A/N: I wrote this because I needed a break from plotting my NaNo novel. (It's about pirates. :3 ) I wasn't going to post it, because I'm not convinced it's worthy, but I figured an only okay fic is better than no fic at all.

Or maybe I'm being too harsh on myself. Let me know what you think! :)

Taxi Accident

Casey firmly resolves to never again let a blind date drive. Because when the evening inevitably turns south, she's forced to resort to a taxi. And sometimes those taxi drivers are psychotic, and sometimes they run red lights and plow into a truck.

From now on, I drive myself, Casey thinks darkly, drawing even breaths.

The driver is dead. She's mostly confident of that. But she's still alive, still pressed between two sheets of metal, dripping blood on the ripped leather seats. Her head pounds and she can't move more than a few inches.

But this is New York City, and the accident hasn't gone unnoticed. Casey can already hear the emergency vehicles, and wonders which of the detectives from Traffic will be here first.

Probably Jimenez. He loves rollovers.

Someone ducks beside the back window. The taxi is resting on its side, with Casey pressed against the door and a pool of blood she isn't sure is hers. She tries to get a better view, but moving makes her vision swim.

He taps on the glass. She doesn't reply, because honestly, the paramedics are already coming. Nothing she says now will affect how quickly they get her out.

"Hey!" he yells. It sounds like some kid, probably a student from the nearby university. "You okay?"

Does it look like I'm okay? she thinks irately. She knows he's just trying to be helpful, but all she wants is peace and quiet until the Jaws of Life get here. Then she can get herself stitched up and go home for some much needed rest after a truly disastrous evening.

The kid taps again, yells a little louder. "Are you okay?"

"Shut up," she retorts sharply. She wants to rap her own knuckles on the glass, just to piss him off like he's pissing her off, but she can't move enough to reach the back window. She draws another deep breath and hears something rasping in her lungs. That's not good.

Ironically, she's not hurting. Her whole body feels numb, and she's been shivering for a bit, but she doesn't really feel pain. She hopes she's not paralyzed or anything. As a test, she wiggles her fingers. They press against something wet, and she knows it's more blood.

Spectacular.

Suddenly, there's more movement outside. The kid shuts up, but he's replaced by an even louder, more commanding voice. This man says, "Tell me your condition, ma'am."

"I'm fine. I'm Detective Shraeger," she says back. "I need you to call my partner, Walsh, and—" she coughs mid-sentence, and blood splatters onto the glass. She stops for a moment and regards it, because something deep in her mind is screaming now.

Danger! Danger!

"Miss Shraeger," the emergency man says. "We're going to get you out. Is Walsh your husband?"

"He's my partner," she insists, annoyed.

"We'll find him. In the mean time, you need to stay still. Are you hurt?"

Again, that absurd question. She clears her throat and says, "What the fuck do you think?"

The man doesn't reply, and she's pretty sure he's gone. She thinks maybe she shouldn't have been so rude, since he's the one to save her, but she's too tired to feel guilty. Breathing seems to be a bit harder now, too. Panic rises in her gut, dark and sickening.

If she can't breathe, staying alive will be significantly more difficult.

Nothing in the rescue business is quick. They have to be careful about extracting someone from an accident because any wrong move could injure the victim further. Casey loses track of the time she's pressed against that pool of blood. It goes cold against her chest. The drips on her face start to dry and pull her skin.

Her nose itches, but she can't scratch.

The pain starts to creep into her consciousness. It's a dull throbbing at first, but it's growing swiftly. At the same pace, her breathing declines. Her deep breaths become shallow pants, and her vision darkens.

And then she hears Walsh, and he's pissed.

"Shraeger! They said you haven't talked in a while, but if you're awake and don't say something, so help me, I will fucking kill you," he says.

He only curses when he's really, really angry. Casey forces her eyes open and tries to shift to see him, but it's impossible. She's facing the front seat and the dead driver, and the best she can do is say, "Shut up and get me out."

"They're working on it," Walsh says, relief coloring his tone. "Jesus, Casey, how do you get yourself into these messes? It's your goddamn day off!"

