Chapter Text
The smell of the hospital came as a cold blanket over Morgan. Sterile, too clean, and biting like cold air after rain. It crawled up her throat until she wanted to shake it off like static.
On. Off. On. Off. Off.
The overhead lights flickered with an arrhythmic pulse, just faint enough to drive her mad. Her eyes tracked them without wanting to. Her mind refused to stop. The constant stagger in the lights, the shortage of life signaling the nearness of its end, grasping for her attention as her mind was tempted to drift into dangerous waters.
She sat in the waiting room, wearing satin and adrenaline. The deep blue dress is soft at first, now slick and itchy against her skin - a prop. Everything about tonight had been a prop. The ring still clung to her finger, snug and warm where Karadec had slipped it hours ago before they walked into that place pretending to be in love.
Her reflection ghosted back at her from the glass partition separating the waiting area: lipstick smudged, hair half undone from the chase. She looked like she’d been to war in heels.
It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
It never was.
It was supposed to be a simple undercover mission: get in and get out, that’s what they had planned. Everything was smooth as she walked into the club with the diamond ring gracing her finger, arms linked with Karadec. The idea was to pose as a couple; married, newly hopeful, desperate to join an exclusive fertility study run by a clinic that wasn’t half as legal as it claimed. A few hours, a few whispers, that’s all.
A simple task of just scoping the place and getting information on the party that was the cause of their victim's death.
They’d called it a “simple op,” but Morgan knew the word simple in police work was cursed.
It had all started so nicely and sweetly that she almost forgot it was an operation when they first arrived. She could still feel herself in the atmosphere, placed there under the dim lighting instead of the glaring hospital lights. Closing her eyes transported her back to the first few moments of calm that happened before the storm.
“Ready, Mrs. Lovington?” he’d said just before they entered, low enough that only she heard. Morgan had rolled her eyes, smirking despite herself. “Try not to blow our cover by being charming.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She smirked to herself as she sank into the stiff chair, stopping herself from her never-ending pacing that was sure to burn a hole in her heel.
Her eyes closed briefly, remembering the way his eyes sparkled with the words, humor laced with something she couldn’t quite place as they made their way through the door.
Karadec’s hand rested lightly on her back as they moved through the room. His warmth grounded her, gave her something steady while her thoughts ricocheted through probabilities, patterns, even escape routes.
Inside, the club wasn’t what she expected. Not seedy, clinical almost, softened with gold accents and low jazz music. The crowd mingled with flutes of champagne, every conversation half-whispered. She scanned faces automatically, brain tagging details faster than she could consciously note them.
His posture was stiff in the beginning, sporting a dark fitted suit that seemed to make his eyes blossom, but there was something about how quickly he’d fallen into the rhythm of pretending.
He called her “darling” and “love” just enough to make it believable. Each time, it startled her, not because of the word, but because of the way it fit.
Those moments felt nice, felt real, like an ordinary night if she’d let herself go for the time. That was brief as she let her eyes roam behind her lids, scanning the darkness that soon took her back into the club.
They found their suspect: a man in his late fifties with nearly silver hair, running the place with a smile too wide to be innocent. Dr. Leclerc. He was rumored to host these “fertility parties,” pairing vulnerable patients with investors in more ways than one; human trafficking with champagne, which unfortunately led to the death of their victim at the last event.
The moment it happened, time seemed to slow. Karadec was turning just a fraction too late, the impact snapping his head to the side. She watched the pillar of a man that has done nothing but protect get whacked in the head by a 2x4 and fall harder, like a tree in a forest, except she heard it. Heard it and felt it as the thud seemed to still rattle through her as she called out his name, the sound harmonizing with the commotion of Oz tackling the perp to the ground.
She jumped with the thud that rattled each memory receptor holding the scene from hours ago, sending it through her bones. It took not even a second before she went back to what she’d been doing best, pacing the halls; a seat seemed like torture with the way her body needed to move while they were at a standstill.
Have they seen worse? Yes, but for a man of Karadec’s size to take such a hit and fall into unconsciousness while bleeding at his temple, it was enough to give them a scare. Add on top of that, they’ve been at the hospital for over two hours waiting for an update, an update that the longer they wait, the more worrisome they become.
She could feel it all over again. The crack. It was loud, ugly, a wet, heavy sound of wood meeting bone. A shiver ran through her spine as she heard her own voice echoing through her ears, feeling her voice in the moment before she heard it. Shaking her head became necessary to stop the scenes from playing out any further. What happened next wasn’t something she wanted to revisit. The emotions she felt were better off buried deep than being deciphered while Soto sat across from her, phone in hand, but eyes distant. The lieutenant’s calm exterior cracked only once when she muttered, “He’ll be fine. He’s too damn stubborn not to be.”
Morgan didn’t answer. Words felt useless.
She’d always known Karadec as the immovable force in their chaos, practical where she spiraled, steady where she spun out. Seeing him unconscious in the back of the ambulance had undone something in her.
As if a sign to quell her thoughts, the doctor came around the corner calling for the family of Adam Karadec in a tone that told them no signs of what was to come.
