Tim! Stay with me!” she shouted, voice cracking. She pressed harder, feeling the pulse beneath her fingers, weak but there, and she gritted her teeth, willing him to fight through the pain.

He tried to speak, a small, ragged sound escaping. “Lucy…”

“I’ve got you,” she said, though her voice was trembling. “I’ve got you. You’re not leaving me. Not now. Not ever.”

Her hands shook, slick with blood, and she pressed anyway, smearing it further across her palms. Blood soaked into the crevices of her nails. She didn’t care. All that mattered was him—alive, breathing, still there.

Tim’s eyes were wide, trying to focus. Pain contorted his face, but he reached for her hand, fingers trembling against hers. Lucy grabbed them, squeezing tightly. “You’re not going anywhere,” she murmured, over and over, letting the repetition anchor both of them.

The alley was alive with the echo of gunfire, the hiss of distant sirens, and the creak of dumpsters shifting slightly in the breeze. Every sound seemed amplified, every breath too loud. She could feel adrenaline slicing through her chest, shaking her hands, making her teeth clench. But she didn’t let go of the wound. She pressed harder, using the fabric of her shirt to help soak some of the blood, layering herself into the makeshift compress.

“You’re staying,” she whispered again, voice raw and shaking. “You hear me? You’re staying.”

Tim’s fingers twitched weakly, trying to grip her. She held on, pressing closer, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. She could feel his pulse, irregular but alive, beneath her palms. His shallow breaths trembled against her neck.

Her mind flickered in fragments: I shouldn’t have let him get hit. I didn’t see it coming. I fired. I killed him. Stay with me, Tim, stay with me…

She repeated his name, over and over, soft and frantic. She couldn’t think of anything else. The world outside the alley didn’t exist. The sirens didn’t exist. Only the hot pulse beneath her hands, the metallic smell filling her nose, the warmth of his blood soaking her fingertips and shirt, and the fragile thread of life she was clinging to.

The blood ran freely now, warm and heavy, soaking through the cotton of her shirt. It was useless, slick with blood. She pressed anyway, desperate, rocking slightly to maintain pressure. Every instinct screamed to keep him alive. She whispered nonsense, fragments of conversations, reminders, anything to tether him to life.

“Don’t leave me. I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re fine,” she chanted, words tumbling together, a mantra in the chaos.

Tim tried to smile, small and pained, lips trembling. “Didn’t… plan on it,” he rasped.

Lucy gritted her teeth, shaking her head, pressing harder. “Good. Because I won’t let you go. Not now. Not after I just got you back.”

The alley was oppressive, reeking of gunpowder, blood, and decay. The walls closed in, pressing shadows around them. Light flickered from the streetlamp above, spotlighting the crimson streaks on her shirt and gloves. She could feel every drop, every warmth, every slick rivulet running down her arms. The world had narrowed to two bodies, one fight for survival, one desperate, frenzied grip on life.

The sirens were closer now, voices cutting through the alley. Lucy didn’t notice them, didn’t acknowledge them. All she could feel was Tim beneath her, breathing, weak and trembling, and the blood coating her hands. Her coat was untouched, clean and dark against the alley’s shadows, but the cotton of her shirt clung to her skin, streaked and saturated with red.

She leaned closer, whispering and muttering over and over, pressing him to her, repeating his name, repeating the mantra of stay with me… stay with me… stay with me… until the sirens were right outside the alley, until other officers’ boots clattered closer, until help had arrived.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not until he was breathing more steadily, pulse stronger, eyes focusing again. She held him, hands coated, shirt splattered, heart hammering, whispering his name like it could stitch him back together. And she wouldn’t let go. 

Footsteps echoed sharply. Lucy’s head snapped up.

“Lucy? What's going on?”

John. His voice, familiar and solid, sliced through the haze. Boots hit the wet concrete with certainty. Behind him, Celina crouched low, her eyes wide and scanning, her hand gripping her radio while also reaching toward Lucy, grounding her.

“What happened? How bad is he?” Celina’s voice was urgent, threaded with worry.

Lucy blinked. Her tongue felt thick, her thoughts sluggish and fractured. “He… bleeding… under… vest… I—” Words shattered against the panic in her chest. She pressed harder, rocking slightly to keep him upright. Her fingers were coated in warm, thick blood, slipping a little over the wound, sticky and heavy.

