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"How we doing, Reyes?"
It's asked sharply, almost a hiss, because it has to be. They're kneeling behind a set of crates in the dark. Campbell's eyes are gleaming with some kind of emotion Carlos can't be bothered to identify at the moment.
Carlos forces himself to put pressure on the gunshot wound in his thigh, and it makes him want to scream. "My husband's gonna be pissed," he grits out, blood continuing to trickle out between his fingers. He can't tell if the blood flow has slowed yet, but he also doesn't remember if that's supposed to be a good sign or not.
It was supposed to be a routine stakeout. It had been, for the most part. They'd been watching an abandoned warehouse, waiting for any sign of cartel activity. Carlos couldn't deny that he was itching to go inside from the beginning, because the man they were looking to arrest had ties to his father's case.
Miguel Santos, David Santos' little brother. Very easily could have put a hit out on his father without waiting to hear if his brother took a deal with the DA. He's been on Carlos' list of suspects for a long time, due in part to the fact that he's been MIA for a little over a year now, right around the time of Gabriel's murder. When they received intel that he was spotted a few days ago near this location, he and Campbell were assigned to look into it.
Maybe it had been foolish to insist on creeping around the warehouse. They could have just stayed in the car, several yards away and out of sight from most vantage points, but as Campbell pointed out, nobody would be getting arrested tonight if they didn't have evidence of a crime being committed. Plus, there’d been no actual sign of Miguel yet. Carlos had been too wrapped up in his own priorities to disagree.
The thugs were smarter than they'd given them credit for, though. Had a whole ambush planned and waiting for him and Campbell the second they walked in. Now, here they are, surrounded and probably minutes away from being discovered, with Carlos bleeding out from a stray bullet caught in the initial fray and his partner displaying more worry on his face than he probably means to show.
Campbell leans around the edge of the crate he's tucked behind. "Your husband will probably be more glad that you're alive," he says.
Carlos grunts. He wants to say that it's wishful thinking. He can barely walk as it is, which means his chances of escaping this building alive are plummeting by the second. "You should go," he tells Campbell. "The door's only a few yards from here."
"You're more stupid than I thought if you think I'm just gonna leave you here," Campbell shoots back.
Carlos rests his head against the crate. He doesn’t really have the energy to argue, but he might as well try while he still can. "There's no need for both of us to die tonight."
"You're not dying, Reyes," Campbell growls, though there's an undertone to his voice. "Quit bein' so dramatic. We'll wait for an opening and make a run for it. Together." He checks his gun. Carlos doesn't think he has many bullets left in his own, but maybe Campbell's a little luckier, or a better shot. Maybe it’ll be enough to get him out of here.
Carlos wants to point out that he's not doing any running any time soon, but voices and footsteps encroach steadily closer. Neither of them breathe for a moment, waiting in silence for something to happen. When nothing does, Carlos sets his gun down and reaches to unhook his belt. His husband’s voice echoes in his head, telling him what he needs to do to slow the bleeding. With a painful slowness, he wraps the belt around his thigh and tugs as hard as he can, having to bite his lip to keep from crying out as he fiddles to secure it. Every little movement is agony, especially since he's pretty sure the bullet is still lodged somewhere in his thigh.
Campbell watches him through the whole thing. "We'll make it out of this, Reyes," he says, and if Carlos isn't mistaken, it sounds like he's trying to be comforting. "Ain't no other option."
Carlos chuckles. "You sound a little too desperate there."
"Well, it's the truth."
Movement flickers on Carlos' periphery, over Campbell's shoulder. "Sam," he tries to warn, just at the same exact time that Campbell's eyes go wide at something behind Carlos. A force slams into Carlos' temple, and he feels himself crumple into unconsciousness. Just before he completely fades out, the distinct noise of a gunshot rings out.
When he next comes to, Carlos finds himself stiffly tied to a chair, hands behind his back. He lets out a groan at the way his head pangs and his leg throbs. Peeling open his eyes, he finds that his leg wound is continuing to bleed, albeit more sluggish than before.
"Reyes?" comes a voice from behind. Campbell, he recognizes distantly. "You back with me yet?"
