A/N: So, three separate people have asked me to expand on Five Times, more specifically the last drabble with Casey taking care of Walsh. I don't really like to repeat myself, so I devised a new fic that works under the same premise.
This is for you guys! :)
"You need to go home," Shraeger said, raising an eyebrow at Walsh.
He lifted his head, his hair ruffled from his palm, and regarded her blearily. He looked like he'd been hit with a train, but she knew a knife was more accurate. Frankly, she was annoyed the hospital had let him off with just a few stitches.
"Why would I go home?" he said, looking back at the folders on his desk.
She followed his gaze and frowned. An officer gets stabbed, and his first duty is a mound of paperwork. Ridiculous.
"Because your day was over about seven hours ago, and you're too damn stubborn to notice?" Casey said, folding her arms over her desk. She had things to do tonight, and she couldn't get to them when Walsh was acting like a moron.
He waved a hand and took a sip from his mug. The face he made implied the beverage had long gone cold. "I'm fine," he replied.
"I'm not," she said curtly, pushing away from her desk. They were alone in the bullpen, and Casey had a strong suspicion that, were the chief here, Walsh would already be home. "Come on. I'll catch you a cab."
"So sweet," he said, but pushed to his feet too.
The outside air was crisp, and he was shivering in moments. She held him steady and tried to remember how much blood he'd lost, because he was acting strange. "Okay, Walsh. Cab's almost here," she said, waving at the street.
"Hang on," he said. She frowned at his words, but stopped short. His breath came in short gasps and he was staring blankly at the sky, blinking hard.
"Walsh, you okay?" she asked. He didn't reply, so she grabbed his arm and shook him once. "Jason!"
He tipped off balance and crashed to the sidewalk.
"Shit," she said, grabbing her radio. "Officer down, repeat, officer down! Ambulance to the 2nd precinct!"
Walsh coughed, spattering blood onto the pavement. "'M fine," he mumbled.
She glared at him and said, "Just shut up, will you?"
Casey met with a doctor once Walsh was wheeled into the emergency room. She grabbed the man's arm and met his gaze and said, "My name is Casey Shraeger, and if your hospital wants any funding in the future, you'll give that man the best damn treatment around."
The doctor looked surprised and insulted. "We give every patient the best treatment," he said, narrowing his eyes.
"Then give him that and more. I want him to feel like he's in a fucking five star hotel, capiche?"
Another doctor stepped over and said, "Of course, Ms. Shraeger. We'll see it done."
"Good," she replied, glaring at the first. "Feel free to bill me. Just fix him."
Walsh was awake three agonizing hours later. The surgery was simple, the internal bleeding minimal, and he looked annoyed when she stepped into the room. "This is unnecessary," he told her, motioning at the soothing green walls and the 500 count sheets and the widescreen TV.
"Wasn't me," she shrugged, taking the seat next to him. "Feeling better?"
"Didn't feel great to start with, so sure, just dandy," he replied, shaking his head. He had an IV and a heart monitor and a plain hospital gown, and he looked sufficiently trapped.
She knew he was itching to leave, but she wasn't itching to see him away from medical professionals.
"The nurses are scared of me," he said. He tried to sound amused, but it was a poor attempt. "I think they think I'm some kind of hitman."
"You kind of are," Casey replied with a smirk.
He gave her a sour look, "Shraeger, I can pay for my own medical bills. This isn't in your job description."
"Eh, just imagine all the money I'll get back when I sue the pants off that EMT." She was still pissed the man had let Walsh walk off with stitches while his organs bled. She worked on the other side of the law, but she knew a fair few who ruled the courtrooms.
They were just a phone call away.
Walsh narrowed his eyes, but just then a nurse edged in with a Jello feast and he was sufficiently distracted.
She called the precinct and updated the chief. He sent his condolences and told her he'd take care of it, but she stopped him before he could hang up the phone.
"Give me a week's vacation too, will you?"
"Playing nurse, Shraeger?"
She looked into the hospital room, watched Walsh's sleeping form, and said, "Something like that."
Walsh came home with her. They wheeled him out to a waiting taxi, and before he could speak, she'd already relayed her address. He scowled and said, "There's nothing wrong with my place, Shraeger."
She looked back at him and said, "There's no bed for me, and I'm not sleeping on the floor."
He stared, "Who said you're coming back with me at all?"
She rolled her eyes and wondered how men could be so damn idiotic sometimes.
The pain meds kept him loopy, so he didn't put up much of a fight when she handed over some sleep pants from her ex. She set him up on the couch and turned on the TV and gave him a blanket, and he glared at the wall and insisted he was fine.
She gave his head an affectionate pat and replied, "If you're gone when I get back, I'm going to hunt you down and skin you for Alvarez. Now, what do you want from your place?"
He was cooking when she got back, which shouldn't have surprised her but somehow did anyway. The apartment smelled like chocolate chip cookies and pot roast, and she folded her arms and said, "I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you, you know."
Walsh looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes, "I'm sick of sitting, Casey. Jesus, just let me be, will you?"
His words lacked any real bite, so she put his stuff on the coffee table and leaned against the kitchen counter. He had four minutes to go on the cookies, and he added a few spices to the crock pot as she watched.
"It won't be done for a few hours, but this is the best I could do," he told her, setting the lid over his creation.
