A/N: I know the last thing this fandom needs right now is more angst, but I saw a prompt and couldn't help myself. Also, sorry for any medical inaccuracies; Google-based research is never one-hundred-percent precise.

Toby's first word was 'hot'. He had been sitting on the floor by the fireplace in his living room, his mom reading the newspaper nearby, when he'd leaned towards the flames and giggled the word, or so the story went. He was eleven months old.

He thought about that sometimes, about how his life began with a tactile description, something so real and concrete in the midst of a childhood built on the shifting sand of mental illness. He had wondered occasionally what his last words would be.

Over the course of six thousand years of recorded history, a number of people had managed to end their lives on very eloquent notes. Thomas Jefferson: it's very beautiful over there. Joe DiMaggio: I finally get to see Marilyn. James Brown: I'm going away tonight. And Toby, as someone who talked nearly constantly, had always thought of himself as deserving of some really kickass final verbiage.

And now, here he was, staring at a bullet wound that wouldn't stop bleeding, knowing his last words would soon exit his mouth.

He didn't feel any pain; the adrenaline was taking care of that. Instead, he felt a terrible sort of regret – regret that he was alone, regret that he'd snapped at Walter that morning, regret that he'd have to miss dinner with Happy that night. He could call an ambulance, but they wouldn't be here for thirty minutes at least, and, judging by the speed with which lightheadedness was overtaking him, he'd be dead before then.

If anyone was going to hear his last words, they certainly weren't coming to him. He pulled out his phone, ignoring the blood that his sticky hands smeared across the screen. It took him longer than it should have to dial the number; fine motor skills left early-on in the exsanguination process.

Happy picked up on the fourth ring.

"Hey, Toby, what's up? Aren't you doing surveillance for the Briggs case?"

"Yes I am, sweetie pie." Toby was so focused on keeping his voice light that he barely heard Happy scoff at the pet name.

"Is everything okay?"

"Oh, everything's fine. I got the info we need. I just wanted to hear your voice, is all."

"You're such a dork." Toby could imagine her my-boyfriend's-a-doofus smile.

"Hey, how's that engine restoration going? You find the part you were looking for?"

"Not yet, but my dad says he knows a guy who owns a body shop in Reno who might be able to help us."

"Cool. I hope you find it soon. I know you've been looking for it for a while."

"Yeah, it's an old engine. It's hard to track down all the parts."

They were both silent for a minute, and suddenly Toby remembered being back in eleventh-grade English class, reading The Great Gatsby. He'd rushed through it, like he did all his humanities work, but he could still clearly see every line. He could almost feel the old schoolbook paper in his hands, see the faded words: I've always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him.

In that moment, Toby felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. To be here, talking with Happy, fully aware that this would be the last conversation they ever had – he could decide what the last thing he said to her would be. And that was an awful, horrifying, amazing gift.

"Happy, I'm really excited about our dinner tonight."

"You say that every Wednesday."

"Well, I'm really excited every Wednesday when we have dinner together."

"You're such a sap, Doc."

"Yeah, I know. Hey, what's everyone up to?"

"Uh, Walt and Paige went out for lunch, Cabe and Tim are playing cards, and Sly's helping Ralph with his Calc homework. And I'm finishing up some paperwork."

"Ah, the joys of working for the government."

Happy laughed. Toby was glad, to be able to hear that sound one last time.

His breath caught in his throat and he coughed, causing the blood to spill out of his wound faster. The room started spinning slightly, and he felt himself losing a grip on his consciousness. It was really a wonder that he'd managed to stay coherent this long. Some part of him vaguely realized he was entering the fourth stage of hemorrhage – the irreversible stage. He didn't have many words left.

"Look, Hap, I should probably get going. Tell everyone... tell everyone I hope they're having a good day. And I miss them."

"Um... okay?"

"Also, I love you Happy. Like, a lot. I love you a lot."

"I know that, Doc. I love you, too. Bye."

Toby hung up. He imagined, years from now, Ralph telling his grandkids about Dr. Tobias M. Curtis, the goofy psychiatrist who used to work with their great-grandmother. He imagined hours of stories – all the stupid, reckless, hilarious things he'd done for Scorpion – culminating in his last words: a concluding profession of love to fellow genius Happy Quinn.

That, he decided, qualified as some truly kickass final verbiage.