12/10 - I've recently been posting on AO3 under the name Mamihlapinatapai, and while doing such, have been doing some editing. Today, because I'm crazy, I've decided to update everything on here. The changes won't affect the story line, it's just to clean everything up a bit.
It's inevitable.
One day, after they're done bantering and she's finished with the coffee she likes to steal from him, she'll react just a split second too slow. Forget to load her gun and not be able to talk her way out of it. One day, her 'bull in a china shop' approach won't work and he won't be there to clean up the fractured pieces.
It's the kind of thing that wakes him up at night.
That first time, not the shaking kid in his orange shirt with his wavering handgun, because she wasn't even his rookie then, was just the dumbass kid who busted him and ruined six months of not showering on a daily basis. Not the time that's his fault, the one with Em's cut lip and bruised cheek.
No, he's talking about that actual first time, with her slutty green top, her missing gun. Going undercover takes some time getting used to for everybody, and it still sort of irks him that he didn't realize pulling her out would only push her harder, make her a little more desperate to prove herself.
He hears the whole story later; reads the report and fills in the blanks, remembers the sliver of bruised skin above her jean skirt and gets a little light-headed. She and Dov were stupid, were careless with Sadie's life, so he chastises them like school children. And later, he catches up to her in the parking lot and reminds her that it's his job.
It still screws with his sleeping patterns, though.
The thing is if it was just that one time, he probably wouldn't have this problem. He probably wouldn't wake up at three a.m. wondering if her blood will be hard to get out of the creases around his fingernails. Wondering if he'll actually feel her heart stop beating beneath his palms or if he'll be stuck in a waiting room, lukewarm coffee clutched in his hand.
Mostly, though, he wonders how long it'll take for that guilt to gnaw at him enough that he just up and quits and moves to fucking Colorado.
He figures it's sort of her fault.
She takes risks.
Does stupid things that paints a target on her forehead, and he vaguely understands that most of the time it's just to get the attention off of someone else. But fuck if she doesn't fucking give hand-written invitions to trouble. It's not only her, though. Epstein gets his rocks off stepping on IEDs, and Diaz apparently enjoys getting himself stabbed and locked into closets.
(And seriously, rookies are generally safety challenged, but this group takes the cake.)
The thing is they all have their moments, but his fucking rookie actually goes looking for trouble. It'd be cute, if it didn't make him feel like throwing up.
And then suddenly, it stops.
No more guns to her head, no more hands around her throat. It's like a switch was thrown after her run in with Nixon. Three entire weeks, and it goes against every single instinct he has as a cop, as her training officer, but he lets his guard down. Stops watching her out of the corner of his eye incase she decides to wander into an empty building with a serial killer or something. For three weeks he can actually breathe.
It's why it stings just that tiny bit more, when, after a routine traffic stop, she crosses the street to grab a coffee and gets shot in the chest.
(By the way, her blood is damn near impossible to get out from under his nails.)