A/N: My interpretation of the 9x01 promo. All mistakes are mine, and I do not own anything. Review if you liked it, disliked it, or if you have questions. Enjoy!
Damage n: loss or harm due to injury to persons, property or reputation.
That was the first word that came to mind as she saw him for the first time in almost a year, a word she disliked immensely.
Damaged.
Like a loveless heart, or a porcelain doll's chipped arm.
Her dislike for the word stemmed from while she was recuperating at Desert Palms, slipping in and out of consciousness on the stiff hospital bed. Fragments of sentences floated up to her ears from time to time, but she couldn't make sense of them.
"…Sun exposure…dehydration and exhaustion…damaged."
A male voice. Dr. Preisler. She slipped out into a medical induced sleep yet again, quietly, painlessly.
She wasn't damaged, on the outside at least. Cuts and broken bones healed eventually, the word 'damage' seemed like such a permanent word. It even tasted funny to her, it reminded her of sand and rainwater.
Leaving Las Vegas was the only way to fix her on the inside – the only part of herself that she would admit was 'damaged'. To escape the neon glow, the repressing eyes and the questions. She needed something Vegas kept under lock and key – breathing space.
Leaning against his desk, she took in his posture, his graying hair, the look in his eyes.
Damaged.
He looked lost for words, but took a tentative step inside. She was in his arms not a moment later, holding on, clinging onto him, feeling the exhaustion and pain seep from him to her.
I love yous and I missed yous could wait. Only one thing mattered now. "I caught the first flight out."
He smelt the same, like clean soap and citrus; felt the same, strong and solid; everything felt familiar yet different.
After a few minutes, the place was still shrouded in silence. She thought her words had slipped by unnoticed by him, lost in the haze of his mind.
Only when she felt him shaking under her arms did she understand. As she held onto him, biting her tongue to hold back the torrent of emotions, a word came to mind that replaced damaged as her least favourite word.
Broken.
Smashed, shattered, splintered, cracked, fractured. It did not matter what way it was spelt or pronounced, broken meant broken.
Like a body lying in the morgue, or fragments of porcelain that was once a doll.
He buried his face in her shoulder, tears staining her crimson shirt and the cold seeping into her bones. She had to be strong; she had the time-out, her breathing space, her rest.
He didn't.
"I'll fix it," she whispered, running her hand through his hair, not knowing if she was talking to him or to herself.
This was not the way she imagined her return would be like. It was too much to expect a dozen roses upon her return, but she did not expect this – the tears, the pain, the confusion. Maybe she would get her dozen roses after all, to be placed on his grave.
But for now, that did not matter. All that mattered was the reason she returned to Sin City, the reason he was crying, the reason the lab was silent.
For Warrick.