A/N: This is my first-ever fic, and it's not even in my intended fandom. It's also un-beta'd, so if you'd like to beta it, message me? I have no idea of the protocol for this situation. I'm also sorry if information is incorrect in this story, but this is where inspiration struck first, so it's likely going to be the first story I finish. I appreciate help in all forms :D

DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em, except for my own. The rest belong to those filthy rich executives.

WARNINGS: If you don't like slash, or other related themes, why are you reading this? Read something else and get over it. Mind you, this has no slash in it, but it's gonna show up in later chapters, believe me.

So, I'ma get out of your way, and let you read!
Thanks,

Shawn!

All I can seem to do is think about how pathetic my life is right now, how expensive school is, and how much I hate working where I do. I'm supposed to be an undergraduate student, but here I am, working two jobs just to pay the bills school keeps sending me every August. So I resigned myself to working a crappy pair of jobs three years ago so I could avoid them like the plague later on in life.

Day after day it's the same old, same old. Wake up, eat, walk, work, walk, eat, and then sleep. These doldrums of days continue seemingly endlessly until the college I attend decides it's time for my money to be put to use. Eight months later, it starts again.

I really make no qualms about my dislike for either job, slinging coffee or serving fast-food, but it's a stage of life that everyone needs to go through, right? I mean, you can just tell which people have never worked in the fast-food or retail industries because they're so goddamn rude. But they're not the reason I'm writing this.

Every day, I greet the regulars with a smile, get chewed out for putting too much sugar in some stranger's coffee or the wrong toppings, get occasional praise for being quick and perfect, get hit on by people I have no interest in. I just smile and get them served quickly and efficiently.

However, the people I work with are a different story. I love them, but hate it all at the same time. I have a few favourites, like Molly, the closer at the burger joint. She's an older lady, but filled to the brim with kind words and advice. I have a few friends that work there part-time as well. If it weren't for them, I would have run away screaming a long time ago.

It all started on an unseasonably chilly August night. It was 12:30 in the morning. I had just gotten off work, having finished cleaning up and closing down for the night. I didn't live too far away from work, and I wasn't the only one on the sidewalk, but I still didn't feel too well, considering the chill in the air. I had only gotten a few blocks away from work, and I still had a mile or two before I got home. I had my earphones in my ears, and my iPod pumping the tunes into my head, drowning out the cacophony that is Las Vegas traffic. I was walking in time with the music, my left foot keeping with the downbeat, and my right with the upbeat. I was singing along with the music in my head, and was so absorbed that I wasn't really paying attention to what was going on around me.

I was vaguely aware of someone yelling behind me, but I paid no attention to it. Then I heard it. A gunshot rang off the buildings bordering the road, sharply echoing the gun's report down the street. I whirled around to see a man staggering down the street, pistol in hand, shouting something slurred badly by the night's consumption of cheap liquor. I started to back away with my hands up, looking to my left, where there was a lady with a late-night grocery store bag in hand, filled with fresh fruit. Her smooth blonde hair and carefully applied makeup were at odds with her terror-widened eyes and tears making streaks down her face, cloudy with foundation.

I slowly reached my right hand down to reach the wallet that was in the back pocket of my jeans. With my left hand, I pulled my iPod out of my pocket, and had wrenched the earphones from my ears. The guy with the gun was still slurring so badly I couldn't understand him, and he was waving the gun more aggressively. The woman and I were begging to be let go, not to be hurt. Just take our money and leave.

The woman beside me was shaking visibly, holding her purse out for our assailant to take and to leave us alone. I had my wallet and iPod in my right hand, alongside my left being held up in a gesture of surrender. The woman was doing the same, until, while backing up, the heel of one of her pumps got caught in a crack in the sidewalk, causing the heel to snap. She stumbled, catching the man off-guard, and he reacted, sending another deafening pop into the street, this time, the bullet finding a target in the woman's abdomen.

I reacted, turning to my left and I caught her before her head collided with the building on the side of the street. My sudden movement was in contrast with my careful, measured steps as we were being stared down. He panicked, and shot again, catching me in the right shoulder. I cried out, as I felt pain rip through my shoulder. I was vaguely aware of the blood seeping through my uniform shirt as I concerned myself with keeping pressure on the woman's wound just below her ribcage, as I'd seen people do on TV. I made sure to talk to her, to keep her out of shock.

"Sweetheart, it's OK. I'm here, what's your name?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking too much. Her eyes slid slowly upwards to meet mine, as she was slumped against the building wall, her head resting against the polished granite façade. Tears were pouring steadily out of her baleful brown eyes.

"I have three children. Did you know that? Three." She struggled to form the words. "My oldest is seven. What will they do without me? I'm going to die." She seemed resigned to the fact. I freed a hand from their current duty, wiped it off on my pants, and tilted her chin to face me.

"You will not die. Your children will still have their mother. Don't you dare quit on them, or me. I'm not trying this hard for you just leave your family behind. Now, tell me your name." I tried not to be too hysterical sounding, but I needed her to keep her mind positive.

"Cheryl. Cheryl Morningside."

"Okay Cheryl. He left your purse behind. You have a cell phone in there that I can use to call the police?" I asked, finding calm easier to attain now.

"Yeah, 's in the pocket on the outside."

"Now I need you to keep pressure on there with your hand. Do you think you can do that while I find your phone?"

"Yeah." She was sounding breathless. My right shoulder was really starting to flare, sending waves of pain through the rest of my body. I had to move quickly. Mercifully, all our stuff was left scattered around the sidewalk, and a crowd was beginning to form. Not one person came forward to help, offer to call the police, nothing.

I fetched her purse, and sure enough, her phone was on the outside. My vision was beginning to swim, but thankfully three numbers aren't hard to dial. I did, and waited for the dispatcher to pick up.

"Emergency. Police, ambulance or fire?" said a cool, female voice.

"Police and ambulance. I have a woman here who was just shot in the stomach, and I took a shot in the shoulder. We need help, fast. " I said, speaking quickly

"Where are you?" came the voice.

I gave her the location.

"Five minutes. I'll stay on the line with you until they arrive."

Her name turned out to be Candace, she lived in Las Vegas, and was going to school part-time. As it were, she went to the same school I did. She kept the conversation light and banal, distracting me from the situation at hand. Finally, I could hear sirens shrieking through the night, and I never thought I'd be happy to hear them. So many times they'd interrupted my sleep before, but now, they were the only things I wanted to hear.

The EMTs took over for me as Cheryl was loaded onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance. People cleared out of the way as police officers poured out of a sea of white cruisers with red and blue lights throwing streetlamps into harsh shadows on the fronts of buildings. CSIs were coming out of shiny black Denalis, with caution tape in hand. One approached me, depositing his silver case on the ground as he brought his face level with mine. The stitching on his vest read "Stokes" in large, bold capital letters.

My shoulder flared again, and my vision started to spin, just as the CSI called Stokes was approaching me. He said something, but I don't remember what. After that, I recall being in the ambulance, someone tending to my shoulder, a hand on my left hand, then nothing at all.

"It's going to be all right," a voice promised. "It's going to be okay."

And I believed it.

Yay! First chapter done! Now to see what the reception's like, and to see if I should continue this or quit while I'm ahead...

Reviews are very much appreciated, especially at this embryonic stage. So, uh, input, please? I'll love you forever :)

KTHXBAI
~Shawn