Crawling to Safety - Teddy Altman x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)
cw: war zones, injury, blood, etc. (also bad writing, there's only so many googling of facts i can survive)
summary: Years after serving together as medics in a warzone, you and Teddy Altman reunite at Grey Sloan Memorial and slowly rekindle a love that never got the chance to fully bloom. After surviving a hospital collapse and confessing your feelings in the rubble, you both realise how important you are to each other.
Part of Maylancholy 2025: Day Six, crawling to safety. @may-lancholy
It was always hard being the new one - anywhere. Your first day of school? Your first job at 15? Your first day with the army? All terrifying. This was no different.
The hallway smells like antiseptic, lavender soap and... something else. That strange combination unique to hospitals and nowhere else. You're used to it by now, plus it's better conditions than you were used to as a soldier.
You're doing your best to remember your way around and remember new names. You're mumbling them to yourself, repeating them again and again in the vain hope they'll stick by lunchtime. You round a corner, flipping through a patient chart, head down, heart steady.
Until it isn’t.
She’s standing at the nurse’s station. Hair pulled into a familiar twist. Light catching on the thin line of a surgical mask looped under her chin. Her laugh, soft but edged, carries even through the hum of pagers and footsteps.
Teddy.
The world stills.
She looks up. Sees you.
Everything about her face freezes, her posture, her hands, her smile. For a second, she’s a statue of the woman you once knew. And then her eyes flicker. There is recognition, disbelief, something too complicated to name, before she schools her expression back into neutral.
You don’t manage that much. Your heart’s somewhere in your throat.
“Dr. Altman,” someone calls. A nurse. A lifeline, calling out a name that you definitely will not be needing to rehearse.
She nods, barely, and walks away. Doesn’t speak to you. Doesn’t look back.
And just like that, history breathes itself back to life in the air between you.
You don’t say anything that first day. Or the next. Just keep your head down, your rounds efficient, your charts double-checked.
You’ve worked too hard to lose focus now. But she’s everywhere. Scrubbed into trauma surgery. Discussing a cardiac consult at the end of the hall. Her voice curling under doors and through vents, memory-soaked.
Eventually, you’re scheduled on the same case. MVA. Crush injuries. Emergency thoracotomy.
“Dr. Altman, Dr. Y/L/N,” Bailey says, nodding at you both. “Get in there.”
Teddy doesn’t look at you until you’re scrubbed and masked, gloved and sterile, standing over the open chest of a young woman whose heart is doing its best to stop.
But when she does look over, it’s like no time’s passed at all.
“On my mark,” she says, voice even.
You pass her the retractor without needing to be asked.
She clamps the bleeder like it’s nothing. You suction. She sews. You close. It’s seamless. Rhythmic. A dance you didn’t forget how to do, even if you told yourself you had.
Outside the OR, you both strip gloves in silence. Peel off caps. Neither of you moves to walk away.
Teddy finally breaks it. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I didn’t know you were either.”
She nods. Doesn’t say more.
But she doesn’t walk away this time.
That night, long after the trauma bay’s been cleaned and the halls have emptied to soft echoes, you find her in the resident lounge, a forgotten cup of coffee cradled in both hands, gaze unfocused on the dark window.
“You still take it black,” you say, gently.
She glances over. Her expression is unreadable, but her voice is quieter than you remember.
“Some things don’t change.”
You take the seat beside her.
The silence stretches, but it’s not sharp anymore.
It’s soft. Almost familiar.
Like maybe, just maybe, you’re both still learning how to breathe in each other’s presence again.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Kuwait. 112 degrees in the shade, dust curling off the horizon like smoke. The air hangs heavy, every breath filtered through sweat and sand. It’s your third day on base and already your boots feel too tight, your uniform too stiff, your bones too tired.
You're elbow-deep in a busted field stretcher when someone kicks a rock your way. It skitters across the sand, landing just beside your hand.
“You look like you’re losing a fight with that thing.”
You glance up, squinting against the sun and there she is.
Major Altman. Blonde hair tied back under a faded cap, dog tags clinking softly with every step. She’s got a hydration pack slung over one shoulder, grease under her nails, and a smirk that’s half challenge, half curiosity.
