#and how maybe thats some of the reason why she so stubbornly insists on seeing the good in people

[seesgood]

thinking about how the only way we ever really see caroline make friends is by just like, deciding that someone is going to be her friend and then treating them like her friend until she wears them down enough that they become her friend --- and also how the majority of her love interests were people that she ( on some level, at some point ) kinda had to convince to choose her, and how even her own parents she had to convince that she was still worth their love --- and how it would probably be super confusing for her to have someone expressing an interest in her first, without her having to chase them and wear them down

[set-phasers-to-whump]

i’ve got you

Prompt: support, carrying

Whumpee: Nick Burkhardt

Fandom: Grimm

hi whats up welcome back to me hurting nick!!! i hope u enjoy this fic!

Nick, Hank, and Renard were chasing a man through the woods. This was odd enough as it was, considering that the Captain generally wasn’t the type of person to get quite so physically involved with a case. Never mind the fact that their suspect wasn’t even wesen.

He had killed two wesen, though, which was what had prompted the Captain to get involved. Surely, Nick reflected, jumping over a fallen tree, he hadn’t thought he’d get this involved. 

The suspect was, at the moment, outpacing the three policemen, but his lead was abruptly cut down by his tripping over an exposed root.

Hank took this opportunity to push himself even farther, and within seconds had his arms around the suspect’s waist, about to take him down. 

Right before that happened, Nick caught a glimpse of black metal, and shouted, “gun!” 

There was a bang, and then Nick’s left side was on fire. He crumpled to his knees, his hand gripping his side, already slick with blood. 

“Nick!” he dimly heard Hank shout. 

“Burkhardt,” said Renard, his voice much closer than Hank’s. “Nick.”

Nick looked up at his Captain, and then at Hank, who, he noted with relief, hadn’t been shot, and further, had the suspect in cuffs. “Yeah?” he replied, fighting to keep any indication of pain out of his voice.

Renard didn’t say anything, so Nick let his eyes close for just a second, fighting to remain in control. He could feel the wound pulsing in time with his heart, and he could smell his own blood, feeling it ooze warm and wet down his clothes and across his hand, which still pushed into his side, as though he could hold the blood in by sheer force alone. 

A second later, Renard did speak, but it was nothing good: “damn it,” he said, and he put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “There’s no service. We need to get back to the car.”

“Okay,” Nick said. He could do that. They weren’t that far into the woods...he’d be fine. 

To prove that fact to himself, Nick forced his body to stand up. As soon as he did, his side split open - not really, of course, some part of his brain acknowledged - but it hurt far more than it had before, not to mention how lightheaded he now felt, whether due to standing up so abruptly or blood loss, he didn’t care to know. 

Before either one of those things could cause him to collapse, however, an arm slid under his right arm and around his shoulders, and a hand pressed against his chest, stopping him from falling. 

“Why did you do that?” Renard asked, and Nick shrugged his right shoulder. “We’re going to the car,” he answered. 

“I didn’t mean you.”

Nick’s brain took a second to figure out what that meant. “Leaving me here to die?” he asked, meaning to joke but falling considerably short of that goal. 

“No,” Renard said, seriously. “Only one of us needs to get back to service and call 911.”

Nick shook his head. “Then they’ll have to come all the way in here,” he pointed out. “Better to all go.” 

“You sure?” Renard asked, but Nick could hear in his voice that he agreed.

“Yeah,” Nick said. It was definitely better to get out of here, and better to do it walking, which admittedly sounded like an insurmountable task, but the alternative of being carried sounded far worse. “Let’s go.”

And with that, he started walking. Or tried to. The first step he took brought absolute agony to his side, and he bit down hard on his tongue to stop himself from crying out. 

“I’m fine,” he said, before anyone could say anything to the contrary. 

Renard sighed from next to him, and Hank said, “really?” from a few feet away. 

“Let’s just go,” he insisted. 

So they did. Hank led the way, pushing the suspect ahead of him, and Nick and Renard followed, the former supported almost entirely by the Captain, a fact he was loath to admit.

