Battle Wounds
Little angsty oneshot that popped into my head.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine
She's off of her game today.
She knows it as she straps on the kevlar vest; as she ties back her hair, loads her gun, looks for confirmation at the faces of her team once more before entering the house. Already there's frantic voices directed at her. Already, the kidnappers and gang bangers, barricaded inside the house, were yelling profanities at the cops, their voices rising, loud and angry, above the sirens.
Someone throws in a tear gas grenade inside and the swearing voices turn into chokes.
She expertly signals; the fall in.
It's just another case, she tells herself. I've done it a million times before. This is what I do; I'm Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon. This is what I do.
She leads the way into the smoke-filled room. She squints as the white smoke stings her eyes.
And then suddenly it all takes a different turn – suddenly, it's not the group of brave, armed cops coming after the cornered and helpless criminals anymore. Behind her, she hears the cracking sound as a window breaks into a million shards. That unmistakably loud sound of a bullet being shot, millions and millions of times in succession, as the suspects find their automatic weapons from... somewhere.
"Get down!" Cho screams and they all duck for cover, popping up every available moment to try and get a shot in towards them.
This is not her day, she realizes again as she hides behind an overturned dinner table. Dust and sharp shards of wood and glass fly everywhere. She could feel her skin being scratched, the sharp sting of a semi-sharp object drawing blood.
She pops up, aims carefully and shoots.
A small smile breaks over her face when she hears a scream of pain, hears one of the guns fall heavily on the floor and the series of gunshots stop.
And then it falls again.
She looks down at the source of the new, searing pain that's igniting her every vein. She sees several of the metallic-y black bullets smushed against her chest, against the vest. And the bright red bloodstain quickly forming on the bottom hem of her blouse and the denim fabric of her jeans.
"Boss!" She hears someone scream. Maybe Cho, maybe Rigsby... Her ears are popping from the noise of the gunshots and she staggers back, trying to shield herself from the dust and the noise and the violence.
Someone catches her, brings her back down to the shielded area behind the table. She wants to stand up, stubbornly insist that she's okay and doesn't need to be taken care of, but the room is spinning at the stain is growing larger, fast. She feels someone brushing her unruly fringe out of her face, hears a faint voice whispering some indistinguishable words of courage.
I'm fine... Her mind screams, but she can only choke out a strangled moan. I'm not fine. Get me out of here...
There's screaming now, as the automatic weapons shoot, but no bullets fly; just dull clicks, hopeless.
She hears Cho and Rigsby, their distinctive, assertive voices.
Was that the faint clinking of handcuffs?
"You're gonna be okay, Boss, you're gonna be okay." She hears Van Pelt's voice now, clearer and louder above her, and the image of her worried face – too young to be ridden with the wrinkles that it is – appear in front of her. "The ambulance is on its way; just hang in there!" Her blue eyes and vivid red hair become fuzzy.
And then everything becomes fuzzy...
And then everything gets dark.
X
He wants to run through the hallways, but the angry and overtly-violent prison guard and the shackles around his ankles prevent him from doing so.
It feels slower than he knows it probably is, but he can barely breath in anxiousness. Not in a good way.
Clink, clink.
The shackles mock him as they clink on the tiled floors.
He should've been there. He should've been there when she ran into that death trap. He should've been there to tell her not to.
At the very least, he should've been there when she was lying there, alone and scared and wounded. To hold her hand and tell her everything would be fine.
To tell her the words that he's always been to terrified to admit – to himself, or to her.
But he wasn't. He was in prison.
He had never thought about this factor when he spent his many lonesome nights on the couch in the bullpen or the attic... He had thought about the satisfaction of finally getting revenge. He had thought about what it would feel like; if it'd be better, or worse.
He didn't think what it'd be like to live without them. The team, Lisbon... his new family.
He must've known he'd miss them.
He had no idea about the degree of how much he would miss her.
And now this was happening.
She got shot at a crime scene; from all the hundreds of crime scenes and shootouts, this was the one where she would get shot. And not just a graze on the shoulder, or a bullet hole through her collar. A very serious gunshot wound that nicked an artery and did serious damage. The kind of gunshot wounds that killed people.
And he was in prison.
What was worse was that he knew exactly why it happened. She was off of her game, and it was his fault.
He had seen her face at the final hearing. He had seen the absolute sadness, the brokenness, in her eyes when they walked him out of the court room with his hands cuffed behind his back. He caught her eye, green and filled with unwanted moisture, and he had looked away immediately.
That was barely a week ago.
It was his fault...
Finally they arrived in ICU, greeted by a tired-looking team who struggled to hold his gaze with their black-rimmed eyes and a red-haired doctor.
She eyes him up and down critically, obviously only seeing the prison clothes and the shackles. But she filled him in anyway.
He only heard half of her explanation; it was only half-understandable between all of the medical terms.
And behind her, through the open blinds, he saw her.
Paler than he's ever seen, with a tube shoved down her throat and a whole assortment of bags and fluids hung around her and attached everywhere to her arm. What shocked him most was the sounds he heard; the loud, mechanical breathing through the tube. But none of the ready beeping that he's seen on TV. He didn't hear a heart monitor... Did that mean..?
"Can I go in?" He interrupted the doctor in half-sentence.
Her eyes flashed between him and Lisbon, and she quieted. "Sure. Go ahead."
He entered through the glass door, and his police escort stayed outside, sensing this was personal.
Her hand was like ice, and paler than death. Her arms and her face were scarred; battle wounds. His voice caught in his throat at the sight of her, closer, but so incredibly far away from him.
It felt like it dead when he discovered Angela.
She was here, but she wasn't. And it killed him.
"I'm sorry, Teresa." He whispered; his voice was barely there. "I'm so, so sorry. I should've been there. I should've been with you... This is all my fault." He choked on a sob, but held back threatening tears. "I'm so, so sorry... I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." He kept repeating into vacant, unresponsive space.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand. "I should've listened to you. Then none of this would've happened. If I knew..." He hesitated. "If I admitted how I felt... If I let myself move on, maybe..."
He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and looked up. He was met by the teary eyes of Van Pelt who offered a barely-there sad smile. He nodded, understanding her unspoken words and looked back to Lisbon.
He raised her hands to his lips and kissed the cold skin, lingering as new tears fell on his cheeks and dripped down to her flesh.
He sat for another moment, then gently placed the hand – now wet with his warm tears – over the other on her chest, turned and walked away, back to his prison escort.
He looked back one more time as they walked back and the tears fell on his cheeks.
Okay, very, very angsty there. But hey? I love my angst... Please review!
Much love, Zanny