Chapter Text
“I’m not moving to DC.” He fast it with conviction, but also exhaustion, because he was tired of this discussion, he was tired of feeling guilty for having an opinion, and most of all he was tired of every woman in his life asking him to bend for them. He was the first person to make an effort to change, he was the first person to step up and defend women’s right for equality, and better pay, he knew how hard the women in his life worked, he saw it every day. But he also knew after today that he had value too, and he had so much to offer the LAPD still. He loved the people he worked with, he loved this city and most of all he loved the life he had here.
“John,” Bailey already sounded exasperated with him, and quite frankly he didn’t have the patience for it. She’s said they both needed to want this or neither of them went. This wasn’t the first time she’d abruptly changed her mind and forced him to cave.
He wasn’t budging this time. Either she agreed to stay or they faced the very real risk of both being twice divorced. “No, I’ve been playing along, because I love you and I want you to be happy. But I can’t tear my life apart here to do that.”
“I’m not asking you to.” She protested, her eyes flaring with anger.
How could she say that? How could she not see that’s exactly what she was doing. She’d been begging him to look into moving for days. She’d said yesterday it was her dream job, but she hadn’t even known it was a job until a week ago. “Yeah, you are. And I keep wondering, why isn’t our life here together enough for you.”
“I didn’t realize you were so mad,” He hated how sad she sounded saying those words.
He dug in, he stood his ground, he wasn’t going to be pushed aside, he wasn’t going to let his feelings and goals be pushed aside. He’d sacrificed everything for Sarah and Henry, for a failed marriage all because it had been the right thing to do. Because that’s what Sarah had asked for. He’d always bent. He was tired of being the person in the marriage who constantly caved. He deserved to be angry and ask for someone to bend for him once in a while. “Neither did I.”
“It’s not that it’s not enough for me, I just want to go do this.” She reasoned.
“But why?” He understood that, he really did. It did sound like a cool job. “And don’t say it’s because the job is cool, because so is being a firefighter and a soldier and all the other things you do in your spare time.” Everyone said she was a badass, why did she constantly need to be more of a badass. In the back of his mind some part of his consciousness whispered Jason.
“Something tells me you think you already have the answer to this,” She countered looking at him, caught between hurt and angry.
“I think you have pathological need for movement.” There, he’d said it. Her need to constantly be better, do better, outdo everyone else, it wasn’t just competitiveness. It was PTSD from an abusive marriage she hadn’t let go yet. He understood what it was to be haunted by the past but bringing that into her new marriage was only going to cause a swift end.
“Pathological?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “And we have joked about it, and how you can’t sit still and a day off for you means doing six different projects and I thought it was cute. But it’s not. What are you afraid will happen if you stop moving, if you let yourself be happy with what you have and where you are?” Why can’t you just slow down and live happily every after with me? He thought as he looked at her, his own eyes had grown sad, disappointed that he wasn’t enough for another person. Why did the women in his life lie to him, hide from him, want more than him? Why wasn’t he enough? John paused at those thoughts — okay maybe he needed therapy too. Maybe they both needed some therapy.
“Nothing. I am happy, I just got excited to go do this job. Why are you blowing it all up like this?” Gaslighting, and manipulation, it wasn’t her fault, that was what she’d spent her first marriage around. He reminded himself he wasn’t being irrational, it was okay to want to be heard, it was okay to ask for some consideration and space to just be.
“I’m trying to save our marriage,” he countered, because he didn’t want a long-distance marriage, he didn’t want to constantly have his life on hold while she was out living a separate existence. Most of all, he didn’t want another divorce. But it was beginning to feel like she constantly had one foot out of the marriage for safety, and it left a sour taste in the back of his throat.
“I didn’t realize it was in jeopardy." She threw the covers back and stalked out of the bedroom.
“Bailey.” He called, but he didn’t move. He just sat there, his eyes burning, his heart still pounding in his chest, the twisting ache in his center. His mind wandered back to earlier today. He hadn’t told her what had nearly happened today during the raid. That they’d nearly been singed, that he’d been tackled and could’ve easily been beaten to death if Agent Garza hadn’t stepped in. And didn’t just feel bad but there was a sick, dirty feeling of hiding the things that had happened so his wife didn’t realize the danger he’d been in. He felt a tear crest over the edge of his eye and he sighed. He flipped his light off and sank further into the bed, lying on his side to look at Bailey’s empty side. Why wasn’t he enough?