The walk down that hallway was punishment. The smell of disinfectant thickened with every step. Her shoes clicked too loudly against the tile.
The doctor spoke as they went, voice calm, measured. “He’s stable. He took quite a hit, but scans show no structural damage. We closed a laceration near the temple, four stitches. There’s swelling, but we’ve got it under control.”
Morgan exhaled slowly, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding since the chase.
“He’s awake?”
“In and out,” the doctor said.
It felt like time was taunting her with each step as her brain moved faster than her feet.
“He might doze off again shortly; he’s been mildly sedated for the stitches.” The doctor's words reached her ears as they slowed down just outside a room, a few moments later.
They watch from the outside window at the man lying in bed. He looked wrong in that bed: too still, too small, like someone had deflated him. The blue-and-white hospital gown swallowed his frame, the white sheets a cruel contrast to his tanned skin and the darkening bruise along his temple.
Morgan pressed a hand to the glass without thinking, then stopped herself before touching it. Her reflection looked back at her: worried eyes, bitten lip, shoulders drawn tight. “And he’s really okay?” Concern was evident in her words, directed to the professional next to her, as she remained focused on her partner in the room before her.
“As okay as someone can be after a direct blow like that,” the doctor said gently. “He’s just woken up, but I can say yes, it took him no time to start asking questions.” The doctors said, earning a smile from the two women, “he asked who was here, and I told him his chief and partner, to which he showed all signs of full awareness of who you are by giving names.”
Morgan blinked. A small smile flickered at the corner of her mouth, weary but genuine. “Well, that’s good,” she said softly, “That’s him.”
“I’ll take you in for the time now,” The doctor gave a polite nod, gesturing toward the door.
“Morgan, you go first,” Soto said immediately. Her voice was calm, but there was a tremor beneath, like the residue of adrenaline. “I’m going to step to the side and call Daphne and Oz, get everyone up to date.” Her actions follow the same as Morgan's from before, words for another while her eyes stayed on the detective she viewed as family, softening with something between affection and worry.
As Soto walked down the hall, phone already in hand, Morgan stayed still for a moment longer, just breathing. Her heart felt like it was trying to fight its way out of her chest. She didn’t realize until now how tense she’d been holding herself, how long she’d been waiting for bad news that never came.
She inhaled deeply, letting the air chill the burning fear that lingered in her veins. When she finally nodded for the doctor to open the door, the air changed.
Inside, the room hummed with the soft rhythm of machines. The steady beep of the heart monitor matched the rise and fall of his chest, a sound so normal it almost undid her.
“Now the sedation should be wearing off shortly, so he’d wake again-” the doctor began to explain, before the sound of the bed caught their attention.
“No need to wait,” came the groggy voice from a few feet away. “ I was just resting my eyes.”
The doctor smiled faintly. “Well, that’s good to hear. Detective, your lieutenant will be in shortly, but for now, here's–”
“Morgan,” he says her name in a way that is music to her ears as he leans further into the bed, rough, almost slurred, but alive. It was him. She let out a breath that trembled as it left her lungs.
“Hey there, partner,” she says, her voice almost ghostly, “you gave us a bit of a scare there.”
There was a pause as eyes stared deeply into one another before she draped them over his body. She sucked in a breath as her gaze drifted to the fresh stitches above his brow, four neat black lines marring tanned skin. It shouldn’t have made her chest ache the way it did, but it did. She reached out, stopping herself just short of brushing her fingers near the bandage. “Don’t do it again,” she said quietly, but firmly.
“I’ll try not to.” There was a small, lazy smile on his lips as he finished his sentence, contagious in a way that had her lips mirroring the action. It made the room feel less sterile, less heavy.
The doctor excused himself for a moment, making it known he’d return to give a full update once their lead had returned. For a few seconds, there was only silence. The kind that stretches, soft and thick, until one of you dares to breathe.
Morgan stood near the foot of the bed, hands clasped in front of her, eyes never leaving him. The relief that had flooded her minutes ago hadn’t faded; it was still coursing through her, leaving her both dizzy and grounded. He was okay.
“Why are you all the way over there?” he said as soon as the door clicked shut. His voice pulled her back. She looked up to find him watching her, head tilted slightly, an IV trailing from his hand. His expression was softer than she expected, still groggy, but aware.
“I’m giving you space,” she said.
“Space?” he echoed, a ghost of his old teasing tone slipping through. “That’s something my desk hasn’t heard of.”
She let out a shaky laugh, one that came from both exhaustion and relief. “Someone’s still dramatic, I see.”
“Maybe.” He lifted a hand weakly, the IV line tugging slightly as he gestured toward the open space beside him on the bed. “Come here, honey.”
Her smile faltered midair, dropping like a stone, the shock evident as she stopped her foot steps. “What did you just call me?” The question took almost all the breath she had left in her lungs as she looked at him headfirst.
“What?” He says with a soft, tired chuckle, shrugging lightly against the pillow. “Can't a man call his wife honey?”
She froze.
Wife.
The word hit her like a punch.
“Holy shit.”