John crouched at the far end, careful, scanning the alley with trained precision. “I’ll check the suspect,” he said. His gun lowered, but his body continued to move with purpose. “Celina, cover her. Stay with Lucy.”

Celina pressed close, hands steadying Lucy on both shoulders. “We’ve got you. Look at me. He’s alive, right? Tell me exactly what’s happening.”

“I… I fired… he’s down… Tim—he’s… bleeding too much…” Lucy’s words were jagged, half-formed, lost in the fog of shock. She pressed her hands instinctively, reflexively, on the wound. The warmth under her palms, the faint pulse, the sticky pulse of life—it was all that tethered her to reality.

John knelt near the man she had shot. His trained eyes swept over him: weapon secure, pulse weak but present, no signs of movement. “He’s down—scene’s clear. No threat,” he called softly, returning his gaze to Lucy. “You did it. No one else is a danger.”

Celina leaned closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from Lucy’s face. “Lucy. You’re okay. You saved him. Look at me. He’s alive. That’s all that matters. You’re still here with him.”

Lucy nodded, though her head felt heavy, unreal, spinning. Her body was trembling, blood slick on her hands and shirt, heart hammering, but her thoughts moved in slow, stuttering fragments. “I… I’ve got him… what if he doesn't-…”

Sirens cut through the distant city noise, drawing nearer. EMS arrived, sliding stretchers, oxygen tanks, and medical bags into the alley. Paramedics knelt beside Tim immediately, assessing, checking vitals, moving efficiently but carefully. Lucy’s hands stayed near the wound, letting them layer sterile dressings over her fingers. It was automatic, reflexive, almost dissociative, but she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t let go.

John crouched again at her side, hand steady on her back, grounding her. 

She blinked slowly, dazed, eyes fixed on the pulse beneath her fingers. She barely noticed the EMS voices, the oxygen mask being placed, the stretchers shifting under Tim. Everything felt far away, unreal. 

Celina stayed on the other side, voice soft and sure. “Breathe, Lucy. You’re still here. You saved him.”

Lucy let out a small shuddering breath. Her voice was small, shaky, fragmented, almost automatic. The alley smelled of gunpowder, blood, sweat, and damp brick, overwhelming her senses.

John gave a glance to the suspect again, crouched near him, hands empty, gun secured. Then he returned to Lucy’s side. 

Paramedics continued their work, inserting IV lines, checking vitals, and sliding a stretcher beneath Tim carefully. Lucy’s hands fell to her side, still coated in blood, still sticky, still warm, her heart racing, mind spinning in slow motion. She barely registered her shirt clinging to her skin, soaked through, the adrenaline spike keeping her upright even as exhaustion threatened to buckle her legs.

Celina leaned closer, voice a whisper but firm. “Look at me, Lucy. You saved him. You did everything you could.”

John nodded, hand on her back, guiding gently. 

Lucy’s eyes flicked up at both of them, dazed, unfocused, words failing. Her chest heaved, trembling. “I… I don’t… I can’t… he—”

“You’re okay,” Celina said softly. 

The stretcher slid under Tim. Lucy instinctively leaned down, pressing her hands lightly against the wound one last time, brushing the warmth and feeling the pulse, still dazed and disoriented. She barely noticed the medics lifting him, her world reduced to touch, warmth, heartbeat, and the calm reassurance of John and Celina on either side.

“Go with him, we’ll handle everything here,” John said, his voice steady, his hand still on her back. 

Lucy let herself breathe slowly, shakily. She nodded then pressed her cheek to Tim’s shoulder, still not fully processing, still fogged and suspended in the daze. But she was anchored—by his pulse, by the warmth under her hands, by the steady presence of friends. She followed him into the ambulance. 

Chapter Text

The ambulance doors swung open, and the stark, sterile lights of the emergency room immediately assaulted Lucy’s vision. Everything was too bright, too loud, and somehow too still all at once. Tim’s body was lifted from the stretcher, limp but warm, into the hands of paramedics whose movements were smooth, efficient, and professional. Her own hands were still coated in blood, thick and warm, sticky along her fingers, the metallic tang sharp in her nose.

She stepped back instinctively. She didn’t get in the way. She knew better than to try. She had seen enough emergencies, enough training, enough chaotic scenes, to know that she couldn’t help here. The paramedics were in charge now. But knowing didn’t stop her chest from heaving, heart hammering violently, pulse thundering in her ears like gunfire, reminding her over and over what had just happened.

“Step back! We’ve got him!” one paramedic called, brisk and controlled.

