Write You A Tragedy

Rating: T. For now. Anybody who has ever read my work probably knows where this is headed. Delves a little dark, my friends.

Summary: Toxic ooze. Surviving a dozen bullet wounds to the chest and waking up with bones of steel. This kind of stuff doesn't happen in real life, does it? Gail Peck always loved comic books... but she never imagined that she would be... the hero. Serve and Protect. That's her job, isn't it?

Author's note: Talk about an experiment. Post 5X03. GailXHolly. I will not continue if there is not enough interest so, please, let me know if there is. I've never done an AU. But I guess it won't kill me to try something new. Points to anyone who knows where the title comes from.

Feet pound upon the pavement, the sound echoing in the black, hollow night. Two sets at a rapid pace, pushing as hard and as fast as they both possibly can, fighting. One for freedom, one for justice, for respect. She can hear the breaths in the night, see her own puffing out, making a cloud in front of her face. Her lungs burn, her feet and legs ache with the exertion but she pushes on, eager to put an end the already labor-us apprehension of the suspect. She shouts her location into the radio on her chest, asks for back up, is met with a stat-icky silence. A curse puffs from her lips but the knowledge that it's just her- her and this scum sucking son of a bitch- alone together, just her standing between him and the freedom she so desperately wants- needs- to take away from him- it makes her push all the harder, makes her determination all the more great.

She tackles him from behind with a growl, spearing into the small of his back and rolling with the weight of him. A brief struggle as he punches her in the face, hard, and goes to run once more. Her fingers grasp at his leg, digging into the skin of his calf, dragging herself behind him. She focuses ob her other hand not latched to the suspect, finds it drifting to the gun on her thigh. She grips it, shouts a warning, and removes it from its holster.

She doesn't expect the weight of him, crashing down upon her, doesn't anticipate the heel that comes kicking back into her nose. She curses, feels the coppery taste intensify in her mouth. Gives chase as he gains his footing and runs once more.

She rounds the corner of the alley, follows the sound of his heels clicking upon the concrete, follows it into a large, abandoned warehouse that blankets her immediately in its darkness. She feels the force of his body crashing into her from behind, hears the clatter of her gun as it skids onto the hollow, wooden floor.

Seconds feel like hours.

The struggle is hard. The tang in her mouth makes her nauseous. She's never been good at seeing in the dark.

She sees his face, illuminated, when he fires upon her. Her vest takes the first two. The other seven or so hit their target. The last of the clip ricochets amongst the stock in the warehouse. The last thing she remembers is the feel of something, something vile and putrid, some kind of liquid burning her skin. The last thing she remembers is the thought of dying, of the faces of the people who loved her best. She wonders about them, almost feels relieved. She was never good with goodbyes. She's almost glad she's alone. Almost glad she doesn't have to see the look of devastation on her face. She drifts into nothingness, the burning in her veins giving way to a pleasant, quiet white.

She wakes to the sound of beeping. The sound of dripping tubes and buzzing wires. Her throat is dry, her eyes tired. A voice rouses her, makes her head loll to the side.

It's not the person she necessarily wanted but it's someone that she doesn't mind to see.

Ollie's smile is wide, his own eyes tired but bright.

His hand squeezes hers, his voice coming out loud and excited.

"Peck! Holy hell! Welcome back, buddy!"

He claps his hand on her shoulder and grimaces at the ensuing groan, his own hand suddenly snapping back from her shoulder and waving back and forth, seemingly in pain.

"Holy shit, Peck! You been working out? Ouch!"

She shakes her head, trying to formulate words. He takes sympathy then, reaching for the cup beside her, letting her take long, thirsty draws of water.

"I'm going to call the doctor, okay, pal?"

She doesn't answer, simply lets her eyes close, letting the water soother down her battered throat.

The second time she wakes, there's a man in a white coat standing over her smiling and telling her how lucky and remarkable she is. So many bullets, so little damage. Radioactive material, no chemical burns. She's either a freak or a miracle. She snarks back to him, chases him out of the room and is met with silence, finally. Turns on the TV with the remote or tries to. The broken plastic feels like legos in her palm, the wires still sparking with electricity. She frowns. She's stronger than she thought.

She's discharged on the third day, her brother coming to pick her up in his battered truck. His eyebrows raise when she strides, confident, out of the room. He doesn't say a word, simply watches her was she walks out and plants herself in the passenger side and closes her eyes. He drives her home, drops her off. Her mother calls. She doesn't answer.

Holly calls all of the time. She doesn't answer, of course, the sting of her friend's rejection still fresh in her mind as well as the humiliation she feels when she thinks of what she wanted to give the brunette- what the brunette did not want to return.

She doesn't want to be fun. She wants to be something to somebody. Anything, really. She wants Holly to be that someone. Holly's friends make her think that she isn't.

She focuses on the recovery, focuses on everything that comes with it. Focuses on the power now flowing through her veins.

She discovers she can fly on a Thursday. She calls in sick to work, her voice high and excited and terrified and feigns sickness because holy fuck she can fly and this is something she is not trained to handle but something she is all too eager to embrace.

The super strength is there, and sometimes, sometimes she hears thoughts. She thinks that this is useful but learns to turn it off when she doesn't want any part in what the person is thinking. She figures it has something to do with the the shooting. She becomes a kick ass police officer. She knows when you're lying. She knows when you've been bad or good. Peck becomes a monster in the interrogation room in such a short time.

She begins to believe that there is something better out there for her, begins to believe that there is a greater good in which she could be serving. Gail Peck was born to be a police officer. Gail Peck was born to serve and protect. Gail Peck decided, one cold and rainy Toronto night, on the third night she could not sleep no matter how hard she tried, that there was more to what happened to her than what she was doing. What she knew she needed to be doing.

Gail Peck can't sleep because there are things that need to be done, things that need to be protected and solved and people that should be brought the justice. People she could deliver and predict and put where they belong.

She decides to be a hero that day.

She decides to make a difference.

Please review. Have faith. Thank you.

Whit