This one's sad, guys. Sorry.

On the bright side, this is my 50th story posted...

When I'm standing in the fire

I will look him in the eye

And I will let the devil know that

I was brave enough to die

And there's no hell that he can show me

That's deeper than my pride

Cause I will never be forgotten

Forever I'll fight

-Somebody To Die For

It's strangely poetic as he's kneeling beside her on the pavement, the rough, exposed skin of his knees visibly through a rather nasty cut through the fabric; his hands are cradling her rosy cheeks, the rain pouring down harshly on both of them. The droplets are slipping through her hair as he moves one hand to thread itself through the waves, his fingers kneading into his with the desperation of a broken man — because that was what he was, without her. He was a shattered man with a brilliant, severed heart; because she was a part woven into him that he just could not let go.

And as the blood leaks from the echoing, painful wound in her middle, beads slip down his own face, running painfully down his cheeks and landing, softly, on her lips. But it's not the rain this time; no, it's the sobbing, echoing, gaping sound of his tears as his throat closes harshly, bile rising up. But he swallows it, one hand quickly moving from her cheeks and slipping down the middle. Blood runs into his fingers as he presses his palm over the wound, ignoring her sharp gasp of utter agony. His mind is running a thousand words at once, but there's no time; she's bleeding out in his arms, on the pavement like the ending to a movie gone horribly wrong. He's breaths come out as deep and shuddering as he feels her chest rise and fall, her mouth parting with every forced drawing of air.

Her eyes are wide, screaming for help where her lips cannot; there's blood on her cheeks now, from where his long fingers had touched her, and he forces himself to try and calm down, to think logically, to try and get her help. But it doesn't work — he can almost feel his body shutting down, the ever-present panic becoming all too apparent. His head snaps upward to look around as if to scream for help.

There is none. They're in a dark alley, their assailants who shot his rookie, the only woman he had ever loved, long since gone. His throat is burning and he keeps his lips sealed, trying not to throw up.

But it's then that he's feels a slight touch on the back of the hand resting on her wound; his eyes shot back to the point on her middle and he starts and the sight of her thumb brushing against her hand. His gaze moves to her eyes, blinking the rain out of them, as she smiles faintly, the smear of blood clear on her lips.

"Ward—" she croaks, her eyes flickering in a desperate effort to stay awake. The trembling hand of his removes itself from her hair, moving to brush his thumb across her lips.

"Stop," he pleads. "Don't talk."

But she shakes her head, stubborn till the end. Oh, god. Those words suddenly hit him; she's drying in his arms, in a dirty little alleyway not far from where they had first met. She's dying.

His head is spinning as he desperately tries to stop the bleeding. It doesn't work; it's then that the sounds of sirens fill the air, allowing a deep breath to come to his lungs. Someone must have called the police at the sound of the gunshot. They would help.

"Hold on, Skye," he chokes, slipping one hand clumsily underneath her thighs and the other around her back. She gasps tightly as he lifts her up, pulling her close to his chest. "Don't you dare die on me," he half-scolds hers. "C'mon, rookie, stay awake."

There's a parting laugh on her lips. "Ward," she whispers, her voice faint against the pounding of the rain. He becomes all too aware that he's soaked. His ears strain for more, but then he realizes that there's silence. His head jerks down just as he head rolls, her eyes slamming shut.

"SKYE!" he screams, her name vibrating among the brick walls around them. He stands up then, shaky and trembling, as he bolts down the alleyway, screaming for help. "Don't do this to me," he begs her, the droplets pounding down around them. "Skye!"

There's no response.

His ears ring as the police find them. He can't hear anything as they load her onto the ambulance, pulling her away from his ears. He doesn't hear the echoing sound of the machine as they desperately try to revive her, to save her.

He hears only the painful sound of his ragged breath as they say, I'm sorry.

He screams seemingly loud enough to wake the deceased.

Only it doesn't.

*desperate sobbing* why did my brain come up with this?