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Part I: Andy
There really isn’t any time to think. One minute the suspect is in custody, the next he’s managed to wrestle the gun from a uniform’s holster as he’s being escorted down the hall, firing blindly into the murder room until he’s incapacitated by a well-placed bullet from Amy Sykes. The entire incident may have lasted 90 seconds, but to Andy, crouched beneath his desk and listening to the shattering of glass, it had felt like an eternity.
An organized chaos ensues in the immediate aftermath, but Andy feels removed from it all. Provenza, red-faced and panting, is yelling at him from across the room, but he can’t make out the words. Sanchez sprints across the distance to where the baby-faced officer is kicking her gun away from Pat Hillman’s outstretched hand, while Tao approaches Sykes and places a hand on her shoulder. Relief makes its way past the numbness; they’re all ok. It’s nothing short of a miracle. Andy had counted at least eight rounds, but looking at the destruction in the murder room, thinks it could have been more. Adrenalin is a funny thing.
Time has slowed and everything is suddenly too bright and he feels the way he did right before he passed out in front of God and everyone the last time, so he sits heavily in his chair and clamps his right earlobe between sweaty fingers, praying he won’t embarrass himself.
“Oh, yeah, Flynn, take a load off. It’s not like we need your help or anything,” Provenza complains as he approaches Andy’s desk. The closer he gets, however, the more he takes in, and for all he can be a pompous ass sometimes, he is no fool. “Oh, no, no, no! You are not allowed to faint,” he commands brusquely. And yeah, maybe if he didn’t feel like such absolute shit, he’d laugh because Provenza’s face has gone from red to an alarming shade of purple. “I’m warning you, Flynn,” he all but shouts as he finally reaches Andy’s desk. “Captain, tell Flynn he’s not allowed to faint.”
Andy waits for the calm, measured tones of his superior, but Provenza’s request is met only by silence. His hand lands heavy on Andy’s shoulder as his eyes scan the room. “Captain?”
The thing is, despite this new-found awareness of her he’d developed in the months following Nicole’s wedding, Andy can’t remember whether she’d been in the room or not. Taylor usually required a debriefing upon the closing of any case, so maybe she’d been safely in his office during the melee. But, no, because almost as soon as the thought lands, it’s gone in the face of a flash of memory: the way the fading sunlight had glinted off her hair as she’d stood at the window, trying to get reception on her cell phone.
He stands so suddenly the chair lets out a sound of protest before it shoots a foot or so behind him, slamming into a filing cabinet. Provenza’s hand falls away from him, but Andy feels his solid presence at his back as he makes his way to the other side of the room, trying and failing to articulate to Tao and Sykes that something is terribly, terribly wrong. It must be written on his face though, because they both follow him without question, falling into step with Provenza.
He sees her pin-striped clad legs first, only up to mid-thigh though, because the rest of her body is hidden behind a desk. Andy feels like he’s been punched in the gut.
“Captain!” he shouts as he rounds the desk and falls to his knees so hard his teeth rattle.
“We need a medic!” someone shouts--Provenza, Andy thinks--but he’s so focused on Sharon he can’t be sure.
She’s unconscious and there are several shallow lacerations across her cheeks and forehead, most likely from the falling glass, but certainly not serious enough to account for the crimson pool behind her shoulder and head, which contrasts so sharply with her too pale face. He notices it then, a blossoming stain in the shoulder of her blazer.
“She’s been hit; the shoulder. A through-and-through, I think,” Andy says, the lieutenant in him taking over as he slowly catalogues the rest of her. He doesn’t see any other injuries, but he can’t be sure. “I need something for the bleeding.”
Provenza thrusts a white handkerchief towards him even as he bellows across the room, “I need an ETA on paramedics, Sanchez.”
Flynn presses the cloth as hard as he can against her shoulder, trying to stem the flow of blood. Her name becomes a mantra in his head and he keeps his eyes trained on her face in order to avoid the thick, warm substance quickly soaking through Provenza’s handkerchief and coating his fingers.
“A bus’ll be here in two minutes, Lieutenant,” Sanchez’s disembodied voice calls.
“All right, Captain, two minutes. Help’ll be here in two minutes,” Andy soothes even though he’s sure she can’t hear him, except, maybe she does, because her eyelids start to flutter and she lets out a soft groan.
Tao crouches beside Andy and gently rolls Sharon just a little so he can access the exit wound. He makes small, efficient movements, and the sensible gray tie that had been around his neck is now doing double duty as a bandage.
