A/N: Originally written and posted for Yuletide on AO3.
Title and lyrics from Bloodrush by Brooke Fraser.
Warning: The first segment contains a bit of blood. If that squicks you, please feel free to skip to the next one (ctrl+f "Rachel woke" if you don't want to scroll).
It's atrophy in motion, the slowing down of necessary moving parts.
It wouldn't be so tragic if it weren't machinery of the heart.
xxx
Chandler watched Rachel off down the hall, only snapping out of his trance when she disappeared around the corner. As soon as she was out of sight, he shook his head and broke into a jog, sliding his room key and the envelope Rachel had given him into his jacket pocket. When he reached the end of the hall and turned, he found a fork, and it was in his hesitation that he heard the shot ring out.
He almost froze again, the sound so incongruous to the mood of the evening and the reason he was running in the first place, and then took off running again down the hall the sound had come from. It bent halfway, and it was only when he turned that second corner that he saw Rachel on the ground and redoubled his speed.
Skidding to a stop at her side, he glanced up and down the hall as he dropped to his knees and tore off his jacket, pressing it immediately to the hole in her shoulder that was rapidly seeping blood into the hotel carpet. He felt the blood cooling on his knees as he leaned forward, lifting Rachel's shoulder toward him to check for an exit wound. She moaned quietly, still apparently unconscious, and he apologized under his breath.
On instinct, he reached for a radio, a cell phone, but even if he'd carried one of those rigged cell phones in his dress blues he wouldn't have anyone to call. Instead, he searched the floor for Rachel's room key, finding it under her right hip, and reached up with his free hand to open her door and push it in. Picking her up in a bridal carry, he raced across to the bed and set her down again, reapplying pressure to her wound as he reached for the hotel phone on the nightstand.
Streaking blood across the pristine handset, he shoved it between his ear and shoulder and ran his finger down the information on the base, looking for her room number, then dialing 0 and praying someone would be at the front desk. He counted ten rings, his heart pounding in his throat, before someone picked up and he could say, "I need help, someone's been shot, please hurry."
He dropped the phone back into the cradle and switched hands, trying to wipe some of the blood off onto the bed covers before cupping Rachel's cheek, turning her face toward him and stroking her hair back, rubbing his thumb over her pale lips.
"I don't remember ever making you do my job," he said softly. "This doesn't seem fair." Her expression was still and bloodless, and he moved his first two fingers to the pulse point on her neck, watching her face until the door burst open and someone better could finally take over.
xxx
It was to a dim, quiet room that Rachel woke, her mind foggy as she forced her eyes open and looked around. There was a hulking shadow next to her bed and she almost flinched before recognizing Commander Chandler's back.
"Captain?" she said faintly, and he spun around instantly, falling into the chair next to the bed and leaning over her bedrail, folding his hands and staring intently at her face.
"How do you feel?"
She had to look away from the fierceness in his gaze, and instead took in the corners of the hospital room—a real hospital, something she wasn't sure she'd ever see again. Her monitors beeped quietly, and she peered up at them in an attempt to read her own vitals. One of her arms was in a sling, and as she raised her other hand she found that her skin was nearly as pale as the medical tape holding down her IV.
She tried to think of an answer to his question—couldn't think much of anything through the sedated fog of her mind, though the dull ache of her shoulder prompted her to respond, "Ow."
He reached gingerly into the space beside her unbound arm, picking up her morphine trigger and holding it up for her to see. She nodded, and he pressed the button, setting it back down beside her hand, and before he could draw away she grabbed onto his hand, only then noting how icy her fingers were and feeling a shiver trace down her spine.
"How…" she began, her words coming slowly, and he jumped in.
"Do you remember what happened?"
She pressed her lips together, sending him a fleeting glare, and shut her eyes to focus. "How bad… did I mess up… our plans?" When she opened her eyes again, he was staring at her in amazement.
"You… were shot. You know that, right?"
"I had… a flight. So much work…"
He stared at her. "I don't know if I really need to remind you of this, but… the cure? You perfected it. They sent someone else in your place. I mean, yes, you're irreplaceable, but in this case, honey, we had it covered."
"We? " she said, a bit sharply (he did not just call me honey). "You been working? Stood at my bedside?"
Looking up at the ceiling in exasperation even as he cradled her hand so gently she almost couldn't feel his touch, he sighed and changed tactics. "The guy who shot you didn't make it out of the building. He was one of McDowell's, obviously, and he'll answer for his crimes."
