Chapter Text
The call came in as a welfare check.
Nothing unusual—at least, that’s what Dispatch had said.
By the time the 113 pulled up outside the sleek office building, something already felt… off. The place was too quiet for a weekday afternoon. Lights still on. Computers still humming behind glass walls.
“Security says her office has been locked for days,” Taylor muttered as she adjusted her gloves. “Nobody’s seen her leave.”
Ryan frowned. “And nobody thought that was a problem?”
Blue huffed under his breath. “Work culture at its finest.”
They made their way upstairs, following a nervous employee who kept wringing her hands. She pointed toward a glass-walled office at the end of the corridor.
“That’s her… she just—she never leaves early, so we thought…” Her voice trembled.
Don gave a short nod. “Alright. Let’s get that door open.”
The lock gave way after a moment of effort.
The second the door cracked open, the smell hit.
It was thick. Rotting. Suffocating.
“Oh—god—” Blue gagged, turning his face away.
Inside, the boss sat at her desk.
Or what was left of her.
Her body had slumped slightly forward, skin discolored, bloated in places, sunken in others. Days—almost a week—of decomposition trapped in a sealed office.
Taylor swallowed hard but forced herself forward, mask in place. “Let me check—”
Ryan hovered just behind her, jaw tight, trying to breathe through his mouth.
Taylor reached out, fingers pressing gently against what should’ve been the woman’s wrist.
The moment she pulled her hand back—
Skin came with it.
A thin, grayish layer peeled away, sticking to her glove.
Taylor jerked back with a sharp gasp. “Nope—nope—” Her voice cracked as she stared at her hand, horror flashing across her face.
“Hey, it’s okay—” Ryan stepped forward instinctively.
That’s when the body moved.
A slow, unnatural tilt.
The chair creaked.
“—Ryan—” Blue warned.
Too late.
The corpse tipped sideways and slammed into the ground.
The impact—
It was like a rupture.
A wet, sickening burst.
Dark, decomposed fluids splattered outward across the pristine office—walls, desk, floor—
—and Ryan.
A spray hit his face.
His mouth.
He inhaled sharply in shock.
And tasted it.
Ryan froze.
Then his eyes went wide.
“Oh—oh my—” He gagged violently, stumbling back, wiping at his mouth frantically. “No—no—no—”
He doubled over, retching hard, the sound raw and immediate.
“Ryan!” Blue grabbed his arm, pulling him away from the scene. “Out—out, now!”
Behind them, a scream rang out.
The coworker.
She staggered backward, pale as death itself, before her heel caught—
—and she went down hard.
Her head hit the floor with a crack.
“Roxie!” Blue barked.
“I’ve got her!” Roxie dropped to her knees instantly, checking the woman’s airway, her pupils. “She’s out—possible concussion!”
Taylor was still shaken, staring at her glove like it might burn through.
“Taylor—outside,” Blue said firmly, guiding both her and Ryan out into the hallway.
Ryan barely made it two steps before he gagged again.
He clutched at his stomach, coughing, trying to spit, wipe, anything to get rid of the taste.
“Water—” he rasped.
Blue shook his head. “Don’t—just—hold on, okay? Ambulance is coming up.”
But Ryan was already spiraling.
His stomach twisted violently, a deep, nauseating churn that didn’t stop.
—
The ambulance ride was worse.
Much worse.
Ryan sat hunched on the bench, a plastic bucket clutched in both hands like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.
Across from him, Roxie worked quickly on the unconscious coworker, stabilizing her neck, checking vitals, shining a penlight into her eyes.
“Stay with me,” Roxie murmured to the patient, focused, calm.
Ryan gagged again.
Loud. Wet.
He barely got the bucket up in time before he vomited, his whole body lurching forward with the force of it.
“God—” he choked, coughing between heaves.
Roxie glanced at him briefly, concern flickering—but she couldn’t move. “Keep using the bucket, Ryan. We’re almost there.”
He nodded weakly, though another wave hit him before he could even breathe properly.