“Fuck,” Sharon grunts quietly, and even though it’s highly inappropriate, Andy is slightly turned on by her swearing, because in all the years he’s known her, he’s pretty sure he’s never heard her utter so much as a ‘damn’.
“Sorry, Captain, but you’re leaking all over the place,” Tao says when she finally opens her eyes and looks around in pain and confusion. He raises an eyebrow at Andy. “You have to press harder.”
“I don’t want to hurt her,” Andy admits, even as he complies with Tao’s direction.
“What happened?” Sharon asks, or, that’s what Andy thinks she asks because her speech is slurred. What she actually says is, “Whhhh hpppnnn?”
“That scumbag, Hillman, got a hold of Officer Swanner’s gun. Looks like one of the bullets got you.”
“Oh,” she says simply, but he can tell she’s not really processing the information.
There is a flurry of activity and three things happen at once: Taylor rushes into the murder room demanding answers, several FID officers on his heels, four paramedics arrive, assessing the scene without flinching as Provenza waves two of them over, and Sharon vomits on Tao’s shoes. Andy has to give the other man credit because, aside from the small tic at the corner of his mouth, he makes no other sign of distress.
“What have we got here?” the older of the two paramedics asks Andy as he places his med kit down and begins to unzip it.
“The bastard shot her in the shoulder, through-and-through,” he replies as the younger of the two takes over compressing the wounds.
“Any other injuries?” he asks as he removes scissors and a pen light.
“None that I could see. She lost consciousness, though, and she just puked.”
“Ok, so we’re probably dealing with a concussion, too. What’s her name?”
“Sharon, uh, Captain. Captain Raydor.”
Andy doesn’t like the way the man smiles at him; half sympathy, half knowing. “We’ll just go with Sharon,” he says as he turns to the woman in question. “Sharon, I’m Mark, and my partner over here is Nelson. We’re going to get you out of here very soon, but I just need to check a few things and get you stabilized, ok?”
“M’kay.”
“Great. I need to take a look at your pupils, so do me a favor and follow this light.”
“Hurts,” Sharon says as she turns her head away from Mark and meets Andy’s eyes beseechingly.
“Listen, pal, is any of this really necessary?” Andy asks angrily.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name?”
“Lieutenant Flynn.”
“Right, Lieutenant Flynn. I need to assess Sharon’s condition, which might cause her a little discomfort, but I assure you, we’re here to help. So, I need you to maybe give me a little space to do my job, because the quicker I do that, the quicker she’s on her way to Cedars,” the paramedic says smoothly. While his tone is calm, Andy doesn’t miss the steely glint in his eye, and something very close to rage starts shooting through his veins. Rage at the young officer for allowing the perp to get her gun, rage at Pat Hillman for his last senseless act of violence, and rage at the smug paramedic who doesn’t seem to realize what kind of danger he’s in.
Andy chuckles without amusement and leans closer. “Ok, you know what?”
“Flynn, please,” Provenza says quietly. It’s not so much an entreaty as it is a warning.
“Lieutenant Flynn, Provenza, I need you over here,” Chief Taylor calls from across the room. “Now,” he says when there is no movement.
Andy finally breaks eye contact with the paramedic, who, for the most part, remains impassive, and gets to his feet, barely managing to hide the wince when his joints let out an embarrassing amount of audible cracks. As if he didn’t already feel a hundred years old.
Ten minutes later and he’s barely listening to Mike’s account of events because Sharon’s being loaded onto a gurney and headed in their direction. There’s more color in her cheeks and she seems slightly more aware of her surroundings, but he notices her jacket and shirt are gone and her torso is covered by a thin blanket.
“Captain Raydor, are you all right?” one of the FID officers, Randall, Flynn thinks, asks as he rushes up to her. If he didn’t look so earnest and worried, Flynn might be tempted to earn another reprimand on his jacket, or worse, for assaulting a fellow officer, but he reminds himself that Randall used to be on her team and they have a history, too.
She offers a faint smile. “Oh, you know, another day at the office.”
Flynn thinks it’s a good sign she’s not slurring her words anymore.
“We’re taking her to Cedars, anyone want to come with?” Mark asks, though he’s looking directly at Flynn.