“What’s going on with you?” Nyla asked after roll call the next morning. She must have noticed how withdrawn he’d been, not just today but yesterday too. John knew he was off—he’d barely spoken to anyone, offering nothing more than muted greetings when spoken to first.
He caught the way the others kept stealing glances in his direction, concern written plain on their faces. He’d always been the one people leaned on, the steady, empathetic presence who checked in, listened, cared. It was who he was. Of course they’d notice when that warmth was missing.
“Just… stuff with Bailey,” he said quietly.
Nyla’s brows lifted as she pulled out the chair beside his desk and sat. “John,” she said gently, her voice dropping into that softer register she reserved for people she trusted. “Talk to me.”
“She still wants to go to DC,” he admitted. “We argued about it last night. I told her she’s got a pathological need to always be in motion—”
“She does,” Nyla cut in without hesitation.
He nodded. “Yeah. She didn’t exactly take it well.” He hesitated, then the words spilled out before he could stop them. “I just can’t stop wondering… why I’m not enough for people to stay. What is it about me as a husband that the women I love don’t—” His voice faltered. “—don’t want to stick around.”
He stared hard at the wood grain of his desk, suddenly embarrassed by how small and pathetic he felt. A moment later, a gentle touch settled over his hand. He looked up and met Nyla’s steady, dark gaze.
“John, this isn’t you,” she said firmly. “And you know that. If it were, you wouldn’t be standing on your ground now. Honestly—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—I think you both need therapy. She needs to work through what Jason put her through, and yeah… you might need to be part of that process. And let’s be real, you’ve got your own baggage from your first marriage too. That’s human.”
“And if she won’t even listen?” he asked quietly. The question made his stomach churn. What if she didn’t want to?
Nyla looked genuinely surprised by that. “Then,” she said after a beat, “I think you already know the answer.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he murmured. “Penn, time to go, get the shop ready.”
o0o0o0o
Bailey was miserable, and everyone at the station knew it. Most of the crew had taken the hint and were giving her plenty of space—everyone except Sharon.
“Why can’t you just be on my side?” Bailey demanded.
“Because you’re not being fair,” Sharon replied evenly. “And John made some solid points. You push yourself to out-human everyone around you. Bailey, it’s okay to be mediocre at things sometimes. He might be right—you were perfectly happy less than a week ago. Then this opportunity popped up and now you can’t stop fixating on it. Last year you wanted kids, right up until you decided they were too expensive. So, what happens if you move and hate it?” She held Bailey’s gaze. “You’ve said repeatedly that John is the perfect guy. So why are you so determined to blow that up over a position you didn’t even know existed a week ago?”
Before Bailey could respond, the fire alarm blared.
Training kicked in instantly—gear on, jacket zipped, ambulance rolling as Sharon peeled out of the garage.
“Two explosions reported at the North Hollywood Mall,” their captain announced over the radio. “Structural damage, multiple casualties, victims not yet accessible. Treat this as a mass-casualty event. Captain Nash from the 118 will be IC.”
Bailey’s phone rang. Unknown LAPD number.
Her heart lurched as she answered. “Hello?”
“Bailey, it’s Sergeant Tim Bradford,” the familiar voice said.
“Why—why are you calling me?” She asked, almost afraid of the answer.
He exhaled slowly. “There’s been a mass-casualty incident. Nolan was at the mall.”
Her blood went cold. “Where?” A million horrific scenarios filling her mind, playing in vivid color across her mind, interspersed with his beautiful smile, his bright laughter, the smell of him when he first woke up, or after a shift.
“He and his Rookie were responding to a suspicious package. They’re trained to keep their distance, so he might not have been close, but…” He paused. “You deserved to know.”
“Thank you,” she managed to whisper, before the call was disconnected.
“Bailey?” Sharon asked, glancing away from the road as she neared the mall.
“John may be inside.”
Sharon visibly paled, gripping the wheel a little harder. “Are you okay to go in, because—”
“Absolutely, he needs all the help he can get, and so will anyone else stuck in that hell hole.”