He grunts, trying to get ahold of his bearings. His head is foggy, a lot slower than he'd like it to be given their current situation. Still, he musters up the energy to mutter, "Think so."
Carlos hears a sigh. He's able to turn his head enough to see that Campbell's similarly tied to his own chair, back-to-back with Carlos. "Well, that's one good thing." He feels a hand around his wrist, fingers pressed against his pulse point a little more harshly than he thinks is necessary. "How's your leg looking?"
Carlos blinks slowly, letting his head droop back down. "Still bleedin'," he says, slurring a little more than he means to. "Still hurts."
"We'll get out of this," Campbell tells him, still sounding so sure. Carlos is beginning to think his certainty is just an act, but given his throbbing head wound he can't really tell. "Just follow my lead."
"You just want to tell me what to do," Carlos jokes, though it doesn't really land. He sucks in a sharp breath. "Still think you should have run when you had the chance."
"Yeah, well," Campbell says. "Let's agree to disagree."
Footsteps sound on Carlos' right, and suddenly the two of them are bathed in overhead light. Carlos forces his eyes to focus on the newcomer, and his blood boils when he sees who it is.
"Boys," Miguel Santos greets. He's got the charisma of a snake, and the face of one, too. "Fancy seeing you here."
He feels Campbell shift behind him, his back straightening. "Miguel Santos," Campbell says cooly. His voice is a lot more confident than it was a second ago, his cocky attitude slipping back into place. "Just the man I was hoping to see."
"Ranger Campbell," Santos drawls. "I haven't seen you since, what? That shoot-out in Round Rock? When was that?"
"2018," Campbell responds. "I remember. Caught you in the shoulder with my service pistol."
Santos hums. He doesn't seem to be a fan of Campbell's cockiness. At the best of times, Carlos can't say he likes it much, either, especially not right now. "Believe me," Santos says, "I remember that, too. Lucky shot."
"Ain’t no luck," Campbell says, "unless you wanna call the bullet your goon caught a few minutes ago lucky, too."
"You’re more mouth than I remember, Ranger. Then again," he circles back around into Carlos' view, "I reckon you ain’t been in a position like this one before." He leans into Carlos’ space. "Who's your friend? I don't think I've seen him before."
Carlos glares at him, but elects to keep his mouth shut. There’s a deep rage coursing through him alongside a fatigue that will definitely drop his filter; he doesn't exactly trust himself to keep it together.
In a flash, Santos is grabbing him by the hair, lifting his face to the light. Carlos winces, but he can't pull away. "You do look familiar, though, don't you?" He reaches into Carlos' pocket and grabs his wallet with one hand, the other keeping his head in place as Santos compares Carlos to his ID. He's sure he looks a mess compared to the photo, but Santos seems delighted.
"Ranger Reyes, huh?" he says, an ominous glint in his eyes. "There's no way that's a coincidence. You're Gabe's kid, ain't you?" It's not a question.
It pisses Carlos off, the way his father's name is thrown out so carelessly. "Go to hell," Carlos spits with more fire than he thought he had.
Santos smiles. "Oh yeah. I'd recognize that hotheadedness anywhere. Must be genetic." He yanks Carlos' head back even further until he cries out. "I bet you're just as stubborn as he was, too. Same son-of-a-bitch attitude and everything. Shame what happened to him."
"You—" Carlos grits, "you're a murderer."
"Reyes," his partner says, a warning in his tone. It's ironic coming from Sam Campbell and his false bravado.
"You ain't wrong about that," Santos says. Finally, he releases his grip on Carlos' hair, and Carlos can't stop himself from crumbling into the chair. "But I ain't the one who killed your daddy, if that's what you're implying. I'd like to thank the lucky prick who did, though."
"Cut the crap, Santos," Campbell says, pulling the attention back towards him. "What do you want?"
"What do I want?" Santos says, walking back around. Carlos decides he likes it a lot less when he can't see the man. "What I wanted was to conduct my business in peace. Unfortunately, a couple of idiots interrupted me." Even without seeing him, Carlos can feel him leaning into Campbell's space. "Now what I want is to have some fun—and a little payback."