"When I woke up… looked like you were guarding. From what?"
He stretched his neck to the side, seeming to deliberate for a second before saying flatly, "Death."
That shut her up. Only for a second, though, as she squinted up at the ceiling and wiggled her toes under the blanket. Lifting her index finger from where it rested in his palm, she pointed down at them and said, "Good work. Job well done. I appear to be entirely and fully alive. You got other stuff to do now."
"Okay," he said, nodding and staring across the room at the door even as he sat still as a statue.
She rolled her eyes, but then her eyes wouldn't open again and she realized she was too tired to argue anymore. She'd have to start again later.
xxx
He stayed there for a while, watching her sleep and marveling first at the fact that she was alive and peaceful, and second at how pale and fragile she still looked. Even with two blood transfusions and an IV pumping fluids into her body, she blended into the sheets, dwarfed by the bed. She was too small to have a hole punched through her shoulder, too small to be drained of blood. For a long time, he stared at her hand in his, how delicately porcelain it appeared, how devoid of life.
He didn't want to leave her, but he needed to eat and he could check in with her doctor at the same time, which seemed a worthy mission.
It was less than an hour. Fifty minutes at most, yet when he strode confidently back into the room, he was stopped in his tracks at the sight of her upright, leaning on the edge of the bed and struggling one-handed with the button on her pants. She was fully dressed otherwise, a tank top under her sling and her boots unlaced on her feet.
"You have got to be kidding me."
She grunted, managing the button with a final flick of her thumb, then picked her duffel off the floor and slung it over her good shoulder. He'd brought that from the hotel, though he was regretting bringing her anything now.
Feet planted in front of the door, he crossed his arms over his chest as she approached, staring her down. "Where are you going?"
"Back to the hotel."
"Okay. I spoke to your doctor twenty minutes ago, so I know he didn't sign your release."
"I'm a doctor," she said obstinately, keeping her chin down and staring straight at his chest. "It's not exactly AMA if I disagree with the given medical advice."
"And there's no way in hell you'd accept that excuse from anyone else."
She didn't move, didn't even blink; stubborn as a mule.
"So… who's driving you?" He tapped the toe of one boot on the linoleum. "Bringing you food? Making sure you don't pass out in the shower considering the gallons of blood you lost?"
"I can take care of myself."
"Of course you can." He said it simply and genuinely, and she looked up at him with her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Glancing away, he made a show of studying his fingernails, as if that could be read as anything other than the worst faux-casual acting job of his life. "It's just that the president's given me this huge apartment and my family won't be able to fly out for a few more weeks. It's too much room for me, and… you know… it would be nice if I didn't have to call you six times a day to check that you haven't almost died again."
She stared at him a little longer as he shamelessly avoided her eyes, then said, "Okay," and almost as an afterthought, "buster. But no amateur nursing, and no hovering. You go back to work. The world still needs saving, you realize."
He smiled, taking the duffel from her and turning to open the door. When he turned back, she had her eyes closed and a look of extreme concentration on her face as she swayed on her feet, and he hung his head with a sigh. Stepping backwards, he wrapped one arm around her waist and supported her elbow with the other, and they walked together to the hospital exit.
xxx
Rachel sank gratefully into one of the chairs in the waiting area as Chandler ran off to pull the car around. He'd been right, of course, about pretty much everything he'd said. She would never have let a patient of hers walk out of a hospital like this, but she couldn't bear to lie there, trapped in a bed and a gown, talked down to by every doctor and nurse and orderly in the damn place.
Thinking about it now, she was fairly certain she would never have made it all the way back to the hotel on her own, probably would have ended up dying on some piece of pavement because she was too proud to listen, too proud to be weak. She would never, ever say it aloud, and could barely even form the words in her own mind, but the Captain was probably saving her life. Again.
A moment later, Chandler pulled up to the hospital doors in a stereotypical black SUV, running around to guide her into the passenger seat even as she made futile attempts to wave him off. From there, she watched the city pass by, amazed by how strangely normal it all appeared through the glass. People were going about their lives, and post-pandemic was transitioning into a new world order.
The car pulled into an underground parking garage, and a marked space close to the elevator bank. They rode almost all the way to the top, and by the time they got inside, it was all Rachel could do to sink into the couch in the living room. She pulled a blanket off the back of it, wrapping herself up and laying her head down, and Chandler asked if she needed anything.