You don’t know who she is yet. Not really. Just the medic who stitched up two soldiers in half the time it should’ve taken. Just the woman who didn’t flinch when someone vomited blood on her boots. Just the one everyone calls 'Teddy,' even though her uniform reads 'Theodora Altman.'
You tilt your head. “You offering to help or just heckling from the cheap seats?”
She grins, dropping to a crouch beside you. “Depends. Do you bite?”
You arch a brow. “Only when I’m cornered.”
That makes her laugh... a quick, warm sound that feels wildly out of place in a camp surrounded by sandbags and distant mortar echoes.
She grabs the wrench from your kit without asking, reaches in, and loosens a bolt like she’s done it a hundred times. Maybe she has.
“I’ve got the trick for these,” she says. “They freeze up in the heat. You’ve got to angle the tension release manually.”
You watch her hands. Steady. Efficient. A little too fast for someone who should be taking her time.
“You always jump in like this?”
She shrugs. “Only when I see someone drowning in broad daylight.”
You side-eye her. “You call this drowning?”
“It's cute. And also yes, to the drowning.”
You don’t blush (not really) but the heat behind your ears spikes, and you’re grateful for the camouflage of sweat and dust.
The stretcher gives with a creak. She pulls back, wiping her hands on her pants.
“There. Saved you the embarrassment of losing a fight to military-issue gear.”
You stare at her for a beat. “Thanks.”
She leans back on her heels, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to place you. Then, without preamble, “You’re new.”
You nod. “Transfer from Kandahar.”
“Altman,” she offers, sticking out her hand like this is a normal introduction and not one made in the middle of a makeshift warzone.
You take it. Firm grip. Warm palm.
“Y/N,” you reply.
There’s a beat of silence. Just the two of you, dust swirling at your feet, dog tags glinting in the sun.
She smiles. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
You don’t know it yet, but she’s right.
And that moment, that strange, charged little nothing of a moment, will echo in the space between you for years to come.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The Grey Sloan ER is chaos, as always. Alarms, overhead pages, and a gurney being shoved into a bay with more urgency than grace. You sidestep a nurse and nearly trip over an unplugged vitals monitor, muttering under your breath.
And then, with an audible snap and the kind of wheeze only ancient hospital machinery can manage, the splint arm of the crash bed you’re leaning on breaks clean off in your hand.
You freeze, staring at the broken metal like it might fix itself out of shame.
Of course, that’s exactly when you hear it, the unmistakable soft laugh behind you, and a familiar voice that hasn’t stopped living in the corner of your mind.
“You still losing fights with medical equipment?”
You turn slowly.
Teddy Altman is standing a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of her scrubs, an unreadable expression on her face, equal parts amusement and something quieter. Her hair’s pulled back into a messy bun, strands coming loose at her temples. She looks tired. Still beautiful. Still unfair.
You hold up the broken piece like it’s Exhibit A. “In my defense, this one has nothing on the good stuff.” Your sarcasm dripping off you.
Teddy bites back a smile. It tugs at the edge of her mouth anyway. “And yet you still couldn't handle that. Although, you never know, maybe the military stuff has improved since Kuwait.”
“Doubt it,” you mutter, crouching down to inspect the damage. “The hinges are just as shot. Probably hasn’t been serviced since the building was put up.”
She stays quiet for a beat, then steps a little closer, not quite beside you, but within reach.
“You want help?” she asks, voice soft. Careful.
You glance up. There’s something wary in her posture. Like if she leans in too far, she might lose her footing again. Might lose you again.
You shake your head lightly. “I remember the trick.”
And you do, the angle, the tension release, the bolt that sticks if you don’t come at it just right. It’s not the same bed, but it’s close enough. Your fingers work from muscle memory, and it feels oddly like muscle memory of her. Of sand and heat and banter that meant more than either of you could say.
Teddy watches you for a few seconds. You can feel her gaze like pressure against your skin.
“You were good at that,” she says finally. “Learning the rhythm of things. Fast.”
You don’t look at her. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”
A breath. Heavy. Then, softer, “No. You didn’t.”
You finish tightening the last bolt, test the arm, and give a satisfied nod. “There. Embarrassment averted.”