"I think I'll have to take tomorrow too," she says drily, coughing again. More blood. Her chest aches, and there's a sharp stab of pain in her right side. She swallows a moan. Walsh is panicking enough. He doesn't need to know how bad it is.

He laughs, but it's strained. "They've got the Jaws, and they'll be here in a few minutes to pry the roof off. Just hold on a little longer, okay?"

She's about to say, "Just so you know, I'm not paying for this drive," but she feels her heart literally skip a beat, and it's not because of Walsh's voice. She gasps and coughs and terror rises in her, because it's not supposed to be doing that and dear Lord, she doesn't want to die in a second-rate taxi.

"I'm here, Casey. You're okay. Jesus. You're fine, and they're here to get you out now, okay? Casey, don't you dare go into the light."

Walsh doesn't stop talking, but he's drowned out by the noise of the Jaws of Life. The roof screams as it's pried from the car, and Casey wants to scream along with it. Tears stream down her cheeks, cutting tracks in the dried blood.

Her vision blackens, and when she wakes up, she's in the back of an ambulance, and it's screaming its way to a hospital.

It's too much noise, and she goes under again.

She sleeps a long, long time. The room is warm and the bed is comfortable and it's finally quiet, and when she tries to move there isn't blood against her chest or metal against everything else. She opens her eyes and blinks for a few minutes, but the shades have been drawn and it's fairly dark.

She's alone, which is disappointing. But she's in a private suite, so she knows her parents have heard, at least, since they're obviously funding her care. Flowers line the far wall, so many she thinks the whole of the NYPD must have sent their condolences.

Her body aches dully when she moves, but she has full control of all her limbs. She vaguely thinks about a jail-break—er, hospital-break—because she's already feeling more claustrophobic than she had in the taxi. But lifting her head takes incredible effort, and her vision swims.

So she decides it can't be a terrible idea to take a longer nap.

The next time she opens her eyes, it's because she can hear Walsh talking in a low voice to her father. He sounds irate, annoyed. "She's not going to like that."

"It doesn't matter," her father replies curtly. "It's our decision. We have to do what's best for her."

"I'm an adult," she tries to say, but her throat is dry and her voice is nothing more than a feeble croak. She clears her throat and swallows, but Walsh presses the button to lift the bed, and then he's pressing a glass of water to her lips.

He looks uncomfortable, and she can't blame him. He hates hospitals. She feels a stab of guilt, because he's only there for her, and he's obviously not happy about it.

Her father stands at the foot of the bed and regards her gravely. "Casey. How are you feeling?"

She rolls her eyes. That question again. "I'm fine. When can I go home?"

"Not for another week, at least," he replies, shaking his head.

"Well, shit."

Walsh coughs to cover a laugh. Casey grins. At least she can lighten his mood a little, even if she can't really move or do anything else. "What were you talking to Jason about?" she asks.

Her father shifts under her stare. "Your mother and I have been talking, and we've decided it's best that you quit the force."

Casey groans. "Dad, not this again. I'm not quitting. I like my job. This didn't even have anything to do with police work! Why do you keep bringing everything back to that?"

"Everything that's happened to you in the last year, with the exception of this accident, is a direct result of your work in the Homicide Department. I won't have it. I won't have you dying before your mother and I because you need an adrenaline fix."

"It doesn't matter, because I'm not quitting."

Her father narrows his eyes. "I've already made the call."

Silence descends on the room. Casey is painfully aware of Walsh listening to this conversation. She's painfully aware of her face growing red, her anger rising like magma in a volcano. She's painfully aware of her father's stern gaze.

She doesn't doubt for a moment that his words are truthful.

And she erupts.

"You've done what? You had no fucking right to take my career into your own hands like that! What the hell am I supposed to do instead, huh? Become a socialite like Mom? Join your business? Sit at a desk all day, every day, making absolutely no impact on the world because that's what's safe and expected of me?"

"Casey," Walsh interrupts, and his voice cuts through her shouts like a bullet. He takes her hand and narrows his eyes. "Calm down."

It only fuels her anger. "Are you actually siding with him?" Her breath is coming in short gasps, but she can't feel any pain, just the deep ache of utter betrayal. She pulls her hand away and looks at him in disgust. "This is my job, Jason. Don't tell me it's not worth fighting for!"