Campbell grunts as what Carlos assumes is a punch is thrown his way. "That all you got?" Campbell challenges. "You're getting weaker, old man."
"I'd hold my tongue, if I were you," Santos says. He rounds back to Carlos, looking him up and down. His gaze lingers on Carlos' leg. "'Specially since your partner here don't look so hot." Without warning, he digs his thumb into Carlos' bullet hole.
A scream tears itself from his throat. It burns, hotter than fire, and the pain seems to spread up and down his leg as Santos twists his finger around. He presses down for what seems like ages to Carlos but is probably only a few seconds. Finally, when he seems satisfied, Santos pulls his thumb out, now covered in blood. Carlos can do nothing except pant through the excruciating pain as Santos puts his bloody hand around his throat and squeezes.
"Stop!"
Santos doesn't comply, but he does look over at Campbell. Carlos gags, feeling like he might puke. Or pass out. Or maybe both.
"You ain't got no beef with him, Santos," Campbell says—no, pleads, Carlos realizes, he's pleading on his behalf. "There ain't nothing you gotta take out on him that you can't take out on me."
Santos pauses, like he's considering. Campbell can't see what Carlos can, though—can't see the pure cruelty in this man's gaze. The hand around his throat gets tighter. "I think the debt passes from father to son, though. Don't you?"
Carlos bucks involuntarily at the lack of air. The pain ratchets up to an almost unbearable level at the movement, and he feels his head slam backwards against Campbell.
"Listen!" Campbell shouts, his voice cracking in a way Carlos would’ve never expected it to. "Listen, if you stop—if you stop, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
That piques Santos' interest. "Anything?"
"Anything," Campbell promises.
The words hang in the air for a moment. Finally, the pressure around Carlos' throat disappears. He sucks in a ragged breath, coughing. "Sam, don't," he wheezes.
"Shut up and let me handle this," Campbell hisses. He sounds angry, frustrated. From what Carlos has learned about the man, he hates being backed into a corner.
Santos straightens up to his full height. "I know your game, Ranger," he says. He's addressing Campbell, but his gaze stays fixed on Carlos. "You're desperate, and you don't want to lose another one of your men, but that don't mean you'll tell the truth."
"I will," Campbell says. "I swear it. I will."
"I know you will. Especially because I know if you don't, your partner's gonna bleed out." With that, Santos reaches down and unhooks the belt currently acting as a tourniquet on Carlos' thigh. The wound spurts a little, then bleeds faster than before. It hurts, but it's nowhere near as bad as a finger in a bullet hole.
Santos tosses the belt to the side, then backs away. One of his goons whispers something in his ear and he nods. "Alright, gentlemen. I have some business to attend to that was sadly interrupted." He peers at Campbell. "I expect you’ll use this time to think long and hard about what you're going to say to me. Can't say when I'll be back, but it shouldn't be more than a few hours."
Campbell jerks against the restraints as Santos and his thugs walk away. "You bastard! You lying fucking—"
Sam's yelling fades into the background. Carlos' thigh continues to bleed, burbling like it's magma trailing down his leg instead of blood. It certainly feels as hot as a volcano. His vision starts to peter out, which he knows is the opposite of helpful right now. If he falls unconscious, there's no telling when or if he'll wake up. Despite that, he can't stop himself from slumping further in the chair.
He wishes he could tell TK he loves him. The last time they saw each other was this morning, right before TK's twelve hour shift started. TK was going to be late, but he still let Carlos hug him and kiss him goodbye. It feels like ages ago now.
The worst part is that TK will have every right to be mad at him if he dies. He knows Carlos is still obsessed with finding his father's killer, that his obsession is making him reckless. Carlos has no one to blame but himself for the situation they're in, because if he was thinking clearly over his grief then he never would have let this happen in the first place. Every day, TK asks him to be careful, to come back home safe. Every day, Carlos promises that he will.
It's looking like he's going to have to break that promise tonight.
I'm so sorry, baby, he thinks.
"—eyes. Carlos!" Sam's voice breaks through his thoughts. "Carlos. Are you still with me?"
Carlos hums. Pushing through this brain fog is getting harder by the second, but goddamnit, his partner needs him. "I'm here," he murmurs, though his blinks are getting heavier.
