pg | no warnings apply

She's not sure that, if this had happened to a man, to a male cop, that he would feel the need to make such a show as she's doing now.

Especially since it's just Bobby. Just Bobby. Who has seen her in much worse condition, who has seen her break down, who has seen her weep like a child.

She keeps walking, ignores the pain in her hip, the twinge that grows bigger and bigger until she can't support her own weight. She falls, but doesn't land, because he's there, grabbing her arm, his other hand coming around her torso, partially, accidentally, touching her breast. He does something that he shouldn't, something that infuriates her for no good reason - he picks her up, like she weighs nothing, deposits her on her bed, like she's nothing.

Except when she looks up, he's not looking at her like she's nothing. He looks like he might cry, and she can't handle that, not now. He doesn't have the right. She was the one who was beaten, she was the one with the black eye, the wound going down from her belly button to her hip, the slowly-forming scar.

She means to say a million things, but instead she says, "There's going to be an investigation."

He touches her face. Aside form the black eye, it's nearly perfect. The rest of the bruises are on places hidden by clothing. "They'll say it was a clean shoot. Whatever they think of me, he tried to kill a cop. They'll say it's a clean shoot."

"I know you planted the gun," she whispers, as if she's afraid the room is bugged. "They'll find out. They'll - "

"I didn't plant it."

And it's true. She knows, it's true.

"They hate me, I know. But what he did to you ... they'll say it's a clean shoot."

Who? Who would do it? Monahan? Steinberg? No, not for her. They wouldn't risk their jobs for her, even if she is a cop.

She doesn't ask him. She doesn't cry, because it would hurt, because secretly, really, part of her is glad, part of her is grateful that he shot the son of a bitch, part of her is angry that she didn't get the chance to do it herself.

"We go after bad cops."

"We're not bad cops." He's still touching her face, bends down to gently kiss her cheek, just left of her lips. "You're not a bad cop."

For inexplicable, stupid reasons, she turns her head, presses her lips against his. At first, she's the only one kissing, but then he's in it, lips and tongue and tears, and it hurts, this will hurt, but she trusts him not to rip out her stitches.