A/N

Really not much to say about this piece. Sudden onset of angst-writing because things just won't fall into place, but I refuse to write sad endings because I still have faith that things will work out in the end. That's pretty much it. And it's short because I'm short of time currently, and therefore can't do the more complicated, lengthier stories, but I still need to write.

Time, which has been ticking on faster and faster the older she gets, suddenly stands still. Thoughts that she has not allowed herself to think suddenly takes over her mind with a gentle but firm determination. She thinks about her home; to be more specific, the hopelessly neglected garden that she keeps promising herself that she'll take better care of next year. The flowerbeds that, one by one, have been written off as too much work and turned into lawn. The greenhouse where she makes attempts at growing at least some fruit and vegetables, but never really has the time to take care of properly. She knows that she could afford a landscaper, but she refuses to resort to that option. Next year, she's going to make time for the garden. It is her standing New Year's Resolution for every year. Instead of paying a professional to take care of it while she waits for the day she will have time, she pays the next-door-neighbour's kid to mow the lawn and rake the leaves. It's the kind of repetitive and boring chore that most people would pay to avoid doing, but it was never about that. Alex never minded the work - it was almost therapeutic - but she simply always lacked the time.

And now here she is, in the middle of a shootout with two unsubs, thinking about her garden. Perhaps because she knows that she will never have a chance to grow those tomatoes she has been talking about, or plant that rose bush that she always wanted. Next year will never come. Tomorrow is no longer in the cards. She will bleed out here, on a street in a town that she doesn't even know the name of, and while she always knew that was a possibility, she had never expected it to feel so pointless.

That's it? She thinks with a sense of tired amusement. That's all? Straight A student, prestigious jobs, a good life, and this is the way it's going to end? On the cracked pavement in Nowhere City, America, because I'm a 5'7 and not a 5'4 and I stood a few inches too far to the right.

Blood is gushing out from between the fingers she keeps pressed against the wound that the bullet ripped open in the curve between her neck and shoulder. She can't speak. She can't call for help. She has never asked for help in her life, she has always made it on her own, so it's only fair that life will end because she can't ask for help.

Only her team is not going to let that happen.

"Blake!" Rossi barks and kneels next to her, pressing something against her neck. She doesn't know what it is. She's barely aware of any pain - only a dull pressure and a sensation of being emptied. She's weaving in and out of consciousness.

My garden, she thinks. I really should have taken better care of what I had.

Then Reid takes her blood-covered hand in his and she thinks;

At least I won't die alone.

"Hang in there Blake," Rossi says and somebody calls for paramedics. It doesn't feel like it concerns her anymore.

Alex Blake smiles and closes her eyes. She's thinking of roses.

She looks so small in the hospital bed, and although her skin is so pale, the bandages shine bone-white against it. To Reid, Blake has always radiated calm and a low-key strength, the exact opposite of weakness, but right now she looks defeated.

"Alex," he whispers and gently touches her hand. At his touch, her eyelids flutter, and while she doesn't fully open her eyes, she tries to speak.

"Don't worry about me." Her voice is hoarse, but it carries. "I'm practically bullet-proof."

She is never going to admit to anyone that she didn't believe she would make it this time. But as soon as she gets back home, she's going to plant those roses. That will be her way of celebrating life and her second chance.