Lucy nodded automatically, not moving forward, not trying to interfere. She let them work, her hands flexing, twitching even, coated in the thick, drying blood of the alley. She felt the weight of it in her palms, sticky, cold, vivid in her mind, a memory she couldn’t shake.

Everything felt unreal. The alley, the gunshot, the blood—it all felt like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Her legs trembled under her, weak from adrenaline and exhaustion. Her shirt clung to her skin, damp with her own blood, the fabric sticking, heavy, warm. She pressed her palms together, trying to wipe them clean, but it did nothing. The memory of warmth, of Tim under her hands, refused to leave.

The paramedics slid Tim onto the gurney, lifting him with precision, talking to each other in clipped tones she barely registered. The monitors were hooked up with wires and beeps, IV lines snaking into his arm, oxygen mask placed over his face. She watched all of it, wide-eyed, frozen, dazed, unable to process, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

The paramedics wheeled the stretcher toward the trauma bay, and Lucy followed with her eyes, hands flexing uselessly at her sides, coated in the thick, drying blood of the alley. Her mind was fractured, thoughts lagging behind reality, playing fragments of the gunshot, the shock, the warmth of his pulse on her fingers. She couldn’t make sense of anything, couldn’t organise her thoughts into coherent sentences. The world had become disjointed, spinning, blurred.

She sank slowly into a nearby chair, body trembling, knees weak, shoulders tight. The smell of antiseptic was sharp in her nose, biting, and she could still taste the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. Every beep from the monitors, every distant voice, every echo of footsteps across the linoleum felt magnified, pressing down on her chest. She wanted to reach for him, press her hands back against his body, but she knew better. She had to let them work. She had to let the professionals take over.

And yet, she couldn’t stop the panic that clawed at her. It gnawed at her chest, lodged in her throat, vibrated through her bones. She felt frozen, helpless, suspended in a state of disbelief. How had it happened so fast? How had he almost been taken from her? The memory of the alley, the shot, the warmth of blood on her hands, the metallic tang filling her mouth, replayed in her mind like a film she couldn’t turn off.

Her body shivered, small tremors running through her legs and arms, the adrenaline ebbing and leaving her raw, exposed. She pressed her forehead into her hands for a moment, breathing shallow and uneven. She could feel the sticky residue on her fingers, the weight of it, and it anchored her in the horrifying reality.

Her eyes followed every movement in the trauma bay, every shift of the stretcher, every clipped command from the paramedics. She didn’t interfere, didn’t step closer, didn’t speak—only watched, barely able to process, mind still foggy, heart hammering. She knew that she was supposed to step back, to let them work, to not get in the way. And she did. But it felt unbearable. The helplessness, the inability to do anything to fix him, pressed against her like a physical force.

The trauma bay swallowed him out of sight, and Lucy stayed frozen in the chair, hands still flexing, coated in blood, trembling. Her chest heaved, breaths uneven, mind foggy, still processing fragments of the alley, the gunshot, the blood on her hands, the warmth she had felt, the fear that had threatened to consume her.

She didn’t cry—not yet. She couldn’t. Shock had her in its tight grip. But every muscle in her body was tense, every nerve on edge, every heartbeat a reminder of the fragility of the life she had almost lost.

She pressed her palms together again, flexing her fingers, trying to rid them of the memory of warmth, but the sensation lingered, vivid and unshakable. The hospital smelled of antiseptic, urgency, and something sterile she couldn’t name, and she shivered in the chair, dazed, numb, raw.

All she could cling to was the single, repeated thought, looping like a mantra: He’s still alive. He’s still alive. He’s still alive.

And then a voice, sharp and urgent, sliced through her fog.

“We’ve got a code! Code blue! Patient coding!”

Her chest seized. Her hands, still slick with blood, clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. Her knees trembled violently beneath her, body rigid. The mantra in her head fractured, scattering like glass. Coding?

She stayed frozen, eyes locked on the swinging doors of the trauma bay. Her breath caught, shallow and uneven, the world around her a blur of lights, beeps, and moving figures. She wanted to do something—anything—but she couldn’t. She had to stay back. She knew that. She trusted them to work. And yet the panic clawed mercilessly at her chest, winding through her veins like fire, twisting her stomach, hammering in her skull.

Her fingers twitched, flexing uselessly, the lingering warmth of blood on her hands reminding her that she had been there, that she had felt him beneath her palms, and that now she was powerless. The staff’s voices and movements became a blur of clipped commands: compressions, crash cart, meds, pulse check, each one rattling against her bones.