"Before they get back—" He feels Campbell shift behind him. "There's a knife in my waistband, but I can't reach. I need you to grab it for me."
It takes him a second to parse Campbell's words. "You keep a knife in your pants?" Carlos asks, bewildered.
Campbell shrugs. "Always be prepared. Now, c'mon—before they get back."
"I'll try," he says, though it doesn’t feel like he can be very dextrous right now. He reaches backwards, and there's just enough slack on the rope around his wrists to skirt his fingers under the waistband and find the lump where there is, in fact, a pocket knife in Sam's pants. Carlos' hands are clammy, and his fingers are sort of numb, but he fumbles and manages to tug it out.
"Think I got it," he says, passing it back to Campbell. "Don't tell my husband we just did that."
He hears the small flick of the blade opening. "As long as you don't tell my wife."
"Yeah..." Carlos lets his eyes close as the sound of sawing ropes permeates the air. He's so tired. He reasons with himself that he can get just a few minutes of sleep and nothing bad will happen. Just a few.
"Talk to me, Reyes."
But talking uses so much energy, and Carlos might as well be a drained battery at this point.
The sound of sawing pauses, and then all of a sudden there's a sharp prick on one of his fingers. He yelps at the unexpected pain, which only makes the rest of the pain he's already experiencing worse.
"What was that for?" he demands, doing his best to send a glare in Sam's direction. “Did you just stab me?”
The sawing resumes. "You need to stay awake," Campbell tells him. "No falling asleep on me, alright?"
Carlos has to remind himself that the Carlos from a few minutes ago, who had a slightly better hold on his faculties, would have agreed with him. The tiredness is already creeping back in, so he forces himself to push down on the small cut on his finger. It stings, but it's enough to keep him in the present moment.
"Alright," Carlos says. "I'm here." He sighs, because every passing moment the struggle to keep his eyes open grows harder.
"Good. Tell me something."
He scoffs. "Tell you what?"
"I don't know. Anything," Campbell says. "How'd you meet your husband?"
Carlos chuckles, feeling half-fond and half-hysterical at the memory. He's pretty sure it's all the blood loss that's exacerbating his emotions. "Met him on the side of the road."
"Yeah? Bet there's a story there."
"Yeah," Carlos murmurs.
As if Sam can sense how fast he's fading, he pushes, "Tell it to me, Reyes. What was it like? What was he wearing?"
"Firefighter's gear. The whole nine yards." Carlos smiles. He's a firm believer that TK will always look sexy in a firefighter's uniform, even if he technically isn't one anymore. "We were on the same call. It was raining. Driver hydroplaned and they called FD to come get her out."
Sam hums. The sawing sound gets faster, until finally, the rope snaps. Carlos feels him bend down to work on the rope at his legs. "Thought you said your boy was a paramedic," he says.
Carlos knows what he's doing, keeping him awake by making him talk. He doesn't have it in him to argue or complain. He'd talk about TK forever if given the chance. "He's dual-certified. Used to do both back in New York, but he decided being an EMT was a better fit for him."
"Of course you married a yankee," Campbell says. “Don’t know why I’m surprised.”
He blushes slightly and is very glad that Campbell's turned away from him so he can't see. "I think I did a pretty good job converting him. Don't tell him I said that," he whispers.
"I won't as long as you keep talking," Sam promises. "What was the wedding like?"
Carlos frowns. His wedding was only a year ago, but through the dark mush that his brain feels like it's dissolving into, it's hard to recall. He'll try, though. "We got married..." he says, "we got married outside. It was beautiful." He pauses, remembering the dark cloud that had hovered over him in the days leading up to it, the one that's still following him around now. "Didn't think I was gonna...go through with it."
Carlos blinks, and Sam suddenly appears in his vision. He's blurry—really, really blurry—but he's real. He presses two warm fingers to the junction of Carlos' neck and jaw. His skin must be as cold as Carlos feels, because he can't stop the shiver that wracks through him at the touch.
Sam keeps his face unreadable, though he does make quick work of grabbing the belt on the ground and reapplying the tourniquet. Carlos is glad he's still tied down, because otherwise he would have squirmed to get away. It's so, so painful. The breath gets sucked out of his chest.