“I dunno,” Teddy says, and this time there’s a flicker of warmth in her voice, a real smile, faint but genuine. “I kind of liked watching you struggle.”
You glance over your shoulder, arching a brow. “You’re slipping, Altman. That almost sounded like flirting.”
She meets your eyes. Doesn’t look away. But something changes, the teasing quiets, like a tide pulling back before it can get too high.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” she says, not quite under her breath.
You blink. “Fixing the crash bed or...?”
She exhales a laugh, dry and self-conscious. “Both... Maybe.”
There’s a beat of silence. The ER hums around you. And then you stand, dusting your hands, not quite brushing past her but close.
"I'm not sure I can handle that kind of indecision. Can't fix me as easily as these beds." You aim for a jokey tone, but end darker than you meant. Either way, it got your point across.
You leave before she can respond. Not sure what you want from this conversation. You're both better at leaving than you'd like to admit, you can feel yourself slipping in to old roles.
Maybe some things just aren't meant to be.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The tent smells like iodine and dirt. Outside, the wind kicks up another swirl of sand, raking it against the canvas like fingers clawing at the seams. But inside, everything’s still. Still and too quiet.
You crouch beside her, a roll of gauze in one hand, antiseptic in the other. She’s sitting on a cot, forearm stretched out, split open by shrapnel no bigger than a fingernail. It shouldn’t be serious, you’ve seen worse, done worse. But still, your hands shake a little as you clean the wound.
She watches you. Not flinching. Not speaking.
“You always take care of me,” she says after a beat.
You tape the last piece of gauze down, thumb brushing the edge of her skin. “Somebody has to.”
Teddy smiles, soft, tired. Like she’s been waiting for you to say that.
Your hand stays there longer than it needs to. Just resting on her wrist, feeling the steady thrum of her pulse. You think about all the things you can’t say here, in this tent, in this place where people disappear before you get to know their middle names. Where love feels like a luxury no one’s allowed.
She leans in before you can overthink it. Kisses you, quick, warm, desperate. Just once.
It feels like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
But the moment she pulls back, her eyes change. She straightens. Clears her throat.
“Thanks for the patch job,” she says, voice clipped.
You watch her recede into professionalism like she’s diving for cover. You want to ask what that was. You want to say don’t do that. You want to kiss her again, slower this time. Mean it.
But instead, you nod. Collect the wrappers. Pretend your heart isn’t in your throat.
“Anytime,” you say.
You leave the tent before she can say anything else. You leave the tent before she can leave you.
And she lets you go.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Grey Sloan runs on caffeine, adrenaline, and emotional landmines. You and Teddy work around each other like old ghosts, sharing space, pretending the air between you isn’t charged.
At first, it’s just that. Space. Cold professionalism. The occasional glance that lingers too long in OR lighting. Civil, strained silence in elevators. Awkward goodbyes in scrub rooms.
But slowly, and with the help of that broken gurney, something shifts.
It starts with small things. She hands you a cup of coffee from the old pot at the nurse's station one night without a word. You don’t drink it, but you hold it, let it warm your palms. She doesn’t look at you when she hands it over, but her fingers brush yours. On purpose, maybe.
Then there’s the case, a ten-hour trauma surgery. You and Teddy scrub in together. The patient crashes halfway through. Everyone else looks to you, but you already know what she’s thinking. You hand her the right tool before she asks. She meets your eyes over the drape.
Later, alone in the on-call room, she sits beside you on the edge of the cot. You’re both too tired to pretend you don’t remember what it’s like to sleep two feet apart. In a tent. In a warzone. Your knees touch. Neither of you moves.
“I keep thinking about that night,” she says suddenly.
You don’t say anything at first. Just stare at the wall like it might answer for you.
“I kissed you,” she says softly. “And then I... you left. But it was me and I-”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You did.”
“I know.”
You turn to look at her then. Really look. Her face is drawn, but her eyes, her eyes are the same. Brave and terrified. Full of things she never says.
“Why did you push me away? I tried again because I thought... I don't know.”
Teddy exhales like she’s been holding that breath for years. “Because I loved you. And that felt too dangerous.”
Your heart stumbles in your chest.
You reach for her hand. She lets you.