His stomach wouldn’t stop.
Every time he thought it was over, another violent surge followed.
His eyes watered. His throat burned. The taste—he couldn’t get rid of it.
“I—I can still—” he gagged again, spitting into the bucket, voice shaking, “I can still taste it—”
“I know,” Roxie said gently, even as she secured a bandage on the coworker’s head. “Just hang on.”
The ambulance jolted slightly over a bump.
Ryan groaned, gripping the edge of the seat with one hand and the bucket with the other.
Another round.
Harsher this time.
His whole body shook with it, breath hitching as he tried—and failed—to steady himself.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pale and sweating.
“I feel—” He swallowed hard, gagging again. “I feel really—really sick—”
“You were exposed,” Roxie said, still working. “Your body’s reacting. We’ll get you checked the second we arrive.”
That didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
Ryan leaned his forehead briefly against the cool metal wall, eyes squeezed shut.
Then—
Another heave.
The bucket rattled in his grip.
By the time the ambulance finally screeched to a stop at the hospital, Ryan was shaking, exhausted, and still nauseous, his stomach completely wrecked.
Roxie called out as the doors swung open, “We’ve got a head injury and a secondary exposure—he needs evaluation too.”
Ryan barely registered the hands reaching for him.
All he knew was the nausea hadn’t stopped.
—and it didn’t feel like it would anytime soon.
—
The ambulance doors flew open, voices overlapping as hospital staff rushed forward.
“Head trauma, possible severe concussion,” Roxie reported quickly as they rolled the coworker out first. “Loss of consciousness, impact to the occipital—”
Ryan tried to stand.
Bad idea.
The moment his feet hit the ground, the world tilted hard to the left.
“Whoa—hey—” A nurse caught his arm just as his knees buckled.
“I’m—I’m fine—” Ryan started, but the words dissolved into a gag.
They shoved another basin into his hands just in time.
He doubled over again, retching violently right there on the ambulance bay ramp.
“Not fine,” the nurse said firmly. “Get him a chair.”
“I need—” Ryan choked, spitting between breaths, “I need to rinse my mouth—please—”
“Let’s get you inside first.”
He was guided—half-walked, half-dragged—into the ER, the bright lights making everything worse. The smell of antiseptic didn’t help either; it just mixed with the lingering memory of decay still stuck in his throat.
Another wave hit before they even reached a bed.
Ryan barely turned in time.
The basin shook in his hands as he threw up again, weaker this time but no less miserable.
“Easy, easy…” someone murmured, steadying his shoulders.
They got him onto a bed, tilting it slightly, one nurse pressing a cool cloth to the back of his neck while another checked his vitals.
“Heart rate elevated. He’s pale,” she noted.
“Exposure to decomposed fluids,” Roxie added as she appeared beside them, finally free from her other patient. “Some got into his mouth.”
That got attention.
“Alright,” the doctor said, stepping in. “We’re going to flush his mouth out, run some labs, and start him on prophylactic treatment just in case. Sir, can you hear me?”
Ryan nodded weakly.
“Can you sit up a little for me?”
He tried.
His stomach immediately protested.
“—bucket—” he croaked.
They got it under his chin just before he gagged again, though this time it was mostly dry heaving, his body wrung out from earlier.
“Okay. Let’s take this slow,” the doctor said. “We’ll start with rinsing.”
A nurse handed him a cup.
“Small sips. Swish, don’t swallow.”
Ryan obeyed, barely. He took a shaky mouthful, swished—
—and instantly gagged again, spitting it right back into the basin.
“Again,” the nurse encouraged gently.
It took several tries.
Each one ended the same way—gagging, coughing, spitting—but little by little, the taste started to fade.
Not completely.
But enough that he wasn’t panicking with every breath.
Tears clung to his lashes as he leaned back against the bed, exhausted.
“I think I’m dying,” he muttered hoarsely.
Roxie snorted softly from beside him. “You’re not dying.”
“Feels like it.”
“That’s because your body is trying to reject literally everything right now.”
