A/N. Should clarify, every time see *** POV changes

They are all herded out into a waiting room cluttered with paisley chairs and faintly bacterial magazines. The Food Channel is playing on a tv high in the corner of the wall. Emeril is making a risotto. Deserted paper cups of coffee litter every available surface, as if a great Caffeine Monster barreled through bringing pathetic mocha comfort to all the worriers who then abandoned their drinks once the nurses came with information of their loved ones.

"We need some room to work," the nurse explained. "We'll come get you as soon as we know anything."

Comforting, that—we don't know shit now about whether your grandmother is going to live or die, but once we figure it out we'll give you a shout.

And so they wait.

She keeps tuning in halfway through half-hearted conversations—what room where is the what sepsis bone density are they going to 150 over warfarin Patrick don't abscess in the morning did you say spot overnight I don't know work tomorrow have to Alex Alex Alex.

Bobby nudges her. She turns to her father, who is speaking at her.

"Alexandra, did your sister tell you what happened?"

"Sort of," she mutters. She really doesn't feel like talking, especially now, especially to her family, who she doesn't talk to much anyway. "She fell, right? It's another stroke?"

Her father hesitates. "Maybe. Well, no—not probably."

"Not probably," she murmurs. "Well, that clarifies things. Thanks, Dad." She feels 17 again, suddenly, mute and rebellious and pushing the boundaries of how far she could push her family, so she takes Bobby's large smooth hand in hers.

Her father winces, shakes his head. "Okay. Ah…" he looks around. "Everyone, Marjorie had some…tests done, a few weeks ago. You all know that she wasn't feeling the greatest."

Greg, her brother, lets go of Emily's hand and leans forward. "I talked to her the day the results came in. She said everything was fine. That she had low blood sugar or something, which was why she was always so tired."

Her father shakes his head slowly and Alex suddenly sees this portal spiraling out in front of her, this passageway into a world where something is wrong and she can't go back no matter how much she wants to. Bobby tightens his hand around hers.

"The cancer's back," Issy guesses, except she doesn't guess because this is not a game of chance and luck and black and white checkered boards, this is not Texas Hold 'Em or Egyptian Rat Screw or Blackjack, this is her grandmother, and there should not be guessing about her grandmother when her grandmother never guessed herself, when her grandmother instinctively knew the right in every situation.

What is the right in this situation?

"It might be that her cancer's back," her father emphasizes. "They're not sure yet. They were going to do more tests next week."

Greg is shaking his head, his face arching into disbelief. "She told me she was fine. The tests were normal."

"She lied," her mother says quietly. "She didn't want to worry you all. After the last time, she knew all of you were so worried…"

Bobby leans forward, and his voice is soft when he speaks. "I noticed that lump on her neck—it's in her lymph nodes?"

Her father nods reluctantly. "Two years ago, they found cancer in her lymph nodes. She had chemo, radiation, the works."

"But it went away," Greg says. "I don't understand. That thing on her neck—she told me it was a goiter."

Alex doesn't even realize she's standing until she feels herself wobbling on her feet. "She wouldn't lie to us! You—you don't know what you're talking about, like always," she snaps at her father. "She's not sick. She's not going to die."

"Alex," her mother whispers, then stops. Her father glares at her and she glares right back (where is Gram, the mediator between us?).

"Let's go for a walk," Bobby says, standing up.

"I don't want to leave."

Her nephew is staring up at her with big kid eyes, surveying her as if he's never seen her before—he's certainly never heard this tone from her before, pissed and watery and snapping and desperate.

"It might be good for you to get some air," her partner prods. "Stretch your legs."

"No, Bobby. I want to hear what the doctor has to say."

Her father's eyes on them, watching. Assessing.

Issy tries to take her hand but she jerks away. "Go. I'll call you if we hear anything. It could be a while yet while they run more tests."

"Go get some coffee," Greg says in an unnaturally stunned, kind voice—isn't everyone so fucking nice, trying to cajole her as if she were someone breakable and dainty, someone needing protecting and hovered over (yeah, right). "You can bring me a decaf back."

"Get your own fucking coffee." Her voice breaks and now she's pissed, because she's going to cry right here right now in front of everyone, and she hasn't cried in front of anyone since she was kidnapped two years ago.

It is this more than anything that makes her stalk off, pressing her hand to her mouth.

Bobby catches up to her outside of the waiting room. He touches her back, but she brushes him off and keeps going.

Motion, motion is good. Emotion is not. Maybe one can prevent the other. What is the right here? Anger. Anger is good.

"You're going to have to be more careful back there, Bobby. You're certainly not acting very partnerly."

"What did I do?"

"Rubbing my shoulders? All the looks? God, Bobby, my father was a cop. He notices things like that."

"He—he wouldn't approve?"

"No!"

"Oh." He falls silent, stuffing his hands in his pockets and sliding right back into careful blankness. He edges away so there's more space between them and she sighs, pushing her hands over her face and feeling like she's underwater.

"It's not you—it's the fact that you're my partner. He's a big believer in the rule that partners shouldn't get involved. He thinks it'll 'compromise the integrity of the mission.' It's…" she sighs again. "It's a long story. One time he was partnered with this woman who had a crush on him, and she ended up shooting a suspect prematurely because she thought he was pointing a gun at my dad when all it was a bent-out paperclip, one of those huge ones. She was so shaky at the thought of him being shot that she couldn't think logically, just saw the thing in his hand and shot. The suspect died, and they never solved the case."

They fall silent, both thinking of Wizneski waving the gun at the two of them, of Bobby's need to get her out of the room immediately so he could concentrate on verbally disarming him.

"It's good your family's here," he says at last. "They all seem nice."

"You've met them before."

"I know." He looks away. "I'm just—talking. I don't know. I don't know what to do."

She turns and pulls him into a secluded corner away from the bustle of the rest of the hospital. Buries her face in his chest, breathing in with his breaths. He's tense, holding himself carefully as if he would like to pull away, but he doesn't. After a minute she hears his breath catch in his throat and he wraps his arms around her.

"I don't want my grandmother to die," she murmurs against his heart.

"I know." He runs his hand down her back. Shifts his weight from side to side but doesn't let go, for which she is grateful. She just needs something to hold on to, just for a minute. Even though they really should move—it's not exactly safe, standing here exposed and cuddling out in the open, but they don't.

When she does finally lift her head she finds him watching her guardedly. "Thank you," she says, slightly calmer now. "I needed that."

He nods once, his eyes on hers. She reaches up and touches his stubbled cheek, and as he closes his eyes she leans forward and up and kisses him softly, hesitantly, waiting to see how he'll respond. He doesn't, at first, stays still in her embrace and doesn't respond at all, but then she feels his body relax against hers and he's moving, kissing her back, one hand on her waist and one scrabbling up in her hair.

"Bobby," she whispers, pulling away so she can see him. His eyes are closed so she can't read his expression, she can't tell what he's thinking, but then he claims her mouth again and she wraps her arms around his neck.

"The doctor's ready." Her heart lurches and she rips herself away from her partner only to find Greg watching them with his eyebrows quirked into a raise and his mouth twisted into the ghost of a smirk. "You know, whenever you two are."

***