"Glass of water?" she asked weakly, and ten minutes later he was back with a litre of water, her bottle of prescription oxy, and a turkey sandwich, after which he declared his intent to shower. She wrinkled her nose at his bloodied, slept-in suit and days of scruff, muttering, "Good idea," much to his amusement.
She took one of her pills, ate a few small bites of sandwich, and drank a few sips of water, then rolled over on the couch and passed back out.
She had no idea how long she slept, but when she woke up again the room was lit only by the city lights outside the wide window. She got up slowly, keeping the blanket around her, and walked to the window to look out on the recovering city. The lights remained sparse, and there were few people on the ground, but it was nonetheless a sort of view she hadn't seen in a long, long time.
Turning around, she saw the warm glow of a light coming from a hallway leading off the opposite corner of the living room. She found Chandler at the end of that hall, sitting up against his pillows in the master bedroom with a lamp and reading glasses aiding him in looking over a sheaf of paper. He looked up at her over the glasses as she crossed the final few steps and sank down on the edge of the bed with her back to him.
"Hey," he said softly. "You hurting?"
She shook her head, already drooping, and he reached out a hand, placing it gently on her back.
"You hungry?"
She nodded, and he got up off the other side of the bed, rounding it to stand in front of her.
"Why don't you lie down and sleep a little more while I make dinner?"
Covering a yawn, she curled up on her side, and he adjusted her blanket before walking away as she fell back into sleep.
xxx
When Chandler walked back into the bedroom, Rachel was fast asleep, her face still drawn and colourless. He was loath to wake her, but as he crouched beside the bed and brushed her hair out of her face, his fingertips trailing over her cheek, she turned her face into the touch and blinked her eyes open. He pulled away immediately and got back to his feet.
"You wanna eat?"
She took his proffered hand, and kept hold of it until he deposited her in a kitchen chair. He dropped a full plate in front of both of them, then indicated her glass of water and another pill if she needed it. She shook her head, but dug in to the meal, filling her mouth several times before finally saying, "You made this?"
It was rice, chicken, and veggies, nothing fancy, but Rachel was sure to mutter to herself that it was "much better than hospital food," which he was pleased to take as a somewhat half-hearted compliment.
She started to yawn halfway through the meal, and he pointed out her pill again, at which point she actually took it, not before saying somewhat sardonically, "But I need to do the washing up."
"Ha ha," he replied, picking up both of their plates and carrying them over to the sink. When he turned back, she was leaning on her good arm, her eyes barely staying open, and he walked back over to pull her up out of her chair. He guided her into the bedroom he'd chosen as hers, just next to his, and pointed out the ensuite as well as a closet and dresser that had been filled by some kind female volunteers.
Pulling a set of pyjama pants and a top from the dresser, he eyed her, barely keeping herself upright on the bed, and said, "You wanna change?" with little hope of a response.
Instead, he helped her stand so that he could draw the covers back, then tucked them in around her once she'd lain down. While he was bent over her, she found the strength to wrap her good arm tight around his neck, forcing him to brace his hands on the bed in order not to topple over.
Into his ear, she muttered, "You are both hovering and nursing. Thank you, but stop."
He sighed, one of his arms coming up around her back to hold her in a brief, close embrace, then he set her back down on the bed and backed toward the door. She watched him through half-lidded eyes as he shut off the light at the door and closed it halfway, and he had to stop in the hallway and remind his dry mouth that she was only tired, only vulnerable. He would wash the dishes, and go to bed, and do better in the morning.
When he woke up, the pale blue light of dawn was just seeping past the edges of his curtains, and he thought for a second that his internal clock just hadn't readjusted to land time, but then he saw the silhouette in the doorway. He couldn't see her face, but he sensed her hesitation in the way she rocked up on the balls of her feet before tiptoeing into the room, reaching the edge of the bed and crawling under the covers until her good arm was pressed to one of his, her forehead against his shoulder.
"Hey," he said, his voice rough from sleep. "You have a nightmare?" She nodded. "You wanna sleep in here?" She nodded again, and he worked his arm out to curve around her back, his hand going up to smooth over her hair. "Okay. It's okay. You're fine."
He waited as her trembles subsided, as her body relaxed and she turned her cheek against his chest, as the soft sound of her sigh reached his ears. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for her to fall asleep.
xxx
When Rachel woke up in Tom's bed, her first thought was oh god what have I done, before she shifted slightly and the dull pain in her shoulder brought back memories of the night before. A nightmare, and a lasting terror so great that it drove her out of her own bed in search of safety, and Tom was safety.