“Yeah, well—it’s doing a great job—” He gagged again mid-sentence, grabbing the basin just in case.
Roxie’s expression softened a little. “Hey. You handled worse.”
Ryan gave her a look. “Not—like—that.”
Fair point.
A nurse returned, starting an IV in his arm.
“Fluids first,” she said. “Help with dehydration.”
“Please,” Ryan whispered.
As the cool saline began to drip into his system, some of the shakiness eased—but the nausea lingered, stubborn and heavy in his gut.
Across the room, the coworker was being wheeled past toward imaging, still unconscious but stable.
Roxie watched for a second, then looked back at Ryan. “She’s gonna be okay.”
Ryan nodded faintly.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because if she wakes up and remembers that—” He shuddered. “I’m gonna throw up again just thinking about it.”
“Then don’t think about it.”
Too late.
His face went green again.
“—Nope—” He grabbed the basin—
—and dry heaved hard, shoulders tensing.
Roxie sighed, reaching over to steady it. “Yeah, okay. Maybe thinking is off-limits for a while.”
Ryan slumped back afterward, breathing hard, eyes closing briefly.
“Next call,” he rasped after a moment, “I’m staying in the truck.”
Roxie smirked. “Not a chance.”
He groaned softly.
Another wave of nausea rolled through him—not as violent this time, but enough to make him curl slightly around the lingering ache in his stomach.
The doctor returned, glancing over his chart.
“We’re going to keep you for observation for a few hours,” he said. “Monitor for infection risk, keep the fluids going, and give you something for the nausea.”
“Thank you,” Ryan breathed.
“Also,” the doctor added, “maybe avoid… lunch for a bit.”
Ryan let out a weak, humorless laugh.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That wasn’t happening anyway…”
Roxie leaned back in her chair beside him, finally allowing herself a moment to relax.
Ryan, pale, exhausted, and still clutching that basin like a lifeline, stared up at the ceiling.
The worst of it might’ve been over—
but his stomach clearly hadn’t gotten the memo yet.
The ER had settled into its usual controlled chaos—monitors beeping, footsteps echoing, voices low but constant.
Ryan hadn’t moved much.
He lay half-reclined on the bed, one arm hooked to the IV, the other still loosely gripping the now very familiar basin resting against his stomach. His eyes were closed, face pale, breathing slow but uneven.
For a few minutes… it had been quiet.
No gagging.
No heaving.
Just exhaustion.
Roxie watched him carefully from the chair beside the bed, arms folded, ready in case that fragile calm broke again.
It didn’t last long.
Ryan’s brow furrowed.
A subtle shift at first—then his hand tightened on the basin.
“Oh no…” he muttered weakly, voice barely there.
Roxie was on her feet instantly, sliding the basin up properly under his chin. “Yeah, okay—go ahead.”
Ryan barely managed a breath before his stomach lurched again.
A harsh gag—
then another round of vomiting, weaker than before but still enough to leave him shaking.
“Easy… easy…” Roxie murmured, one hand steady on his shoulder.
When it finally passed, Ryan slumped back, completely drained.
“I hate… everything,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Understandable.”
Before she could say anything else, hurried footsteps approached from the hallway.
Fast. Focused.
Not panicked—but close.
“Excuse me—where is he—?”
Roxie turned.
And immediately stepped aside.
Sam.
Still in her white coat, stethoscope hanging loosely around her neck, eyes sharp but edged with worry as they locked onto Ryan.
For a split second, she froze.
Taking him in.
Pale. Sweaty. IV in his arm. Basin still clutched in his hand.
“Ryan.”
Her voice softened on his name as she moved to his side.
Ryan cracked his eyes open at the sound.
It took a second for his tired brain to catch up—but when it did, something in his expression shifted.
Relief.
“Hey…” he rasped.
Sam didn’t hesitate—her hand came up to his face, brushing damp hair back from his forehead, fingers lingering there as if grounding herself.
“I heard you were in the ER,” she said, voice controlled but tight underneath. “What happened?”
