A/N: This is my first fanfiction in almost a decade, isn't life strange? Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters contained herein.

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He's long past the heroics of diving in front of bullets but he gives it his best shot, stumbling into Mia as the first shot rings out, shoving her desperately in the direction of the car. His hopes for the increasingly-youthful crop of new recruits are low, and he prays they have remembered their instruction: the door stays open until she is inside. He puts a hand on the back of her neck and pushes her down, lifting himself up to cover her, shielding her head with his arms. It's been decades since he's been in a situation like this, and long nights crouched in hot spaces flood back to him unbidden. There's screaming, he's aware of running in his periphery, he fights the instinct to close his eyes. Forward. He feels another man at Mia's other side, urging them on, 10 steps, then 5, then darkness. Cool leather against his cheek, the door slams and he feels himself careen backwards as the car takes flight. He takes stock: his left knee throbs and his chest is tight, but they are moving. Mia groans beneath him and he clambers off her, pulling her up to inspect her properly: hair akimbo, eyes half closed, she looks dazed.

'What – ' she mumbles.

'Are you ok?'

'I don't –'

'Are you alright?' he presses.

'What the he-'

'Your Highness,' he grips her arms tightly, giving her as rough a shake as he thinks is fair in the circumstances. 'Are you alright?'

'I think so,' she says, blinking at him. 'Are you?'

'Sit back.' He urges her further onto the seat, running a hand through her hair, across her chest, along her arms and her back. He runs his hands down her legs through the pink dress her grandmother picked out for her that morning. Not a scratch. He gives her a thin smile and mutters quietly into his radio, leaning forwards to a compartment she hadn't known was there. He pulls out a paper bag and opens it for her.

'Were those gunshots?' she asks, 'did anybody die?'

'I don't know' he passes her the bag. 'You're going to start throwing up soon.'

'I'm fine.'

'It's the adrenaline.'

'I'm fine, Joe.'

He is about to issue a retort when his head jerks suddenly, pressing a finger to his earpiece. There is silence while he listens, and he turns to face the driver.

'Simon, did he say they've got her?'

'She just arrived.'

'Ok.' He sags back into the seat and exhales slowly, turning to look out of the window he brings a hand to rub along the side of his face, concealing his expression from her. She cranes to catch his eye but immediately feels silly, embarrassed to have seen his relief so raw and unguarded. She looks down at her feet, he turns back to the window.

'Huh,' she says after a moment. He turns back towards her, raising an eyebrow.

'What is it?'

'I lost a shoe.' There's a pause before she giggles, and something cracks in the back of the limo, the tension melting away as Joe feels a chuckle reverberating in his chest. Having faced genuine mortal danger they are enjoying the prospect of survival, normality seeping in at the edges. She doesn't feel nauseous but Mia is suddenly aware of something burning in her throat and before she knows it she's retching helplessly into the paper bag.

'It's ok,' he mumbles, gently rubbing her back, 'it's all going to be ok.'

With one hand remaining on her back he stretches forwards again to the hidden compartment and pulls out a bottle of water, and as he turns back Mia hears him hiss.

'What's wrong?' She looks up and sees him grimace as he twists off the cap.

'Damn,' he says. He passes her the water and she takes it blankly. He becomes increasingly aware of something trickling down his arm. He reaches under the left side of his jacket and pulls back a hand covered in something warm and sticky and red. He sees Mia's eyes widen, sees them fill with tears as she crumbles. He sighs. 'Damn.'

'Are you shot?' She immediately drops both the water and the bag of vomit and he recoils.

'I'm ok.' He cranes his neck down for a better look. A graze sits high on his chest, almost in his armpit, his black shirt doing an admirable job of concealing the blood. Now that he feels it, sore. Another jacket ruined. He gives silent thanks for whichever deity watched over him that morning as he stood before his wardrobe and selected this second tier outfit.

'Joe you're shot.' She sobs, reaches out to him, 'we need to put pressure on it.' Her shaking hands half pressing on the wound, succeeding more in smearing them both in blood.

'It's alright Mia,' he winces as he feels her accidentally poke him. She turns to the front of the car.

'Simon,' she screams, 'we need to go to the hospital.' The driver ignores her. 'Simon turn around.'

'He can't do that, we have to get you to the palace.'

