A/N: aaannndd another little one. =)
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Euphoria # 4
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She is the first one to find him, a guardian angel suddenly ascended, swathed in light from the sun high in the sky, hair blazing like soaring flames. If there was any breath left in his lungs, the sight of her would have stolen the remnant of air.
The impact of two – or is it three? – gunshots surprise him, the force violent. Colors blur, sounds seem to concentrate on the echo of that foreign gun going off and the concrete ground is hard upon contact. Gravel crunches beneath him and in a strange turn of events this has him thinking back to being a kid, running down gravel roads on bare feet.
It's not the first time in his long career that someone has taken a shot at him, and it's not the first time he gets shot either. The way wind gets knocked out of him even if the protective vest takes the brunt of the force is unmistakable, and familiar even if alarming. His vision zeroes in on the sky of all things, his body and mind too stunned to contemplate moving. Dead set on the blue sky, the color so vivid and so palpable.
It seems odd for the sky to be an all clear blue.
Not a single cloud in sight, at least not from the angle he is lying in. He cranes his neck to the right and back, focused on the blue horizon in between skyscrapers, upside down.
The sound of gunshots once again makes him cringe but the noise is subdued and he thinks the perp is trying to run away, running down between two narrow alleys. Hopefully the bastard will take the route that has Sanchez on post, or hopefully the rest of his team will catch the bastard quickly and without further damage.
He tries to force breath into his lungs but the action hurts; when he tries to move his left arm and the left side of his chest, it hurts.
It's this very thing that has him suddenly focused and gasping for air.
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His chest hurts with jabs of pain upon every inhalation, softened when he exhales. He sends silent thanks to the bulletproof vest, his eyes closing briefly, because surely he would be dead by now if the vest hadn't been in place.
It's only bad luck that sees blood seeping out of the hole for his left arm, bad timing that has a bullet sneaking through that one vulnerable place in the gear and lodging inside his left axilla. It tingles strangely when he moves his fingers and the feel of slick blood down the side of his arm feels strange as well, wet and yet sticky, uncomfortable the longer he lies here in the sun, contemplating the sky.
He is more concerned about his shallow breathing than the flow of blood however.
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The sound of shoes on concrete, hurried and well recognizable, is a lifelife he hangs unto. The gait is one he knows intimately after too many years of hearing it approaching the offices of major crimes and then years of striding around his squad room, near his desk and near his heart apparently. He can tell she is running, approaching at a fast rate.
She is in his vision when opens his eyes again, crouched by his side panting for air.
She reaches out to him, a soft hand on the top of his shoulder.
"I'm alright," he grumbles despite the winded feeling that has him lying on the ground like some kind of sapless being, unable to move much.
Her eyes are wide and expressive and her fingers dig into his shirt around his forearm, through the fabric, her nails sharp.
"I'm fine," he says in a softer voice.
She doesn't seem to hear him, her eyes trained on the visible blood.
"You're bleeding," she tells him in a strange voice.
He nods; the sticky stuff has soaked through his shirt from his armpit and to his elbow, dripping on to the ground.
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The damage is more extensive that he first thought; it gnaws into the side of his chest, between two costal bones he thinks, maybe approaching his left lung.
The sound of sirens is in the background, a noise he barely gives any acknowledgment even if it's getting louder upon every pained breath.
Her phone is discarded on the ground next to him, her palms pushing against the side of his chest and the hollow of his armpit, trying to stop the bleeding.
It doesn't really matter; he is more occupied by the kaleidoscope of colors that overflow his vision, the contrast of her green eyes and the blue sky, the sight of dark red on her pale white hands, the weak imprint of her own hand print on her jeans, on his forearm where she intermittently grasps for comfort. They complement each other and he feels drawn to the colors somehow.
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Her eyes are still so vivid and clear when they water.
He would rather she didn't cry because of him – it's not worth it.
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Oxygen, oh bless it. It flows through his nostrils and mouth, forced and pure, a gift to be able to lie on the gurney in an ambulance and soak up oxygen from a mask.
Pain relief however, would be an even greater blessing but for the moment he concentrates on her hand around his, warm and comforting in among the bustle of one paramedic and the blazing of the siren to a hospital.
"I love you," he croaks to her, not sure if it's the bloodloss that has him blurting this, or something else.
Her smile is soft even if her lips tremble, her fingers tighten their hold on his hand in answer and another tear slips past her lashes, down one cheek.
He watches its trail, mesmerized.
"You're my second in command," she whispers, "you are going to be fine."
It sounds like an order.
He smiles in among the pain.
…
Her eyes are still green when he wakes up from surgery, anesthesia clouding his system. Her presence is hazy, intermingled with that of doctors, his children and his team members. But her green eyes stay clear in his mind.
She loves him, in her own way, he knows.
Her kiss is sweet, friendly yet something else, on his cheek. He's only confused because she repeats it, another kiss, slightly wet and longer, leaving an impression on his cheek that burns through the outer dermis.
He lingers on the color of her eyes and the emotion in them, their hue lulling him to sleep.
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