Ryan let out a weak, humorless breath. “Bad day at work.”
Roxie huffed quietly from the side. “That’s one way to put it.”
Sam glanced at her.
Roxie filled in, gentler this time. “Decomposition exposure. Some of it… got in his mouth.”
Sam’s expression shifted instantly—professional instinct snapping into place.
Her eyes scanned him again, sharper now. “How much exposure?”
“Not a lot,” Ryan mumbled. “Too much.”
“Ryan.”
“Okay, I don’t know—” he winced, swallowing hard as another wave threatened. “Enough.”
Sam nodded once, already assessing. “Vitals?”
“Stable,” Roxie answered. “He’s been vomiting pretty much nonstop since the scene.”
“Yeah, I gathered that,” Sam muttered, glancing at the basin.
Right on cue—
Ryan gagged again.
Sam reacted immediately, one hand supporting his shoulder as he leaned forward, the other steadying the basin with practiced ease.
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’ve got you.”
Another rough heave.
Then another.
Ryan’s whole body tensed with it, breath hitching when it finally eased.
He stayed there for a second, leaning into her, too tired to move.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered weakly.
Sam frowned. “For what?”
“This is… gross.”
That almost made her smile—just a flicker.
“I’m a doctor,” she said gently. “And you’re my husband. You don’t get to apologize for being sick.”
Ryan huffed faintly, though it ended in a small cough.
Sam eased him back against the bed, adjusting the pillow behind his head.
Her fingers brushed his cheek again, cooler this time.
“You’re dehydrated,” she noted quietly, glancing at the IV. “And your body’s reacting to contamination. Nausea’s expected.”
“Feels like I swallowed a corpse,” Ryan muttered.
Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Let’s not phrase it like that.”
“Too late.”
Roxie snorted softly in the background.
Sam shot her a look—half warning, half amused—before turning her attention back to Ryan.
“Have they given you anti-emetics yet?” she asked.
“About to,” Roxie said. “Doctor ordered it.”
“Good.”
Ryan shifted slightly—and immediately regretted it.
His face went pale again.
Sam noticed instantly. “Still nauseous?”
He gave the smallest nod.
“Okay,” she said, voice lowering, steady and reassuring. “Medication will help. Fluids will help. You’re going to feel awful for a bit, but it will pass.”
Ryan looked at her, eyes tired but searching.
“You promise?”
Sam didn’t hesitate.
“I promise.”
Another beat of silence settled between them.
Then—
“Don’t kiss me,” Ryan added weakly.
That time, Sam did smile.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Roxie let out a quiet laugh.
Ryan closed his eyes again, tension slowly easing now that she was there, her hand still resting lightly against his arm.
The nausea hadn’t disappeared.
The exhaustion hadn’t either.
But the panic?
That had faded.
And for the first time since the call—
Ryan finally felt like he might actually be okay.
Roxie checked the monitor one last time, eyes flicking between Ryan and Sam.
“He’s in good hands now,” she said quietly.
Sam gave a small nod. “I’ve got him.”
Roxie stepped closer to the bed, giving Ryan a light nudge on the arm. “Try not to redecorate the ER while I’m gone, yeah?”
Ryan cracked one eye open, voice hoarse. “No promises.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” She smirked, then softened. “Seriously—rest. I’ll check on you later.”
He gave the faintest nod.
With that, Roxie slipped out, the curtain swaying slightly in her wake.
The space felt calmer without the rush of movement.
Just Ryan, Sam, and the steady beep of the monitor.
Ryan shifted slightly—
—and immediately regretted it.
His stomach twisted again.
“Oh, come on—” he groaned under his breath, grabbing the basin before anything could happen.
Sam was already watching him. “Still bad?”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “It won’t stop…”
“Medication should be here any second.”
Right on cue, a nurse stepped in with a syringe and a small vial.
“Anti-emetic,” she said. “This should help with the nausea.”
“Please,” Ryan muttered.