The world narrowed. The beeping of monitors, the squeak of shoes, the whisper of voices—they were loud enough to drown out thought, soft enough to fragment it. She could see them move around him, precise, efficient, entirely in control, while she remained on the edge of the sterile floor, trembling, paralysed, swallowed by the white, the urgency, the panic.

Her heart hammered violently. Her mind spun in fragmented loops.

The metallic tang of blood lingered in her mouth, her hands slick and unclean. The antiseptic smell clung to her hair, her clothes, her skin. Her knees shook beneath her, her body trembling with adrenaline fading into raw, trembling shock. She wanted to collapse, to scream, to throw herself toward him—but she remained rooted, frozen, silent, helpless.

All she could do was watch, internalise every movement, every sound, every sharp, urgent command. Her eyes followed the stretcher through the doors she couldn’t cross, every second stretching impossibly long, every heartbeat hammering a reminder of the fragility of life.

And in the silence between the alarms, between the commands, in the bright, sterile white of the ER, one single thought kept looping, fragile and desperate: He’s still alive. He has to be. He has to be.

Chapter Text

Hours had passed—or maybe only minutes. Lucy couldn’t tell anymore. The harsh hospital lights cut through the haze in her vision, harsh and unrelenting, while the faint hum of activity around her seemed louder than it had any right to be. Tim was behind swinging doors, swallowed by the chaos of monitors and white-coated professionals moving efficiently around him, leaving her alone in a chair that suddenly felt too small, too rigid, and too real.

Her hands were still coated in blood, warm in memory, now dried and flaky, pressing against her lap. Her shirt clung damply to her skin, the smell of antiseptic sharp in her nose, mixing with the metallic smell that lingered from the alley. She didn’t move. She hadn’t even breathed properly for what felt like hours. Every beat of her heart thudded violently in her chest, each one echoing the gunshot that had almost taken him from her.

Footsteps approached, measured and deliberate. Grey appeared in the doorway, presence steady, voice calm, but Lucy immediately felt the tension beneath it. He was worried, she realised—his eyes scanning her quickly, the tight line of his jaw, the subtle clench of his fists. He kept it controlled, but she could see it.

“Lucy,” he said softly, voice low but steady. “I need you to turn over your badge and your gun. IA needs to handle the shooting.”

Her stomach dropped. The words hit like a brick wall. Gun. Badge. Investigation. Officer-involved shooting. Panic coiled tighter in her chest. She nodded automatically, sliding the badge and weapon across her lap. Her hands lingered on the badge for a brief moment, unwilling to let go, as if the act could erase the alley, the shot, the blood.

Grey didn’t move closer. He stood nearby, maintaining a professional posture, yet Lucy could feel the subtle weight of his concern in the way he remained, in the brief pause before he spoke again.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said softly, quiet, measured. “But right now, you follow the rules. IA will do its thing. You stay here.”

Lucy didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her chest heaved, breaths shallow and uneven. She felt paralysed, suspended in disbelief. Her fingers flexed, coated in thick, sticky blood, the warmth still imprinted on her memory. Every echo of Tim’s name, every fragment of the alley and the shot, hammered at her thoughts, looping relentlessly. He’s alive. He has to be. Stay alive. Don’t leave.

Grey’s eyes flicked toward the doors behind which Tim lay, then back to her, scanning for signs of movement, of control. “Are there any updates about him?” His voice was careful, professional, but the concern underlined every word.

Lucy’s mind stumbled, scrambling for something to say. But she couldn’t speak. Her throat felt tight, dry. The words lodged in her chest, blocked by the panic and shock. She only shook her head slightly, dazed, hollow-eyed.

Grey’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He wanted to ask more, to reassure her, to tell her it would be okay—but he had to maintain control, had to keep his posture measured. He stepped back slightly, still watching, still aware. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, the tension in his stance betrayed the worry he didn’t say aloud.

“I’ll be checking in,” he said finally, voice quiet, soft. “But you stay put.”

Lucy remained seated, frozen, hands still coated in blood, chest heaving, mind looping frantically. The monitors beeped, the faint shuffle of shoes echoed, the sterile smell of antiseptic pressed in on her, and Tim remained behind the doors, unconscious, fragile, his fate uncertain. She had to wait. She had no control. All she could do was sit there, silent, haunted by the alley, the gunshot, the warmth of his blood on her hands, and the terrifying uncertainty of whether he would make it.