This time, no tents. No explosions. Just two surgeons in too-bright fluorescent light, surrounded by the echo of what almost was.
“Maybe we try again now,” you say. “Slower this time. No running.”
She nods. Presses her shoulder to yours. Doesn’t speak, but doesn’t move away.
The next morning, she brings you real coffee. And a blueberry muffin.
You don’t call it anything. Not yet.
But she starts walking you to your car after shifts. You start texting her when it rains.
She spends the night at your place, once. Then twice.
When you brush her hair off her cheek before bed, she closes her eyes and whispers, “Stay.”
You do.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It was one of the worst nights of the tour.
Three mass-casualty arrivals. Two DOAs. One young soldier with shrapnel in his chest that you couldn’t save, even though you tried until your arms shook and the tent spun.
Teddy hadn’t said a word since.
You found her sitting on a cot behind the triage tent, her hands still stained with blood, her scrubs damp with sweat and sand and something heavier. The desert wind whipped through the canvas, dry and sharp, but she didn’t flinch. Just sat there, hollow-eyed and silent, like she was trying not to come apart.
You knelt in front of her, quietly. Reached for her arm, she didn’t stop you, and unwrapped the dirty gauze from where she’d scraped her elbow during the chaos. She’d been moving patients like she was made of steel.
“Still taking care of me, huh?” she said, voice rough with exhaustion.
“Yeah... somebody has to.” You repeat the same words, too tired to give her something new, something more. The words don't hit the same. It's been different... since. You crave her.
The antiseptic stung. She hissed, just barely, then smiled. Barely.
Your hands lingered, bandage half-tied, heart half-broken.
You didn’t mean to lean in.
But you did.
And she met you there, halfway.
Her lips were chapped. Yours tasted like salt and adrenaline. It wasn’t a kiss made for fairy tales. It was desperation and comfort, grief and needing something to hold on to before the next siren went off.
She pulled back first. Guilt already blooming in her eyes. Regret, not for the kiss, but for letting it happen. For how much it meant.
“No, Teddy-” You tried to ground her, thinking this time you had it right. Maybe she would stay, maybe you would.
She stood. Pulled on her jacket. Didn’t look at you when she said, “Get some sleep.”
Then she was gone, leaving the tent flaps swaying behind her.
Hours later, when the med bay finally went quiet, you fell asleep on a cot in the corner, your arm curled around her old jumper like it might make her stay.
She didn’t wake you when she came back.
She just tucked her dog tag into your hand.
You woke up to it tangled in your fingers, warm.
And her gone again.
But you kept it.
You always did.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It starts with a smell.
Gasoline. Acrid, sharp, metallic in the back of your throat. You’d only just noticed it, halfway through restocking surgical kits in the basement supply hallway, tucked between the boiler room and the old lab. You paused, frowned. Something about the air felt wrong. Too still. Too hot.
The hospital hum carried on above you, the clatter of gurneys, faraway voices, overhead paging, but here, down in the bones of the building, it was quiet. Almost peaceful.
Then the light flickers.
Then the floor trembles.
A low, guttural groan splits the silence. You don’t even have time to process it before a deafening crack tears through the ceiling above.
And the world collapses.
You don’t scream. There’s no time. A beam falls, the ceiling gives way, and something huge slams into your shoulder and back. knocking you flat, pinning you to the tile. You can’t breathe. There’s dust in your lungs, blood in your mouth, your vision swimming with sparks.
Then… nothing. For a moment. Or maybe minutes. Time warps in the dark.
You come to with your face pressed to tile, grit in your teeth, something warm trickling down your temple. You try to sit up, but pain lances through your ribs. You scream, or try to, but it comes out hoarse and strangled.
Smoke thickens around you. Somewhere nearby, water hisses from a burst pipe, and sparks sizzle from exposed wires. You taste copper. Your ears ring. There’s no way out.
And then-
“Y/N!”
Her voice.
Your heart stutters so hard it hurts.
“Teddy!” you rasp, coughing hard. “Teddy, where are you?”
Another groan. Metal shifting. The sound of something - someone - dragging across debris.
“I-I’m here!” she gasps. “West corridor. My leg- I can’t, fuck, I can't move-”
Her voice is thin. Weak. Your blood runs cold.
