The blood.

The blood just wouldn't stop. There was so much of it. It covered her hands, making her fingers slippery as they moved together. It covered the armor up to her forearms.

Anderson had abandoned her facade of calm control several minutes ago as she tried to stave the quick flow of Dredd's blood from the wound in his shoulder. It was a puncture from falling debris; a long, thin column of steel had slid through his chest like a hot knife through butter, just below his collarbone and just to the left of his left shoulder. The debris had to be removed in order to get Dredd into the vehicle she commandeered. Another Judge had appeared to help her shove him in the back of the van, and she ordered him to drive. She couldn't even comprehend who it was through her panic and his helmet, but he complied with her terse commands.

Dredd was in and out of consciousness as she tried every tool available in both their belts to seal the gaping hole through his body, but nothing worked. She chanted to herself inside her head that he would be okay, though his face was pale and deathly looking.

"You'll be alright," she repeated again and again out loud to him, though she doubted he could hear her. The jostling of the speeding vehicle only aggravated the wound, but Anderson couldn't really tell the Judge driving to slow down.

She was relieved to hand Dredd off to professionals, though her heart still hammered wildly in her ears. They were given priority treatment and rushed in to the emergency room immediately. Anderson was still applying pressure to the wound, as they rolled his gurney toward an ominous looking set of swinging doors. A nurse appeared suddenly and removed her ungloved hands from Dredd's wound, replacing them with her own. She was frazzled and her mind was buzzing with the loss of her control. She felt a sharp jolt of pity from the nurse who'd touched her.

The Judge who'd rushed them to the hospital was gone when she returned to the waiting room. Command had instructed her to return to base, but she sank into the first chair she came to. She had an unpleasant and unwelcome flash of a future sans Judge Dredd. He was her mentor and had become her friend. And though she never knew how he felt, he may see her as an annoying burden, the affection she felt for him grew what seemed like every moment. She still had so much more to learn from him.

It must have been an hour or so later that a nurse apprised her of the situation. They had no real answers. He might live, he might not. Anderson supposed it wasn't any different than any other day they rode out into the City. But somehow this seemed unreal. Dredd couldn't die. The nurse left and Anderson sank back into the chair. She felt helpless and hated it.

Anderson cast out a mental net through the hospital to find him. She often did this during missions, to keep track of his position. Her abilities were growing, strengthening, and she'd use it this once to give something good, rather than to get information. She could identify him easily. His mind was the only one that had iron around it, though at the moment, the iron was thin and malleable. He was in a drug induced sleep, and he felt no pain. Anderson was grateful for that.

She felt tears escaping from under her closed eyelids and roll heavily down her face. There was a red-splattered blackness in his mind, filled with anger, hatred, pain and loneliness. Anderson was taken aback and breathless from the depth of it. She concentrated and tried to project warmth and affection to him, to soothe him. As she felt his mind register this feeling, an image suddenly appeared that chased away all of the darkness from him. Blonde hair bouncing, shaking and turning, shimmering in the sunlight.

Anderson choked on a sob. The image grew clearer and she recognized her own face, clean of the blood, dirt and dust that so often smudged it. She was smiling in his mind, and all of the warmth and love she was sending him came back to her doubled. She left his thoughts with this happy image playing on a loop through them.

She waited there, her tears dry on her face, for many hours. Her muscles were stiff and achy from the strain of the day and from sitting so long in one position. But she felt as though she couldn't move. As if her stillness would stabilize him.

Finally the nurse reappeared. Tears burned her eyes before the woman could even speak. There was blood on her shirt.

"He's stable and in intensive care," she began, and Anderson was on her feet, ignoring the ache in her knees. The woman tried to stop her, but Anderson stilled her with the force of her mind without even slowing her swift strides. She incapacitated five more who tried to stop her as she followed the sound of Dredd's mind through the hallways.

She almost wished she hadn't come when she saw him lying on the hospital bed, with no less than six tubes connecting him to a large machine that monitored his vitals. A white bandaged wrapped around his chest and left shoulder. He wouldn't want anyone to see him like this. Still, her boots took her to his bedside. The trauma, emotional and physical, was taking its toll on her. She felt foggy.

Anderson placed the tip of her index finger against the back of his hand. He was warm. His thoughts were protected by only a thin veil that opened as if it was expecting her. Painkillers and sedatives were flowing through his system, which made swirling colors dance in his mind.

Perhaps he recognized her presence, or perhaps this image was often called to his thoughts, but she saw the light reflecting off her bright blonde hair again. Her hair was often filled with dust and she used only the most basic shampoo, but through the filter of his eyes, it looked soft. She felt his desire to touch it. Anderson sat in the chair in the corner when she thought her legs would no longer hold her.

She half hoped he wouldn't remember this when he woke, but she projected an image long practiced in her own mind, of his bare fingers threading through her locks, brushing down her neck and back up into the blonde tresses. In reaction to this image, strangely, she felt his relief. As if this had been a desperate need rather than a passing desire.

Anderson left the room and returned to her quarters to sleep away the emotions rattling through her bones.

Dredd pulled through, as she'd really always known he would. He was too stubborn to die. His recovery was speedy, considering. Still, in her frequent visits, she threatened to forget about him if he didn't return soon. When he did return, Anderson felt it her duty to give him a hard time for a few weeks.

After his close call, Anderson thought she felt him watching her as he hadn't done since her first days as a Judge. It was only mildly irritating, as it brought back a few of her rookie insecurities. Mostly it was pleasant, and she decided not to look too far into it.

A few weeks later, they were sitting on their bikes next to each other, debating who would choose their destination, when he removed a glove. Anderson thought little of it and continued to make the point that she had let him choose their direction for the past week, as courtesy to the wounded. She quieted, though, when he reached his bare hand out to her.

She watched him as he intently wound one lock of her hair around his index finger briefly, and then let it go. Somehow, he produced a leaf that she was sure hadn't been there before, and he tossed it over his shoulder to be caught by the wind.

"Alright, you choose," he said gruffly as he yanked his glove back on.