A/N: Holy guacamole this took a long time to write. My left pointer finger which i use to type like everything got jammed at volleyball and is currently wrapped in athletic tape and ice so forgive me if there are any typos! i tried to find them all and fix them, but if I miss some, sorry! -Serena

Two weeks after my heart crashing episode, I was discharged from the hospital. I was really looking forward to a shower and real food. The FBI had visited, and I had curtly informed them that I did not plan on returning to undercover duty, and they respected my decision. They also told me that Andy and I had gathered enough evidence to charge and jail the entire New York City branch of this gang. As much as I was happy that the terrible people would be put in jail, I kept replaying what I had lost to even get them the evidence they needed. I'd given them a cheerful smile and some short things about how it was my duty. Don had seen right through my little charade.

"You don't think that." He said after Agent Reed and another Asian agent I didn't recognize had left. I think he meant it as a question, but he could read me easily, so it sounded more like a statement.

"Think what?"

"That it was necessary and 'your duty'."

I paused. "I don't know. I keep asking myself if it was really worth it. I think that maybe if I had refused that assignment, maybe Andy would still be alive. Maybe Amy would still be alive."

His fingers ran up and down the exposed skin of my arm in soothing patterns. "We can say maybe, but would it really matter if you did? I mean, the past is the past, Jess."

I paused for a minute, thinking over his words. I'd think said something similar to him a while back... "I didn't expect you to come up with such a wise-sounding answer." I told him wryly.

That had been the end of our discussion.

My family had wanted to take me back to Montreal with them to recover, but the doctor made protests about the long travel time. So, with a lot of protest from my brothers, (and after I reminded them several times that they probably caused my cardiac arrest) I decided I'd go home with Don to recover. Once most of my injuries were healed, however, I'd probably go back to live in my own apartment. Not that that sounded more appealing than being with Don, but I wanted to regain my independence sooner rather than later. My ribs, wrists, and ankle were still on the mend, but a lot of the gashes had healed, and only one or two still had stitches holding them together. I was glad I didn't look so freaky any more.

Not so much as freaky, but they were constant reminders of something I wanted to forget. I was informed that a few would leave visible scars, and I had mixed feelings about this. Part of me was happy that I'd be able to remember Andy and Amy's glorious existence, but a larger part was still traumatized over the rape. I hadn't had any dreams during my stay at the hosptial- I was kept in a pretty drugged up slumber- but I had a horrible feeling that as soon as I shut my eyes, I'd happen all over again. I'd relive the very worst part of my existence. I would have to replay every detail when I so much as blinked.

I was brought out of my nagging thoughts as we exited through the automatic double doors. They wheeled me out of the hospital in a ridiculous wheelchair, and I protested the whole way. "Really, Don, I have crutches, I can walk by myself."

"Hospital policy," he answered with a smirk.

I groaned, leaning my head back. It gave me a good view of Don's face, and, suddenly, being pushed around in a wheelchair didn't seem so bad if I could stare at him all day. Not that I wouldn't do that anyway, but... I was wheeled out of the automatic glass doors, and I closed my eyes, drawing in a deep, calming breath as I did so. Fresh air tasted delicious air being cooped up indoors almost twenty four seven.

We stopped at the curb, and I held my hands out wordlessly, knowing Don would know what I wanted. The cool aluminum of the crutches were placed in my hands, and I placed them on the ground, preparing to stand up. I tried to heave myself up, my hands on the very tops of the crutches, before falling back down into the wheelchair with a very embarrassing "Oomph!"

Don chuckled. I swiveled my head to send him a glare, which only made him laugh louder. "Need help?"

"No." I said through gritted teeth. I was an athlete in my youth and I knew how to use crutches. Trust me, I had broken bones, twisted ankles, torn ligaments, and strained muscles far too often to not be a pro with crutches. But the wheelchair was making things tricky. When I would lean my weight forward, trying to kind of swing myself up, the chair would roll backwards, colliding with Don's legs, which made him laugh harder, as was my constant denials of his offers to help.

Finally, he just gave up asking. Bending over, his arms looped around my waist. I tensed at the contact, and I knew he noticed. I felt him tense in response, his laughter ceasing in an instant. He effortlessly lifted me to my feet, and I positioned myself on the crutches in a more-or-less comfortable manner. His eyes were dark- but I knew he wasn't angry at me. He was mad at himself for assuming I'd be okay with the contact. I tried to keep telling myself that I was okay with it, but somewhere along the line of my... incident, I had put up walls to anything physical. Mentally, I knew Don loved me. I knew he would never hurt me. But yet his strong arms around my waist had instantly sent me into a momentary flashback, replaying the horrid details of what Shay had done to me. After the flashback, however, I could actually feel the reason he was helping me- he loved me. I could feel it thrilling through his arms as though it was some electrical field. But even that didn't change my subconscious reaction.

