She couldn't get out the scream. He was holding her against the wall, his body against hers, crushing all the air from her lungs. Her head cracked into something behind her, setting off fireworks behind her eyelids, and she felt warm blood running down her face.

She heard a yell, in a voice she recognized. She forced her eyes to open and found herself suspended off the ground by the man's hand around her throat. That didn't matter. She was alive, that was all she needed for the moment.

She felt terror when she saw his face appear over the shoulder of the bad man. She tried to scream, to warn him. He was her partner, it was her duty to protect him. She couldn't let him be hurt. How would she live if he died? The bad man laughed and took his hand from around her throat, allowing her to fall to the ground.

She slid down the wall, staring up at them, watching as he attacked the bad man. They fought . . . it seemed like hours . . . and then there was an explosion of red. A knife. A knife, in him. He fell beside her, eyes open but unfocused.

She couldn't breathe. There was red on the edges of her vision, and when she looked down there was a sea of red all around her. So she was bleeding, too. That didn't matter now. She looked back to him, silently begging him to look at her, to reassure her, but he said nothing. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth and joined the pool her own blood was forming on the floor.

She finally screamed.

"Alex!" a voice said urgently.

She could feel herself shaking violently. She didn't want to open her eyes and see the red, the pools of red, the open, blank eyes . . .

"Alex!" the voice said again, this time accompanied by a touch to her face. "Open your eyes. You're dreaming."

For a long second, she couldn't breathe. Tears of fear and anguish formed in her eyes. Then she was shaken, hard, and there was a bolt of pain, real pain that cut through her flesh.

"Alex! Jesus, wake up!"

Her eyes flew open. It was him, and he was talking to her. He was alive. There was no blood. She tried to raise a hand to touch him, but agony exploded in her chest. She shuddered and tried to curl herself into a ball.

"Alex," he said, more quietly now. "Look at me. You were dreaming. Everything's ok." God, she was trembling, shaking harder than he would have thought possible. "Everything's ok," he said again, pulling her into a sitting position and supporting her shoulders with one arm while using his casted arm to cradle her head.

She closed her eyes again, trying to control the trembling. When she opened them again, she was looking right into his face. "They're still open . . ." she breathed.

"What's open?"

She shuddered again. "Your eyes, they're open. I . . . You're alive. I dream he killed you . . ." A sob escaped her lips and she buried her face in his shoulder. "He killed you."

She'd had a nightmare about him being killed? Why, when she was the one who'd nearly died? "He didn't kill me," he said into her hair. "I'm here, alive. It was a nightmare, that's all."

She was finally getting her breathing under control. She took in a deep breath, then let it out, and raised her head to look at him. "I'm so sorry. I . . . did I scream and scare you?"

"You scared the living daylights out of me. I don't think I've ever heard someone scream like that, not even my mother when she's bad."

Shaking her head, she said, "I kept trying to scream and warn you . . . but I couldn't . . . and it wasn't until you were d-dead on the floor and I saw your blood that I could . . ."

"No," he said softly, pulling her into an awkward sideways hug. "I'm not dead, and there's no blood on me" None of mine, anyway. Plenty of yours. Her dreams sounded as frightening as his. He tried to think of how he'd like to be comforted if someone woke him out of one. "Would you like some tea?"

She blinked. "Tea?"

"Yeah. I could make you a cup, and then by the time you finish drinking it, the nightmare will be far enough away that it . . . won't come back." It had worked for him some nights; it was the best solution he had come up with so far.

She thought about that, then nodded. "Yeah, but . . . can I come with you while you make it?"

"Still not sure I'm not lying about being alive?" he teased gently. "Of course you can come. Feel up to walking?"

"I . . . if you help me, I think."

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Ten minutes later, she sat stiffly at his kitchen table, a steaming mug between her hands. "I hate nightmares."

"Everyone does," he said, taking a sip from his mug. "Do you want to, uh, talk abut it?" Why was he asking this? Was he going to sit and listen to her describe his own worst nightmare, knowing all her pain was his fault?

She shook her head. "No. It . . . it's a little too ugly to relive, even consciously. But could I ask you something?"

"Uh . . . it depends on what it is. I'll try to answer if I can."

"It's not anything big," she said before taking a sip of her tea. "It's just something someone mentioned while I was in the hospital."

"Ok, well, ask away."

"Deakins brought a guy to see me - the young guy who started first aid on me as soon as everyone got in the room, his name is Tom Pierce. He told me basically what happened, but there was something . . . he was telling me about what you did, and how you helped him with the direct pressure . . ."

