(The following is a dramatization. Do not take anything claimed to be spoken here for the complete and unabridged truth.)

At some point I was talking to windscryer about how it wasn't fair that Lassie didn't get a girl, and she pointed out that there was, in fact, a canon ship for Lassie. I furrowed my brow and said, "No, there isn't." and she replied, "Her name is Polly.

(A teeny spoiler for Sixty Seconds to Murder follows:)

Remember the episode where Lassie's car gets stolen? Shawn devines that he took it to a valet and Lassiter spills about a date he had with Polly Smith. They kissed."

To which I replied, "OMJNOWAIWTFBBQSIRIUS! I REMEMBER THAT!"

And thus a ship was born.

When I get home, Polly is sitting on my front porch swing.

She must have seen the news. Heard the reports of an officer shot on duty. I feel guilty for a brief second for not calling her to let her know that it wasn't me, but the stand-off didn't end until just three hours ago, and that was eleven-fifteen. There simply wasn't time and then it was too late and the paperwork... I choose to ignore the fact that I easily could have spared two minutes to call my girlfriend and let her know that I wasn't dead or in the hospital dying.

I glance down as though I'm looking for my keys, because I don't want her to see my grimace. I'm tired, it's been a long day, I came about this far from getting shot about thirty times, and I'm not in the mood for the lecture I know is coming about how the job is "too dangerous", how I "never call when things like this happen", how this "is devastating for her". Frankly, I'm the one who nearly had his head blown off, thank you very much, so right now, I don't give a damn how worried she was. I'm pretty sure my stress level was higher than hers. I just want a snifter or two or scotch, some time to stare mindlessly at the TV, and then a bed in which to collapse.

She gets to her feet, moving to my side as I reach the door, and we share a brief, cursory kiss. I can't be sure if it's my irritation or hers that makes it so curt. I glance at her, but she says nothing, simply waits as I unlock the door and push it open. I'm trying hard not to grit my teeth because as much as I enjoy the woman's company, I am not looking forward to whatever she feels she needs to say to me right now. I gesture for her to go ahead of me and she steps inside, slipping off her shoes as she moves to the side. I follow suit, closing the door behind us. Bending, I set my briefcase on the floor next to the wall and as I straighten up, I feel her hands, small and cautious, sliding my jacket from my shoulders. It's gone before I can even protest.

Now it's starting to unnerve me that she hasn't started yelling yet. I ease off my holster, and Polly disappears into the kitchen. I'm not sure whether or not I should leave her alone in there, but I need to put my holster away, so I risk it and move to the bedroom, hanging it in its usual place and carefully slipping the guns into my bedside table drawer.

When I peek into the kitchen, Polly is gone. My mouth immediately turns down in a frown and I move a little more quickly to check the living room. There's Polly, and she's standing near the armchair in the corner, turning on the television. A snifter of brandy is sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch. The frown deepens. What the hell is she playing at? Is she trying to lull me into a false sense of security before she strikes?

I'm still contemplating the implications of all of this when she moves over, her hand sliding into mine, and my fingers close around it instinctively. It's so small… She pulls me toward the couch and with a gentle push to the chest, I'm sitting and she folds her legs beneath her, sitting close beside me, knee resting warmly against my thigh. I can't take it anymore.

"What are you doing?"

Her cheeks pucker with faint dimples as she tries to hide a smile. "What do you mean what am I doing?"

"I mean, what the hell are you doing? Shouldn't you be yelling at me right about now? For being an insensitive prick or something?" I demand, and I'm pretty sure that the sharp bitterness in my tone is going to get a reaction.

She begins removing my tie. "Because you didn't call?" she asks. It's a lot harder to be angry when her fingertips are skating around my collarbone, and a lot harder to think too.

"Yeah," is the best I can come up with.

Polly shrugs and her eyes meet mine. "I certainly would have appreciated it, but I know you had your hands full."

I stare at her dumbfounded. The tie is in her lap now, and she's smoothing it over and over again with her fingers. She's not angry. Not even close. But she's nervous, and…hurt, I think. But she's still here. She's here; she was here for who knows how long, waiting for me. Suddenly, it feels like I've been socked in the stomach.

"I'm… I'm sorry," I finally say, and my voice is low, my discomfort glaringly obvious from what I can tell. I've always loathed saying those words, admitting defeat.

She nods and bites her lip, her hand coming to rest on my chest, her palm warm through the fabric of my shirt. "I was scared," she admits quietly.

Another blow to the stomach. Why is this conversation so different than the others, the ones with—? "You don't have to be," I say.

"But I am," she immediately responds and I can't help leaning forward, my hand moving to cup the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her soft hair. I open my mouth to say something, but my eyes catch on hers again and the words die in my throat, because I can see tears hovering there, and she's refusing to let them fall. She's holding back for me. Because of me. Something crumbles apart deep inside.

Then I'm kissing her, desperate to reassure her, to make her see that it will be all right, that I'm alive and well and I'm going to stay that way, and a small guttural sound escapes my throat as her slim fingers wind up and into my hair, her response just as ferocious. It's not until she pulls away, gasping, that I realize my grip on her is almost crushing. I loosen my hold just enough to allow her to breathe and she continues to lay feathery kisses on my face, her fingers tracing my jaw line and cheekbones.

I vow that next time, next time, I will call.