“Teddy, stay with me,” you shout, already clawing your way forward with your good arm. “Keep talking... just keep talking.”
“I thought- I thought you were upstairs,” she cries. “I was coming to find you.”
You choke back a sob. Of course she was.
You push. Crawl. One arm, one knee. Over glass, tile, rubble. Your whole body screams. Every breath is fire. But it doesn’t matter.
You’d crawl through hell for her. You have before.
A flicker of movement- then you see her. Through a mangled doorway, bathed in the red pulse of emergency lights. She’s slumped against the wall, her leg slick with blood, her hand pressed uselessly to the wound.
“Teddy,” you breathe, dragging yourself the last few feet.
You drop beside her and immediately apply pressure. She winces hard, teeth gritted. Her other hand reaches blindly and finds yours. Grips tight.
“We always find each other,” she whispers, voice broken with pain.
“Even in hell,” you whisper back.
You press your forehead to hers, your breaths are shallow and ragged. Some blood pools beneath you both, the corridor still groaning under its own weight.
And in the half-dark, you say nothing else. Just hold on.
In case this is it.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The dog tag sat heavy against your chest for weeks after she left. Heavier still than your rifle. Heavier than your breath.
Teddy didn’t say goodbye. You woke to an empty cot and the faint smell of her shampoo still clinging to the blanket. She was gone by first light, reassigned to a different base, closer to the front, they said. No explanation. No request from command. Just gone.
You tried to hate her for it.
You tried to rip the tag from your neck the next morning. Got as far as tugging it halfway over your head before you stopped, chest tight, throat burning, hand shaking.
You put it back on. Quietly. Like a secret prayer.
And then you got your own transfer orders.
Different country. Same war. Sandier this time. Less stable. You didn’t ask questions. You just packed.
You didn’t know she’d be there until you stepped off the transport truck and saw her silhouette framed in the distance, shoulders squared, hair tucked under a sweat-soaked cap. Your boots hit the ground. Your heart did, too.
Teddy didn’t move when she saw you. Didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. But her eyes locked on yours like a radio frequency finally tuning in. A breath passed between you.
Then she turned away and vanished into the tent.
You worked two rows down. She was triage, you were surgical intake. Close enough to sense each other’s tension. Far enough to pretend the ache between you was just heat stroke. You never spoke. But you felt her watching. Felt the way her steps always slowed when she passed your section. Felt her pulse through the dirt like a phantom limb you couldn’t cut off.
Then came the bombing.
Third watch. Just before dawn.
You were inside when the blast hit, merciless. Dust and metal rained from the sky. The world turned sideways. Alarms blared. Somewhere, someone screamed.
You staggered out of the wreckage with blood in your ears and fire dancing in the corners of your vision. Your shoulder was burnt. Your left arm wouldn’t lift. But you weren’t dead.
And neither was she.
Because even before the med team could regroup, before the roll call started, you felt it, her presence. Not near, but tuned in. You felt her checking in on you without ever coming close. Like a frequency only the two of you could still hear through all the static.
She didn’t come to you.
And you didn’t go to her.
But that night, in the silence between the aftershocks, someone left a bottle of iodine and fresh bandages on your bunk. You didn’t need a note to know who.
Neither of you ever said it.
But both of you knew.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You don’t know how long you sit there, forehead to forehead, trying to slow your breathing... trying not to panic. The smoke is thicker now. You can’t tell if it’s getting darker from the fire or if you’re just starting to black out.
“Teddy,” you whisper again. Her hand is limp in yours now, fingers sticky with blood. “Hey. Hey, no- no, no. Stay with me.”
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused. She tries to speak but only manages a hoarse sound.
“Okay, okay,” you murmur, your free hand trembling as you pull your jacket off, folding it, pressing it harder to the deep gash in her leg. The bleeding’s slowed, but not stopped. You know what that means.
You’ve seen it too many times before. This is field medic math. And she’s running out of time.
You press your hand to her cheek. Her skin is pale and clammy, her breath shaky.
“I’ve got you,” you say, voice thick with tears. “But we have to move.”
