#midnattssol is really good but this is more the bridge I guess

[phyripo]

85&86 + sweden / denmark

85. “I will never apologize for saving your life, even if it costs me my own.”86. “I guess dying with you isn’t the worse (sic) way to go.”

Thanks! I’ve been watching a lot of Scandinavian crime series lately, so an AU based on those immediately popped into my head :0(I highly recommend Midnattssol if you’re interested and don’t mind, you know, blood and stuff)

Warning for… injury :))Torbjörn is Sweden, Søren is Denmark

send me a pairing and a number and I’ll write you a fic

It was not supposed to end like this.

A shot rings out over the waves, and Søren’sside blooms with pain, hot as a branding iron stabbed into his skin. He canhear footsteps crunching through the pebbles, Torbjörn’s angry Swedish becomingworried Swedish fast. His entire body shakes and he would have fallen if heweren’t already on the ground after diving for the man they have been chasingafter all this time.

Fuck, it hurts. He manages to rip hisgloves off and tries to find the wound, can feel hot blood soaking his coat,but his fingers are too unsteady.

“Søren?” Torbjörn is asking, with that funnymusical lilt he gives the name. “Søren, don’t move.”

“I don’t think I fucking can,” he replies, with effort. His Swedish colleague appears in hisfield of vision, replacing the too-bright sky and the eternal seagulls overhead.His glasses are askew. “Did—”

“He got away. Doesn’t matter,” the man repliesto the unspoken question, and Søren wants to swear but he can only hiss in painwhen Torbjörn does find the wound andpresses the fabric of his shirt down on it. The seagulls might be gone, butthere are black spots dancing all around in front of his eyes, and he goescross-eyed trying to follow them.

When Torbjörn straightens his glasses, his handis stained red and he smudges them, which Søren should find horrifying but ishilarious to him for some reason.

“‘S why I wear lenses,” he slurs, trying togesture but finding that his arm will not cooperate. The stones on the beachdig into his back, and isn’t it weird that he can feel that so clearly whensomeone is still poking that goddamn branding iron into his gut?

Torbjörn shakes his head. Ha, maybe he didn’t understand.He isn’t so bad, but his Swedish colleagues keep complaining about Søren’s Danish.Or Danish in general.

“You’re a good… A good boy,” Søren tells him,gasping halfway through the sentence. “But not a boy, y’know. Like, a man. Verymanly.”

“Please stop talking.”

“Can’t, y’know me.”

He shakes his head again, or at least Søren thinksso, because focusing is difficult and he decides to close his eyes instead.

They’ve only known each other for a few weeks,but for some reason, he really clicked with the stern Swedish detective. The gruffexterior belies a compassionate man, who is – always a plus in Søren’s book –willing to reconsider what exactly the rules mean when push comes to shove.Even if he often doesn’t know how to hold himself and scared a witness that onetime by looming too much, he is absolutely a nice benefit of the Swedish-Danishcooperation they’ve had going on. Easy on the eyes, too, when opening them isn’ttoo difficult.

Søren thinks that he maybe likes his colleaguea bit too much. It’s never seemed like much of a problem until now.

But then what does anything matter when there’sblood pouring out of him at an alarming rate and the seagulls are waiting tofucking eat him on some godforsaken beach in Sweden?

“Seagulls aren’t gonna eat you,” Torbjörn informshim, matter-of-fact, and apparently he’s saying things aloud.

Okay. Great,Nordskov. Good. Dying with dignity, what’s that?

“You won’t die,” Torbjörn says now. His deepvoice, familiar after the many hours spent together, has taken on an edge Sørendoesn’t know, and doesn’t think he likes.

“Dunno, kinda feels like it.”

His stomach is numb and alive with white-hotpain at the same time, and everything is way too quiet while Torbjörn pressesdown on it.

If there’s one thing Søren can’t stand, it’ssilence. Torbjörn has been happy enough to let him talk at him throughout theirinvestigation, let him work through the mess of clues and questions and answersin his head with only the barest minimum of interruptions. They’ve gotten soclose to the man who has killed four Danes and six Swedes and has hospitalizedat least twenty more, who’s fucking kidnapped children, because they work well together. Søren functions betterwhen he can talk.

That shouldn’t be true when he’s been shot. Andyet, here he is.

“Look,” he says to Torbjörn, wrenching his eyesback open and searching out the light blue he’s become so used to having aroundthrough the haze.

“Don’t,” he warns, but Søren coughs andcontinues anyway, trying desperately to ignore that that cough felt likesomeone trying to rip his intestines out. He’s good at things like that.

“Look, I know you’re prob’bly gonna say thatwas a stupid thing. To do.”

The familiar glare registers, and he grins withlips tasting like copper, the skin on them cracking. Why are his hands so cold?Is this what the Swedes call summer?

“Y’know, dying with you here isn’t th’worst wayto go.”

Torbjörn shakes his head.

“‘N don’t tell me I’m not gonna die, ‘s justhow it is.”

“No,” he replies, shifting his hands. There’sblood on his face, and dirt, and he let the killer get away to help Søreninstead like an idiot, but then Søren would probably have been dead by nowwithout him, would maybe have been dead days into their acquaintance if itweren’t for him, the stupid, beautiful Swede…

It’s suddenly important that Torbjörn knows. That Søren can make himunderstand what he means to him.

“He was aiming f’you, Torbjörn.”

“I know. You’re an idiot for reacting the wayyou did.”

He’s slipped back into his northern accentrather than the affected Malmø one even Søren could hear was fake. Thatprobably means something, but while Søren can identify the change without problem,for whatever fucking reason, he can’t connect it to a deeper meaning. It’s socold.

“‘M not gonna apologize f’saving your life.” Hecoughs again. Clenches his teeth. Copper, but no blood in his mouth. Is thatgood? It seems like it should be good. “Even ‘f it costs me my own. ‘S allworth it.”

Torbjörn looks up at something, maybe hearingsomething Søren can’t hear, because he can only hear those fucking seagulls andhis own heart trying to pump all the remaining blood in his body round at topspeed. But when Torbjörn looks back down, Søren can hear him too. His heavybreathing, the rattling in his chest as if he’s trying not to cry.

“Tell me when you get better, Søren. Theambulance is almost here.”

He hacks a laugh, digs his numb fingers into Torbjörn’sthigh because it’s right there and he’s wanted to touch all of him for quite awhile now, although preferably with less clothes on and maybe more with histongue or something.

“I won’t apologize,” he slurs again. “‘Cause y’know,‘s been an honor t’work with you, ‘n you’re, like, hot, ‘n…”

He tries to blink but his eyes stay shut, andeverything is so fucking cold.

“You’re worth it ‘cause I think ‘m in love with you,”he says, or thinks he says anyway. It’s difficult to make sense of anything.

Still, he’s sure that before he gives into thecold and feels himself slide into an endless sea of darkness, where even theseagulls won’t keep him company, he hears Torbjörn mumble, “I love you too.”

But then, maybe that’s heaven calling.