After a moment of awkward silence, Don broke it. "I'll go get the car." I was stunned. When did we ever have awkward silences? Never.

I felt tears sting in my eyes. Why did I have to be so stupid? He cared about me so, so, so much.

An SUV that hauntingly reminded me of my undercover Tahoe drive past and I audibly gasped, shrinking away from the curb. "Jessica? Are you okay?" I spun around as quickly as my crutches would allow me and was faced with the kind eyed Dr. Florek.

"Oh, um, hi, Dr. Florek."

"Honey, you can call me Diane."

"Okay. Diane."

She smiled at my awkward reply. "Where's that Don of yours? Such a nice man."

"Oh, he's getting the car."

"What a gentleman," she commented with a laugh, "Valet service."

I gave a soft laugh. "Yeah."

Diane cross her arms over her chest and looked me squarely in the eyes. "Listen, I know what you went through. It can be tough being in a relationship right after something like this."

"What are you suggesting?" I snapped. As much as I was still traumatized, I needed Don. I needed him like one needs air. I would never break up with him, no matter what I was going through. He understood me better than I understood myself sometimes, and I would really need him as the months after this went on.

She gave me a look that I assumed she used when patients were getting feisty. "I'm not suggesting you break up with him. It is necessary to have someone like that on your side. But, you're going to notice things like," she thought for a moment before continuing, perhaps choosing her wording, "Shying away from physical contact. Sudden panic attacks. Acute Stress Disorder. Nightmares. Bizarre mental patterns that you'll have trouble controlling..." She trailed off. She practically hit everything right on the nose.

There was a long pause in the conversation. Her words sent my thoughts whirling. "Will it get better? Why is it worse now? I was sort of okay when I was in the hospital..." I asked her in a small voice. I didn't want to relive the rape forever.

She gave me a sad smile, "The human mind is a strange thing, Jess. And It can get better. If you get help." She slipped a blue business card into my hand. I took a glance at it.

Charlotte Nelson

Women's Psychotherapy

There was a number typed at the bottom, and another one was written in black pen beneath that. I wasn't sure how a felt about getting therapy. I was more the 'suck-it-up-and-deal-with-it-yourself' types when it came to mental issues (probably stemming from the fact that my family had been mostly male for a good part of my life, and whenever someone got injured, someone would usually say, 'Just spit on it.') Flipping the card over, I saw a note that was written in what could only be a doctor's handwriting: I'm here if you ever need to talk. I met Diane's morose eyes, and I realized that it had happened to her too. She'd been raped, who knows when; I wasn't about to ask questions. She placed her left hand on my shoulder in a comforting gesture. I noticed the twinkle of gold on her ring finger. She saw my examination. "It's always good to have someone."

She removed her hand from my shoulder before we exchanged parting words. She walked towards the glass doors, turning one more time. "Take care of yourself, Jess."

At that moment, Don pulled up in his small Ford. I praised the heavens he didn't own a gas guzzler like the one that nearly gave me a heart attack earlier. I contemplated the card a few more seconds before jamming it into the pocket of my jeans.

I hobbled up to the car door, my wrists not very happy, but I ignored them, attempting to open it myself. But suddenly, it was open, and I looked up to see Don, giving me a wry smile. "It's okay to need help sometimes."

I heard the double meaning in his words, but I tried not to think about it. I wanted to get back to what life used to be like. "Too bad my pride won't allow it," I muttered. I slid myself into the car, the warm leather of the seat greeting me. I kept my crutches in front of me, leaning on my shoulders, the ends near my feet.

The car had already been started, so Don followed suit into the car and pulled away from the hospital. Diane's words echoed in my mind. It's always good to have someone. I gazed at Don. He'd managed to get home a few times in my two-week stay, and now wore jeans and a white t-shirt that showed off his biceps and pecs very nicely. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were a storm of emotions. Anger at the FBI. Anger at Shay. Anger at the people who shot me. Desperate that I'd open up to him... I could've stared into his eyes for hours without getting bored, examining every detail. Even if I wasn't looking deep, I could always appreciate the gorgeous ice blue color of his eyes. I suddenly stiffened.

Ice blue.

All I saw was Amy.

Her lifeless eyes looking up at me, silently screaming for help.

I tried to shake myself out of it, giving myself a mini pep talk. You're okay, Jess. You're fine. Don't think about her. Just don't. We'd barely been out of the hospital parking lot when I had a miniature panic attack, heavy breathing, sweat coating my palms.

