Chapter Text
It hurt.
Everything hurt.
Every bone.
Every muscle.
Every joint.
A distant voice.
Familiar.
Unconsciousness dragged at him; he wanted to give in.
Escape the pain.
Descend back into the darkness.
Iron in his nose and in his mouth.
Blood.
And that voice again.
Closer now.
“Wake up.”
A shallow breath—ribs screaming in pain.
Fingers on the side of his neck, trembling.
“Wake up, Tim.”
Feeling for a pulse.
His pulse.
“Please wake up!”
Fuck.
Tim wrenched his eyes open.
“Oh, thank God!” A gasp or a sob—he couldn’t tell. But the relief. Overwhelming. Crushing. That he heard.
She’d thought he was dead.
“I’m okay,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and his throat raw.
He barely heard himself over the ringing in his ears.
He might have screamed. He’d probably screamed.
He didn’t remember.
Tim didn’t know what the rules were here.
What was normal.
What he should expect.
They’d survived a fucking plane crash.
And then—
“Are you okay?” he demanded and reached up, curling his fingers around hers.
It should have been the first thing on his mind. Lucy was his partner. She was… He needed to make sure she was okay.
We’re not partners.
How many times had he told her that?
And of course they weren’t partners.
They were… something else.
And it didn’t matter now.
But she was not his partner. She was…
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m okay. Hit my head, but I’ve had worse.”
She threaded her shaky fingers in his, their joined hands dropping between them. Tim turned his head, forcing himself to go slow, every motion deliberate and controlled, aware his spine might be injured—and knowing there was nothing he could do about it if it was.
The cabin lights were flickering, but there was enough light for him to make out the look on Lucy’s face.
Worry.
Fear.
Outside the window the water glittered faintly in the setting sun.
Calm.
Peaceful.
Beautiful.
Her skin warm under his hand as her dress caught in the light.
Golden.
Beautiful.
Focus, Tim told himself as he sat up. Slowly. Carefully. Doing inventory, trying to find out whether he was hurt—seriously hurt—or whether he could function. Because he had to function.
They were down.
Now they had to get out.
And Tim knew a thing or two about people in a panic.
About people in survival mode.
About people who didn’t want to die.
They were dangerous.
It was strong, that survival instinct. It overrode everything else if you let it, and it was hard not to let it.
So—he had to function. He had no choice.
So—he was in pain. He was probably in shock, his body was flooded with adrenaline, so the pain would be worse as soon as it wore off. But it was pain. That he could deal with, was familiar with it. If anything, if he happened to be badly injured, it would keep him from passing out somewhere down the line.
But he felt—whole.
For the most part.
Except…
“My face…” He licked over his lips, tasted the blood.
Lucy gave him a once-over, her forehead creased.
Still worried.
Still afraid.
But there was focus now.
“Your nose is bleeding. And you’ve got a cut on your forehead, but it looks shallow.”
Slowly, Tim brushed his thumb against his nose—and winced.
Fuck.
It hurt. But not enough for it to be broken.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Tim was by no means vain, but he liked his nose just the way it was.
The thought made him laugh.
Just once.
Jesus, they had ditched in the fucking middle of San Francisco Bay and were slowly sinking. A broken nose was the least of his problems.
Focus.
Function.
So he took a breath, ignoring his throbbing ribs, and shoved everything down, down, down. The pain. The fear. The odds.
“What do we do now?” Lucy asked quietly.
She sounded calm and collected, the way she always did in high-stress situations, so she must have done the same as he—pushed everything down as best as she could and gotten herself into her cop headspace.
Tim still saw it when he met her gaze—that remaining flicker of fear. Of dying. Of drowning. Drowning wasn’t fast. It was agonisingly slow.
“Our job,” he said, because there was nothing else. “Help get everyone out.”
Her skin warm under his hand as her dress caught in the light.
Golden.
And then—after—he’d tell her.
Her grip on his hand tightened.
“Okay.”