“No,” Sharon says before anyone can respond. “They have to finish their interviews. I’m fine,” and although her voice is weak, a hint of iron is laces her tone. “Lieutenant Provenza, can you please call Rusty and make sure--,”
“Yes, yes, Captain, I’ll take care of him.”
Sharon frowns at being interrupted, but suddenly looks too exhausted to put up much of a fight. “Tell him not to worry and I’ll try to be home in a few hours. Make sure he eats something--,”
“Sharon,” Provenza interrupts again in a soft voice, “I said I’ll take care of him.” He then catches Mark’s eye and gestures toward the elevators with quick nod of his head.
Mark wisely wheels her away before she can reply and Flynn thinks he might have been too hasty in his judgment of the man. He waits until the elevator doors close on its occupants before turning his attention back to the group. He finds Taylor eyeing him strangely.
“What?” he asks defensively.
“Why don’t you, uh, take a minute, clean up. Randall and Schwartz will start doing individual interviews when you get back. I’m sure you’re all anxious to get to the hospital.”
It is only then he notices he still has blood—Sharon’s blood—on his hands. He looks at the rest of the squad, but no one is quite willing to meet his gaze. “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he says quietly.
The harsh light in the men’s room makes him look haggard and washed out, and God, what he wouldn’t give for a few hours’ sleep. He tries to ignore the way his hands shake and finally closes his eyes so he won’t have to watch the water turn pink before it swirls down the drain. He thinks it’s a good thing Amy’s bullet killed Pat Hillman, because, otherwise he’d go out and finish the bastard himself.
Part II: Sharon
Andy had kissed her once. She doesn’t think he remembers because he’d been drunk and half-asleep, and he’s never mentioned it. But she remembers it, oh, yes she does. She’d still been in patrol, then, and Ricky had been in diapers, and Jack had been drinking heavily for a while. Ricky had been fighting an ear infection, so she’d still been trying to soothe him to sleep between his crying jags when her husband had finally come home from the bar that night, the handsome detective in tow.
“What’s he still doing up?” Jack had asked in annoyance, even as Ricky had reached out for him.
Jack, when sober, really was a doting father and husband; those moments just seemed to happen far less frequently than they used to. “He doesn’t feel good. I’ve been trying to get him down for a few hours.”
“You’re spoiling him,” he’d said in disgust as he wandered off to their bedroom. “I’ve got court in the morning. Try to keep him quiet.”
He’d left the two of them—Andy and Sharon—standing awkwardly in the living room with the crying baby without any introduction or explanation. She’d known who he was, of course, but she didn’t know why he was in her house at 2 a.m., reeking of booze and cigarette smoke.
“What’s wrong with the little guy?” he’d asked, coming closer and peering at her son through bleary eyes. He’d seemed genuinely concerned, which was certainly more than the boy’s own father could manage, so she hadn’t kicked him out right then, despite her better judgment.
“An ear infection,” she’d told him as Ricky had laid his head heavily on her shoulder. His eyes had still been wet, but he’d stopped crying and instead had been eyeing the stranger in curiosity.
“Have you tried a warm compress? I’ve seen my wife do that sometimes with my youngest.”
“You have kids?”
“Two; Nicole’s five and Sean’s three,” he’d said proudly. He’d worn his feelings on his face even then, and Sharon remembers the way his mood had immediately darkened after this, the turmoil in his eyes evident. “Anyway, you want me to, uh, get one ready?”
He’d been so eager to help, and even though she’d already tried applying a compress earlier with negative results, she’d found herself directing him to the linen closet and watching as he’d held the washcloth under the running tap in the kitchen.
“I’m Andy, by the way, Andy Flynn,” he’d said as he held out the warm cloth for her to take, his hands far steadier than they had any right to be.
“I know,” she’d replied, smiling in thanks as she’d gently placed the compress against Ricky’s ear. “I’m in patrol.”
“Yeah, you’re Joe’s partner. He thinks very highly of you.” She’d snorted then in disbelief and Andy had chuckled. “I know he’s a little old-school, but I heard him say just last week that you’re one of the best partners he’s ever had.”
‘Old-school’ was the term everyone in the department used to cover a multitude of sins, but in this case, it applied to Joe Price’s sexist, outdated attitude towards women, especially those on the force. Sharon had come home in tears everyday her first two weeks working with him, though she’d never let anyone know, and had almost quit entirely. Only sheer stubbornness and ever-increasing debt had kept her from tendering her resignation. Over the past year of working together, however, they’d developed, if not a friendship, then at least a peaceful coexistence.