Don noticed faster than I did, and found a spot to pull over. "Jess? Are you okay?" His voice was concerned, and a bit panicked.

I thought about the fallback answer of 'I'm fine', but I heard Diane's words in my head all over again. Looking into his eyes, seeing his love for me, the concern over my well being was a balm to me. My breathing slowed, and I began to feel normal again. "I..." I tried to start, but trailed off, not sure how to continue. I dropped my gaze, staring at my hands entwined in my lap.

"Jess, you can talk to me." He reached over the divide and placed a hand on mine. Holding hands didn't freak me out the way other stuff did. I had a theory. You held hands with someone because you genuinely cared about them. Shay never genuinely cared about me. Don did.

Loosening the knot of my hands, I laced my fingers together with his. I had to be honest with him. "Your eyes are the exact same color that Amy's were." I told him, my voice barely audible. It surprised me that it felt good to tell him. It was like a weight lifted off of my shoulders, and suddenly, I had the urge to tell him everything. Everything I felt, everything small detail that I wanted to forget...

"God, I'm sorry. I can get contacts or something, if you want."

"No, no, I love your eyes. I just got a little freaked out there. I'm fine, now," I said, looking him in the eyes. I wasn't precisely 'fine' but I was better than I had been. Our hands stayed together, resting on the divide. His thumb drew small patterns on the back of my hand. For months my nerves had yearned for his touch, and the contact was making them very happy. Relaxed waves washed over me, and I was slightly miffed. He was only drawing circles, big deal. But it felt too nice to complain, even if my complaints were only in my thoughts.

We filled the car with small talk and happy chatter about what had gone on at the precinct since I'd been gone, what was happening at the lab. Don was finishing up telling me about an officer who'd had her baby, and I had a sudden thought. "What were you doing?"

He looked over at me, confusion clouding his features, for a second before his eyes returned to the road. "What do you mean?"

"What did you do after I, uh... went away?"

His eyes darkened again, but this time was with deep regret and pain. He didn't speak, but I kept my eyes on him. I knew he knew I was watching him, waiting for a reply. The muscles in his neck were tensed, his jaw worked indiscernibly, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Tiny things that I noticed because I knew him. "You can tell me." I said gently, squeezing his hand, still in mine.

"What would you say if I told you I got married?"

"Well, Plan A) not believe you or Plan B) Say what an unbelievably lucky lady she was then contemplate kicking her ass," I answered, not missing a beat.

My answer lightened some of the tension, and he gave a soft laugh. After a few moments of silence, he sighed. "I... I literally fell apart Jess. I could barely function. It felt like nothing mattered any more." He took his eyes off the road for a second, giving his lap a pained look. "I... I killed him," he all but whispered.

"Who?" I prompted.

"The man who killed you! I mean, who I thought who killed you." He took a deep breath. "I shot him. I stood over him and shot him. I thought he took you away forever."

I couldn't speak. He killed someone because he thought I died. He shot the man who shot me. An eye for an eye. I didn't know how to feel about it. Part of me wanted to scold him. Yell at him actually. He endangered his career because of me. He'd risked jail because of me. The other part wanted to throw my arms around him. Not because he killed someone- Jesus, I'm not that callous- but because I see that he was hurting over it. As much pain as that man caused him, Don never wanted to kill him. He was being controlled by crazy emotions, and I didn't blame him for doing what he did.

My other hand found its way to where ours were twined together, closing over the other side, enveloping Don's hand in what I hoped was conveyed as comfort. "Oh, Don..." Silence filled the cabin of the car, but this time it was not awkward. Nothing needed to be said.

"Wait, stood over?..." I was going over the wording he'd used in my head, and not understanding what he meant there.

"Yeah. You... you emptied your clip and managed to wound the guy who shot you."

"Well, thank god. At least I still have some of my pride left after that terrible incident with a wheelchair and crutches."

He laughed out loud, the corners of his eyes crinkling just so, the corners of his mouth turning up jovially. I squeezed his hand, gazing into his eyes hopefully. He met mine, a similar look in his eye. "We'll be okay," I said, packing as much determination into those words as I possibly could, throwing willpower into them.

Don smiled hopefully. "Yeah. I think so."

So, not really sure what kind of car Don drives? He kind of strikes me as a ford guy, but *shrug* anyhoodles... *straps on helmet and elbow pads, dives behind barricade, and peeks out* okay, lemme have it. -Serena

***EVERYONE MUST READ*** SO. I am changing my plans from writing a sequel to adding more chapters onto this one, mostly because the following doesn't have a super strong plot like this story did. Don't worry, though. I'm planning ANOTHER sequel after this story, and that probs will be separate.