"You got cold feet?" his partner asks.
What? Cold feet? It takes him a second to realize they're still talking about the wedding. Carlos shakes his head minutely as Sam starts working on the rope around his wrists. "No," he says, "no, I would've married TK in a heartbeat. There was never a question about that. It was just..." He trails off.
Campbell gives him a nudge. "Just what? You're keeping me in suspense here."
Carlos takes a deep breath in. Luckily for him, the wound in his leg doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it did a few minutes ago. He can barely even feel it now. "My dad," he croaks. "Somebody killed him a couple days before. Gunned him down in his own doorway."
He doesn't know why he feels the need to mention that part. Sam already knows the details. He's sure every officer in the Rangers has heard.
The ropes around his wrists fall away. Sam's back in front of him, already working on his feet. Carlos wants to sleep for a million years.
"That why you became a Ranger?"
Carlos cracks one eye open at him. He didn't even realize he'd closed them again. "Hm?"
"You wanted to follow in his footsteps, right? To honor him?"
That makes Carlos laugh, admittedly a little too hard. "No," he whispers, like he's telling a secret he really shouldn't be sharing. "No, it's way more pathetic than that."
"I'm all ears, Carlos." The ties around his left leg are pulled away.
How much longer does he have to stay awake? He doesn't know how much longer he can stay awake.
"...called me 'Carlos'," he points out.
"That's your name, ain't it?"
He tips his head back. "Careful...soundin' like you care." When Sam doesn't respond, he murmurs, "I'm tryin' to solve his murder." He swallows hard. "It would be nice, though..."
"What would?"
"'f it was about honor. He's the one who asked me to work with him." Carlos shuts his eyes as the last of the ropes snap under Sam's hands.
Fingers pinch his arm harshly. "Carlos," Sam says, an undeniable quiver in his voice. "C'mon. It's time to go."
Carlos shakes his head. "Can't."
"Yes, you damn well can. We didn't make it this far to quit now."
Sam doesn't get it, probably because Carlos hasn't told him yet. Funny how that works.
"Can't feel my legs," Carlos clarifies eventually. "Or anything, really. 'm just fucking tired."
Sam nods, processing what Carlos just told him. He seems resigned to whatever conclusion he comes to. "Fine, then."
For a second, Carlos thinks that's it. Sam's going to leave him here, and he'll finally be able to sink into that blissful dark that his body has been dreaming of for ages now.
That notion is shattered when he feels hands wrap around his waist. All of a sudden, the world shifts. Carlos is vaguely aware that he's been hoisted over Sam's shoulder, but he's too tired to open his eyes and check.
Sam pats him on the back. "Let's get the fuck out of here, partner."
They move, and Carlos tries his best not to cry out at every step Sam takes. If they get caught now, there's no doubt they'll be killed. Carlos still isn't sure that he's going to make it. He wants to, though—if not for himself, then for the husband that he's been shutting out for too long.
Finally, Sam squeezes them through the door they came through, and what a stroke of luck it is that nobody was guarding the entrance. Carlos is hit with a blast of air from the lukewarm September night. All the remaining blood in his body is going to his head, and it makes him feel like puking.
"Sam," he tries to say, "slow down."
"Not until you're at the hospital, bud."
Bile rises in Carlos' throat, but he really doesn't feel like dying from suffocation of his own vomit after making it through all of that, so he swallows it down. He focuses all his effort on breathing through all the sensations he's experiencing—the nausea, the pain, and the mind-numbing fatigue.
Suddenly, light hits the two of them. It's bright as hell, to the point that Carlos can see it through his shut eyelids.
"Campbell?" somebody asks.
"Captain. Can't say I'm not pleased as punch to see you, but what are you doin' here?" Sam says. Carlos feels him shift his weight, and slowly he's being lowered to the ground.
Ah. Captain Bridges. Carlos recognizes his drawl now, though he doesn't have the energy to open his eyes and look at him.
"The two of y'all didn't check in for several hours," his captain explains. "Figured by that point it was time to call in the cavalry."
Carlos thinks that in a less professional context, Captain Bridges might have some less than nice words to call them. That thought makes him laugh, which makes him groan.