And then they pulled into the parking lot. The damage hit her before the ambulance had fully stopped. It certainly didn’t look like a mall anymore. Now it looked like something out of a horror film.
The front of the mall was torn open, concrete and glass scattered across the parking lot in wide, brutal arcs. What had once been clean lines and wide entrances was now jagged, uneven—like the building itself had been ripped apart. Smoke poured out from multiple points along the façade, thick and dark, curling into the air and sinking into her lungs as soon as she stepped out.
Her chest tightened.
Cars sat abandoned where people had left them mid‑panic. Doors hung open. Shopping bags were strewn across the asphalt, groceries spilled and forgotten. A minivan idled uselessly near the curb, turn signal clicking on and on, the sound sharp and wrong in all the noise. Police sirens, wailing cries, screams and pleas for help filled the air like a horrendous cacophony. The pulled up to the newly placed police tape, and they approached the other three firetrucks and five ambulances, another one of each arriving, along with dozens of police cars.
Bailey’s eyes were drawn, helplessly, to the main entrance.
The glass doors were gone entirely. Just twisted metal frames and a dark, yawning opening beyond them. Alarms screamed from somewhere inside—a constant, overlapping shriek that churned her stomach—and underneath it all, the low, unsettling groan of a structure that hadn’t finished breaking yet.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe.
What if that was the door he’d gone through?
Red and blue lights flashed across everything, painting smoke‑stained stone and shattered glass in frantic color. Officers shouted directions, medics ran, fire engines crowded the perimeter—but none of it felt like enough. Not for a building this big. Not for whatever had happened here.
Bailey’s gaze caught on the mall’s sign above the entrance.
Most of the letters still stood.
One flickered.
Her pulse roared in her ears as her mind filled in the space she couldn’t see—the concourse beyond those doors, the chaos, the collapsing ceilings, the echoing alarms. John’s face flashed unbidden behind her eyes, his voice from the night before, tired and hurt and asking her to stop running.
Please let him have listened. Please don’t let him be inside. Her eyes frantically began to search the many police officers, both in and out of uniform, some likely detectives or off duty coming to help. She didn’t recognize anyone from Mid-Wilshire at first glance. That could mean any number of things, they hadn’t arrived, they were on another side of the mall, or the worst case scenario—her closest friends and her husband were all inside.
She snapped her helmet into place and moved forward before the fear could root her where she stood.
He needed help.
And so did everyone else.
She approached Nash, he stood, his jacket open, helmet on but visor up, brow pinched as the 53 approached. “Great, I want half of us to enter at Webster and head up towards Macy’s, one of the bombs went off on the second level there, and the other half to go in through the food court on West 3rd, the other bomb went off there. The goal is to secure what you can and allow the RA units to help us remove victims. We’ve got city engineers and planners on the way to help as well
“Any idea how many people we’re looking for?” One of the paramedics from the 118 asked.
“Not yet, we’re estimating a couple at least hundred, it was thankfully still early in the day and a weekday, several hundred appear to have gotten out safely. The National Guard and more firefighters from further out are on their way to assist.” Nash reported. He paused, “We have reports that there were at least two police officers, maybe more, and two members of the bomb squad had just entered, so you’re likely to find them fairly quick.”
“Do-do you know where the officers were in relation to the bomb?” Bailey managed to choke out.
“Not at this time, but Buckley and Diaz are going to head directly towards the area where the bomb went off to try and locate the most urgent injuries,” Nash replied.
“I’d like to join them,” Bailey stated quickly.
All eyes were on her, “Okay, why? I was planning to send my unit in.”
“I understand…but one of the officers…Please.”
He studied her for a long moment, and she saw a familiar understanding in his hazel brown eyes. “Understood, Chimney you and Nune head with Diaz and Buck. Hen, do you mind helping triage closer to the front of Macy’s?”
Hen glanced over at Bailey and gave her an understanding smile, “Happy to, let me know if you need any extra help though.”
She nodded. The group began to separate to head towards their assignments, when Nash reached out and held her back. She looked at him in surprise. “I know a thing or two about being terrified your significant other isn’t going to come out alive. If, at any point, you think you’re more of a risk to him, than help, call for Wilson, I know you wouldn’t want to put him in anymore danger.”
“Yes, sir.”