Minutes dragged. Or hours. Time didn’t exist. Then more footsteps arrived, heavy and familiar. Officers filed in, one by one—faces she recognised, colleagues and friends—grounding her faintly in reality. Their presence didn’t pierce the haze entirely, but it offered something solid, a tether she could cling to while the rest of the world felt unreal.

Angela came in last, expression taut with worry. She assessed Lucy quickly, noting the frozen, dazed posture, the hands trembling and coated in blood.

“Lucy,” Angela said softly, kneeling slightly to meet her eyes, “let’s get you up. You’re going to be okay, okay?”

Lucy nodded faintly, allowing herself to be guided upright. Every step felt surreal, unsteady, like wading through thick water. Angela’s grip was firm, steady, and grounding. She didn’t rush her, didn’t speak too much; her presence alone offered a fragile sense of safety.

The hallway stretched out before them, quieter than the trauma bay but still tinged with the scent of antiseptic. Lucy’s hands hung at her sides, coated in blood, shaking. Angela led her to the nearest bathroom, keeping her close but not crowding her.

Once inside, Angela gestured to the sink. “Here,” she said quietly, handing her a paper towel. “Get it off. Just get it off.”

Lucy’s hands hovered over the running water, hesitant, almost afraid. Then she let the stream wash over them. Warm water, steady and real, anchored her slightly, pulling her out of the haze. She scrubbed carefully, mechanically, watching the red swirl and drain away. She couldn't get the blood out from under her nails and promptly gave up. Every motion deliberate, grounding her and forcing her out of the endless loop of panic. 

Angela stayed close, quiet, letting her work. No words of comfort, no judgment—just a steady presence, enough to remind Lucy that she wasn’t entirely alone in the sterile chaos.

When Lucy finally pulled her hands from the water, trembling but cleaner, she looked at them—pale now, streaked with residual red that would never fully leave memory. Angela gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible.

Lucy’s breath hitched, mind still looping, fragments of alley, shot, and blood pressing against her thoughts. But in the quiet, mundane act of rinsing her hands, she felt the tiniest tether back to the real world. The presence of Angela, Grey, and the other officers filing quietly in and out offered a fragile, grounding weight.

She was still dazed, still haunted—but for a single moment, she could breathe. She could wait. She could survive this part of it, while Tim remained behind the swinging doors, his fate still uncertain; her hands slowly returned to themselves, and the world outside the ER still turned, sharp and blinding, but no longer entirely unmanageable.

Chapter Text

The hospital had quieted considerably. The relentless hum of activity, the constant shuffle of feet and voices, had dwindled to a soft background murmur. Officers and friends had filtered out over the hours, their presence a temporary tether she’d clung to, and now Lucy found herself alone in the waiting area. Grey had checked in one last time before leaving, giving a brief, unreadable nod, and Angela had slipped away quietly, leaving a small, steadying silence behind.

The fluorescent lights above were softer now in her perception, no longer cutting sharply through her vision. Her hands rested in her lap, pale and trembling faintly, but free of the blood that had clung to them hours before. The panic that had hollowed her chest was still there, a faint echo, but it no longer consumed her entirely. She wasn’t dissociating anymore. She was simply waiting.

Time had become a strange, elongated thing. Minutes dragged in a monotone rhythm of distant monitors, faint squeak of shoes in the hallways, and the occasional murmur of late-night staff. Lucy’s gaze was fixed on the swinging doors that separated her from Tim, and with every silent heartbeat, her mind looped over fragments of the alley, the shot, the warmth of his blood under her hands, and the terror of losing him.

She hadn’t heard anything. Not a single update. The uncertainty was unbearable, a tight coil in her chest that made her stomach twist and her fingers itch to touch him, to check, to do something. But she knew better than to interfere; she had learned how hospitals worked, how paramedics took over, how even the strongest hands couldn’t always save someone without the team behind them.

A soft knock at the door startled her, drawing her gaze away from the swinging doors. Two figures stood in the doorway—a doctor and a nurse, moving with careful, measured steps. The doctor’s expression was professional, neutral, but Lucy immediately sensed the weight behind it, the gravity of the hours they had spent on Tim.

“Lucy?” the doctor asked gently. “I’m Dr Patel. Can we talk for a moment?”