Teddy groans faintly. Her head tilts toward you, barely conscious. “Can’t… leg’s gone numb.”
“Then I’ll drag us both,” you whisper fiercely.
You wedge your body under hers, one arm across her back, the other gripping whatever’s solid. Every movement sends shockwaves through your cracked ribs, but you grit your teeth and keep going. You think about that cot in Kuwait, where she tucked her dog tag into your palm like it meant something sacred. You think about all the nights you couldn’t sleep, picturing this exact kind of moment, losing her, again, without ever saying what you meant.
You won’t let that happen.
You didn't spend months patching her up, keeping her alive, to let it all go like this.
Piece by piece, you drag yourselves down the corridor, a graveyard of sparking wires, shattered tile, and collapsed beams. You grunt with every inch forward, gasping through the pain in your chest. Teddy is half-limp in your arms, but awake. Barely.
“You’re insane,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering. “You’re bleeding out. And still… carrying me.”
“I’m stubborn,” you rasp. “And you’re heavy.”
That gets a tiny, broken laugh out of her. It’s weak, but it’s real.
You make it to a clearer stretch of hallway. The emergency lights are flickering above, casting everything in red and shadow. You lower her gently against the wall, cradling her head in your lap. Her blood seeps into your clothes.
“I’m right here,” you whisper, brushing the dirt from her face. “You’re not alone.”
Her eyes search yours. There’s pain in them, but something else too. Something soft. “You always come for me.”
“Every time.”
You can hear shouting now. Faint. Far away. Maybe help is close. Maybe not.
But she’s still breathing. Still holding your hand. And for now, that’s enough.
She squeezes your fingers, barely there. “You’re the safest place I’ve ever known.”
And it’s like the wind’s been knocked from your lungs.
You lean down, press a kiss to her forehead. “You’re mine too.”
You don’t know if help will come in time.
But you’ve got her. And she’s got you.
Even here. Even now. In the wreckage, together.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The lull came like they always did, sudden, uneasy, too quiet. No gunfire, no incoming wounded. Just wind kicking up the dust between tents and the hum of overworked generators thrumming like a heartbeat gone still.
You found her sitting on a crate behind the surgical unit, stripped down to her undershirt, her new dog tags clinking softly as she wiped sweat from the back of her neck with a shaking hand. Her fingers were stained red at the edges. You didn’t want to know whose blood it was.
But still, she looked up when you approached. And for a second, her eyes softened like they used to. Like she’d missed you.
You sat beside her without asking.
Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched long and tight, until you couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I saw your name on the evac list,” you said, keeping your voice low, casual. It wasn’t casual. “They really sending you home?”
She didn’t look at you. Just nodded once.
“Couple days. Paperwork’s through. Just waiting for the transport.”
You let the words settle between you. Like dust. Like ash.
“I didn’t know you were going,” you said. "Again."
Teddy’s jaw flexed. “That’s kind of the point.”
You flinched. She sighed, like she hated herself for the words even as she said them.
“I just...” you started, heart hammering. “I thought maybe we could talk. Before you go.”
A beat.
“Talk about what?”
She knew. You knew she knew. But she was going to make you say it anyway.
You reached into your breast pocket and pulled out her old set of dog tags, the one she gave you months ago, back when you were still pretending you’d both survive this and come out clean.
“I never took it off,” you said, laying it gently between you on the crate. “Even when I was pissed. Even when I thought I’d never see you again.”
Teddy’s eyes stayed locked on the tag. Her hands curled in her lap, knuckles white.
“I wanted to ask you why you pulled away,” you said. “Back then. Before you got transferred.”
Nothing.
“And I wanted to tell you-” Your voice cracked. You swallowed it. “I just wanted to say that... it wasn’t one-sided. Whatever it was. I felt it too.”
You looked at her, searching for something. A flicker. A breath. Anything.
But she was a fortress.
Her mouth trembled just once before she set it in a hard line. She stood.
“I have to go pack,” she said, already turning away.
“That’s it?” you asked, standing too. “You’re just walking away?”
She paused. Just long enough to kill you a little.
“I’m trying to protect what’s left of us,” she said softly, over her shoulder. “And if I stay... I won’t be able to.”