"What the hell happened, Campbell?"
"We were ambushed. Reyes got a bullet in the leg," Sam says, slightly out of breath. "Please tell me your cavalry includes an ambulance."
"You're lucky it does..."
Things sort of get weird after that. Carlos is aware of people on him, but every touch is fuzzy and far away. A light gets shined in his eyes and suddenly something warm passes through his body. It gives him enough energy to peek at his surroundings.
He's on a gurney, and somebody is holding an IV bag full of blood above him. His pants are gone, and he gathers the wherewithal to be slightly embarrassed about that as they wheel him into the ambulance. Sam follows him into the vehicle with a shove from Captain Bridges.
Carlos wants to rest so bad, and the siren song of sleep is calling to him now that he knows they're in the clear. Still, he forces himself to grab Sam's sleeve and get his attention.
"Thank you," Carlos says at Sam's confused look. "You saved my life."
"Don't mention it." He looks almost bashful, but that could be Carlos' various injuries talking.
"Do me one last favor, yeah?" Carlos says as his eyes slip shut.
"What do you need, partner?"
"Call my husband."
—
Carlos wakes up to dim lights and the feeling that he's been asleep for a hundred years. He feels blanketed by an inescapable fuzziness, and he can't tell if it's uncomfortable or not. He groans anyway.
"Carlos? Are you awake?"
His eyes flicker open. He instantly falls in love with the beautiful sight he's greeted with: TK, floating ethereally above him. He has a concerned look on his face that Carlos wants nothing more than to wash away. He flashes his sweetest smile at him.
"Hey, sweetheart," he croaks.
"Oh, do not 'hey, sweetheart' me, Carlos Reyes. You are so in the doghouse right now." TK huffs, but his own smile is very apparent on his face.
"Really?" Carlos looks around. Soft light, beeping machines, antiseptic smell that makes his nose tingle. Check, check, check. "Thought I was in the hospital," he mumbles.
TK chuckles. "That, too, babe."
He runs a hand through Carlos' hair, and it feels amazing. So amazing that he feels his eyes closing in pure bliss. "'s good." He only reopens them when TK pulls his hand away, giving him the biggest pout he can muster.
"On a scale of one to ten, how doped up are you feeling right now?" TK asks.
Carlos hums. "A hundred." He pouts harder. "You not gonna kiss me 'hello'?"
TK shakes his head, then presses a feather-light kiss to his cheek. It's not enough for Carlos, but he gets the feeling that's the point. "I'm so mad at you right now," TK whispers.
He doesn't really remember what happened or what he did to make TK mad, but it sounds serious. "Let me make it better," he whines.
"How about you get some more rest, and we'll talk about this later?"
"Okay," Carlos says, because he can already feel himself drifting back down. "I'm sorry."
"I know, baby. I still love you."
That makes Carlos' heart soar as he falls asleep.
—
A few hours later, Carlos wakes up to TK squeezing his hand. He's still a little high off of painkillers, so he doesn't realize why TK is waking him until his eyes drift to the door.
Sam Campbell, looking smaller than Carlos has ever seen the man, stands in the doorway. His hat is in his hands, his shoulders are slouched just the slightest bit, and he's sporting a black eye. "Mind if I, uh, come in?"
Carlos blinks. "Yeah. Of course." He has no clue what Sam is doing here. He sort of figured that after the whole fiasco they just went through, Sam would be spending the rest of the night with his wife at home.
"I'll give the two of you a minute," TK says. He shoots Carlos a small smile and gets up. Sam goes to shake his hand as he leaves, but TK bypasses that entirely to go straight for a hug. Quietly, but not quiet enough that Carlos can't hear, he whispers, "Thank you," before he slips out the door.
"You gonna sit down?" Carlos gestures to the nearest chair when Sam continues to stare around the room.
Finally, his gaze lands on Carlos, and he shakes his head. "I won't be here for that long—don't want to take up too much more of your night."
"Okay?" Carlos says. Maybe it's the concussion, but he doesn't know what possessed Campbell to pay him a visit so late, especially if it's only going to be brief. "Is this about the case?"