The nurse injected it into his IV line, flushing it through gently. “It’ll take a few minutes to kick in.”
Ryan let his head fall back against the pillow, eyes closing as he focused on breathing through the lingering waves.
In.
Out.
Slow.
His grip on the basin loosened slightly as the minutes passed.
The nausea didn’t vanish instantly—but it dulled.
From sharp, violent surges…
to a heavy, manageable churn.
“Oh,” he murmured, almost surprised. “That’s… better.”
Sam watched closely. “Less intense?”
“Yeah…” He swallowed carefully. “Still there. But not—” He gestured weakly with the basin. “—that.”
“Good.”
He exhaled, tension slowly draining from his shoulders.
For the first time since the call, his body wasn’t bracing for the next wave.
“Don’t move too much,” Sam warned gently.
“I’m not planning to move at all,” Ryan said, eyes still closed.
A brief silence settled—
until hurried, heavier footsteps approached from the hallway.
Sam glanced up.
Ryan didn’t need to open his eyes to know who it was.
“Dad?” he rasped.
The curtain pulled back.
Don stepped in, still in uniform, concern written all over his face the second he saw his son.
“Hey—hey,” Don said, moving straight to the bedside. “I came as soon as I heard.”
Ryan managed a weak, crooked smile. “You always do.”
Don’s gaze swept over him—IV, pale skin, basin still in hand.
“What happened?” he asked, voice tight despite trying to keep it steady.
Sam answered this time, calm and clinical. “Decomposition exposure. He ingested some contaminated fluid at the scene. Severe nausea, vomiting—he’s been stabilized and given anti-emetics.”
Don blinked once.
Then again.
“…He what?”
Ryan groaned softly. “Yeah. Not my best moment.”
Don dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus, Ryan…”
“I know.”
Don stepped closer, resting a hand carefully on Ryan’s shoulder. “You okay now?”
Ryan nodded faintly. “Better than before.”
“Define better.”
“I’m not actively throwing up every thirty seconds.”
Don huffed out a breath that was half relief, half disbelief. “That’s… something, I guess.”
Sam crossed her arms lightly. “He’s improving. The medication is working.”
Don glanced at her, grateful. “Thank you.”
She nodded once. “He’ll need monitoring, but he should be fine.”
Ryan shifted slightly, testing the waters—
and paused.
“…Okay, yeah. Definitely better,” he murmured.
“No sudden moves,” Sam warned again.
“Noted.”
Don pulled up a chair, sitting heavily beside the bed. For a moment, he just watched Ryan, the tension in his posture slowly easing now that he could see him awake and talking.
“You scared the hell out of your team,” he said after a beat.
Ryan let out a weak breath. “Pretty sure I scared myself more.”
“Yeah, well—next time, try not to… ingest a crime scene.”
Ryan gave him a look. “Not intentional.”
“Mm-hmm.”
A small, tired smile tugged at Ryan’s lips before his eyes drifted closed again.
The anti-emetic continued to do its job, the nausea fading further into the background.
Not gone.
But quiet enough.
Don’s hand stayed on his shoulder, steady and grounding.
Sam remained on his other side, watchful, composed—but softer now.
Between them, Ryan finally relaxed into the bed, exhaustion pulling him under.
For the first time since that office—
his body wasn’t fighting itself.
And for now…
that was enough.
A few hours later, the ER had quieted again.
Ryan looked… better.
Not good—but better.
The color was still off, his skin pale and a little clammy, and there were dark shadows under his eyes from the sheer exhaustion. But he wasn’t clutching the basin anymore, and the nausea had finally settled into something distant and manageable.
Sam stood at the foot of the bed, scanning his chart one last time while the doctor spoke.
“Vitals are stable. No signs of infection so far,” the doctor said. “We’re discharging you with medication—antiemetics to keep the nausea under control, and something mild to protect your stomach. Stick to light food for the next 24 hours. Small amounts.”
Ryan nodded slowly. “Yeah… food sounds like a terrible idea right now.”
“It won’t forever,” the doctor assured. “But don’t force it.”