"I thought you already knew that."

"I did. But what he said that got my attention was that when you put your hands down to, uh, help with my head . . . he said your face went blank and you looked like it 'scared the living hell out of you'."

"It did." He had no problem admitting that; he had thought it was obvious to begin with.

"I was wondering what went through your head."

"Then? When I was on the floor with you?"

"Yes."

He stared down at his mug, trying to think of what to say. How much should he tell her? How truthful did he need to be?

"Bobby?" she prompted.

"I, uh . . . I remember thinking that there was so much blood, all over, and it had all come from you. And you were so pale, and I could barely feel your pulse . . ." He paused, closing his eyes against both the memory and her reaction. "And then I knew that it was my fault you were lying there, and your blood was all over my hands, and if you died I'd never be able to get it off." He stopped and swallowed, realizing that his hands had begun to shake against the sides of the mug.

She watched his confession, wide-eyed, frightened by the strength of his reaction. "Bobby . . ."

He carefully pushed the mug away and stood up. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to . . . Deakins shouldn't have brought you here."

"You didn't want to have to deal with me? Is that what you were going to say?"

"No. I was going to say that I didn't want to see your face when you looked at me and realized that I . . . caused this," he said flatly, leaning against the counter.

So Deakins had been right, she thought. Goren blamed himself for the attack. "Tell my why you think it was your fault," she urged. "Because from where I sit, I'm the one who didn't do anything to prevent it."

He stared at her. "What? You were being held up against a wall by a guy twice your size. There's nothing you could have done."

She shook her head. "Before that. I could have moved faster. If I had just gotten out of his way, maybe took him down, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't be hurt."

"You moved as fast as you could. He was too close for you to avoid."

"So what, it's your fault?" she said skeptically. "What did you do wrong?"

His eyes quickly moved away from her and focused on the wall behind her head. "I pushed him too far with my questions. I should have read him better and seen that he wasn't really submissive."

"And what would that have solved?" she said, drinking the last of her tea. "We still would have had to question him, and if he had the rage stored up it was bound to come out at a time when he was stressed, no matter how you phrased the questions."

"No, if I had seen it I could have played his friend, sweet-talked it out of him."

She didn't say anything for a second, then she tried to stand up from the table. "Give me a hand?" she asked with clenched teeth as the pain assaulted her when she was halfway there.

He went to her, putting an arm around her waist to help her up; she surprised him by turning into him and putting her arms around his waist when she was on her feet, her head resting against his chest.

"Stop blaming yourself," she said into his shirt. "You did everything right. You pulled him off me when I couldn't defend myself. You're the reason I'm not dead."

"You don't understand. I could have . . ."

She leaned her head back to look him in the face. "Are you trying to say there's something you could have done to protect me that you just didn't bother to do? Because I know how you operate, and I'm not buying that. You did everything you possibly could."

"I didn't -"

"Bobby, would you please listen to me? If there was something you didn't do, it was because there wasn't time, it wasn't physically possible, or it didn't occur to you. None of those things are your fault. Now, I'm willing to take my own advice and accept that maybe I couldn't have moved any faster, either, if you'll just believe me on this."

"It's different. You were injured, you couldn't do anything."

She sighed. "If I could raise my arms above my head right now, I'd grab your chin and force you to look at me while I say this one more time: you. did. everything. you. could. I don't need to have been conscious to know that." Putting her head against him again, she took a deep breath and let it out. "I think I'd like to go back to sleep, if that's ok. The tea seems to have done the trick, I'm about ready to pass out on you right here."

He considered arguing his point some more while he helped her, but a look at her pinched face told him that it probably wouldn't get through to her anyway. "Sure. You need all the sleep you can get."

"You look just as tired as me, now that I think about it. There's enough room on the bed for two of us, if you want to try to nap too," she said, motioning to the king-sized bed as they approached it.

He thought about that: a nap, with her nearby as living proof that he hadn't killed her, on his own bed. Maybe the nightmares wouldn't come this time . . .

"I think I might take you up on that. But don't be afraid to kick me if I roll over and hurt your ribs or something." He lifted her onto the bed as he had done a few hours ago, then walked around to the other side and lay down.

"Bobby?" she asked quietly, moving a little closer to him and laying her head on his outstretched arm.

"Hmm?"

"Why didn't you ever come to the hospital to see me?"

"I did. You just didn't see me," he said gently. "Now, go to sleep."