The accumulating sleep deficit was starting to catch up with Walsh. He was sure that Beaumont must have noticed - over the course of each evening, he knew he became increasingly monosyllabic and withdrawn, as exhaustion warred with his growing apprehensiveness about the dream he knew was waiting for him when he finally slept.

For another week they went on trying to pretend things were just the way they'd always been, but for Walsh everything had changed. She'd nearly died because she'd been with him. And every night he dreamed that he walked into the hospital to find that she was dead.

And then one night the dream was different.

He watched Lutz walk in, and he already knew who he was. This man was here to kill him, except that it would be Beaumont who would get shot instead. He should grab the shotgun from under the counter, and scare the guy off. He knew what was going to happen, and he could stop it happening. But he didn't, he went right on serving him food and drink. Now Lutz was asking for syrup, so that Walsh would have to turn his back, then he'd pull a gun and start shooting, firing wildly and Beaumont would get hit. Walsh's shotgun was within arms' reach, he knew he should just pick it up, and protect his woman. But instead he turned to get the syrup. He just let Lutz draw his gun, let him fire, let him hit Beaumont. It was his fault. He could have stopped it. And then he was on his knees beside Beaumont, with her blood gushing over his hands as he tried to put pressure on the wound. And she was clutching his shoulder, shaking him. Shaking the idiot who had just let it all happen. Yelling at him...

"Walsh! C'mon, snap out of it!"

He woke, but she was still shaking him. No, this wasn't a dream, the hand on his shoulder was very real, she was sitting up, looking down at him, her face creased with concern. "You were having that dream again."

"It... no. Yeah." He didn't bother explaining it was a different dream, that this time he just knowingly let the whole thing happen. Walsh sat up, and turned away, swinging his legs out of bed. He couldn't look her in the eye.

The silence stretched between them, until finally she said, "I think you should talk to someone."

"What, a shrink?" Walsh snorted.

"Maybe. It doesn't have to be a shrink, just someone to listen."

Walsh shook his head, giving a short, humorless laugh. "I'm not the one who got shot..."

"But you are the one falling apart over it."

Her blunt assessment finally made him turn around to look at her, his expression incredulous. "Are you saying I'm losing it?" He hadn't meant to sound so confrontational, but she didn't take offense. She knelt on the bed beside him, and reached out to lay her hand on his cheek.

"I'm saying that if you talk about it while you're awake, it'll stop invading your dreams."

"Talking about it won't change what happened. You got shot because you were with me. It wasn't a random attack, Lutz was there to kill me, and he almost killed you instead."

"What, you're the only cop who's got enemies? Next week it could be someone with a grudge tracking me down. Where's the difference?"

"The difference is that your apartment has a steel door with deadbolts, and you only let in people you know. My place has a glass front and I let total strangers walk right in, and I feed them breakfast before they try to kill people I... I care about."

Beaumont was looking at him with a wary expression. "So, what, you're saying I'm not safe when I'm with you?"

"Looks that way. If you aren't with me, at least you'll only have your own lunatics to deal with."

Beaumont let her hands drop to her knees, and sat silent for a minute, then she said quietly, "Is this... are you saying... that you think we should stop seeing each other?" The uncertainty in her voice felt like a sliver of glass being pushed under his skin, but after a moment, he said, "Maybe."

"So do I get a say in this decision?" The edge in her voice felt like more glass in his flesh, and he turned away from her once more.

"You'd be safer."

"I'd be safer if I never left this apartment again, but that ain't gonna happen either."

"That's not the same..." Walsh started, but Beaumont cut him off.

"It's exactly the same. Sure, if you never take any risks, you don't get hurt. But you don't get much of anything else, either." She sighed, and shifted over to sit beside him. Until all this had happened, everything had been refreshingly uncomplicated. They shared a lot of interests, they had the same sense of humor, and they were definitely great in bed together. They hadn't needed to analyze and agonize over their relationship. "I'm trying to say that it's worth it. You're worth it."

Walsh turned his head to look at her, and she could see the strain in his face, the self-doubt in his eyes. "Am I?"

The bitterness in his voice made her ache with wanting to ease his anguish. In some ways the shooting hadn't been as hard on her as it had on Walsh. It seemed that it was easier to heal the physical damage she'd suffered, than to ease the mental torment, the self-blame he was feeling. Beaumont was convinced that his fears for her safety were mostly irrational, but she knew it wasn't just what had happened to her that haunted him. He'd been carrying a load of guilt over the murder of his girlfriend, all those years ago. It was no wonder that he wasn't thinking straight, with that on his conscience. And she wasn't sure how to make him understand that she honestly didn't blame him for what that lowlife son of a bitch had done.

At last, he put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. "It's not worth me going back to sleep now," he said. "I'm going to shower and head in to work early – take care of some paperwork." He spoke lightly, but to Beaumont it sounded forced, as if he were putting on an act to reassure her that he was fine.

By the time Walsh had showered, Beaumont had coffee ready, and he smiled when she handed him a mugful. For a few minutes, while he drank it and they talked about inconsequential matters, things almost felt normal between them. Then he put the empty mug in the sink, and kissed her, but when she said "See you tonight," he evaded her gaze, and as he was closing the door behind him, he said. "I'll call you."

Beaumont stood in the middle of the room, with an icy feeling inside her, like she'd just been doused with cold water.