Any other day, it would concern him that he couldn't remember getting to the hospital. That he couldn't remember meeting Scola and Tiff, who were sitting in the corner and eying him nervously as he paced the hallways. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to care about his lapse in memory. Not today.

Today, he thought about how much he hated the colour teal. Teal walls, teal surgical scrubs, teal chairs. It suffocated him, along with the horrible sterile smell. His eyes dropped to the teal floors. Why was this place so obsessed with the colour teal? Teal masks, teal plastic. He was gonna throw away the teal clothes he owned after this. It was such a dread-

He bumped into someone.

"OA." Isobel's voice, as soft as it was, had never scared him more than right now. "Let's sit." She looked over at Tiff and Scola, who had jumped to their feet to stand beside him.

He crossed his arms. No. "I don't need to." Because she was fine.

Isobel studied his face, and let go of his arm. He hadn't even noticed her touching him. "OA…" Despite her best efforts, her voice betrayed her.

"No." This wasn't right. Her voice shouldn't be quivering. She wasn't supposed to look so human, grasping to find the right words.

"Maggie didn't make it." She stumbled a bit over her words, trying to get them out as soon as possible. Then she cleared her throat, poising herself. "I'm sorry."

He blinked, processing. Isobel was wrong. There had been a mistake. Today was an ordinary day, a Tuesday. His main worry this morning was getting to work on time. New York traffic, and all that. He'd been a few minutes late, but Maggie had greeted him with a coffee and a smile. Because he was late, his car was stuck in an awkward parking spot, so it had taken them an extra minute to drive out. That extra minute cost them their suspect, and they'd split up to locate him. Splitting up left her vulnerable. Splitting up got her shot. He'd been late, and she'd gotten shot.

"She's dead?" Despite her soft voice, Tiff's words cut through the air like knives.

Isobel nodded, and OA opened his mouth to protest. A mixture of a gasp and a sob escaped him instead. No. No, no, no, no. No. This wasn't real. There had been a mistake. She had to go back in and tell the doctors to continue working on her.

Isobel had never seemed like the hugging type, but he still found himself pulled into one. "I am so sorry, OA."

It wasn't her fault. "I promised her-" he whispered. He'd lied to her. 'She's dead' echoed in his head, taunting him. There had to be a mistake: She was supposed to be okay.

"I know this isn't… easy," she said, pulling back. "I'll schedule you for an appointment with doctor Dupont tomorrow," she paused for a moment, as if she was about to change her mind about sending him to the bureau therapist, but continued nevertheless. "Will you be okay until then?"

OA nodded, not in the mood to speak. He could tell she didn't believe him, but she didn't press the issue. It was not her job to fix this mess, and he could tell she would rather not be here, having this conversation.

"I have to make some calls." It was uncanny how easily she could slip back into boss-mode. Why was she even telling him this in the first place? He didn't care about her plans. "Is there anyone I can contact for you?"

He shook his head. Not anymore.

"Okay." For a moment she looked over at the two other agents, but dismissed whatever thought she had. "Okay. Jubal will take you home, then." It seemed she'd reached the conclusion that Tiff and Scola weren't in any condition to take care of him right now.

"Home?" He frowned. "I'm going back to the JOC."

"I can't let you do that."

"Mag-" he cut himself off before his voice could break. Her name stung. " She is one of us. She deserves all hands on deck. We need to find the-" bastard, monster, "man who did this."

"Not we, OA. I've handed the case over to the Fugitive Task Force."

"What?" He hadn't meant to snap at her, but Isobel didn't flinch. It seemed this wasn't the first time she had been the messenger of death. "She's not some... case you can just hand away," he continued.

Scola cleared his throat. "She's not," he reassured him. "But we're all hurting. We can't give her the justice she deserves."

Isobel nodded. "We cannot afford any mistakes," she argued, "And It would be cruel to ask you to stay objective."

Mistakes. She was worried he'd cross the lines. If he was honest with her, he'd tell her she was right to worry. He wanted revenge more than justice.

"They'll report all developments directly to me," she continued. "You'll be my first call if - when - they make an arrest."

"Ok," he conceded. He didn't have much fight in him, the all-consuming fire burning out. And Isobel was right. He wouldn't stay objective, or oblige to the bureau's restrictions.

Still, it felt like a betrayal to let go so quickly. Maggie had fought to ensure her husband's killer had been brought to justice by her. He should do the same for her. But this was Isobel, not Dana.

Isobel lifted her gaze to welcome someone behind him, and he was suddenly aware of the approaching footsteps. He didn't care to turn around, but soon enough he heard someone familiar clear his throat, and a comforting hand was laid on his shoulder.

"Hi, OA," Jubal said, his usually optimistic tone gone. "Isobel."

She and Jubal shared a look before she excused herself, telling OA she'd check up on him later, and promising yet again to keep him updated. Then she disappeared the same way he had arrived.

Jubal squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

How he hated those words. If anything, OA should be the one saying sorry. After all, he was the one responsible for the solemn look on the other man's face. The reason there was one less heartbeat in the world.

OA shifted his posture, already feeling strangled by pity. "Mhm," he mumbled, not trusting himself to speak.

"What do you need?"

A car-ride, apparently. "I don't know."

"Okay," Jubal finally let go of him, "Let's get you home. You need to get cleaned up."

In his daze, he'd forgotten all about his stained palms, and how his shirt, pants, and jacket were beyond saving. He gagged: He couldn't wait to get out of her blood. He needed to get this off him.

"Sounds like a good plan," Scola said, answering for him. "Tiff and I will come by tonight, okay?"

He could only muster an "yeah, thanks", before turning to the exit, barely stopping the sob ripping through him.

For the entirety of the trip home, and for some time after returning to his apartment, he stayed silent. The exceptions were a few sniffles and the mhms he answered Jubal's queries with.

The older man filled the air with nervous chatter, and ensured he had proper food in the fridge. He even found some clean clothes for him.

Then his phone buzzed, and OA recognized the "I'm needed elsewhere" look on his face.

"I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but everything will be okay," he offered. "Just… hang in there, alright?"

OA nodded.

To his surprise, he didn't immediately break down the moment the door closed behind Jubal. Instead, he felt… indifferent, as if the world outside that door wasn't real. None of this felt real. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he could pretend this wasn't real.

Then he looked down on his red hands, and realized he needed to shower. If he could get the blood away, everything would feel normal. There would be no proof that anything was wrong. Then it didn't need to be real.

He should've known better. In the long run, delusions weren't a solace.

Of all the things to break him, it had been stripping off his shirt and throwing the bloodied rag to the floor. Suddenly he's back in that alley, watching the person he loves the most take her last breath. He hadn't even told her how much she meant to him. Suddenly, it's all real again.

The indifference was gone, and it all hit him at once.

He sobbed into his hands, every muscle shaking uncontrollably. This was real. She's dead. He'd been late, and she was dead. It set his heart ablaze. He had killed her. It should've been me. The fire continued growing. Life shouldn't be this delicate. Had the bullet been a few millimeters to the side, it wouldn't have been fatal. Had he not been late, they wouldn't have lost their suspect. In some other life, where he'd been on time to work, she would have lived.

Eventually, the fire was suffocated, drained from all the if onlys. By now, he had moved to the couch, seeking comfort in a towel. Awfully melodramatic, but the situation allowed for it. If not for the devastation, he would laugh at himself.

In the end, after all those thoughts and the pain ripping through him, he was left with a charred chest, hollowed and raw.