Sometimes, on the bad nights, he thinks of her.
He dreams of her. He thinks some of it is the drugs, the severe cocktail they have him on because of that damn bullet wound. He replays every moment, the dream of being in the precinct, of seeing the gun, of knowing she had been right there and there's not a damn thing he'd do differently if it meant ensuring she kept living. Not that there aren't times that it's that nightmare of watching her bleed out on the precinct floor.
Sometimes it's just her words, just those words she'd used to keep him awake. She talks, his rookie she always has and he's never been more thankful for it than that moment, then hearing her tell him that whatever happens, whatever they go through, whatever they put each other through, she looks at him and thinks of everything.
She's in his hospital room every day, all hours. He thinks maybe the nurses make an exception for her, wonders if it's because she looks like crap. He hates that she does. He doesn't want her losing sleep over this, especially since he will recover. The doctors have told him so and he believes them. Probably because he has to because he hates what this is doing for her.
Today is no different and while the door opens silently, he's only dozing so he smells her. His eyes open slowly and she offers him one of those shaky smiles that break his heart.
"Hey," she greets softly, dropping her bag. Civvies look good on her and even now, even though he can tell she's losing weight again, she is beautiful.
She hesitates, then leans down and her mouth brushes against her jaw in a kiss so familiar it makes his heart ache. Then she settles in the chair beside him like there's nothing wrong with the fact that he's still confined to a bed and their future is still entirely up in the air.
He'll play along though. He loves her too much not to. So, he clears his throat and asks, "How was your day?"
She rolls her eyes. "You'll never guess what Dov did this time…"