There's not enough Jim Beckett fic
Set during Rise (04x01)
This is (yet another) story inspired by Safetysuit's cover of Hallelujah. You should go listen.
The water was cold under the tap, the steady stream against the porcelain sink filling his thoughts like a fishbowl. His shoulders suck forward, his head feeling heavy on top of his neck.
He'd been at the hospital for nearly a day, hadn't left since they took her in. He'd probably still be there if the doctors hadn't knocked her out with painkillers; if she didn't make him promise to go home and get some real food; if the nurse didn't kick him out because visiting hours were over; if her partners weren't currently hunting the man that did this to her; if there weren't two armed police officers standing outside of her door at all times.
He leaned against his bathroom sink, hanging his head for a moment before he looked at his reflection.
He looked older than he was, felt older than he looked, like he'd aged a hundred years in not even a day. The tie he had worn to the funeral was still knotted tightly around his neck, the white dress shirt he'd ironed that morning wrinkled as if he had just pulled it out of the hamper. He lifted a hand to his tie, yanking it loose enough so that he could unbutton the top buttons of his shirt, his hands shaking slightly as he did so, the stress of the day finally catching up with him.
He felt his heart squeeze in his chest, the air disappearing from his lungs as if someone had stolen it right through his skin, the mirror swimming in front of him. His hands formed fists on the counter, his knuckles as white as the stone beneath them.
In the hospital, it hadn't hit him, so many other things going on in his mind that he couldn't focus on it for long; all of the officers running frantically around, the fight between her doctor boyfriend who he'd never heard of and her partner who looked like he was trying so hard to pretend that his world wasn't falling apart around him (it hadn't worked); and then, when she survived surgery, when she was up and talking to him even for only a few brief moments before the pain pulled her back under, all he felt was an overwhelming sense of happiness that she was going to be fine.
His daughter stopped breathing.
His daughter's heart stopped beating.
She died twice today.
His legs trembled beneath him and he squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling painfully, desperately trying to keep the room from spinning but one of his knees slipped, jerking him towards the ground before he caught himself on the counter.
He almost lost her forever.
He opened his eyes, found them red and watery and he wasn't surprised. Lifting himself back up, he leaned over the sink, shoving his hand roughly under the now scalding hot water, bringing a handful up to his face, shuddering as the water dripped down towards his chin and into the sink.
She'd gotten lucky.
He'd gotten lucky.
He wasn't stupid. His daughter was shot, directly in the chest, surrounded by hundreds of fellow cops at a funeral for her Captain. And the guy had gotten away.
This was a warning.
This was someone sending a pretty clear message that she wasn't safe anymore.
She had nowhere to hide.
Someone wanted her dead.
The air left his lungs in a rush.
She'd been tightlipped about how her Captain was killed but he knew that there was more to it than what she'd told him; he only knew that it happened because he was trying to save her. But these people, whoever they were, clearly wanted her dead. And nothing was going to stop them.
He pushed himself away from the sink, finally blinking the tears out past the corner of his eyes when his back hit the wall behind him and his knees buckled, still shaking like the weight of the day on his shoulders was simply too much to handle, like the thought of living in a world that his daughter was taken from was something he couldn't bear.
His mind started spinning with thoughts of a world where they'd killed her after his knees hit the floor, his back bowing forward; a funeral filled with cops and crying medical examiners, a broken eulogy by her partner and favorite writer; a world without burgers at their dine; a world that smelled of whiskey and old leather bar stools, sympathetic glances as he drank himself into oblivion hoping to join his family, his wife whom he loved so desperately and his daughter who brought out the very best in him, sooner rather than later.
Surely he wouldn't survive it.
But she had.
The room kept spinning around him, the water still running in the sink, steam rising from it like a phoenix out of the ashes and he desperately gulped down the air around him.
She was alive.
She was alive.
His forehead came to rest on his knees.
She was alive.
They tried to take her from him but they couldn't. She was too strong. They messed up. They missed. And she was still breathing and a cold bed in a hospital is infinitely better than a freezer in the morgue, stitches and a scar much better than a gaping wound in her chest, picking out flowers for her room a thousand times easier than picking out flowers to put on her casket.
Because she was still here.
He lifted his head from his knees, straightened his spine and leaned back against the wall. Jim ran a hand over his face, his tears sliding across his palm as it settled over his mouth.
"Thank you," he gasped between his fingers.
He'd never been particularly religious, especially since he lost Johanna. He still wasn't. He didn't know who he was talking to; the doctors who did everything to save her; her best friend who kept her from bleeding out in the cemetery; her partner who tried to push her out of the way; her team who was hunting for the man who did this; Johanna and her Captain who were watching over her; his daughter who was still fighting.
It didn't matter who.
He gasped again, a suspicious sounding sob bursting from his chest, his shoulders shaking with the fear and the adrenaline and the debilitating relief that he couldn't contain any longer. His head fell back, connecting with the wall with a thud but he didn't feel it.
Katie was alive.
"Oh god, thank you."