"It damn well is, but you need to calm down," he snaps, pointing firmly at the heart monitor. Her heart rate is skyrocketing, and she's suddenly aware of the lack of oxygen. She tries to slow her breathing. It hardly works.

"And you," Walsh says, standing to face her father. He folds his arms against the detective's glare. Walsh scowls. "You should know better than to tell her this now. Get out."

"You can't send me out—"

"Get out, or I'll arrest you for disorderly conduct."

It's an unrealistic charge, but it gets the point across. Casey watches as her father grumbles something and stalks from the room. He pauses at the doorway and says, "Casey, you have to understand that we only want what's best for you."

"Go away," she says, unable to keep the acid from her voice.

He leaves.

Walsh drops into the chair again, running a hand through his hair. He glances at the monitor again, frowns, and changes the subject. "So, Alvarez shaved his mustache."

Casey tries to smile, but she can't quite manage it. Instead, she pinches the bridge of her nose and says, "Why can't they just leave me alone?" Her words are watery, and to her horror, tears prick her eyes. She takes another deep breath to keep from crying.

Walsh's expression softens. "They're worried. That's what parents do. I admit I'm not a fan of how they're handling it, but I understand."

"Everything's gone. My job, my reputation… our partnership."

She can't keep the tears back. They trickle down her face and remind her painfully of her time sitting in the taxi. She was scared for her life, but she was downright terrified that Walsh would have to watch her die.

His lips press in a thin line. "Hey, it's okay. Just because we won't be partners doesn't mean we can't be friends."

"We won't last. You know that," she says dejectedly. Friendships formed on the job are strong, but she's seen it happen before. Someone retires or quits, and suddenly they aren't as important as the men and women in the precinct. She asks, "Are you getting another rookie?"

He shrugs, "I don't know yet. I haven't been to the precinct since your accident."

That makes her feel even worse. Her shoulders shudder, and she gulps a sob. "I-I'm sorry, Walsh."

He doesn't seem to know what to say, so leans closer and whispers, "Is it bad to feel relieved that you're off the force? Because Casey, you attract more trouble than anyone I've seen, and it's taken years off me."

"Y-yes, that's b-bad," she hiccoughs.

He chuckles. "Sorry, but it's true. Maybe with a normal job, you can actually go a year without ending up in the hospital."

"I'm here b-because I took a taxi," she says, laughing a little.

"True. Maybe it's unavoidable. But a guy can hope," he replies.

She smiles and squeezes his hand. He gives her another sip of water and a tissue, and she dabs at her tears. "Thanks for coming, Walsh. I know you don't like hospitals. It means a lot that you're here."

"I'd feel worse if you woke up alone," he replies, shrugging. "I almost brought pancakes from the diner, but I doubted the nurse would let you eat them. But I promise I'll make you some when you come home with me."

Casey pauses, frowning. "I'm coming home with you?"

"You need someone to make sure you don't keel over the first few nights. Did you want it to be your parents?"

She shudders. He smirks smugly.

"Thought not."

"Well, if there are pancakes in the deal," she says reluctantly.

He leans back in his chair. "Pancakes, and if you keep the complaining to a minimum, I may even make my lasagna."

The door crashes open, and a portly nurse bustles into the room. She takes one look at the heart monitor and the scene before her and narrows her eyes. "Mister Walsh, haven't I told you that visiting hours end at 8pm? It's 8:03. Out!"

He considers her, reaches for his badge, but Casey nudges him. He looks exhausted, and he won't rest well in an uncomfortable chair. "Go home. Get some real sleep. I'll see you tomorrow, Walsh."

"Try not to get into any more trouble," he says after a moment, pushing to his feet. He salutes the nurse and walks to the door.

"And Walsh," Casey says, catching him before he disappears. He glances over his shoulder. "I'm sold on the lasagna. You'd better not be lying."

"I wouldn't dare," he replies with a wink. Then he's gone, and the nurse is giving her more painkillers, and she's asleep before she knows it.

A/N: Before you ask, no, I have no idea if I'm going to write more of this. At this moment, I have no plans to do anything, but I've been known to change my mind. We'll have to see! :)