Lucy nodded automatically, almost on autopilot, rising unsteadily to follow. Her legs felt shaky, her body still carrying the tremors from adrenaline and fear. She kept her hands clasped in front of her, fingers intertwined, as if holding herself together could somehow steady the storm inside.

They led her down the quiet hall, away from the monitors and the faint clamour of the remaining night staff. Each step felt heavy, surreal. She noticed the antiseptic tang in the air, the soft hum of the climate system, the subtle squeak of her shoes against the linoleum. It was all hyper-real, every sound amplified in the hollow space she now occupied.

Dr Patel stopped near a small alcove, motioning for Lucy to sit. “Tim is stable,” the doctor began carefully, choosing words with precision. “The bleeding has been controlled, and he’s responding to treatment. He’s unconscious right now, but he’s alive.”

Lucy’s chest constricted. She didn’t exhale immediately. Her fingers dug into each other as if grounding herself, testing reality. Alive. Alive. Her mind repeated the word like a mantra, fragile and tentative, fragile because hours of uncertainty had etched the terror deep into her bones.

“You can see him now,” the doctor continued, voice softer, a quiet permission more than anything else. “But he’s still sedated. We need to monitor him closely.”

Lucy nodded again, thanking him. She was still dazed but finally allowed a flicker of relief to seep in. Her gaze shifted toward the swinging doors once more, the monitors faintly visible through the small windows. Her whole body was still tight with tension, but the coil had loosened slightly, just enough for her to stand and follow the doctor back to Tim’s room.

The room was dim, the harsh overhead lights replaced by a soft lamp near the bed. Tim lay beneath a thin hospital blanket, chest rising and falling steadily, tubes and wires threaded around him, monitors beeping a calm, measured rhythm. He was pale, unconscious, but alive.

Lucy stopped at the edge of the bed. She didn’t reach out immediately. She couldn’t. Her hands hovered just above the blanket, still tingling from adrenaline, memory of the alley clinging stubbornly. But she could see him, steady and breathing, and it was enough.

Dr. Patel and the nurse gave a small nod and left quietly, letting her be alone with him. Lucy sank into the chair beside the bed, hands folded in her lap. Her fingers flexed slowly, testing themselves, still faintly trembling but no longer coated in blood. She let herself breathe, taking long, deliberate breaths, tasting the faint antiseptic tang in the air and feeling the slight warmth of the lamp on her skin.

For the first time since the shooting, Lucy allowed herself to feel—fear still lingering, yes, and guilt, the memory of the alley, the shot, the warmth of his blood—but also relief, fragile and bright, small enough to hold onto in this quiet, dimly lit room.

She stayed there, silent, letting herself be present. Alive. Waiting. Watching him breathe, steady and slow, as if the world had shrunk to just this moment.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Lucy sat frozen at the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white, fingers trembling faintly. Every so often, she flexed them, testing her grip, feeling the subtle residual tremors that hadn’t yet left her since the alley. The monitors’ rhythmic beeps were a strange comfort, a steady heartbeat she could cling to while the rest of the world still felt fragmented and distant.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the climate system and the faint, metallic scent of antiseptic that lingered in the air. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, every beat echoing through her skull. The minutes—or were they hours?—had blurred together, each one stretching unbearably. She had sat like this for so long that her body ached from immobility, her legs stiff and sore, her back protesting from hours of tension. Yet she hadn’t moved from her vigil. She couldn’t. She wasn’t sure she could breathe if she looked away for even a second.

Then, imperceptibly, a flutter.

Lucy’s breath caught. She stiffened, heart surging, the chair suddenly too small beneath her. Tim’s eyelids flickered, just barely, like fragile wings testing the air.

“Tim?” Her voice was barely a whisper, a fragile sound that startled even her own ears. It was rough, quiet, trembling. She didn’t know if she expected him to respond—or if she even allowed herself to hope—but the word escaped anyway.

His eyelids opened again, slower this time, and for the first time, she saw his gaze. It was hazy, unfocused, as if he were wading through a thick fog, but it was there. Real. Alive.

Lucy’s chest tightened, a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding escaped in a short, shaky exhale. Her fingers twitched, itching to reach out. She did, almost instinctively, brushing her hand gently over his knuckles. The warmth of his skin was thin, fragile, but real—and grounding.