"Geez, Reyes, no. Get your head out of your job for a minute, okay?" Sam sighs. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry. I've been on this force way longer than you, and I should have known we were walking into an ambush."
Carlos sits up. He didn't strike Sam as the self-deprecating type, but if he thinks he's going to get away with taking all the blame then he's sorely mistaken. "I've been a cop for almost a decade. It's not like I'm a rookie. We walked into that building together, remember?"
"Yeah, and then you got shot," Sam says drily. "There was a point where I thought..." He trails off, and a faraway look washes over his face.
"What?" Carlos prompts.
Finally, Sam takes a seat. He runs a hand through his hair, and Carlos is bewildered to find that he's shaking slightly. "It's too soon for another death in your family, kid."
Carlos feels his face heat up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I've seen how you work—and I sat across the desk from your daddy for seven years. At the rate you're goin', Carlos, they'll be throwing you a funeral by Christmas."
"Well, it's a good thing I'm not going anywhere," he jokes, gesturing to his leg.
Sam chuckles, gaze shifting to the wall. He looks like he's having a hard time looking directly at Carlos. "Yeah. Good thing."
Carlos cocks his head. Not at any point in his time as a Ranger or a cop has a coworker expressed this amount of concern. Sure, partly that's because for a good portion of his career he avoided getting too personal with the people he worked with, but also because that's just the environment that he works in. He knows that's not how it is everywhere—TK's own work family, their friends, are proof enough of that—but he certainly didn't expect it to happen within the Texas Rangers. Certainly not from Sam Campbell.
"Listen, Carlos," Sam says, and it's insane that he's even using his first name at all, "I know what you've been up to, mucking in your father's case."
"How do you know that?" he asks, because he's purposely been keeping that under wraps for months now. Fleetingly, he thinks Sam has been spying on him, because anything to do with his dad’s murder makes him paranoid like nothing else.
"You told me while you were bleedin' out. Didn't seem like something you would have shared while otherwise conscious."
His heart sinks a little, but at the same time he feels those familiar walls rise. Sam might have known his father, but Carlos doesn't know Sam like that. "Is this your way of telling me to drop it? Because I won't."
Sam rolls his eyes, like that’s obvious enough. "I know you won't. Hell, I understand it." Finally, Sam turns back to him. "But you aren't going to solve this case on your own."
The bluntness of it hits him like a punch in the face, and he has to fight the knee-jerk reaction to wince. "I don't care—"
"—Which is why you need a partner on this. Somebody to pull you back when you go too far off the deep end." The look he gives Carlos is all-too-knowing. "I know what it's like to get consumed by work," he says, "but you've got a husband to come home to, and your momma and sisters need you, too."
He hates that Sam is right. When he's at the office, hunting down leads, it's all too easy to forget that the outside world exists, or that TK is probably anxiously waiting for him to come home safe. There are days where he literally can't think about anything other than solving his father's murder. All he can think of is making whoever's responsible pay, to bring them to justice, or worse. He can't honestly say that when he does find the culprit, he won't shoot them dead in cold blood.
"Are you…offering to help me?" Carlos asks.
"Two heads are better than one." Sam looks over his shoulder at the door before he leans in, whispering, "And between you and me, your boy is a damn fright when he wants to be. Trust me when I say I don't want to be the poor bastard who has to tell him you got hurt doing something stupid on your own."
"As opposed to doing something stupid together?" Carlos muses.
"We made it out this time, didn't we?"
This time. That makes Carlos smiles, as rocky as this territory is for the both of them. He has to admit, it might be nice to know he has backup on this. "I'll let you in on this," he agrees, "on one condition: You let me take the lead."
"As long as you listen when I tell you that you're off your rocker."
Carlos sticks out his hand. At least in this moment, he can pretend like that's a commitment he'll honor. "I think we have a deal."
"Deal." Sam shakes his hand, then stands up as TK knocks on the door. He tips his hat to Carlos. "I'll see you around, partner."
TK resumes his place at Carlos' bedside as soon as Sam is out the door. "What was that about, baby?" he says, snaking a hand through Carlos' curls.
Carlos shuts his eyes, thoroughly and literally beat. "Think I just got myself a partner."