Welcome to my first Hurt/Comfort story: I'm a huge Whumper, and after reading islashlove fantastic fics I just can't help myself. I have no idea how long it will be: just know that there would be a lot of affection, drama, a bit of supernatural and a case in the way. Thanks for your support.

I – Alba Prima

(First Dawn)

Carlton opened his eyes, and the explosion still rumbled in his ears.

He growled, thinking fast. Last thing he remembered was a pressure on his right shoulder: did they shoot him? But then why didn't he feel anything?

He checked his body: no pain, no cold. Everything ready and operative, but he was made of steel and blue eyes, Spencer always said. Wait, O'Hara and Spencer, where were O'Hara and Spencer?

Damn.

He jumped on his knees, cursing.

He was crouched on an expanse of concrete, air burning of sun and chemical smoke; near him, bunches of people were gathering around a crumbling building, scraped azure on the walls and churned oilcloth on the windows. He was out of the old factory, the explosion must have thrown him out; an ambulance's lights casted red and blue flashes on their faces. Damn, this time I'll kill them both, I swear. He got up, running toward the crowd; he didn't even have to flash his badge to untangle himself among legs and sweaty arms, but probably his pace was enough to clear the way. He didn't feel anything, he didn't think anything, just kept hearing in his head the possible tomorrow reports: one detective and one consultant involved in the factory's gang shooting; one officer critical in hospital; operation aborted, two casualties.

He sped up his steps.

Two casualties.

Carlton finally came out on the first row, turned, scanned every inch of the scene: more concrete, oil spots, a herd of journalists with their fingers ready on the cameras, paramedics swarming near the gnarled doors of the building. And on the left side, a blond woman and a young man with a gaudy t-shirt.

Oh, thanks. Thanks.

He muttered one of his Grandma's prayer, scanning the couple: some scratches on O'Hara's forehead, she would need some stitches, Spencer holding his elbow awkwardly; they both looked rather upset, even a little lost, but were alive and responsive. This time he would kill them, definitively.

Before he could start to march on them someone rushed past him, unmistakable military pace echoing with high heels. Bad sign, the chief was there: it meant that there had been causalities among them. Damn. He hated when one of their, one of his men paid in his place; that was not how it was supposed to work. He was the one to face the monsters, the one to lead his army and make sure they all would return home. Damn.

It was about time he talked with someone.

At a closer observation, O'Hara and Shawn didn't look dazed: they looked distraught, and he recognized all the shock symptoms. It was someone they knew? McNab? Guster? He said the two idiots not to follow them.

-Ehy, Spencer!- he called, reaching them. -O'Hara. What happened? You right?- Near them he felt better, more grounded, more focused. They were still all here: he could still touch and yell at them, and that was enough.

Provided that they noticed him.

O'Hara was looking as the chief talk with the paramedics, eyes filled with the red-blue lights of the siren. Shawn was staring at him, but didn't say a thing: no "Lassie-pants", no curse, no comment. No attempt to reach for him.

What. Had. Happened?

-Spencer, look at me.-

Nothing.

He felt the world slowing. -Shawn.-

-No, not him.- Spencer was whispering, hugging himself, like he was cold. -Not him.-

Oh no. It was Guster. That stroke somewhere near the chest, but it wasn't the right time. Watch, breath, act. -Shawn, I know it's bad, but I'm here, okay? We'll all here, we can fix that thing, but I need information. Who is hurt?-

Finally he lifted his head, and looked more like Shawn: scared to death, but within reach again. Carlton smiled before knowing it, and not really caring, but Spencer's words didn't make any sense.

-Gus.- he cracked. -Gus, you're here, thank God, buddy, I think I can use a hug right now.-

Turning around, the detective saw Gus running toward them: worried, spotless and totally alive.

So no Gus, neither McNab. Silently the pieces started to fall in place.

-Shawn, Buzz just told me. Where is...-

-He's in the ambulance.- Shawn shrugged again. -They're trying to stabilize him, but they said he had lost a lot of blood and that isn't good and...Oh God. Oh God.-

A shrill suddenly run through the air, mxed with a muttered curse, and Juliet let out a gasp no person should make. He perfectly knew that sound: it was the background noise of their defeats, and of a lot of their victories.

They were losing him.

Shawn's face got chalk white, surreal like a paper mask, he hissed a "shit" and rushed past them, to the ambulance. Gus was behind him, brushing Lassiter's shoulder. He flinched, because he didn't miss Guster's whisper. "No way you're going away with this, dude. No way."

Carlton walked toward the others, catching lousy details, anything that could stop the clicks in his head. He was out of the building, but with no stains of fire.

He saw Juliet, slumped against the ambulance with her arms crossed, the chipped nail polish on her fingers, Chief's voice barking orders, Shawn's sneakers near Gus's cozy loafers. The wounded cop was behind the truck, paramedics buzzing around like bees, and he was still on the ground. He heard a buzz of defibrillators.

The body was one of theirs.

He drew nearer, and no one told him anything. The pieces were building up and he didn't want but they were facts and he couldn't escape facts, couldn't stop trusting them.

The body was a man, long limbs spread on the concrete; Carlton spotted a black leather shoe, dried blood over slender fingers.

-Jesus Christ, still no heartbeat, and the blood doesn't stop.-

-Charge to two hundred, now.-

It was someone close to O'Hara, and Shawn.

-Clear!-

His eyes followed the body, up, up to the chest: the wound was a deep hole in the right shoulder, not far from the heart, damn, it had struck an artery. They had cut the shirt, a nice light blue shirt, but the blood had already seeped through the fabric, on the jacket, on the skin.

He was someone that that morning stained his shirt with Guster's burrito.

Another discharge, a sob somewhere behind them, and all the pieces fell together.

He rose his eyes, but didn't need to see to recognize that face. He saw it everyday, he had seen it growing to a man.

-Oh God- he muttered. -It's me.-