Author's Note: Okay, okay. I wrote this while I was drunk and, hey, since "Waypoint" has been updated and it's one of my favorites, well, here you go. I was inspired. I both loathe and love the whole "shot, on the verge of death, love me" trope so here it is. I've got a billion other things going so God knows when I'll get the other part posted but, you know, comments always help with motivation so if you want, please go.

Rating: T, for now.


You've been detective in training for all of twenty minutes (okay, two months but it might as fucking well be) when it happens. Frankie's making some smart ass remark about your basic grooming habits which she had, coincidentally, just also discovered within the last two weeks, when you see the glint out of the corner of your eye. A suspect that they had been questioning, a shout. The smart ass response dies in your throat, your eyes flicking to the other detective.

She's in front of you, her infuriating smirk directed at you, fully unaware of what is about to happen and then you're springing into action, your body blanketing in front of hers. You feel the bullet lodge itself into your sternum and stick. And then it's just the rush and you feel her. She's beneath you, gun already out, firing. The sound of clamoring footsteps assaults your ears as she rushes toward the suspect.

You open your mouth, grimace as a thick stream of liquid erupts from your pale lips. Try to speak.

It seems like hours before her face is over yours, hands pushing down, a new fire rushing through your body, your lungs aching for breath.

Her voice is hollow, her face starting to fade. You can't make out the words that she is saying to you, can't see the panic beginning to flood her eyes.

Black starts to tinge the edges of your vision, a pleasant white numbness beginning to fill your senses.

You blink once, twice, your hand coming up to cup her face in your hands as a slow and lazy smile spreads on your mouth with the void.

Dark hair, dark eyes, glasses.

You move your hand to her face, caress a cheek, your brows furrowing in confusion when she wrenches from your touch.

Olive skin, full lips.

Her face, her name, the only thing revolving in your swimming head.

It's been so long and it's so, so good to see her face.

You let the darkness take you, her name falling from your lips, the loud but distant sirens failing to echo in your ears.


The emergency room erupts as the crew rushes through the swinging double doors of the hospital, the blonde on the gurney, an EMT on top, hands seemingly glued to her chest as he pumps one, two, three times, shouting to the rushing nurse and doctor. The brunette detective runs with the stretcher, shouts out questions about the jargon that she has little hope of understanding.

There are no responses and she can see the panic in their eyes, the rush in their movements.

She watches helplessly as they disappear behind the theatre doors. A nurse comes to her, asks her questions.

The words fall helplessly from her lips. She grimaces at all of the unanswered inquiries- she and Gail had slept together but she couldn't for the life of her remember her middle name (if she'd ever even learned it), and aside from Steve, knew none of her family, not really, echoing names that she had heard in passing, on documents with headers. The nurse looks at the detective expectantly and Frankie knows then who she has to contact. With a sigh, she pulls the phone out of her pocket and makes a call.

Mere minutes later, the brunette detective jumps to her feet from the chair in the waiting room she had somehow found when she sees the familiar standard issue uniform shoes marching toward her. She's barely standing when Oliver is barking questions and she can hear Chris' voice inquiring at the nurse's station. The words die in her throat at Oliver's biting questions, feels herself shrinking back from this man- always so kind and calm- coming apart in front of her.

She tells him what happened to her best recollection, watches with trepidation when she tells him it took two blocks of chasing the son of a bitch who shot at them to realize her partner wasn't behind her. He asks what happened and her gaping mouth and lack of voice echoes louder in the hall than any words ever could have.

He begins to turn on his heel, the anguish, the uncertainty beginning to wash over his entire body.

A question burns on her lips, though, a question still sticking to the forefront of her mind. It leaves her mouth before she can stop it, the words so foreign to her own lips. They're quiet, unsure, shaking.

"Oliver," she says, reaching out a hand to his shoulder and thinking better of it when he turns his tired and stormy eyes her way, "Oliver- who's Holly?"


Two thousand miles away a phone erupts on a desk and a tan hand comes out to swat at it without even looking its way, trying in vain to kill the sound. A few more well placed swats and the sound fades, a breath she didn't even know she was holding leaving her lips as she squinted at the object in front of her. A slow, slight move of her hand with the ten blade, a quick move to the right, and-

Her body jumps as the phone blares once more, the blade clenched in her fist.

