a/n: This is a belated birthday present for my friend J. I got to cook her birthday dinner this year and believe me, it's exceptional as we don't live on the same continent.

Thanks J, for being my friend, for putting up with me, my quirks and my moods. Love, your friend.

It's a good story too, one that J, my kindamaybe Beta reader and best critique, had noting to say to, in a good way.

Enjoy


He makes sure the straps of his vest are secure and checks his gun. He ejects the clip, checking it's full before slamming it back home. He pulls back the slide, chambering a round. He lifts his eyes to the team, seeing them do the same, all of them solemn and determined. The SWAT team is likewise ready. He closes his eyes briefly and sends a prayer upward; he's not exactly sure what he's praying for. His safety, his team's, his sister or mother should something happen to him, Catherine... He knows today, lives are gonna be lost and he's sure he's praying none of them are on his side but if there has to be one, he's willing, wishing even, it be him because none of the others deserve it.

Not that he does but... he's okay with it. He's made peace with it a long, long time ago.

Somehow, today feels different though. There's something in the air, on the wind.

He shakes himself out of his musings. Those are the kind of thoughts that get you killed.

He breathes deep and takes position. He raises his hand and gives the signal.

They're inside in less than three seconds. He sees a form holding a gun and he squeezes the trigger twice before really thinking about it. He turns and clears the room, calling it out, hearing similar calls in return. He turns into an adjacent room, shoving the door back with his foot but it hits something solid, a body.

He doesn't have time to think more before two brutally hard hits send him backward and onto the floor. He's on his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest frozen. He took two in the vest, he's sure. He wants to move, to shoot back, but he can't make his arms move.

It's funny. There's no pain. He's used to there being pain. He makes a supreme effort and manages to lift a hand and touch one of the spots where he knows he's been hit and looks at it, uncomprehending.

His hand is painted in blood.

Armour-piercing rounds. Well, shit.

He wants to laugh but he doesn't have the breath. Something wets his lips and he coughs, a fine red mist flying upward, spattering his face.

Oh damn.

He feels his gun hand go slack and he lets it go. He knows. He just... knows.

There's a window, somewhere close because he can feel warmth on his cheek. He turns his head towards it, gazing into the light, letting it caress him, soothe him. He's not afraid, not anymore. Sad, but unafraid. He knew. He just didn't recognise it but somehow, he knew it was his time, today.

He just keeps staring into the light, until he's finally at rest, finally at peace.


It all slams back into him with a gasp and so much pain he can't think, can't string two thoughts together other than I'm not dead.

There's no feeling in it, just a fact. He isn't dead. He isn't far from it, if the chaos around him is any indication. H can hear someone talking to him, understands but he can't answer. He somehow manages to curl a hand into a fist and lift it, his thumb pointing towards the ceiling.

A warm hand grabs his and squeezes and he manages to look up. He isn't surprised to see Danny there, still amongst the pandemonium around him.

"I got you," he says.

He closes his eyes, but he keeps on breathing.


It takes a year.

It takes 367 days for him to get back to where he was before. He'll wear the scars forever but he's glad for them. It keeps him from forgetting.

He's never taken his life for granted but now, he embraces it. He laughs, he cries, he gets angry, he smiles and eats and swims and…

He didn't die, that day. He learned how to be alive.

Fin