Disclaimer: the characters are not mine and most likely never will be, but I can dream…
A/N: I felt a bit like "Matrix Reloaded" about this one, but I figured it might be worth a try…
Black. Mac's head shoots up when he hears the sound, a sound that wakes primeval fears in this jungle. Something hits him, throws him to the ground. He whirls around onto his back and sees something black zooming past him. Blackness seizing Stella, then releasing her to fly through the air, fly like an angel. His hand and his voice stretch after her, unable to reach.
He's on his feet, wading through air thickened with confused reverberation, slowed down in getting to her side. Her eyes are open, unseeing, fixed somewhere in the distance. The darkness of her widened pupils contrasts too sharply with the pallor of her face. With tingling fingers he feels for her pulse, sees blood flowing from her body, blood logging her curls and seeping into cracks in the pavement, disappearing into their gloom.
A confusion of thoughts whirls through his mind, thoughts of which he can only cling to one: No, please, no! The tingling sensation increases and spreads. Somewhere in between he thinks he can feel blood flowing through her body. Her breath is rustling like the wind through autumn leaves. Tiny clouds of mist escape from her mouth into the cold air. Her skin feels clammy like a November day.
A blaring siren pushes away all other sounds. Red and blue lights fill the air, pulsing in quick succession. They tear at his field of vision; bathe Stella in an unearthly glow. Mac answers questions he doesn't hear being asked, sees Stella being touched by hands that don't seem to be connected to arms.
Cracks are ripping through his reality, threatening to tear him apart. Silhouettes of lives are zoomed past in the ambulance, discolored by the swift motion. He holds on to only one, as he has tried before. Tried and failed, when the towers fell, ripping cracks through this entire city.
She's carried off into a blinding white distance. He tries to hold on to her with his eyes but can't see her through the fluttering blend of medical clothing. He feels hands on his shoulder, a gentle pressure, dimly recollects saying something, hearing a reply, only the shadows of words.
Feet running down corridors, nurses calling out, people chatting, all merges into silence without her voice. An image echoes in his mind, of her open eyes, open without sparkle, without speaking to him.
He walks irregular patterns into the floor of the waiting room, unable to stand still, re-treading every step of their relationship. Attempting to clear a path through the haze of his thoughts – a path that will lead on to somewhere because for it to end is unthinkable – he forms landmarks from his memories.
He thinks of what he recalls as the evening before, laughing with her at Sullivan's. Another image ricochets, but he can't hold on to her smile. Only black and white remain; black coffee, white cream, don't stir. Black car, white distance; he shakes his head fiercely. He wants to get hold of that driver, if only to beat the life out of him and into Stella.
He sees pictures of foggy white bones surrounded by shades of grey tissue, jagged black lines running through the whiteness like the cracks through the pavement. He sees those cracks drinking in her life again. Closing his eyes, opening them, those images won't go away.
He doesn't feel the chair he's sitting on, doesn't feel time slipping by, drawing a veil over the sky. The darkness in the room is all the same, faint lights over the bed struggling against it. He feels his eyes beginning to glow, lets them run over her battered body to pass on some of the warmth. He retraces her features, outlining them again and again to get a clearer picture. Images continue to overlie her face like a film exposed too often.
Fatigue is stinging in his eyes, drawing moisture; still his eyeballs are grinding in their sockets like badly oiled joints. His vision fragments, leaving white patches of nothing where there should be something. His heart almost stops when he can't see Stella's face, his hands reach out to find her, he loses sight of them.
A grain of rationality remaining in his brain tells him this is the result of low blood sugar. A spot of color jars in his field of vision, his attention snaps to it in spite of himself. The sight of a can evokes the evening before, coffee as black as night. A darkness he would gladly enter into, could they trade places. But the choice has been made, by her. So he fights the gloom, for her. He shudders at the sweet liquid running down his throat.
His hand rests on hers, the only thing he feels sure of. He's holding on to her, body and soul, knowing she is somewhere inside, trying to find her way out. His soul calls her and he waits, watching over the slightest changes, the sun finally succeeding to light up her face, erasing the blurring extra lines perceived by his mind's eye.
And he sees her coming, coming back to him. A cautious smile creeps onto his face, reaches out and begins tugging the corners of her mouth up in recognition.
Feel free to let me know what you think. We have gorgeous sunshine outside this time, but I still love getting reviews, and may be I can pack a little bit of the weather into my replies if you're not so lucky.