A/N: This story I blame completely on Indie for sending me sad songs and for theorizing the concept with me late one night!
It's about three a.m when she arrives.
Out of breath from running, tired, no sleep since she heard and somehow it's three a.m. It doesn't make a difference, not here, the halls are still bright. Too bright for her exhausted eyes.
The short elevator ride brings her to the right floor, the quiet call of the night shift both new and familiar, but not a comfort.
Nothing is a comfort.
They ask her name at the desk and as soon as it leaves her mouth the younger woman shakes her head.
She has to flash her badge - it's nice to know it has some uses - the woman's still adamant though, still shakes her head and points to her forms as if a piece of paper will stand in the way.
She doesn't even try to contain the rage within her, voice dropping to a hiss and she growls. When that doesn't work she pleads, begs. It makes no difference. The head shaking starts again.
They need consent. Her names not on the list.
Not on the list.
It bubbles under her skin and she can't take it, she's running on empty, but she's still running.
It itches at the underside of her skin, behind her eyes in the recesses where sleep has yet to reach.
Six weeks is all it took for her to not be on the list.
She ran and now...now she's running out of time.
She gets mad, threatens to make a call - wake up the whole damn city if she has to - she knows people, people in high places and she throws out a name she never thought she'd use. Her fist slams into the desk and they have to tell her to be quiet before they finally relent.
She's breathing hard, so hard it hurts. Breathing like she's still running.
Dark eyes follow her as she moves, bag and coat and badge in hand, they remind her it's against protocol to do it without consent from the family.
She is family, she blurts, ignoring the pity when she corrects herself. Will be.
Six weeks.
Will be family, she blurts again, will be, even if she's not on the list.
She pulls the chain from her neck, thrusting it into their faces so they can see. See the ring.
She is family, she is.
Will be.
Can they just hurry up? Move faster dammit.
Their eyes meet behind the desk and the younger of the two starts to speak. The other one, grey hair, soft smile and kinder eyes, drops a hand to her arm and she falls silent.
Without speaking she gestures, follow me.
Finally.
It's a short walk to the room, she tries not to sprint, her feet echoing on every step, heavy heels falling loudly and she feels the glare as she passes the desk. Young eyes not understanding, missing the importance.
They stare through her. She lets them.
She doesn't care anymore.
They reach the door and it takes only a look to get the older woman to leave. The cut of her eyes is vicious in silence and serves its purpose, narrowed, focused and determined.
Broken.
Grateful.
Her hand closes on the handle and a breath shudders through her before she steps across the threshold and into another place altogether, into an eerie quiet. Too quiet.
For him there should be no silence and, as if the universe agrees, a mechanical hiss fills the room, a beep following it almost immediately.
It's the wrong kind of noise though and her knees buckle when she sees him.
Coat and bag and badge hitting the floor, cell and keys too, a loud harsh sound breaking the bubble of quiet that surrounds him and she stumbles, throwing herself forwards.
It hurts when she collides with the bed. Her hands land on his feet as she tries to catch herself, she flinches at the contact.
The burn of it hits her square in the chest, worse than the ricochet pain of a bullet, straight to the center. Hot and heavy, cloying, choking pain slams into her ribs and she navigates the bed with broken eyes locked on his face.
Heat simmers, locked away somewhere behind her pupils, white fire scorching her from the inside out and she touches the tube that runs under his nose. Her fingers trace the edge of his lips, his jaw and his eyes as tears fall from her own.
She took the call at her desk, the shock hitting her as she rose quietly to her feet, her cup falling from her fingers. A hot cascade of coffee and the crack of ceramic on tile ignored as she gasped down the phone line.
They called her and she ran.
A splintered cry.
Ran without looking back.
Her stuttered choking sob drawing the eyes of people who should feel like family - but don't.
She ran.
They called and she ran, she will always run. For him.
His chest rises and goosebumps erupt across her skin, the machine clicks, hisses and his chest falls, almost in time. Her hand hovers over his sternum, chasing the beat of his heart where it sits, trapped and not wholly his, not really hers either.
Waiting.
His voice is a ghost in her head. Whispered remnants of the night before - god, only the night before - flood her mind. She was going to miss another weekend with him, stuck at work.
He was coming to her instead.
Stop running yourself ragged, Kate.
She'd laughed, made a joke about him chasing her. He said he liked chasing her.
She'd whispered back, dark, teasing and stealing his breath on a gasp, she isn't running anymore.
She lied.
"I run." She whispers, bringing his limp fingers to her chest and holding them over the frantic beat of her heart.
Like proof.
She lifts his hand to her mouth, presses her lips to his knuckles. She holds on tight, tugging the chain and ring from around her neck, wrapping the warm metal around their joined hands. "I run for you."