Chapter Text
The first wave just hit like a freight train. We cleared the initial reds, people with GSWs to the chest, the abdomen, one with half his face gone, and for a split second, the bay went quiet. Not peaceful quiet. The kind of quiet where you can hear the blood still dripping onto the floor tiles, the low hum of the monitors we barely have time to glance at, and your own pulse hammering in your ears like it's trying to remind you you're still alive. No labs, no fancy imaging, just eyes, hands, Sharpies on foreheads, and decisions made in seconds that could end a life or save one. We tagged, tubed, packed wounds, called OR for the ones who might still make it. I saw Dr Abbott slap a chest tube in like it was nothing, barking orders to the residents while his prosthetic didn't even slow him down. Having him here... Christ, it felt like someone finally had my back in the foxhole. I almost hugged the guy earlier when he walked in. Almost.
But now the adrenaline's dipping just enough for the thoughts to creep back in. She always runs toward danger. This happened two buildings away, at that little coffee shop where she likes to work from when she needs to feel normal humanity around her, and pretend she’s not buried in threat assessments all day. There is simply no reality where our girl sheltered in place. Not her. She’s a counterterrorism expert; the second the shots started she would’ve been moving, trying to help, trying to stop it, because that’s who she is. Brave. Brilliant. Reckless with her own safety. She was so close by, she would be helping people, so she should be here by now. She should be storming through those doors, small and fierce, snapping orders or dragging a casualty behind her. I’d clear a bay in a heartbeat. I’d have to check her. I’d put my hands on that tiny body and make sure nothing was bleeding or sore, because that’s what we do, we keep her safe, we put her back together, our girl. She fits so perfectly between us, delicate and protected, even when she’s pretending she doesn’t need it.
But she’s not here. The thought lands like a scalpel between the ribs, sterile and cold. My stomach twists hard enough that I have to lock my knees so I don’t sway. I can feel the sweat cooling on the back of my neck, the faint metallic taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with the blood on my gloves. She’s tough. She’s smarter than us. She would’ve found a way. But the voice in my head is already answering back, quieter, meaner: Two buildings away. Gunfire. Mass panic. People trampling each other to get out. And she’s just so small. So easily hurt. Fragile, no matter how fiercely she believes she’s invincible. One wrong step, one stray round, one panicked stranger knocking her down. I glance at Abbott again. He hasn’t brought it up. Maybe he hasn’t let the thought in yet, or maybe he’s better at burying it under that combat-hardened shell. Either way, I can’t say it out loud. Not yet. If I speak her name, if I ask if anyone’s seen our baby, the words become real. They become a fact we have to triage, and right now I need every ounce of denial I can still grab onto.
Every time a new ambulance rolls up or a car screeches into the bay with more bodies piled in the back, my stomach drops. I scan the faces, the clothes, the blood-soaked hair, for the soft curve of her shoulder, for anything that says she made it out. Listening for that voice that always sounds a little too sweet for the things she knows. Nothing yet. Radio silence on her phone. Just the endless loop in my head: Come on, baby. Get to us. Let us take care of you.
I swallow the rising panic and force my hands to stay steady as I reach for the next chart. Jack’s here. He’ll help me hold it together if the worst comes. He always does when it comes to her. But right now the only thing keeping me upright is the fragile hope that the next set of doors to swing open will bring our girl in, hurt maybe, but alive, breathing, looking at us with those eyes that say she trusts us to fix anything.
Then Jack’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to snap me out of the spiral. “Robby. Supply room. Now.”
His voice is low, clipped, the same tone he uses when things are about to go from bad to catastrophic. I follow him without arguing, the noise of the bay fading behind us as the door clicks shut. The small room smells like bleach and old cardboard, too bright under the fluorescent lights. Jack pulls out his phone, jaw tight, fingers steady as he swipes.
“My SWAT buddies just looped me in. It’s a fucking clusterfuck down there. Shooter’s holed up with hostages. They didn’t in fast, too hot, too many civilians in the way. And now someone’s already talking to him. Civilian. Female.”
He turns the screen toward me. The world narrows to a single point.
It’s her.
Our baby.