She followed the three men through now vacant doorway of the Macy’s store. The entrance swallowed them whole in an instant.
One step past the shattered threshold and the world changed—sound dulling, air thickening, light dropping away as if the mall had closed its jaws behind her. Smoke clung low, heavy enough to taste, burning the back of her throat with every breath. The alarms were louder here, shriller, bouncing off exposed concrete and stripped beams until it was impossible to tell where they were coming from.
Glass crunched under their boots, mixed with water from the sprinklers hissing overhead. The floor was slick with ash and soot, footprints smeared and overlapping—proof of how many people had run through here before her, and how few of them had time to slow down.
She followed the flow instinctively.
Macy’s came into view. Or what was left of it.
Display counters were shredded, glass cases blown apart, perfume bottles shattered so completely that the air burned with it. Floral sweetness mixed with smoke and insulation, cloying and nauseating, settling heavy in her chest.
The ceiling above had partially collapsed. Light fixtures dangled by their wiring, swaying gently every time the building groaned. Sections of drop ceiling lay in jagged piles across the floor, insulation spilling out like exposed bone. The tiles beneath her boots were cracked and buckled, the neat pattern broken by force.
Clothing racks were flattened or overturned. Dresses hung half‑burned, hems blackened and curling, swaying faintly in the air. Shoes were everywhere—pairs separated, boxes crushed, one heel embedded clean through a fallen slab of drywall. A clearance sign lay snapped in two, its bright red lettering smeared with soot.
At first she saw a hand beneath a slab of ceiling tile and thought it had to be a mannequin. The were strewn about in pieces, but then she realized it was switching and had a smear of blood. “I found someone!” she called out rushing cautiously towards their first victim. She pushed the ceiling tile away and found a young woman, early thirties perhaps, lying there, a vicious cash on the side of her head and face that was freely flowing. Bailey removed a glove and checked for a pulse. Steady, a little fast, but present. She pulled out her penlight, one eye, then the other, and at the second eye, the victim began to move. “Easy, don’t move,” she encouraged. “Wilson!”
“Coming!”
Bailey placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, “Ma’am, you were in an explosion, you’re going to be okay. I’ve got more firefighters and medics on the way, can you tell me where your worst pain is?”
She moaned and turned her head, “Head.”
“Okay, you probably have a concussion, I don’t see any other immediate concerns, I’m going to continue on since you’re alert, but another paramedic is coming,” Bailey assured.
“I’m here,” Hen replied kneeling down, “Go ahead, I got her.”
Water poured from ruptured sprinkler lines, cascading down shattered displays and pooling across the floor. The mixture of water and debris made every step careful. Radios crackled nearby. Voices echoed—medics calling out, officers shouting locations—but the sound warped in the open space, distance hard to judge.
Her eyes scanned automatically. Left. Right. Toward the escalators. Toward the back corridors.
Where would he have gone?
A small shoe lay near the edge of the blast zone. Pink. Light‑up sole cracked clean through. No blood. No body. Just the shoe, abandoned like someone had been torn out of the moment they were living.
Bailey swallowed hard and forced herself forward.
Sunlight filtered down through a break in the ceiling, dust and debris drifting slowly through the beam, beautiful in a way that made her stomach turn. Somewhere deeper inside, something shifted—metal popping, glass sliding—and everyone froze for a heartbeat, waiting to see if this would be the moment the building gave up.
This had been a Macy’s.
A place people wandered through without thinking. Where families killed time. Where arguments happened over price tags. Where kids hid in clothing racks.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, sharper than everything else, was the image she couldn’t shake—John moving through this space earlier, doing his job, never knowing how close it had come to ending right here.
Fear pressed in hard.
Bailey shoved it back. Fear could wait. Guilt too.
They started finding more people where the debris had fallen the thickest. A foot sticking out from under a collapsed display, the rest of its owner hidden by twisted metal and drywall. Bailey forced herself to catalog, not react. Hands. Feet. Shapes that meant someone was here. Others were harder.
A woman sat slumped against a fallen column, eyes open but unfocused, dust caked into her hair and eyelashes. She didn’t respond at first, just stared past Bailey like the world had ended somewhere behind her eyes. It took a gentle hand and a steady voice to bring her back enough to breathe, to blink, to nod when asked if she could move.