She wanted to lie to herself, tell herself that Tom was safety because he was strong and trained and primal instincts blah blah, but as she lay there on her stomach with her face pressed into the pillow she was taking deep, measured inhales to breathe in his scent and she knew it was nothing but a lie.
She finally rolled over, the scent of him replaced by the smell of eggs and bacon, and her stomach growled fiercely. She rolled over the rest of the way, shifting her legs over the edge of the bed, and on the nightstand she found a glass of water and a pill. Of course.
Swallowing the pill, she stood, and out of routine she stretched. Fuck. That was a horrible mistake.
She walked to the kitchen, her head spinning, and sat down in a kitchen chair. Chandler looked up from where he was working at the stove, but dropped his spatula when he saw her face. He crossed the room in a few strides and crouched in front of her, holding her face in his hands and turning it from side to side.
"Hey, you're really pale. You okay?"
"Mmm," she hummed in assent, but considering she couldn't actually form words, she didn't think he bought it.
Pushing her chair back from the table, Chandler shifted her knees apart with one hand while he nudged her head down with the other, until her head was lower than her knees, and she sat there for a second thinking, I should have thought of that, I'm the doctor, until her head cleared and she could sit up, slowly and carefully.
The food on the stove was burning, and she looked in its direction woefully. "I don't suppose you have more of that."
Chandler smirked, dropping his hand from where it was still rubbing soothing circles into her back, and he stood up and walked back to the stove, first taking the pan off the heat and dropping a lid over it to contain the smoke, then opening the oven door and pulling out a full plate.
Rachel's eyes widened and she reached her good hand out, rudely beckoning for the food that he was already in the process of bringing her. When he set it down in front of her, she picked up her fork and started shoveling eggs into her mouth. "Thank you," she said with her mouth full. "Is very good. Yum."
"You're feeling better, then." He returned to the stove and started his breakfast over, efficient as ever in his movements.
She filled her mouth again and waved her fork around a little as she mumbled, "Good sign, hearty appetite, keep up strength."
"Your mood seems good, too."
Her mouth dried up at that, and she had to force the last bite down, before taking a drink of water. She stared down at her plate as he came back over to the table with his own meal. "I'm sorry about last night."
"No big deal," he said, sitting down, and she shook her head.
"You aren't my nursemaid, it isn't your—"
"Rachel."
She stopped, eyes still cast down, though she could feel his steady gaze on her.
"Nightmares are—I understand, okay? You don't have to apologize for that."
She grunted, and started poking at her food again. "Well," she said, and somehow she knew that whatever was about to come out next was going to ruin her life, "it seems only fair to say that my bed is always open to you as well."
As soon as the words came out her entire body shut down, freezing in place as her eyes widened slowly at her plate. "I mean—that is to say—if you have a nightmare—the same—is true..." She very slowly plunged her fork into her eggs, raised it to her mouth, and stuffed her mouth so that she couldn't continue speaking.
Chandler just shook his head, focusing entirely on his own meal as they both ate as quickly as they could to escape this exquisitely awkward situation. When Rachel was finished, she carried her own plate to the sink, muttered, "Thank you," on her way past, and shut herself up in her bedroom. She needed to bathe, not that she was going to say that out loud.
In the ensuite, she ran a few inches of warm water into the bath and sat in it, using a washcloth and a bar of soap to wash her body as thoroughly as possible. Then she continued to sit in the rapidly cooling water as she tried to think of any way for her to wash her own hair when the shower head was attached to the ceiling and she only had one working arm and she couldn't get her stitches wet. The only thing she could think of was sticking her head straight under the faucet, but she was almost certain to splash her stitches and she didn't even know if she could bend that way.
If she could have left it, she would have, but her hair was quickly edging into disgusting territory and she didn't particularly want to be disgusting while living in close proximity to... a person. For another handful of minutes, she sat in the water and quietly cried, feeling infinitely helpless and pathetic, before rinsing her face and drying off.
From the dresser, she drew a pair of stretchy pants and a tank top, affixing her sling over top and then moving to the door, standing there with her hand on the knob as she tried to work up the nerve to be vulnerable.
Easing the door open, she poked her head out into the hall and quietly called, "Tom?"
"Yeah?" came from the living room, and a second later he was standing at the end of the hall.