He moved, just barely, trying to lift a hand, and she leaned closer, careful not to startle him. “Hey… It’s okay,” she murmured, voice breaking slightly. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

Tim’s lips curved in the faintest, tentative smile. His voice came out hoarse, rough from disuse, barely more than a rasp: “Lucy…”

Relief hit her like a wave, sudden and hot, and she exhaled fully this time, her chest finally loosening. The trembling in her hands spread up her arms in pulses, but it felt less like terror now, more like the remnants of it dissipating. She let her thumb brush along his knuckles, feeling the faint squeeze of his fingers around hers. It was small, fragile, but enough proof that he was truly here. Alive.

Her mind flashed to the alley, the shot, the warmth of his blood under her hands, the terror that had clenched her chest so tightly it had felt as if her ribs would snap. The memory made her stomach twist, but it was now tempered by the warmth of his hand, the rise and fall of his chest, and the gentle rhythm of the monitors. She allowed herself to acknowledge it, to let the panic be there without swallowing her whole.

Tim blinked again, slower this time, eyes focusing just a little. His gaze lingered on her face, trying to recognise, trying to remember. “You-.. are you okay?” His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“Im okay,” she whispered, almost a breath, her thumb still brushing along his knuckles. “You’re okay now, too.”

A faint, tired smile tugged at his lips. It was a small, fleeting curve, but Lucy clung to it like a lifeline. She let herself lean closer, careful not to press or crowd him. Her chest was still tight with adrenaline, but her mind began the slow work of untangling itself, piece by piece.

He tried to speak again, throat raw. She shook her head gently, brushing back a stray strand of hair that had fallen into her face. “Don’t try to talk too much,” she murmured softly. “Just… stay here. Breathe. You’re okay.”

She noticed the small details now, subtle shifts she hadn’t been able to perceive before: the faint rise of his shoulders with each shallow breath, the delicate twitch of his fingers, the way his eyelids occasionally flickered as he tried to hold onto consciousness. Every tiny movement sent pulses of relief and lingering fear through her chest, but she stayed calm, keeping her hand steady on his.

Lucy’s mind wandered briefly to the first moments after the shot—the alley, the heat of blood, the shock and disbelief—and she realised she had been carrying all of it inside her, unprocessed. Now, seeing him breathing, waking, alive, she could finally start to let it go, at least enough to breathe without panic clawing at her lungs.

She didn’t speak again. She didn’t need to. Being here, present, holding his hand, was enough. The world beyond the bed—the chaos, the gunshot, the fear—felt distant now, a memory that existed but no longer controlled her. Her body slowly uncoiled, muscles loosening, though the tremor in her fingers remained, gentle and persistent, a quiet reminder of what had passed.

Tim’s eyes tracked hers, trying to focus, trying to connect. She met his gaze steadily, silently, letting him anchor himself to her as she had anchored herself to him. The room hummed softly around them: monitors, faint ventilation, distant footsteps in the hall. All ordinary, mundane, safe in comparison to the alley, to the gunshot, to the terror she had felt hours before.

Another small squeeze of his hand, a faint but intentional gesture, reminded her that he was truly here, awake, alive. Her heart swelled with a mixture of relief, lingering fear, and quiet gratitude. She exhaled, longer this time, letting her chest loosen fully, letting herself feel.

Lucy stayed with him, silent, present, hands intertwined, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. She didn’t speak, didn’t move beyond the smallest, most careful gestures. She didn’t need to. They were here, together, alive, and for now, that was enough.

The monitor’s steady beep, the faint hum of the hospital, the warmth of his fragile hand in hers—it all felt enough. For the first time in hours, she could let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, they had survived this.

Lucy exhaled slowly, letting herself sink a little lower in the chair. Her fingers still held his hand, tracing the contours gently, memorising the warmth she had feared she’d lost forever. The tremor in her chest had subsided, leaving behind a fragile yet steady calm.

Without thinking, almost instinctively, she leaned forward and pressed her lips lightly to his forehead. It was brief, a soft, almost reverent kiss, a quiet acknowledgment of him being alive, of him still being here. Tim’s fingers tightened around hers in the faintest squeeze, and she let herself linger for a heartbeat longer, breathing him in, letting herself feel the fragile relief that had been withheld for hours.

Pulling back slightly, she rested her forehead near his hand, eyes fixed on him, watching his chest rise and fall. The beeping of the monitors, the soft hum of the hospital, the dim glow of the lamp—all of it faded into the background. In this small, still moment, everything that had happened—the alley, the blood, the fear—was far away. There was only him. Only her. Only the quiet proof that they had survived.

And for the first time since the shot, Lucy let herself truly relax.