Three Hours from Now
Her breath rattled weakly through her chest, scarcely moving the effected ribs. Jaundiced eyes – once a gentle honeyed green – stared dazedly up at me. "Stay with me?"
Stay with me. Every time she had asked me I'd rejected her: shoved her back, left her lying naked and alone in her bed. I threw her isolation in her face, spoon-fed her poison in lieu of love, and denied her the simple luxury of touch after I had taken all that I wanted. She hated me; I could do this without guilt. Should do this without guilt.
It's not like I could stand her either.
But as her skin turned from simply pale to pallid, and the pounds fell from her like a snake shedding its skin, guilt began to plague me. As persistent as a crush and painful as a strained muscle, it nagged at my consciousness, shooting through me whenever she came into my awareness. It plagued me till I was as sick as she was, and I ignored it. I focused on the thousand other atrocities happening around us and forced her problems from my mind. I ignored her even as I fucked her; forced my way inside even as she asked me not to.
That was the first time I hit her, I think. The first time of hundreds.
And she's still asking: patient and loving and everything I thought she wasn't. Everything I don't deserve. Our friends are hunting down her cure but she knows as well as I that she won't last. Her life is draining away like sand, and her dying wish is for me to hold her. I can barely see her as I move to lay along-side her. This is all she's ever wanted from me and it's the very least I should have given her.
She told me once that heartbeats synchronize when two people lie together. That if a calm person holds someone who's scared long enough, the frightened person will relax. I threw her from the bed for that, shame igniting my rage at her implication. I'm praying that it works now: that the strength of my heart will spread to hers, and keep her alive just that much longer.
It isn't working. I can feel it starting to stutter beneath her chest – her heart is going. No matter what our friends accomplish it will be too little. Our powers are incredible: we could move continents if we wished, but we cannot make her live. They are all curse and no blessing. I pull her closer, trying to force my heart to beat for her.
They'll find us like this three hours from now, me still clutching her in a final embrace. Our lips will be molded together but she won't be breathing anymore.
All that will be left is where she used to be.
Author's Note: Against all odd, this claims the title of most depressing thing I've ever written. Originally written from Diana's perspective to Faye (don't ask me why; my head cannon has her taking out all her frustrations on Faye), though it can be read as whoever you like.