Every step they took felt like he was being shot again, and his left hand clung hard to Renard’s arm, his right still stubbornly pressing against his side, now completely bright red. He felt dizzy, from a combination of blood loss and pain, and he was pretty sure he could taste blood in his mouth. 

He stumbled against a branch, and this time wasn’t quick enough to stop the shout that escaped him.

“You really should-” Renard started to say, but Nick brushed him off, reaching his bloody right hand up to his face to scrub away the tears from his eyes.

Which was a bad idea for a multitude of reasons. The smell of his own blood that he’d been doing his best to ignore was increased tenfold, accentuating the taste of it in his mouth, and he only managed to stop himself from retching by the sheer thought of how much it would hurt. Additionally, the removal of his hand from his wound, though it hadn’t been doing much, did slightly increase the flow of blood down his side, causing him to go even more lightheaded. 

He stopped walking and felt his legs give out from underneath him, letting out an involuntary whimper at the jolt of pain which rocketed through him. He felt the edges of unconsciousness grab at him, and then, suddenly, he wasn’t collapsing, but he wasn’t standing either. 

It took him a second to process what had happened, and by the time he realized that Renard - that the Captain - was now carrying him, it was too late to protest (or maybe it wasn’t, but that was what he told himself. He would have kept walking, otherwise. Definitely). 

He made a startled noise as his only form of protest, and Renard told him, quite kindly, to not bother with that sort of thing.

“I’ve got you, Nick,” he said, the softness of his voice balanced out by his command to “deal with it, and get your hand back on that gunshot, I don’t need you bleeding out.”

“Okay,” Nick agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. He pushed back down on the wound, barely flinching at the additional pain that it brought, having grown almost accustomed to it in the short span of time in which he’d become a gunshot victim. 

“We’re almost there,” he heard the Captain say. “I had Hank go ahead, he’s probably calling 911 right now.”

That’s good, Nick thought, too tired to voice his opinion. He closed his eyes. He could almost ignore the pain, he thought. It would feel so much better to just fall asleep.

He was brought out of that line of thinking momentarily by Hank’s voice, shouting from where he was standing beside the car.

“Ambulance is on the way,” he reported, and Nick forced his eyes back open. He could hold on until then, he decided. He needed to hold on until then. But he was so tired, and everything hurt so much, and it would be so, so nice to have everything fade away...

--

He woke up in a place he thought he was becoming far too familiar with: the hospital. He looked slowly around himself as his mind woke up, reminding him of the unpleasantries he’d recently encountered with a twinge in his side. 

He was alone, was the first thing that he noticed. Which was expected, he figured, checking the time and seeing that it was still working hours. He sighed, and decided to try and fall back asleep, hoping that the next time he woke up, there would be somebody there.

This hope was proved unnecessary by the sound of someone settling into the chair beside his bed. His eyes flew open, and he shot up, then groaned, putting a hand to his side.

Someone else’s hand landed on his arm, and he turned to face them.

“Captain?”

Why on earth was the Captain there? He tried to remember, but the details of his getting shot were still fuzzy in the back of his mind. Maybe he needs me for a case, Nick thought.

“You alright?”

He blinked in surprise. That hadn’t been what he’d expected Renard to say.

“Burkhardt?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alright. Sorry,” he added, though he wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was apologizing for.

“Good,” Renard said, and the two fell into an awkward silence. 

“Juliette’s here,” he added, finally. “She went to the cafeteria to get some coffee, she’ll be back soon.”

Nick nodded. He wanted to see her, make sure she hadn’t been too worried, let her fret over him and touch him and reassure him that he was really okay. For the moment, however, he really wanted to sleep. 

“Will she-”

“She’ll still be here when you wake up,” the Captain said, and Nick wondered briefly whether he could read minds, before focusing on the more important part of that statement and once again closing his eyes.

He faintly heard Renard get up and say something like, “I’ll be back tomorrow,” which he didn’t quite believe, and then he let himself drift back to sleep.

Ok this ending was so so bad and i feel like i’ve kinda done scenes like that to death lmao,,,oh well idk what else to do so thats what you get. Hope you enjoyed this and thanks for reading!!