Russ bent over in relief as the gun went down. He blinked, and a gunshot exploded through the air.

"No!" Russ screamed when Milt collapsed. "Milt. Milt! Milt!" He dropped to his knees and pressed his hand down on the bleeding bullet hole. "Get an ambulance now," he yelled over his shoulder at Font. He turned back to look at Milt, to make the younger man meet his gaze. "Hey, hey, you're gonna be ok," Russ murmured.

Milt was silent for a moment before he focused his gaze on Russ. "I know," he whispered. And then it was laugh or cry. So… they laughed. Like drunk idiots, they laughed. Until the pain grew to be too much and Milt was groaning instead of laughing.

"Hang on," Russ urged, patting the side of Milt's face. "Font, where the hell is that ambulance?"

Milt nodded and shifted a bit. "Are y… you ok?"

Russ stared. "What?"

"He kicked you… pretty hard."

"No! Stop it!" Milt begged. Russ barely heard it over his own agony, but he heard enough to know.

Russ chuckled disbelievingly. "You have a gunshot wound in your shoulder, and you're asking about a few bruises?"

Milt opened his mouth, but ended up only doing a one-armed shrug. "Seriously, though."

Russ shook his head. "I'm better off than you are."

Milt lifted his head at the sound of sirens. "Still," he pressed, "you should get checked out, too."

"Hey, I've got a girlfriend," Russ protested. Milt's laugh turned into a groan, and his hand feebly grabbed Russ's wrist. Russ lifted one of his hands to grip him in response for a moment.

"I'm just gonna squeeze in for a second," Font muttered. Both partners cleared their throats and let go of each other. Font quickly freed Russ from his handcuffs and backed away, returning to the father of the boy Milt had inadvertently gotten killed and had been trying to make up for ever since.

Plants crunched underneath tires as the ambulance rolled up, the lights still flashing but the siren silenced. An EMT slipped out before the ambulance had come to a full stop and jogged over. Milt flinched at his sudden appearance, reaching for Russ again. Russ eased back, letting the EMT give Milt's wound proper care, letting Milt hold his wrist, reassuring himself that Milt was conscious and healthy enough to do so.

As they were preparing to lift him onto the stretcher, the second EMT, a woman, glanced at the contact. "We've gotta take him."

Russ nodded. Not taking his eyes from Milt's, he carefully extricated his wrist, promising, "I'll be at the hospital when you wake up, ok?"

"Ok," Milt whispered. The vulnerability in his gaze tugged at Russ's heart.

-BC-

Hospital chairs sucked. They were too short, too thin, wobbly, the cushions didn't cushion, and they were placed as far away from the patient's bedside as possible. Maybe the cushion part was just because no position he found could ease the pain in his cracked rib. And maybe he didn't feel close enough because the concussion and sun were screwing with his sight, but still: Hospital chairs sucked.

Grabbing his chair, Russ dragged it around Milt's bed so he wasn't staring straight into the sun, and dropped down into it again, his rib instantly punishing him for it. He forcibly kept his hand from rubbing his head. He distracted himself from the itch of the stitches by glancing at Milt's vitals.

They were strong and steady. Russ didn't know why he was worrying. His partner lay on the hospital bed, still sound asleep on account of the pain meds – but not unconscious because of his injuries. His arm rested in a bright blue sling, bandages peeking out from underneath his hospital gown. The blood had been cleaned off his face, which was only a couple shades too pale. For the most part, he could have just been taking a nap.

And yet, Russ worried. Despite the urgings of his coworkers and nurses, his legs refused to take him from the room. His eyes continuously strayed to the vitals, or to make sure Milt's chest still rose and fell. When Milt shifted unconsciously, some instinct drove his hand to smooth the new wrinkles in his sheets or sling.

A gentle hand on his shoulder jerked him out of his thoughts. "Hey, Russ."

He leaned against the newcomer. "Hi, Holly."

"I brought you some water," she murmured, handing him a cup. He took it gratefully, though he felt like a little kid again as he sipped it through a straw. She went to drag over her own chair, picking up his free hand and rubbing it.

"Are you here to tell me I should leave?" Russ muttered, his tone coming out harsher than he had intended.