Nearby, a man lay half‑buried under insulation and shattered glass, chest rising in shallow, uneven bursts. He flinched at every sound, every groan of the building, one arm wrapped protectively around his head even though the danger had already passed. Bailey spoke to him quietly while medics worked, anchoring him to the moment, to the fact that he was alive.
There were families, separated by the chaos.
A teenager wandering in circles, calling a name over and over, voice cracking a little more each time. A mother clutching a child she wouldn’t let go of, even as firefighters carefully worked debris away from them both. The child cried—not from pain, but from confusion, from fear, from the sudden realization that the world wasn’t safe the way it had been an hour ago.
Some victims didn’t move at all.
They lay still beneath tarps or partially covered by wreckage, the space around them respectfully cleared, quieted. Bailey didn’t linger on them—but she felt them. Every responder did. The weight of life interrupted, of ordinary moments ended without warning. It was a regular part of firefighting, but it didn’t stop being deeply impactful. Knowing a life was lost.
The mall had been full of noise before.
Now it was full of small, human sounds instead—ragged breathing, whispered reassurances, soft sobs that broke through when adrenaline finally faded. Every rescue was followed by relief. Every uncovered body by silence.
She’d been making her way towards what she thought was the menswear section when she heard something. She stopped, Diaz behind her also pulled up short as they both looked around. A weak cough.
Not over the radio. Not shouted. Close.
She spun, scanning past the wreckage until she saw movement near the far wall—someone slumped against what was left of a fitting‑room partition, half shielded by a fallen mirror and a collapsed clothing rack. A man. Late twenties, maybe. Covered in dust and soot, one arm held tight to his ribs, breathing shallow but steady.
“Hey,” she said, dropping to a knee beside him. “You with me?” Diaz began to shift things away from him and assess his injuries while she spoke to him.
His eyes fluttered, then focused. “Yeah. Yeah, I—I think so.”
“Good,” she said, calm and firm. “You’re safe. Help’s here.” She keyed her radio quickly, calling for a stretcher, then turned back to him. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Ethan,” he rasped. He swallowed hard, gaze drifting past her toward the dressing rooms. His face tightened. “The cop—”
Bailey’s heart stuttered.
“What cop?” she asked, keeping her voice level.
“There-there were two, the older one,” Ethan said. “Tall. Calm. He kept telling everyone to move. Made us go first.”
Bailey felt the words hit her chest like a blow. “Did he say his name?” she asked.
Ethan shook his head weakly. “No, but—” He coughed again, wincing. “He was clearing the dressing rooms. Told us to stay low. Said he’d be right behind us. His partner was taking care of kids and parents in a nearby changing room.”
Bailey closed her eyes for half a second. “Did you see what happened?” she asked quietly.
Ethan nodded, jaw tightened. “He was still inside. Checking the last room.” His voice cracked. “He shoved me out. Literally pushed me. Then there was this—” He swallowed. “This pressure. Like the air punched me. I woke up over there.”
Bailey followed his gaze. Ten yards away. Close enough to survive. Far enough that—
“And him?” she asked.
Ethan shook his head. “I didn’t see him come out. But—” He frowned, thinking. “I heard him. After. He was shouting. Telling someone to stay down. Then… I don’t remember anything else.”
Bailey’s breath left her in a rush she hadn’t realized she was holding.
He’d been alive after the blast.
“Thank you,” she said, squeezing Ethan’s shoulder gently. “You did great.”
Another set of medics rushed in with a stretcher and took over, Bailey stood slowly, her eyes lifting back toward the ruined dressing rooms.
He’d been here.
He’d saved people.
He’d been alive after.
That was enough. For now. She moved closer to the dressing rooms, and that’s when she noticed two sets, across the aisle from one another, a children’s dressing room, and the women’s. As much as she wanted to find her husband, he would never forgive her if she didn’t care for others first. So she made her way towards the children’s dressing room first. She moved closer, slower now, boots crunching through debris that felt heavier here—denser, packed with force. Smaller clothing lay everywhere, torn and blackened, fabric fused to drywall and insulation. A bench meant for parents waiting for their children was splintered in two, one end embedded in the wall.
And then she saw it. A familiar dark shoe, and fabric.