Chenford: You Are Not Worth It (Even For Donuts)

What Was He Thinking?

Lucy POV

She was a mess. Distraught by the raging conflict in her head. Tim had taken yet another bullet that day on shift. Only this time, the fact that he had taken the bullet meant for her was crystal clear. 

It's all my fault.

She played and replayed every second of the scenario in her mind. No matter which way she approached it, she could never land herself on the operating table where she should have been. 

They had come across a robbery in progress and things had escalated quickly. Too quickly for them to take account of the third man still inside. Their positioning behind the shop left them too vulnerable. So they were prepping to move, when the third man appeared at the building's side door with, from his perspective, a direct line of fire on them. He pulled the trigger, meaning to hit her. The bullet was supposed to pierce her flesh. It was supposed to burn with indescribable pain as she fell forward, bracing for impact with the street. It was supposed to cause all her other senses to go numb as she became overwhelmed by what had happened. But it never did.

Tim was supposed to be the one dragging her to cover. Tim was supposed to be the one calling for backup and an ambulance. Tim was supposed to be the one announcing "officer down," over the radio while trying to cloak the tremor of fear and concern in his voice. But he never did. 

Because somehow Tim managed to put himself between her and that bullet. Somehow he managed to save her life, for what, the hundredth time now? Like her first day all over again, she found herself having to drag him to cover. Her return fire became more conserved. Her rounds were running low, and back-up was reportedly still two minutes out. Two minutes that Tim clearly did not have. Being the stubborn ass he was, he tried to sit up and fire back. She snapped at him. You stubborn, son-of-a-gun. Get back! And give me your gun. Wondering, randomly, why she hadn't thought of just taking his gun earlier. 

Like a miracle from above, the cavalry descended, easily subduing the gunmen, and carting Tim, ever the optimistic pessimist that claimed he was "fine," off to the ER. Lucy followed after Grey gave her leave the rest of the day. And practically the rest of the week. 

She had checked in at the front desk, requesting to be notified of his status and the soonest possible moment she could see him. She may or may not have imitated his old T.O. mannerisms, keeping her voice solid and warm but clipped. She meant business and she would be screwed over by no one.

Her first call, after she managed to quell her uprising nausea, was to Angela, who struggled to keep her tone light as she registered the fact that her best friend had been shot once again. "That man will give me grey hair before my son has the honor of doing so," she had joked. 

Lucy herself had been relatively calm. The shock still had a hold on her. It didn't hit her. But when it did, it came flooding all at once. It was after she had hung up on Angela. She saw it. The blood on her hands. His blood.

Her stomach lurched and she was out of her seat, barreling towards the restroom. She just made it to the toilet before she emptied the contents of her stomach. She could only pray that no one else came in and took advantage of an emotionally unstable cop. She trembled over the lid of the bowl, tears streaming out of her eyes. Get it together, she commanded herself. She pretended Tim had said it. Get up, Boot. Make smart choices. Right now, anyone could come in, grab anything from your belt, and hold up this hospital. She flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and scrubbed away the redness around her eyes as best as she could.

Back in the waiting area, one thing ran around in her mind in an incessant mantra. What the hell were you thinking Tim Bradford?

Tim POV

Was he thinking at all when he jumped in front of her? That was unlikely. Everything was happening too fast for him to think. He acted on instinct. Those instincts were fueled by a rush of urgency, guilt, regret, and protectiveness. You could say that he did it for himself. To save himself the guilt that would assault him if she got hurt. But that just wasn't the way his mind operated. He was protecting her. That was it.

Everything after the fire pierced his abdomen was a blur. He did remember how rough the ground was as Lucy dragged him across the asphalt. How slippery his gun felt. The panic hidden in the snap of her voice when he tried firing back. The gunshots faded to hollow echoes as his vision began to take on a glow, fading in and out as if clouds were quickly passing in front of the sun. He winced as his body was hoisted. But in the next moment, there was no pain. He grasped a moment of lucidness, just enough to register the EMT at his head. EMT... gurney... hospital. Oh noooo... not the hospital. With as much strength as he could muster, he said, "I'm fine. I don't need the hospital." A deep-throated chuckle answered him. It sounded like Grey. "Bradford, you are one stubborn man. The hospital is the only way we get to keep you here with us. Maybe I sound selfish. But hey, it's not like we have a whole case full of Tim Bradford replacements. Forgive me for wanting to keep one of the best men I know alive." He had wanted to argue but was just too tired.

"You fight, Tim," Grey said. "Yes sir," he whispered.

He did. He really did try to fight, to stay awake. But he was so tired. So tired. And though he had felt just as tired before, he found himself to be lacking the strength he usually had available to fight off fatigue. So after five minutes, he gave into the sweet rest that was calling to him. He closed his eyes and relaxed. His body was numb, his mind empty. All he knew was bliss.

He couldn't tell how long it was. He just knew that at some point, the bliss had dissipated. He was still "resting." But he could feel now. He could feel the pain, the ache, the soreness. It was enough to know that he was still alive. That was fine. But he didn't want to wake up just yet. So he settled into what had to have been one of those hospital beds that were always too cold and too short for him. Maybe his plan of sleeping for another two days would have panned out if someone else hadn't been in the room. Because they heard him move and saw his eyes flutter. They had been sitting there for God knows how many hours and were understandably elated to see a sign of life from him other than the rise and fall of his chest or the steady beep of the monitor. They leaped out of the uncomfortable chair and shrieked at decibels that probably burst the eardrums of anyone within ten feet of her. That included his.

"TIM!"