In the little blue dress she left the house in this morning, the one that rides up her thighs when she reaches for the top shelf, the one that makes her look so soft and breakable it hurts. Her blonde hair is twisted into a hasty bun, that ridiculous scrunchie she always wears, the one I know hides a ceramic knife because she never leaves the house completely unarmed. But none of that matters next to the blood. She’s covered in it. It’s streaked across her cheek, matting a loose wisp of hair to her face like a ghoulish ribbon. It blooms across her chest, soaking the thin fabric until the broad, soft curve of her breasts is stained a deep, wet red. Her hands, those small, clever hands that trace patterns on my back at night, are gripping a radio, knuckles white, and she’s looking straight ahead with that focused, faraway expression she gets when she’s in deep. Like she hasn’t even noticed she’s bleeding. Or maybe she has, and she simply doesn’t care.
My breath catches, sharp and painful.
Jack’s voice is rough, almost gentle. “She’s negotiating. They say she’s keeping him calm for now, but the cops are pissed they can’t relieve her. She’s holding the line.”
I stare at the photo, at the blood on her skin, at how tiny she looks standing there in the middle of hell. Our princess. The one we wrap up between us, the one we keep safe. And she’s out there alone, small and fragile and invincible in her own mind, covered in someone else’s blood or maybe her own: I can’t tell. The room tilts. Baby… what the hell are you doing? I want to reach through the screen and pull her out. I want to wrap her up, press my face into that bloody hair, tell her she’s done enough, that it’s our turn now. Jack’s hand stays on my shoulder, grounding me, the same way it does when we’re both focused on her, when she’s soft and panting and safe between our bodies. But she’s not safe. She’s playing hero with a shooter while we’re here stitching up the wreckage.
I swallow hard, throat raw. “We need to get her.”
Jack nods once, eyes hard. “As soon as there’s a window. But right now she’s the only thing keeping more bodies from rolling through those doors.”
He doesn’t say the rest. He doesn’t have to.
Jack pockets the phone. His jaw is set, the same way it gets before he sets a shoulder. He doesn’t speak right away. He just steps in close, closer than colleagues, closer than friends, and grips the back of my neck with that strong, calloused hand. The other rests heavy on my shoulder, grounding, unyielding.
“Robby.” His voice is low, rough, the combat-medic timbre that says I’ve seen worse and we’re still standing. “Breathe.”
I try. It comes out shaky. “She’s covered in blood, Jack. Look at her. She’s so fucking small out there. One twitch from that shooter and- ”
“I know.” He cuts me off, forehead pressing to mine for a second, solid and warm. The kind of contact we only allow when she’s between us, soft and laughing and safe. But right now it’s just us, and it has to be enough. “She’s negotiating. Holding the line. That’s our girl. Stubborn little thing thinks she’s bulletproof.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Yeah. Our princess. The one we’re supposed to keep wrapped up between us. Not out there playing hero with a goddamn radio while we’re in here…” I gesture vaguely at the door, at the carnage waiting on the other side.
Jack’s grip tightens, thumb digging into the muscle at the base of my skull, working out the knot that’s been building since the first siren. “Hey. Look at me.” His eyes are steady, that war-vet calm that never quite cracks. “She’s smart. Trained. Hell, she’s been shot before and fought her way back. She’s buying time so fewer of these people make it to our tables. And when we get a window, we’re going in together. You and me. We’ll pull her out, strip that bloody dress off her, clean her up, and remind her who she belongs to. Soft hands. Quiet words. The way she likes it, when she’s shaking after.”
I close my eyes, leaning into his hold. “She hides a knife in that scrunchie, you know. Thinks we don’t notice.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at Jack’s mouth. “Course she does. Our fierce little baby.” He pulls back just enough to cup my face with both hands now, and rests his forehead against mine again, breathing with me until our rhythms sync. “You’re not losing it on me, Robby. Not today. I’ve got your six. Same as always. We keep the bay running. We stay sharp. And the second SWAT gives the nod, we take her back.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. My hand comes up to grip his wrist, feeling the steady pulse there. “She fits so perfectly with us. And we let her walk out in that dress this morning like it was nothing.”
“We didn’t know,” he says quietly, but there’s steel under it. “But we’ll make it right. You keep that big heart of yours from cracking open out there. I’ll keep the team moving. When she comes back to us, because she will, we’ll both be whole enough to hold her. Just us taking care of our girl.”
Jack exhales, straightens, and claps me once on the back, hard, brotherly, grounding. “Alright. Lock it down, Doc. Bay’s waiting. Our little girl is buying us time. Let’s not waste it.”
I straighten too, rolling my shoulders, forcing the mask back into place. The denial is gone. In its place is something sharper: purpose. And the quiet promise humming between us. We’ll get to her. We’ll bring her home. And then we’ll wrap her up so tight between us that nothing in this world will ever touch her again. And probably hide her shoes so she can’t leave the nest.