She stared at the floor at his feet; evidently her nerve wasn't much stronger than her physical state. "I'm sorry to ask," she said. "I don't know... I can't seem to wash my own hair." She brought a hand up to her eye and rubbed it, frowning. "I need help."
He let out a massive sigh, and she looked up in surprise only to find that he was smiling. "Is that all? You scared me for a second. I'll bring a kitchen chair into the ensuite, give me a minute."
She walked back through the bedroom and into the ensuite, reaching over the tub for the shampoo and conditioner and setting them on the sink, then taking another towel from the bar and sitting down on the toilet lid with the towel in her lap. Chandler brought a chair into the room, setting its back against the counter, and took the towel out of her hands to drape over the back of the chair.
He moved quickly and efficiently, as he always did, and as she moved to sit in the chair he said, "I have done this before, just so you know. You're safe with me."
She could have laughed at that. As if that was the problem. Instead, she leaned back until her hair was in the sink and shut her eyes tightly. He got the water running, let it warm up, and used a measuring cup from the kitchen to reach her hairline, carefully guiding the water and massaging it into her scalp before adding shampoo.
He rinsed and conditioned and not once did he tug or pull, his touch lighter than any of the women she'd actually paid to do this for her in the past. Rachel tried to keep her mind blank, tried to breathe slowly and deeply and not think about the gentle touch of his hands, the fact that this behemoth of a man could be so soft and careful with her.
No, she didn't think any of those things, and when he was finished and had squeezed the water out of her hair, she went into the living room and sat cross-legged on the couch with a towel around her shoulders. She was already minutes from falling back asleep, she knew, but she tried to look alive when Chandler walked into the room.
"A movie?" he asked, and she nodded. He walked over to the bookshelf and named a movie, she had no idea which one, and she nodded again. After putting it in the machine, he walked over and handed her the remote, which she placed directly on the coffee table, and then sat down with another identical sheaf of paper.
When he was settled, she picked up a throw pillow and set it in his lap before lying down and passing out almost immediately.
xxx
This was fine, obviously, Chandler thought. He would focus on his work and Rachel would sleep peacefully and it was a win-win situation.
Except that he had to keep one hand on her back, obviously, lifting it when he had to turn a page and then replacing it, and he could feel her shoulder blade when his hand grazed across the fabric of her top, and her back gently rose and fell as she breathed slowly in sleep, and he hadn't read a word in at least an hour.
He thought he would watch the movie instead, keep his mind occupied, but it was half over and every time she exhaled she made a little sighing sound and eventually he just set his head on the back of the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Before long, he had fallen asleep as well.
Once again, he wasn't entirely sure what woke him, except that Rachel wasn't lying in his lap, and the cushion to his side was depressed, and then the cushion to the side of his head was pressed down as well, and when he blinked his eyes open he saw Rachel leaning up over him, peering at his face.
"I didn't mean to put you to sleep," she murmured, and he blinked harder to wake himself up, wrapping his arm around her waist as he sat up straight, keeping her against his side and then reaching his other hand up to her cheek, sliding it around behind her neck and tugging her gently forward so he could kiss her. She sighed, her whole body molding to his without an instant of surprise or hesitation, and the hand she had on the back of the couch curled around his neck as she returned the kiss, her breathing slow and steady as their lips pressed softly together.
It felt like a perfect moment, and then her stomach grumbled loudly and she breathed a laugh, leaning her forehead against his cheek.
"We missed lunch," he said quietly, still holding her tightly, and she nodded. They stayed just like that for a while longer, breathing it in, and then her stomach grumbled again and she looked up, kissing him once more and then climbing off the couch. She held her good hand out to him and he laughed, pushing himself off the arm of the couch and then taking her hand once he was on his feet.
He dropped her off at the table again and set about making an early dinner, but not before starting her off with a bag of baby carrots and a tub of hummus. She dug in, and they chatted, for perhaps the first time since they'd met one another, about nonsense, inane things like the best meal they'd ever had and their favorite kind of weather. It felt natural, easy, and a little too domestic, though he banished that thought from his mind.
She took her pill with the last of her dinner and watched him clean up, and by the time he was drying his hands she was drooping toward the table again. He nudged her up from her chair, took her hand, and walked her down the hall to her room.
In the doorway, she stopped short, eyeing her bed with trepidation. Her hand tightened on his and her eyes dropped to the floor, before glancing quickly toward the master bedroom and back to the floor.