Sam stepped in, her tone shifting slightly into doctor-mode. “He’s not staying alone tonight.”
The doctor shook his head. “No, I’d prefer someone keep an eye on him. If symptoms worsen—fever, persistent vomiting, anything unusual—come back immediately.”
“Got it,” Don said from beside the bed.
Ryan glanced between them. “I’m right here, you know.”
“Good,” Sam said without missing a beat. “Then you heard all of that.”
He sighed faintly but didn’t argue.
A nurse returned with a small paper bag and discharge instructions. “Your prescriptions are in here. Take as directed. The anti-nausea meds should help you keep fluids and food down.”
Ryan took it carefully, like even that required effort. “Thanks…”
Sam stepped closer, her expression softer now. “I have another shift. I can’t leave tonight.”
Ryan shook his head slightly. “Hey—it’s okay. I’ll survive one night without you.”
Her gaze lingered on him, clearly not thrilled with the idea.
Don stepped in. “He’s coming home with me.”
Ryan blinked. “Dad—”
“No arguments,” Don said firmly. “You’re not staying alone after this.”
Ryan considered arguing.
Then his stomach gave a small, warning twist.
“…Yeah. Okay. That’s fair.”
Sam exhaled quietly, tension easing just a little. “Good.”
She moved closer, brushing her hand lightly against Ryan’s arm. “Call me if anything feels off. Anything.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
For a moment, she just looked at him—making sure he was really okay.
Then she leaned down, pressing a quick, careful kiss to his forehead.
“Get some rest.”
Ryan gave her a faint smile. “Try not to save too many lives without me.”
“No promises.”
—
Getting up was… harder than Ryan expected.
The second he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the room tilted slightly.
“Easy,” Don said immediately, stepping in close.
“I’ve got it,” Ryan murmured—but he didn’t pull away when Don steadied him.
He pushed himself upright slowly, pausing as a wave of weakness rolled through him.
It wasn’t nausea this time.
Just emptiness.
His body felt hollow after everything—like there was nothing left to give.
“Okay,” he muttered. “That’s… not great.”
“Take your time,” Don said.
Ryan nodded, breathing through it, then took a cautious step forward.
His legs held—but barely.
Don kept a firm grip on his arm as they made their way out of the ER.
The walk to the parking lot felt longer than it should’ve.
Ryan moved slowly, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand instinctively resting against his stomach like he didn’t quite trust it yet.
“You eaten anything?” Don asked.
Ryan gave him a look. “Absolutely not.”
“Yeah, didn’t think so.”
“I think my body would file a complaint.”
Don huffed softly. “We’ll start with something light when we get home.”
“‘Home,’” Ryan echoed weakly. “Your home.”
“Tonight, same thing.”
Ryan didn’t argue.
By the time they reached the car, Ryan was breathing a little heavier, the short walk clearly taking more out of him than it should have.
Don opened the passenger door and guided him in carefully.
“Watch your head.”
“I know how to get into a car,” Ryan muttered—but there was no bite to it.
“Humor me.”
Ryan settled into the seat, leaning back with a quiet exhale, eyes closing briefly.
Even that felt like effort.
Don shut the door, then circled around to the driver’s side.
When he got in, he glanced over.
Ryan was slumped slightly, one hand still resting over his stomach, the other loosely holding the paper bag with his medication.
“You alright?” Don asked.
Ryan gave a small nod without opening his eyes. “Just… tired.”
“Yeah. I bet.”
A beat passed.
Then—
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“…If I throw up in your car, I’m really sorry.”
Don snorted despite himself. “You better not.”
“No promises,” Ryan murmured, echoing Roxie from earlier.
Don shook his head, starting the engine.
“Let’s get you home,” he said.
Ryan didn’t respond.
He’d already drifted off slightly, exhaustion finally catching up now that his body wasn’t in constant revolt.
The drive was quiet.
And for the first time all day—
Ryan wasn’t fighting to stay upright.
He was just… recovering.
