just_1_word || 8.6 Breathe
8.6. Breathe
[Follows THIS]
Ali stared blankly at the microscope in front of her, trying to ignore the drilling pain in her lower back. Two days spent painting walls Crème Caramel and Peachy Keen for the Winnie the Pooh nursery theme she was trying to pull off had left her feeling like she could sleep for a year. Her muscles ached, her head ached, her heart ached as she chipped away at trying to transform James’ apartment into something she could live and function in without bursting into tears every half an hour.
“You shouldn’t be here, Sullivan.”
Ali barely turned her head as she shot her boss a Death Glare over her shoulder. “Fuck you, Sam. It’s not like you’re going to give me real evidence to play with. I know when I’ve been planted placebo prints, you bastard.” She closed her eyes briefly before she met his gratefully. “But thank you.”
Samuel Mitchell, Head of the Forensics Lab of the New York FBI chapter, placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it softly. “No one expects you to be functioning, Sullivan. But if you want to be here, I’ll go along with the guise. To be honest, I half expected you to follow Owens. No one would’ve been surprised if you did.”
“I could’ve run. But it would have caught up with me sooner or later,” Ali mumbled and shifted on her stool to try and get a more comfortable position. “I don’t have the luxury of being entirely selfish right now. This kid is coming in four weeks whether I like it or not. What was fucking off to England going to solve? It wasn’t going to change the fact James was murdered.”
Sam was silent for a few moments, likely out of respect. He sat down on the stool beside Ali and rested his elbow on the steel bench. “Do you need any help with anything?” he asked. “To be frank, Sullivan, you look like shit. I emphasise, you shouldn’t be here.”
This only earned him another weak glare. “My younger brother has moved here from LA to help me out. We’ve got it covered. My parents will come from England closer to the birth to help out for a few weeks. After that… Hello, single motherhood.” She shut the fluoro light off over the microscope and eased herself off the stool. She stretched back, trying to urge the muscles in her back to stop cramping. “My life as I knew it is already completely ruined. I think it’s impossible for it to get any worse. But don’t worry. I’ll be back in the saddle here after my maternity leave.”
“Don’t be hasty with decisions, Sullivan. You’ve gone through something horrific. Just take each week at a time and see how you feel next year,” Sam advised. “Can I get you some tea?”
Ali continued to rub her back. “I need my job, Mitchell. Don’t go writing me off,” she warned, frowning. “And no. Fuck tea. My bladder already feels like it’s going to explo- ah, fuck!” she suddenly cried as a shooting pain sliced across her lower abdomen. She leaned over and grabbed her stomach, teeth clamped down on her lip.
“The kid kicking again?” Sam asked in amusement. For months their department had been the brunt of Ali’s pregnancy mood swings coupled with colourful cursing about the baby’s active feet.
Breathe, Ali. Breathe… she urged herself inwardly, trying not to panic. “No. That wasn’t a kick,” she said, sounding completely calm even though her heart felt like it was about to leap out of her chest. She let a heavy breath out through her mouth as another sweep of pain cut through her. “Shit. No… please, no…”
Sam was out of his seat in a flash, throwing himself at her side. “Sullivan?” he demanded urgently. “What’s going on?”
“I-,” Ali began and had to stop to lean over with a moan of pain. The sensation almost sent her to her knees, but Sam took her weight on his arm. “I think the kid is checking out early,” she gasped.
- agentfraser & isabelowens referenced with permission
Word Count | 678
[Follows THIS]
Ali stared blankly at the microscope in front of her, trying to ignore the drilling pain in her lower back. Two days spent painting walls Crème Caramel and Peachy Keen for the Winnie the Pooh nursery theme she was trying to pull off had left her feeling like she could sleep for a year. Her muscles ached, her head ached, her heart ached as she chipped away at trying to transform James’ apartment into something she could live and function in without bursting into tears every half an hour.
“You shouldn’t be here, Sullivan.”
Ali barely turned her head as she shot her boss a Death Glare over her shoulder. “Fuck you, Sam. It’s not like you’re going to give me real evidence to play with. I know when I’ve been planted placebo prints, you bastard.” She closed her eyes briefly before she met his gratefully. “But thank you.”
Samuel Mitchell, Head of the Forensics Lab of the New York FBI chapter, placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it softly. “No one expects you to be functioning, Sullivan. But if you want to be here, I’ll go along with the guise. To be honest, I half expected you to follow Owens. No one would’ve been surprised if you did.”
“I could’ve run. But it would have caught up with me sooner or later,” Ali mumbled and shifted on her stool to try and get a more comfortable position. “I don’t have the luxury of being entirely selfish right now. This kid is coming in four weeks whether I like it or not. What was fucking off to England going to solve? It wasn’t going to change the fact James was murdered.”
Sam was silent for a few moments, likely out of respect. He sat down on the stool beside Ali and rested his elbow on the steel bench. “Do you need any help with anything?” he asked. “To be frank, Sullivan, you look like shit. I emphasise, you shouldn’t be here.”
This only earned him another weak glare. “My younger brother has moved here from LA to help me out. We’ve got it covered. My parents will come from England closer to the birth to help out for a few weeks. After that… Hello, single motherhood.” She shut the fluoro light off over the microscope and eased herself off the stool. She stretched back, trying to urge the muscles in her back to stop cramping. “My life as I knew it is already completely ruined. I think it’s impossible for it to get any worse. But don’t worry. I’ll be back in the saddle here after my maternity leave.”
“Don’t be hasty with decisions, Sullivan. You’ve gone through something horrific. Just take each week at a time and see how you feel next year,” Sam advised. “Can I get you some tea?”
Ali continued to rub her back. “I need my job, Mitchell. Don’t go writing me off,” she warned, frowning. “And no. Fuck tea. My bladder already feels like it’s going to explo- ah, fuck!” she suddenly cried as a shooting pain sliced across her lower abdomen. She leaned over and grabbed her stomach, teeth clamped down on her lip.
“The kid kicking again?” Sam asked in amusement. For months their department had been the brunt of Ali’s pregnancy mood swings coupled with colourful cursing about the baby’s active feet.
Breathe, Ali. Breathe… she urged herself inwardly, trying not to panic. “No. That wasn’t a kick,” she said, sounding completely calm even though her heart felt like it was about to leap out of her chest. She let a heavy breath out through her mouth as another sweep of pain cut through her. “Shit. No… please, no…”
Sam was out of his seat in a flash, throwing himself at her side. “Sullivan?” he demanded urgently. “What’s going on?”
“I-,” Ali began and had to stop to lean over with a moan of pain. The sensation almost sent her to her knees, but Sam took her weight on his arm. “I think the kid is checking out early,” she gasped.
- agentfraser & isabelowens referenced with permission
Word Count | 678