"Goddammit!" she curses, grabbing the phone without a look at the I.D., frustration blooming behind her eyes.

"Dr. Stewart," she says brusquely, glaring at the cadaver in front of her. She'd been trying to perfect the cut for months and had been so close and yet-

When the person on the other end doesn't respond, she feels a growl crawl up her throat, the aching and pressure in her head growing more intense with the seemingly pointless interruption. Her thumb is on the red button when she hears the garbled voice on the other end.

She echoes her title once more, brow now furrowed and curious.

She checks the I.D., feels her stomach drop down low.

"Gail," she finds herself whispering, "Gail, what's wrong? Is that-?"

Static drowns out any response but she finds herself unable to speak, finds herself unable to do anything except let her ears clutch desperately at any bits and pieces of sounds that are willing to reveal themselves to her. A beep, a clearing of a throat, a breath. And then a familiar voice is in her ear. And then the scalpel is falling out of her prone hand and her life as she knows it slows to a screeching halt.


It doesn't take long for the sea of blue to arrive. She watches, one by one, as the faces begin to appear as they take off their hats, as they shed their jackets and begin to drown themselves in what- if's and remember when's. It makes the guilt stick low into her gut, makes her eyes close in remembrance of such a short time spent together, of a time spent in anger and jest and work. She likes this girl, thinks she's funny and kind and- Gail. There's no other word, she thinks, to describe her and she finds herself mired in the thoughts and feeling of her. She didn't really believe in love, didn't really believe in companionship more than the evening at hand. But she felt drawn to this girl, felt drawn to all that she was.

So, Frankie waited. She waited and prayed and did all of the things that she never fucking did. Because this girl couldn't have saved her life- couldn't have jumped in front of a goddamn bullet- only to die on the cold metal of an operation table. No, she thought, I couldn't fucking bear it.

It's half past 12 when Oliver presses the phone into her palm. She looks at it with a questioning glance but doesn't say anything. It isn't until he is walking away, his white shirt lost against the starkness of the hospital walls, that she finds her voice.

"Who did you call?" she says, her voice hoarse with lack of use.

He doesn't turn around and she hears his voice echoing down the hall.

"Reinforcements," he yells back, his voice distant and strained but his stride steadfast and strong.


The plane ride barely registers, her mind getting lost in what could happen, what could be happening in the world below her. She feared the worst, feared the absolute fucking worst and though miles and thousands of minutes separated them, could feel the agony twisting full in her gut at the possibilities of today, of tomorrow. Of the possibilities of them and how this could be-

And Jesus Christ, she thinks, all of it could be happening at that very moment and nothing could be done. The woman she-

Her eyes close of their own volition, her heart aching and screaming.

The woman she loved, the woman she left- could be dying, could be cold and dead and gone and here she was flying instead of running or appearing with a screech and burning rubber. The woman she loved, loves, have always, really- she could be dead and gone and she-

And she knows, more than anything, that if she does, if Gail goes and she never again sees the shine of those blue eyes, hears the playful bite in her voice, that she will never forgive herself.

She leans her head against the side of the plane, exhales loudly and slowly. Wills the tears to be kept at bay. She promised herself she wouldn't break, wouldn't allow herself to indulge in the dark thoughts of loss and mourning until she knew for sure- heard the words from Oliver's mouth, saw Gail's still body with her own eyes- but even as she tells herself those things, she feels the sob build and bubble in her throat.

Because Gail Peck is fighting for her life and she's not there.

She might not ever see her again.

She cried silently, counting the seconds by the setting sun in the window of the jet. She had to get there in time, had to see for herself that the blonde was alright, breathing.

She refuses to think about the alternative, refuses to bask in the 'what if's'. Because she has to get back to Toronto, see Gail's face- see that's she's alright because-

She gulps the breath down as it catches in her throat.

Only an hour until touch down. She can grasp the gravity of what is happening in Toronto then. Until then-

Her arm is up, her smile already being flashed to the woman roaming the aisles with a suit and a smile.

"Bloody Mary." She's saying, money already being placed in a palm.

Until then, until she knew the full gravity of the situation, she would drink.


Review if you feel inclined.

thanks,

Whit