Since this got a lot of action on Tumblr, I thought I'd carry on with the idea. I'm having the worst time with writers block and I'm hoping my little nonsense ideas will help me burst through it...

With my cold hands, I'll warm your wounds.

"Rick?" Kate calls out softly into the quietness of the dark loft. She tip toes out of their bedroom pulling an old NYPD hoodie on over her head. The hardwood floor is cold beneath her, the sharmpess biting into her toes as she walks. She tosses her hair up into a messy bun as she makes her way into the kitchen. The entire loft is dark and cold and too quiet.

She sees a shadowed figure standing in the kitchen and she makes her way to it. Sure enough, her husband is leaning against the island counter with an icepack pressed against his ribs. His eyes are closed and his head is thrown back and he's taking small shallow breaths, his chest barely rises with each inhale.

She comes to stand in front of him, her toes cracking on the cold tile, and takes the icepack from him. "Lemme see." He breathes out a small shakey breathe and raises his shirt. His entire middrift is nearly bruised now. The center of it a dark purple colour, almost black. Luckily he was wearing his vest tonight.

"You should probably go lay down. It can't feel too good being up and moving." She lowers his grey cotton t-shirt and grabs his hand, lightly pulling him with her.

"Your hands are cold," is all he says as she leads him to their bedroom, it's barely a whisper. She runs the pad of her thumb over the back of his warm hand.

He's stumbling along behind her, tiredness webbing through his eyeballs. It hurts every time he inhales. His whole body is sore...he hopes he's able to sleep tonight; that the pain meds the E.R gave him kick in fast enough.

As they reach the bed, Kate pulls back the covers and helps him sit down. He closses his eyes in a hiss, and she grimaces for him as he tries to lower himself completley onto the mattress. She quickly crawls into bed beside him, the events of the night dragging her down into the softness of the blankets as soon as she envolpes herself in them. Her eyes slip closed without her consent, but fly open as she hears her busband gasp. She flips onto her side to face him and she can't tell if he's on the verge of crying or screaming, but the look on his face makes her think possibly both.

He's been through this before, the last time it was quite literally at point blank range, and somehow that wasn't even as bad as it is now. She wants to joke about it being his old age, but the tears resting at the corner of his eye makes her second guess it.

She scoots closer to him, her body flush against his left side. He brings his hand up to rests on her thigh, the warmness radiating from it welcoming. He squeezes and looks over at her.

"Forgot the icepack," He blinks and a stray tear sweeps across his cheek. She thumbs it away, pouting at him."You're killing me here, babe."

"How?" He repositions his head so that he's looking down at her. "I hate seeing you like this," she sighs, "and also I'm too cold to get back out of bed." He chuckles at her but quickly stops, his eyes crinkle in pain.

"Here," she says softly. She skims her hands over his stomach, the skin beneath it pimpling as she does so. She rests her hand over his ribs, right above the spot where he got shot.

"What're you doing?" He rasps tiredly. His eyes drifting closed, his head sinking further into the pillow. The pain meds must be kicking in.

"Making use of my cold hands."

Links to my Twitter and Tumblr are in my profile, if you're interested.

xo,
B.