Sharon had been so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed how heavy Ricky had become until Andy had smiled brightly and whispered, “I think he’s finally asleep.”
She’d sighed in relief and taken Ricky to his room, half-hoping Andy would be gone when she returned so she wouldn’t have to ask him any awkward questions. She’d been exhausted and all she’d wanted was to crawl into bed, but when she’d crept out of the nursery after leaving the door cracked, he’d still been there, examining a set of framed photographs lining the hallway.
“He go down ok?” he’d asked when she’d approached.
“Yes, um, thank you for your help. Hopefully he’ll be able to sleep for a few hours.” She’d been trying to think of a way to ask him about his presence without sounding like a total asshole when he’d finally put her out of her misery.
“Look, Jack told me I could crash on your couch for the night, but with the sick kid and all, if it’s too much hassle, I can find somewhere else to stay.”
Looking into his sincere gaze, she’d realized his statement wasn’t designed to guilt her, but rather a simple offer to let her off the hook with no hard feelings. Despite the weariness creeping along her bones, she’d smiled and shook her head. “Don’t be silly. Let me set up the couch for you.”
He’d let out a long, slow breath and smiled. “I really appreciate it, but honestly, all I need is a blanket. No fuss.”
She’d already walked back to the linen closet to grab sheets for the sofa bed, trying to remember if she’d removed the last set from when she’d kicked Jack out of their room. By the time she made it back to the living room, he was already stretched out on the sofa, sans blazer, tie and shoes.
“I was going to pull out the sofa bed. It’s much more comfortable,” she’d said as she’d dropped the bedding on the coffee table.
“Told you, no fuss. I’m comfortable,” he’d said, already half asleep.
She’d gone to the kitchen for a glass of water and shaken out two painkillers, carrying them back to the living room. “Andy, sit up for a minute.”
“Mmm.”
“Come on, just a minute, then you can go back to sleep. I just want you to drink some water and take some ibuprofen. This’ll help you not feel so bad in the morning.”
He’d opened his eyes and sat up, taking the water glass and proffered pills. “Thanks,” he’d said quietly after he’d drained the water glass and given it back to her. She could tell there’d been something else he’d wanted to say, but instead he’d reclined back on the couch and closed his eyes again.
After she’d refilled his glass and placed it on the coffee table, she’d covered him with a blanket, but he hadn’t stirred. Leaning over him, she’d said, “Andy, there’s a glass of water on the coffee table and the bathroom’s down the hall on the left. Our bedroom is straight across from it, if you need anything.”
He’d opened his eyes, and to this day, she’s not sure if he’d even realized who she was when he suddenly leaned in and pressed his mouth against hers. She’d been so surprised, she hadn’t pulled away, and when he’d brought his hands up to thread through her hair, she’d nearly melted into the couch cushions. The kiss was tender, sweet and over much too soon, and when Andy released her, he’d rolled over to face the back of the couch, already sleeping.
When Sharon had walked into the living room the next morning after a very restless few hours of tossing and turning, he’d been gone, but the blanket had been folded and the glass washed. Jack had never brought him home again, though he’d mention him from time to time, and once she’d transferred into IA, she’d had her own run-ins with him.
They’ve never talked about that night, and sometimes Sharon thinks she might have imagined that kiss, except he’s looking at her now in the exact same way, a fierce wanting tempered with something much softer, as he leans over her hospital bed.
“You were talking in your sleep,” he says quietly.
“I thought I sent you all home,” she replies.
He smiles lopsidedly. “I came back. Do you need anything? Water?”
“I need to go home,” she says testily even though she feels bad about it immediately because it’s not his fault, after all.
“Hey, hey, we discussed this, remember? You have to set a good example for the rest of your squad and *not* sign out AMA. Doc says you’ll probably be released first thing in the morning, so why not relax and enjoy all the amenities?”
She chuckles, despite the fact it makes her shoulder ache, and suddenly her eyelids are incredibly heavy. “I think I’m going to rest my eyes for a minute.”
She doesn’t hear Andy’s reply because she’s already in a narcotic-induced sleep, but minutes or hours later, she opens her eyes and looks to the side, where he’s stretched out on a lumpy-looking cot.
“You don’t look very comfortable,” she says.
And he’s not sleeping like she thought because she can see his smile even in the dim lighting. “I’m comfortable. No fuss, remember?”
She smiles, too. “I remember.”
~Fin~