She took it in stride. "No. I mean, I know you need rest of your own, but I also know you won't get it unless you're here, because underneath your prickly shell, I know you care."

Russ tilted his head at her. She laughed and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Hey, if I didn't know that, I wouldn't be your girlfriend, would I?"

"Shouldn't you be on a plane right now?" Russ asked, suddenly remembering she had to go to school again.

"I don't have to leave for another hour, and I wanted to see the two of you first." She reached up to finger comb his hair. Russ sighed and let her coddle him as they waited for the sleeping FBI agent to wake. He slid into a light doze, despite his anxiety over his partner.

"Russ…" a faint voice mumbled.

He snapped upright. "Milt?"

Pale brown eyes blinked blearily at him. "I see you… got checked out."

Holly laughed, a sweet, musical sound to Russ's ears. "Everyone was right, Russ: You didn't need to worry."

Drugs still slurred Milt's voice a bit. "You worried 'bout me?"

"Of course not," Russ spluttered.

Milt smirked, and Holly laughed adoringly. She lightly kissed Russ on the head, then stood to pat Milt on his uninjured shoulder. "I'll see you later, boys. Don't do anything stupid until I get back."

"How can we? You're taking all the stupid with you," Milt joked.

"Ok, you are not drugged enough to believe even for a moment that Holly is stupid."

"But I'm drugged enough to pretend I'm drugged enough to believe it for a moment," Milt retorted.

Holly shook her head. "At least try to stay out of trouble."

"I think we all know that's not an option," Russ pointed out.

Holly groaned and left, calling "Goodbye" over her shoulder. Russ crossed his arms and glared at his partner.

"You drove my girlfriend away."

"Um, I think you did," Milt protested.

"I'm going to blame you anyway."

Milt rolled his eyes a bit. "How long have you been here?"

Russ shrugged. "Since yesterday, I guess. But I definitely have not been in your room the whole time."

Milt opened his mouth, but let it go. "So is there something besides your adorable worry keeping you here?"

Russ shot another glance at his vitals. "It's probably nothing, but the doctors… They said, after the surgery, that your shoulder area showed signs of excessive strain."

Milt turned his head away, swallowing uncomfortably. "It's no-"

"Milt."

The young man took a deep breath. "You know how I said I was out for a jog the morning my car got blown up?"

"What does jogging have to do with your shoulder?"

"I exercise. A lot. You could probably say I do it excessively. Jogging, push-ups, pull-ups, curl-ups, you name it, I do it. It's, uh, it's how I prepare to act so… everyone says perfectly."

"Wait. You do that to keep yourself so happy?"

Milt ran his free hand through his hair. "Not really happy, if you look in my desk drawer. I just… It hasn't been easy since I got those teens killed."

"Milt, you were doing your job."

"They were kids."

"Kids or not, you can't just push yourself to the breaking point out of guilt over something that happened years ago. It won't make it disappear."

Milt deflated. "Maybe not, but…"

"But nothing. There are healthier ways to release your anger."

"Which you would know so much about?"

"Holly's teaching me."

Milt finally looked at him again. "Do you realize how weird this is?"

Russ leaned back in his chair. "This is Battle Creek, man. Nothing makes sense."

Milt chuckled, then eased off in a faint groan. "Ow."

Russ reached over and hit the call button. "You need more pain meds."

"I'm fine," Milt mumbled. Russ stared at him pointedly when he noticeably froze to spare his shoulder from movement. "Ok, maybe not."

Russ sat in silence as a nurse came in, flirted with Milt a bit, gave him his pain meds, and left. Milt's end of the conversation was barely half-intelligible after that (Russ tapped the record button on his phone for leverage later on), and he was asleep an hour later. The nurse came back to inform him visiting hours were over, so Russ stood to leave. He paused in the doorway and looked back at Milt's vulnerable sleeping form. And realized why he had worried.

Just like everyone else, he had fallen. Fallen into the trap that was FBI Special Agent Milton Chamberlain. But not because he was this perfect angel that everyone thought he was. His walls of cynicism had fallen for a man who was so perfectly imperfect. Not an angel, but a human.

"See you tomorrow, partner," he told his sleeping friend.