It was easy enough to read, and he said, "I'm going to sit up and work a bit, but if you don't mind the light, there's plenty of room."
She nodded, squeezing his hand again, and didn't bother to fight him when he tucked her into the bed this time. Instead, she just nestled into the pillow, closing her eyes as he pulled the covers up to her ear. He kissed her forehead almost automatically, then fled the room to find his work and take a deep breath.
She fell asleep solidly on that side of the bed, and he sat up on the other side, a good foot or more between them. He focused—well—he did a better job of focusing, though he could still hear her breathing. He did at least make progress, and when he'd worked for a few hours he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, getting up to ready himself for bed.
Climbing into the bed on his side, he laid on his back with his arms crossed over his stomach, the same way he slept on a bunk or in a sleeping bag or at home in a big soft bed. It was a habit he couldn't break, and tonight he was glad, since it maintained the space between them.
Until, that was, he woke up suddenly to a dark room. Scanning the room from corner to corner, it was only a second before he realized what had woken him. Rachel was battling the bed covers, her good hand thrashing and her other arm fighting against the sling, her head turning against the pillow and her eyes squeezed shut.
He flipped the covers back, first, then slid across the mattress and reached for her good arm, just grazing her bicep with his fingertips, running his hand up and down until her movements suddenly stilled, her hand reaching up to grasp his forearm and her eyes opening.
"Hey," he said quietly, and she turned her head, her eyes locking on his. She stared at him, her breath slowing and steadying, and he tugged her gently closer, pulling her into his chest and keeping his arm wrapped around her. "You okay?"
She nodded, barely blinking, and her hand came up to stroke the side of his face. She picked her head up slightly, stretching toward him, and he met her halfway, letting her rest back on the pillow as he kissed her slowly and deeply.
"Thank you," she whispered, her hand staying on his face as she settled back into the bed and closed her eyes. He dropped his chin, his face nestling in the curve of her neck, and she sighed, that full-body exhale that always let him know she was okay.
xxx
In the morning, Rachel woke up alone in Tom's bed again, but this time she had no trouble remembering. The feeling was the same—oh god what have I done—but now she had actual reason to be thinking it. She'd only been here two days and already every line was blurring, every wall she had was crumbling around her and the fear in the pit of her belly was too, too familiar.
She lay on her back in the middle of her bed, her good arm flung out beside her, and stared at the ceiling as she thought. She would start weaning herself off the oxy—she would make do with ibuprofen—she would stop sleeping through daylight—she would spend the night in her own bed. It was only a matter of days until her follow-up appointment at the hospital, and after that she would have an idea of her future. This was temporary—she wouldn't let herself get used to something that could be gone tomorrow. Would be. If not tomorrow, someday very soon.
This had always been temporary, from the very start; it didn't even matter which start you looked at.
For the remaining days until her appointment, she withdrew into herself, reading on the couch during the day and sleeping with her door closed at night. If Chandler's eyes held a question every time her own glanced past—he didn't speak it aloud. They didn't talk about it. It was fine.
He chauffeured her to the hospital, waiting in the car as the doctor examined her, and as they drove back she spoke to the city outside the car window. "It's healing well, and the stitches will dissolve in another week. Then, I'll start physical therapy. I suppose the president has an apartment for me?" She glanced over at him and back out the window, too quick to even ascertain his expression. "I should go through my things, figure out what to take with me. I'm not sure I need to wait any longer. I think I'll be fine on my own."
He didn't respond, and she glanced over again, saw his hands gripped tight on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, and looked back out the window. He didn't speak until they were in the apartment, the door closed behind them, and she'd started down the hall to her room.
"Rachel," he said, and she stopped, waiting with her back to him. "You don't have to leave. If you need me to stay away from you, I will. But you can stay here."
She shook her head, let it hang down toward her chest, and half-turned toward him. "I can't thank you enough for everything you've done for me." She didn't look at him. "You have been—so kind. But it's time for me to go."
"Why?"
She headed back down the hall to her room, going into her closet and grabbing a handful of hangers, dumping the clothes on the bed before going back to the closet for another handful. While she was facing the bed, he appeared in the doorway behind her.
"Rachel, why? What is it going to hurt if you stay?"
She pressed her lips together, staring at the bed, though she had no idea what she was looking at.
"If it's just me you need to get away from, that's fine, but you have to tell me. You have to say it, or I'm just going to—"
"You feel obligated," she said. "You want to keep me safe. But I'm not here to be a burden on you. Okay? You have enough on your plate. I want to get out of your way."
