There was blood on Amy's sleeves.
She'd burst out of the ambulance after it screeched to a halt, running alongside the gurney as even more doctors converged, until a nurse caught her arm and told her she couldn't go any further, and sagged as she watched Jake be rushed down a corridor, out of her view. Anxiety wormed its way under her skin and settled there. She couldn't see him, she wasn't with him, she didn't know if he was -
She raised her hands to rub at her eyes, and remembered. The blood. It was drying tacky on her hands, cracking along the lines of her palm, and it was too much. Clean. She needed to be clean.
She asked a sympathetic nurse for directions to the bathroom, and stumbled inside. She avoided her own gaze in the mirror, instead scrubbing furiously, into the creases, up onto her wrists, under her fingernails, trading the red of blood for that of raw skin.
She pulled off her rings, washed off what caked under them, washed them individually, making sure nothing remained in the crevices of the diamond. Eventually, there was nothing more to do. They shone. Amy stared at them. One second. Two. Gently, she replaced them on her finger.
Then shoved a fist to her mouth to keep in the sob. It came out anyway.
She collapsed down to the bathroom floor, curled up against the wall, and cried. She cried until her eyes burned dry, and leaned her face back against the wall, savoring the coolness on flushed skin. She sucked in a shaky breath, grabbed the porcelain sink.
And hauled herself up.
She splashed cold water on her face, wiped away smeared makeup and tear tracks, retied her disheveled ponytail. Her red-rimmed eyes remained.
And now, sitting ramrod straight in a waiting room chair, clutching cold coffee, there was blood on Amy's sleeves. She couldn't get it out with just soap and water. It would probably need hydrogen peroxide, or something.
God, she needed a cigarette. She couldn't step out though, because the surgery would take a while, but any moment a doctor could walk in with an aggrieved expression and the words I'm sorry on their lips...
"Amy."
She jumped. "Captain," and, surprised, "Kevin."
Of course, Holt would have been informed. Amy started as she realized she hadn't even thought to contact the squad, or Karen, for that matter.
"I should call the squad."
"It's already done, they'll be arriving soon." He sat heavily into the chair beside her. Kevin gave her shoulder a squeeze, and took a seat on Holt's opposite side. Amy was grateful he hadn't sat next to her as well; she felt boxed in enough already.
"But his mother, sir?"
"Of course. I can call her, if you'd like?"
The temptation was strong. "No, I'll do it." She walked to the corner and quashed her dread.
Voicemail. Irrational anger surged. Her son had been shot. He died in Amy's arms, and was brought back, and she couldn't pick up the damn phone.
It was recording, had been for several seconds. Amy gave a hurried message saying it was an emergency, to call back the minute they got this, but no more. She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes for a long moment after hanging up.
Making her way back to her seat, she shook her head. Silence hung thick in the air. She picked at a loose thread on her cuff. The blood had dried brown.
"Amy."
She stared into her lap.
A hand rested, large and warm, on her shoulder. "I can't tell you what's going to happen, Amy. I can tell you that I haven't met anything yet that could keep Jake down. And I have faith he'll make it through. You should too."
Amy finally met Holt's gaze, steady and sure. A few stray tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she swiped them away. She was so sick of crying.
"Thank you, Captain."
Silence settled again, but one not quite so stifling.
More members of the squad did start wandering in soon, as Holt predicted. Even Hitchcock and Scully found their way in. Rosa was first, in her leather jacket and black jeans like she'd never gone home. She didn't say a word, but pulled Amy into a tight hug that meant far more. Gina had bloodshot eyes and streaked mascara. She didn't say anything either, and Holt went over, speaking to her quietly. Boyle was weeping openly, and cried into Amy's shoulder for a minute before Rosa led him away. Terry was still in pajamas. He gave her the gentlest look she had ever seen, said "Oh, Amy," and swept her into a hug. She could have wept again; she felt like a child in his arms. He set her down, but kept holding both her hands. "He's going to be okay," he said, and he sounded so confident, so reassuring, that for a second, she believed him. She nodded. She didn't trust her voice.
And so they waited.
Hours dragged by in this way. Amy phoned Karen a few more times, to no avail. She was probably asleep. Amy's fingernails were bitten to the nub. Others dozed, but her nerves were sliced open and exposed. Jake's scream rattled in her head. She felt paper-thin.
It happened when pale light started mingling with the harsh fluorescents, when rose just started to stain the horizon. A doctor walked in.
"Those here for Detective Jake Peralta?" she said.
Seven pairs of eyes snapped in her direction. Eight, after Scully was nudged awake.
"He made it through surgery."
Sighs of relief, cries of joy, but Amy just collapsed back into her chair. Static played in her head. The doctor was still talking ("He's not out of the woods yet, but we're optimistic,") but Amy couldn't focus.
Jake was alive.
"He can have visitors, but only one at a time, and only family," she finished.
The eyes moved to her. Amy stood on liquefied legs. She followed the doctor, through the supportive pats of the squad, and was led to a doorway. She walked through and saw him.
He was pale, thoroughly bandaged, hooked up to myriad machines, but one of those machines beeped with his heart, as if announcing, over and over:
Jake Peralta is alive.
Later, there would be brown eyes opening. There would be Karen racing in. There would be a hospital room filled with well-wishes. There would be pain and recovery and desk duty and frustration and setbacks and god, the whining.
But at that moment, there was his hand in hers, and the sound of the heart monitor, and the warmth of sunrise, and Amy's world stitching itself back together.