All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations.

Hello! I'm starting this series with a twofold mission: first is for writing practice, and second is of course, writing more Fillmore! stories! I've just recently come back to watching it, and am a little frustrated at the lack of stories/material on it. I'll try to write as often as possible, in between real life stuff and the Playground (my other fic). But hey, thanks for checking this one out and I hope you enjoy it! :)

Bullet
(noun) a small metal projectile used for various firearms, which may or may not contain explosives.

"Ingrid? Yeah, I'd take a bullet for her any day."

It started off as an innocent question posed by Anza during one of their long life talks. But never did Fillmore expect that he'd actually be taking that statement literally.

It was an assignment they got fresh off the boat—they'd just been inducted into X High's Safety Patrol, and were instantly assigned to a case involving the paintball team and a bunch of sabotaged equipment. They were following up on a lead, when Fillmore noticed a hooded figure in the distance, loading up a paintball gun. He almost went for the perp when he realized that Ingrid was in the line of fire while she was examining the crate—needless to say, he chose Ingrid over the perp, and got shot on the leg three times. If that hadn't been bad enough, he'd also managed to fall down a short flight of steps—with a bunch of discarded wooden objects at the bottom.

"Fillmore!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide.

"Go!" he screamed at Ingrid, as he clutched his leg. That hurt.

She fell beside him and pulled out her walkie-talkie, "Anza, I need backup. Perp making a break for it in McRowan hall, ETA to end of hall two minutes!"

"Running now, over!" was his quick response.

"You good?" she asked.

"You think?"

She shrugged. "Sorry, standard operating procedure." She examined the small, paint-splattered tear in his jeans. "Three hits, all to your leg. All… really bad."

He grunted, and Ingrid called for a medical crew.

So now, he was sitting in the infirmary, wincing from the pain in his left leg, and the bruises he sustained from his fall.

Fillmore stared at the welts on his leg and cringed. They looked nasty, the purple and red looking particularly unsettling on his skin. The perp probably tried to shoot at the sacks of flour on top of the crates, but unfortunately, he had terrible aim.

"Hey," said Ingrid, leaning against the doorframe. "Anza caught him. He's facing double charges for not just sabotage, but also for armed hostilities. He's being sent to reform school, far as I know."

"He owes me one," he chuckled, shaking his head as he recalled Anza's question.

"What?" Ingrid said.

"It's nothing," he said, giving her a small smile of assurance.

"You okay?" she asked, shifting her weight from one foot to another. She knew it was a rhetorical question, but she needed something to quell her discomfort. Her partner literally took a hit for her, and now, he looked to be out of action for a while. And he hated desk duty.

He nodded. "Don't worry about me. I do want to ask something, though. Why didn't you go after him?"

Ingrid managed a grim smile. "Couldn't leave the guy who said he'd take a bullet for me and keep his word."

He smiled. "No one more worth it than you."

"Well," she said. "I'm just glad it wasn't a real bullet."

He laughed. "Let's hope it never will be."

Ten years later, Fillmore found himself waking up in the hospital, a bandage on his arm.

Ingrid was sleeping by his bedside, her head lolling off to the side. He smiled.

"Ingrid," he called out, his voice hoarse.

She jolted awake. "Fillmore!" she exclaimed, and jumped to her feet. "Thank God."

"What'd I tell you, Third, I'm your everyday Mr. Indestructible." he said, grinning.

She glared at him. "If you weren't already hurt, I'd punch you in the arm."

Fillmore laughed. "Well, look who's concerned," he said, teasing. "And no, you can't. You already owe me an arm and a leg!"

Ingrid rolled her eyes, and sighed. "Really, Fillmore..."

"Hey," he said, grasping her hand. "I said I'd take a bullet for you any day."

"You're crazy. But thank you."