“Teddy-”
“I can’t be the reason you don’t make it home.”
And then she walked away.
Didn’t look back. Didn’t say goodbye.
Left you in the dust with her dog tag still sitting on the crate, catching the sunlight.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The shouts are louder now.
Closer.
But you barely hear them over the rush of your own pulse, the quiet, uneven rasp of Teddy’s breathing, and the crackle of flames somewhere behind the walls. Your hand is still pressed to her leg wound, your fingers locked with hers as she lies in your lap.
She blinks slowly, struggling to stay present. Her face is pale, streaked with soot, blood drying at her temple. But her gaze, that stubborn, steel-edged gaze you’ve known since the desert, is on you.
“You should’ve left me,” she murmurs.
You shake your head. “Not a chance.”
"I did. I left you."
"You were trying to do the right thing. You were protecting me in your own stubborn way. I'm doing the same now."
"No, you always looked after me, always stayed," she mumbled, "I should have done the same."
"You're here now. Don't leave me now."
She winces as another tremor rumbles overhead. “If the ceiling comes down again-”
“Don’t,” you say, too quickly. Too harsh. Then softer, because she deserves soft, even now: “Don’t talk like that.”
You meet her eyes, no shadows between you now, no uniforms, no operating rooms, no titles. Just the two of you. Bruised. Bleeding. Still choosing each other.
“I waited for you,” you say, voice thick. “After the war. I didn’t say it then, but I wanted a life with you.”
Teddy blinks, startled. Her lips part, but no words come.
“I didn’t stop,” you whisper. “I kept hoping maybe someday we’d run into each other in a hallway again, and- God, Teddy, I would’ve taken it all. The guilt, the scars, the silences. I would’ve loved the broken pieces too.”
Her eyes well with tears but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t shut down. Not this time.
“I was afraid you’d see them,” she whispers. “The broken parts. What I let death do to me. What I let it do to us.”
“I saw them,” you say, brushing a trembling hand along her jaw. “I always saw them. And I never looked away.”
She leans into your touch. Her body is shaking, but her voice is clear.
“If I die this time…” She trails off, struggling for breath. “If I die- at least I die loving you.”
You can’t stop the tear that falls down your cheek.
“You’re not dying,” you choke out. “Not today. Never again.”
And just in case, just in case the fire reaches you before the medics do, just in case the ceiling falls again, just in case the world has one more cruel twist, you say it.
“I should’ve told you a hundred times already. I’m in love with you.”
Teddy gives a ragged, almost laugh. “You’re an idiot,” she gasps. “You’re bleeding and still flirting.”
“I wanted you to know. In case we-”
She stops you with her mouth. It’s not perfect, it’s desperate, a little shaky, full of soot and pain and every moment you both lost.
But it’s hers. And it’s yours.
When she pulls back, forehead resting against yours, she whispers, “Not dying today. Not without more of that.”
And when the doors finally crash open and hands reach in to pull you out, you hold on tighter. To her. To the promise.
To the truth that finally has a voice.
The world comes back in pieces.
First it’s the harsh glare of floodlights breaking through smoke. Then the static-laced shouts of first responders. The groan of metal being lifted. A sudden rush of cold air as the trapped hallway finally breathes.
But you don’t move. Not until you’re sure they see her.
“She’s bleeding, here!” you shout, voice hoarse, half a sob. “She’s going into shock... please-”
A firefighter kneels beside you. Another is radioing for a stretcher. Gloves brush your hands, trying to take over, but you don’t let go of Teddy’s hand until her fingers twitch, barely there, but still hers.
“She needs fluids,” you manage, blinking away the sting in your eyes. “She lost too much-”
“Got it,” someone says. “We’ve got her.”
Still, you don’t move until they lift her onto the gurney. And even then, your hand is wrapped around the rail until a medic pulls you back, gently.
“Hey, hey. You’re bleeding too. You need to sit.”
You glance down and finally feel it... the sharp throb of your ribs, the warm slick of blood on your side. The adrenaline was masking it all, but now your body is screaming. Knees buckle. Arms catch you.
You don’t remember being lifted. But you remember asking- no, begging- as the ambulance doors slam shut.
“Is she with me? Is she in the same rig?”
