Artie wheels down the hallway, his fingers trembling so much he's afraid he might crash into a wall, his shaking hands not allowing him to drive in a straight line, or at the pace he wanted. Part of him wanted to zoom down the hall, pushing past nurses and doctors to fly into the room at the end of the hallway, to see the damage for himself, to examine her with his eyes and soak everything in. No one had gone to see her yet, most of them consumed with the wedding and its repercussions, afraid of what they would find in the sterile white room. So it had come down to him. He hadn't told anyone, just asked his dad for a ride and asked to see her alone. Part of him is just as afraid as the rest of them, terrified of what could happen. That part of him wants to stop moving, just sit in this hallway like some twisted Schrodinger experiment, her fate hanging in the balance. Nothing will be solidified until he sees it, but then he remembers that's ridiculous, that what has happened has happened and staying in this hallway won't change that.
Still, it doesn't stop his hesitation, fingertips brushing against the door before giving way to a push, the wood swinging open slowly. Artie's tempted to close his eyes, like in a horror movie or when the doctor's removed his own sheets, ten years ago, when he was smaller and fragile, but he doesn't. He lifts his eyes, so the first thing he'll see will be her face. She looks up, lowering the book she's reading, and his urge to gasp is instead thrown through the way he squeezes the handles of his chair.
Her face, usually perfectly crafted, has a particularly nasty scratch, starting at her eyebrow and ending somewhere near her cheekbone, healing but scarring, he can tell from here. There's a couple of bruises, smattered over her pale skin like paint dabs on a pure canvas, marring creamy skin. Her forehead furrows, obviously Quinn wasn't expecting him, but he wheels in farther anyway, eyes trained on hers, blue meeting hazel in a wave of sympathy, empathy, and he doesn't realize he's reached for her hand until she intertwines their fingers together. His heart skips several beats, and he stares at their fingers, sparks flying and twisting in his stomach.
"You're the first one to visit me." She says quietly, and hearing her voice with the same soft, almost raspy musical quality it had a couple weeks before leaves him relieved, for reasons he can't collect at the moment. (He blames it on the fact his fingers have acted on their own accord, squeezing against hers.)
"They - we - I needed to see that you were okay." He admits softly, knowing she deserves the truth. "That you weren't…" he trails off, understanding lighting her eyes. He knows he doesn't have to continue.
"I'm not." She answers, eyes falling to her lap. "A couple cracked ribs, bruises, but nothing…life-changing." Her eyes sweep over to him, and the chair has never felt more like an anchor, tugging him down far below her. "The doctors said I was lucky." She pauses, eyes drifting up to his, searching his soul for an honest answer.
"Do you believe in angels?" She asks quietly. Yes, he thinks. One is holding my hand.
"Yeah," he replies instead, figuring she doesn't need him to be that honest. She smiles slightly, leaning back against the pillows, their hands still laced together, connected by flesh and bones and a need to be comforted.
"I was…terrified." She says quietly, staring at the end of her bed. He listens, rapt, eyes scanning over her face, her neck, counting the bruises like he used to count stars, the sparkles in her eyes or the times she smiles. (The count for the last one is getting higher, he's glad to report.) "It hurt, and it was dark, and all I could think was that I wasn't going to get to the wedding in time." She lets out a quiet laugh, eyes turning toward his. "Isn't that stupid? I was in a wreck and all I could think was that I was going to miss the ceremony." She pauses, memorizing the oceans that hide behind his glasses. "My second thought was you." He falters, heart beating like a hummingbird's, and her lips press together. "I thought about you, and how everyday you have to put up with things that I take for granted. I don't have the strength you do. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to live with myself if…" she lets her words drift away, gaze dropping to their hands. "Does that make me a bad person?"
"No," he says finally, throat dry, heart cracking. She looks genuinely terrified, and yet relieved, and guilty for feeling relief, and he wants to reassure her. She reassures him, with her presence and glances and fingerprints leaving marks against his skin and now he wants to return the favor. "It makes you a sane person." Quinn glances over, and Artie smiles, lightly, warmth spreading through from her hand to his. "Besides, Glee only has room for one fly wheelchair guy, and the spot is already filled." She smiles, and his grows, and soon she's giggling, shaking her head and beaming, bright enough to light her face and the room. (He adds another smile to the count, and then thinks about it, figuring this one has got to count for two.)
"Thank you," she says, her laughter trailing off as she looks at him. Really looks at him, as if he's just suddenly appeared and she's afraid he's going to leave again, falling to perusal of his face like she plans to draw it, and he just smiles, squeezing her hand again, silently telling her he's not going anywhere. She seems content, a flicker of a smile splashing over her lips, and she settles back again, timid again.
"Will you stay?" She asks, uncertainty in her voice as she watches him. He grins.
"As long as you promise not to make me eat any of that nasty cafeteria food. That stuff is wack, yo." She laughs again, and he makes a mental note to make sure she does more of it.
"I wouldn't dare."