Her eyes slid to the stitches on his side. The black thread was harsh against his tanned skin, the wound an angry red even three days later. She walked up to him and ran her fingers over the edge of the wound.
He sucked in a breath, his muscles tensing at her touch. She met his gaze, and he forced a smile. "I'm fine. Promise."
"You told me that before. Then you tried your damndest to bleed out on the precinct's sidewalk," she reminded him.
He chuckled and corrected himself, "Alright. I'm fine now."
They were only a few inches apart, and Casey wondered if he'd kiss her. It had happened before, once when she'd been shot in the leg and once when they got way too drunk. They'd even had sex that time, but it lacked any sort of consequence and they both pretended it didn't happen later.
This didn't feel like those times. This felt charged in a new way, like the chemistry between them was just waiting for an excuse to boil over.
The timer blared.
Walsh stepped back, shaking his head. "Cookies are done," he muttered.
"Yum," she replied absently.
She gave him the guest room and told him to call if he needed anything that wasn't sex. He rolled his eyes at the comment and flipped her off, and she threw a pillow at him. He smirked and closed the door on her.
He didn't call, but she heard him clanging around the kitchen at o'dark thirty. She pushed out of bed and threw open her door and squinted past the living room. He was clutching his side and fumbling for his meds.
She vaulted past the furniture, feeling cold. "Walsh? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he grunted, gripping the counter. His face was pale—not ashen like before, just white with pain. She took the bottle from him and opened it swiftly, pawing out two white pills. He downed them without water and said, "Sorry to wake you."
"Cut the macho shit," she retorted, feeling his forehead. It was hot with fever. She cursed.
He smiled faintly, "Language, Shraeger."
"Can't help it when you're a fucking idiot," she snapped, pulling him to the couch. "Sit down and shut up, Walsh."
Then she called the family doctor.
It didn't take him long to arrive. He looked annoyed and disheveled, but he forced a smile and studied Walsh's wound. He poked it, took Walsh's temperature, studied his eyes, listened to his heartbeat and breathing, and then he hooked his stethoscope over his neck and said, "Infection."
"No shit, Sherlock," Walsh said.
The doctor shot him a dirty glance, and Shraeger snapped to regain his attention.
"What can you do for him?"
He turned to her, all smiles again, and said, "It's not bad. I'll prescribe some antibiotics and treat the wound again, but you'll have to keep an eye on him. If it gets worse, call me back."
Walsh muttered something under his breath and dropped onto the couch cushions.
The nearest 24 hour pharmacy was an hour away, and she hooked her holster around her shoulders as the doctor cleaned Walsh's wound. He gritted his teeth and said, "It can wait until morning, Shraeger."
She rolled her eyes and walked out the door.
When she got back, the doctor was gone and Walsh was in his bed. He jolted awake when she brought him the antibiotics, and she frowned, "Sorry, but you have to take these. Then you can sleep. Promise."
He downed them dry, just like the pain meds. Casey saw him shivering and felt his forehead again, but there wasn't much else to do for him. She didn't want to risk Tylenol—with the pain meds and antibiotics, it felt like he'd taken enough tonight.
"Sorry you're stuck here, Casey," he said, leaning against the wall. She sat on the edge of the bed and snorted.
"This is my apartment, Walsh. If anything, you're stuck here."
"Not—" he cut himself off, let out an irritated sigh. "Never mind. But thanks, I guess."
Casey held his gaze, "I should be thanking you." He snorted, and she scowled. "Don't laugh, Jason. I know what you did."
"What did I do?" he asked, a smirk on his lips.
"That guy would have gutted me."
His smirk disappeared. They stared at each other, the silence stretching like a distance between them. He didn't want to hear this, she knew, but she couldn't ignore it anymore. Walsh's voice was tight as he said, "That's a bit of an exaggeration."
Casey folded her arms, "No, it's not." She could see the scene clearly, see her heaving chest as she pointed a gun at the perps, cornered in an alley. Hear Jason's footsteps as he ran to catch up. See one pull a knife, the other a gun. She moved to disarm the gun.
Jason got the knife. But if he hadn't…
He closed his eyes and said, "Let's just get some sleep, Casey."
And he looked so tired that she pushed off the bed.
She woke up just before dawn to check on him. He didn't stir as she felt his forehead, and she was relieved to feel his cool skin. She'd barely slept, and she bit back a yawn as she straightened. Time for some coffee, maybe one of Walsh's cookies. Was it too early for pot roast?
She moved away, heading for the door. He caught her hand, and she glanced back at him, blinking. "Walsh? You need anything?"
"You," he mumbled.
She wondered if she'd overdosed his pain meds. She'd given him two—that was the doctor-recommended dosage, right? Jesus, if Walsh got addicted to Vikodin because she was too shaken to read the label, she'd never forgive herself.
"Are you feeling okay?" she asked, bending to his level. He opened his eyes and pushed himself to the opposite edge of the bed.
"Come on," he said, exhaustion lacing his words.
"I'm too damn tired to argue, Casey."
She considered him. This was unusual, but then again, weren't most things in her life now? Besides, this was her vacation time, technically. She might as well make the most of it.
She slid into the bed, tucking herself under the covers. He moved closer, draping an arm around her stomach. She could feel the heat radiating from him, feel him relaxing as he drifted off again, and she yawned again.
Maybe it was time for a lazy Sunday.
A/N: This was a lot of fun to write. I may do more with it if enough people ask. :)