'Joe you've been shot. You have to go to the hospital.'

'I will, once we've taken you home.'

'Joe, this isn't school drop off, you're hurt,' she slams her hand on the chair, against the window, leaking frustrated tears as the car continues on its traitorous course. 'You aren't staff, Joe,' turns back to their driver. 'Please, turn around.'

He grabs her again, covers her hands with his own and turns her head to look at him, when he speaks it comes out low and slow, soft and hard all at the same time.

'Mia I love you, but this is my job.' He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. 'I made a promise a long time ago to protect this family and that's what I do.' He pauses. 'I have to put you in that bunker no matter what.'

'You're not –'

'No matter what.' She nods, slowly, and he pulls her to him tightly. He drops a kiss into her hairline and feels her relax in his arms. He holds her as best he can with one arm, speaking gentle reassurances over the drone of the sirens, listening to her quiet sniffles and pointedly ignoring the sour smell of undigested salmon as it seeps into his socks.

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Ten minutes later the car grinds to a sudden halt round the back of the palace at an entrance she doesn't recognise, sending gravel shooting towards the officers waiting for them. He gets out first, gun drawn, and she follows. They fall readily into formation and Mia hears Shades giving Joe quiet updates. They move quickly, silently, first through the kitchens, down some stairs, round a corner and through some doors she's never seen before. He types in a code and puts his thumb on a scanner and a set of doors slide open to reveal another pair. The other guards peel away and he gestures for her to step forwards.

'It's an airlock,' he says. 'The second set of doors will open when the first closes.'

'Aren't you coming in?' He shakes his head.

'You'll have to send my apologies, I don't want to bleed on the furniture.' He smiles at her, and she smirks.

'She's going to be so mad at you.' As the doors slide closed behind her she sees him wink.

A wail she didn't know her grandmother was capable of pierces her ears as the doors open, there is a rush of fabric and warmth and she is enveloped in strong arms. She pulls back.

'You're hurt,' her grandmother looks her up and down, taking in her pale face, the blood stained clothes.

'I'm ok' she says

'You're covered in blood'

'It's not mine.'

'What do you –'

'It's Joe's.'

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She catches up to him quickly, her heels thundering down the empty corridor. He wouldn't have been caught if he didn't want to be, she knows him well enough by now. She doesn't speak before she throws herself at him, her arms wound tightly around his neck. Propriety be damned. He keeps one arm tightly at his side, but with the strength in his good arm holds her with such force he lifts her clear from the ground. He can smell her perfume, light and delicate. She is warm and soft and so deliciously alive. He feels her lips on his neck as she whispers to him, one hand on the back of his head pulling him impossibly closer.

'Are you alright?'

'I will be,' he puts her down and she pulls her head back, inspecting him closely. The rest of her body remains pressed up against him, and despite the day he feels the familiar thrill that comes from being so close to her. He lets out a shaky breath he didn't realize he couldn't let go until he'd seen her with his own eyes.

'You're hurt,' her eyes fill with treacherous tears, and she wipes at them furiously.

'I'll be as good as new once I'm sewn up,' he says, 'which is more than can be said for my jacket.' She sniffs in a way delightfully unqueenly.

'At least it isn't your favourite.' He smiles, nay beams. For all the little conversations on rainy days, for long nights passing time under lofty ceilings, for the moments in between the moments which have amounted to them and their vast, unknowable story. Knowing each other, so intimately.

'Your granddaughter threw up in my car.'

'You ruined her dress.'

'Yours too, I'd wager.'

'Am I going to have to find a tower to lock you in?' Her frown betrays her attempt at humour, but he smiles regardless.

'I promise I'll do better next time.' She doesn't smile, her eyes look far away. She places a hand on his chest.

'I'll come with you.'

'No you won't.'

'Joseph, I never thought –'

'It's alright.' She trails off, nods.

'I can't thank you enough.'

'And you'll never have to, but I hope you remember that gratitude when you get the dry cleaning bill.' he chuckles, and finally steps back, looking down and sobering at the smear of red on her dress. 'Clarisse' she looks back up, he gestures down the corridor towards the bunker. 'Please, you have to go.' She nods. 'I'll be home as soon as I can.' She turns to leave.

She looks back just once and he nods at her, unsmiling, as she walks away.