Maggie had nightmares. They all did. It was part of the job.
That didn't make them suck any less.
Her consciousness forced her to watch it. Again and again. Except this time, the bullet didn't stop at his vest.
It stopped after tearing through his heart.
It stopped after tearing through his neck.
It stopped after killing him.
After the third time she wakes, she gives up on sleep entirely. She debates calling him, but she's supposed to be angry with him. But she wouldn't be able to take it if he was hurt because of her. She instead opts for the more self-destructive option and climbs out of bed, and settles herself in the living room. She can't sleep, so she may as well work.
—
OA refuses to be admitted. He knows he should, bruised ribs are nothing to mess with, but the thought of practically admitting Maggie was right, and not acting as he should've, his pride outwits the logic and he signs himself out, sore, barely able to breathe, and all he can think of is that change in pitch of her voice. He couldn't decide if he'd imagined it, or. If her voice had cracked when she was reassuring him (or herself, but he couldn't dwell on that.)
He wanted to call her, to ask her if she was alright, to tell her he was, but she was angry at him. With him. And worse, she was disappointed. Again.
He couldn't handle the rejection.
He laid himself gingerly on the couch, in his empty apartment, and stared at the ceiling.
He wouldn't be sleeping tonight.
—
OA woke coughing. He'd shifted in his sleep, shifting his torso into something contorted, and thoroughly uncomfortable. He felt like something was stabbing him, but he ignored it. Figuring it for a twinge, he carefully got dressed, re-dressing his ribs, and armed himself one-handed. He refused to admit that twinge felt worse when he reached across his body.
—
Maggie hauled herself up the couch, shaking off the sleepiness brought on by her lack of sleep. She made a pot of double black coffee, and left it to brew while she dressed for work. She ignored the fact that the coffee was not going to help her insomnia. She knew she should call—no. She wouldn't. They'd bench her until she got herself straightened out, and field work was all she had.
She poured her coffee and left.
—
They met, by chance, in the elevator, like every other morning. They were so in sync with each other, it was scary.
But it's why they worked so well together.
The silence was thick, almost suffocating. Neither wanted to be the first to make a move.
They parted ways at their respective desks. They began their day, not even looking at each other.
—
OA couldn't choke back the cough any longer. He tried, but it was so hard to hold it back. He tried to muffle it, but there was no muffling this. It was hard, and damn did it hurt.
—
Maggie's head flew up when she heard it, but it dipped back down. She was supposed to be angry at him.
—
OA's cough only got worse through the day. He was finding it harder to breathe deeply, too. He'd taken to not engaging with other agents extensively, a simple, gruff "Thanks" told everyone to back the hell off. He didn't need to deal with their concern, their sympathy. They were just cracked ribs. What was new with that?
He laid himself atop a pile of pillows, chest elevated to help him breathe. He would get sick, it was his luck. He'd started to feel warm about two hours before he was set to go, and desk duty had the advantage of being consistent. He could leave on time. And hide this from her.
That was his only worry.
—
Maggie noticed the change in his demeanor the closer it got to the end of the day. She noticed him pack up as soon as he could. She noticed him not wearing a coat.
She shook her head. This wasn't the time. By now, it was well after he'd left. Hell, even Jubal and Kristen had left. It was just her and Dana. She took another long drink of her coffee, now the sludge of the office. It didn't wake her any.
She worked, hours ticked by, and she found herself dozing at her desk, head dropping every so often. She didn't have time for this. She looked at the clock. Nearly eleven. She should sleep, go home, shower, change, something other than toil at her desk. But she couldn't. If she went home, it meant the quiet, the nightmares, exactly what she was attempting to avoid. So she continued this pattern, until she physically couldn't any more.
Only then did she admit defeat. Only then did she consent to herself to return home for a cat nap and a change of clothes.
—
OA woke the next morning feeling like death warmed over. His chest hurt, breathing burned, and there was no way he could hide it now. But if he called out, it was over. Everyone would know.
Worse, she would know.
He dragged himself through something resembling his morning routine, hoping he was dressed appropriately. He stumbled his way to his car, using most of his energy to focus on not hitting anything and not running lights. He arrived late to the office, something he was unusually grateful for. It meant he missed the daily elevator ride with her.
He stumbled over his own feet to his desk, and attempted to login three times before it occurred to him he couldn't remember his login credentials. As he pretended to write something in a file while he tried to figure out what on earth they could be, he snuck a glance at her.
God, she looked terrible. Bags under her eyes, hair down and straight, clothes plain and dull, eyes...sad. There was no other emotion, they were sad, mouth downturned, except for the occasional yawn. The extra large coffee was clearly not the first, as previous ones littered her desk and overflowed the can underneath it.
Maggie almost never drank coffee, unless...OA couldn't hold it back. "You're not sleeping again."
He wants to smack himself as soon as he hears it. Of course she's not. Look at her, for god's sake.
Maggie shoots him a look that could freeze Hell. "That's none of your business," She says, acid biting her tone. There's also a familiar lilt to the words, one he only notices when cases run into long nights. Her words begin to lose distinction, and her personality shuts off into this businesslike persona. OA is seeing it and hearing it now. He understands. He wouldn't be sleeping either, if he didn't feel like hell.
He stands, and forgetting his pain, reaches across his desk for something.
This, and only this, is his undoing.
—
Maggie watches as he falls, and though she's angry with his actions, she shoots up.
No.
No, not again.
She can't lose him.
Dammit. She can't.
She watched this once already.
Why did she have to relive her nightmares?
She's at his side before she makes a conscious decision to move. Her first aid training goes out the window. She feels heat running down her face. She didn't have time for tears.
OA was HURT. He was hurt and there was nothing she could DO.
She felt so damn helpless. She kept a hand on his chest, to monitor his breathing, and felt something shift beneath it.
She knew what that meant. He'd been close to having a broken rib when he was examined, but he was cleared. She thought.
He'd broken it. Because of her. Her stubbornness.
She shoved her emotions away. There would be time for those...eventually.
The EMT's arrived quickly. She explained what had happened, desperately tried to recall the treating doctor at the ER, the responding ambulance. She felt like a hysterical wife, not a credentialed FBI agent.
She follows him where he goes, protecting him like she should've the first time. She looks at the x-rays, at his lungs and his ribs, something she should've noticed even before he did. She sits by his bed, trying to be strong, just be a friend, but...she can't. Her tears run, even as she falls asleep leaning on his bed, sitting up.