“She’s right here,” the medic reassures you. “She’s not going anywhere.”
You twist enough to see Teddy through blurry vision, her oxygen mask in place, an IV snaking from her arm, heart monitor beeping steadily. Her eyes flutter open as the sirens start.
And then, her fingers shift.
Toward you.
You reach. So does she.
Somehow, your hands find each other again, shaking but solid. And in the chaos of sirens and speed and shouted vitals, you hold on.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
You wake up hours later in a hospital bed, your side aching, bandages tight across your ribs. There’s a nurse at your bedside. You ask the only thing that matters.
“Teddy?”
“She’s here,” the nurse says with a soft smile. “Still sleeping. Surgery went well. You’ll both be okay.”
Relief hits like a wave.
You blink against tears and nod. “Can I-?”
“I’ll give you a minute,” she says, already wheeling your IV closer so you can shift, sit, breathe.
When the nurse leaves, you don’t try to stand. Just turn your head.
And there she is.
A thin curtain separates your beds, but it’s been drawn back. Teddy’s lying on her side, face pale but peaceful, her hair a tangled mess against the pillow. The monitor beside her beeps in time with yours. A mirror rhythm.
Your hands find each other again. Across the gap between beds, your fingers interlace like muscle memory.
Teddy stirs, lashes fluttering. Her eyes meet yours.
“You stayed,” she whispers, barely audible.
You nod. “Always.”
No one says the word love again. Not yet.
It’s in the silence between you. In the soft, stupid smile she gives you before falling asleep again. In the way your thumb rubs slow circles against her palm.
In the peace of knowing: you’re both here.
Still breathing. Still choosing.
Still holding on.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The first morning you don’t wake up to a heart monitor feels unreal.
Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains. The air smells like coffee and clean laundry. Your ribs ache, her leg’s still stiff, and there’s a bright pink scar over your left hip, but you’re home. You’re in Teddy’s apartment. There’s a dog barking faintly down the block. The world didn’t stop spinning after all.
Teddy’s in the kitchen, moving slow but determined, crutch under one arm as she nudges the coffee maker. Her hair’s still messy, and she’s wearing one of your old t-shirts, desert faded and a little too big. You wonder if she knows you’re awake, or if she’s just letting you rest. You wonder how many mornings she did that in the field -watching you sleep, listening to your breathing, pretending the world was softer than it really was.
You sit up slowly, careful not to tug your stitches, and she glances over her shoulder.
“You’re up,” she says, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. But her voice warms on the second word, and you catch the relief in her smile.
“I smelled coffee,” you rasp. “And the apocalypse didn’t follow?”
She rolls her eyes affectionately and limps toward you, crutch clicking softly against the floor. “You’re going to ruin this moment, aren’t you?”
“Little bit.”
She hands you a mug, her fingers brushing yours, and then lowers herself gently beside you on the couch, pulling a soft fleece blanket over both your legs. You clink mugs in a silent toast.
There’s a long, peaceful quiet. No sirens. No screaming. Just the steady hum of the fridge and the birds outside the window.
Then she says, almost shyly, “You still have it?”
You glance at her, brow furrowed. “Have what?”
She reaches toward your collarbone and gently pulls at the thin chain there. The dog tag slips out from under your shirt, warm from your skin. Her name is etched into the metal. Your own dog tags hanging next to them. Paired together, the same one she left in your palm all those years ago, when you were too asleep - or too scared - to follow her.
“You still have my dog tag.”
You smile and wrap your fingers around it. “Never took it off.”
Teddy stares at you, eyes soft, voice low. “Even after everything?”
You reach over, take her hand, and press her palm flat over your heart.
“Especially after everything.”
Her forehead tips against yours. There’s no rush to kiss. No sudden swell of music. Just the quiet, trembling gravity of finally being allowed to stay.
“No more running,” she whispers.
“No more waiting,” you reply.
And just like that, the war is over.
Not the kind with explosions or triage or blood on the floor but the kind between hearts that were always meant to find their way back. The kind that ends not with a bang, but with a second cup of coffee and a promise not to disappear again.
She leans into your side. You press a kiss to her hair.
Home was never a place.
It was her.
And this time, you both stayed.