He approached from behind, very slowly, like she was a startled animal that would run at one wrong movement. She wasn't sure he was wrong about that. When he got close enough, he reached out and rested a hand on either arm, testing the water, before gently pulling her back into his chest and wrapping his arms around her waist, dropping his chin to her shoulder and resting his cheek against hers.
"I don't want you here out of obligation," he said softly. "I just want you here. Why is that hard to believe?"
She didn't say anything, though she let her hand fall to rest on his, leaned back into his chest, and sighed.
"Do I lie?"
She laughed, rubbing her fingertips over his knuckles, between his fingers where they rested on her waist. "No, you don't lie."
"Then you believe me."
A pause, a moment's hesitation, and then, reluctantly, "Okay. I have to believe you, because you don't lie."
"Well, don't sound too excited about it," he muttered, and she laughed again, before pulling away and sitting down on the edge of the bed, keeping hold of his hand. He sat down beside her, wrapping his other arm around her waist and pressing his face into her neck.
"Listen," she said, and he muttered something unintelligible but grumpy before kissing her neck, her jaw, and her cheek and then finally meeting her eyes. She was smiling, didn't want to be smiling but couldn't help it, could feel the crinkles in the corners of her eyes that meant she was too happy to contain it. She dug her teeth into her lower lip, trying to look at least passably serious, before saying, "I won't be here when your children arrive."
The look on his face—shock in his eyes, brow furrowed, mouth dropping open slightly—almost broke her.
"I mean," she said, bumping his forehead with hers and then meeting his eyes again, "I won't be living here when your children arrive. They need you—all of you—and I'm not willing to get in the way of that. But I'll be around."
He grunted. "You'll be downstairs," he said, and she furrowed her brow at him, confused. He pointed at the floor. "Two floors down. That's where the one bedrooms are."
"Okay." She grinned, still uncontrollable. "I'll be downstairs."
"Good," he said, his eyes on her lips, and he leaned forward to kiss her again, his arm still tight around her waist. She wrapped her good arm around his neck and then he scooped her up in his arms and took a few steps over to lay her down on the bed. He pulled back to look at her, and he met her eyes and raised his eyebrows in question. She laughed, reaching for him and beckoning him back, and he grinned in return, leaning down to kiss her and allowing her to pull him down the rest of the way.
He braced his hands on the bed, his hip resting next to hers, then lowered himself to his elbows, careful, oh-so-careful not to rest any weight on her, not to jostle her shoulder, even as he kissed her as deeply as he knew how, as her arm wound around his neck, her fingers running through the hair on the back of his head.
Keeping his weight on one elbow, he slid his other hand over her belly, finding the hem of her top and slipping up under it, the breath in her chest beginning to shake as she hooked a leg around his hip and turned under him, pressing up against him when he wouldn't press down onto her. He turned his face to muffle a groan in the pillow, before shifting his hip over just a few inches, just enough to make the contact she was seeking.
Then he stopped, pulled his hand down and smoothed her shirt back over her belly, resting his hand there as he turned his face and said into her ear, "I'll be right back." He hurried out of the room, not looking back at her, and when he returned it was holding a small square of foil between his first two fingers. "The person who stocked my apartment had more faith in me than I did."
She looked up at the ceiling, torn between a grin and a laugh, and said, "God bless you, anonymous stocker-of-flats."
Then she reached for him, pulling him back down onto the bed and into the kiss, sliding her hand down the back of his neck and under his shirt as he slipped his hand back up under hers. She plucked at the neckline and he was all too happy to yank the shirt off over his head and drop it to the floor, coming back to bare her belly and kiss it, sliding his fingers past the waistband of her pants and then looking up again, waiting for her nod before sliding them down and off, dropping them to the floor as well and then standing up to make quick work of his own.
She watched him from the pillows, certain urges quashed by her limited mobility and dexterity, watched as he put the condom on himself and climbed back onto the bed, within her reach, and she smoothed her hand over the muscles on his back as he positioned himself over her. He kissed her, rested his face on hers as he slid inside her, all his muscles tensing up as he tried to remain silent, and she flexed under him, arching her back until he met her eyes.
"Hey," she said. "Don't hold back."
His eyes fell shut, his brow furrowing, and he said through gritted teeth, "I don't want to hurt you."
She laughed, her fingers curling against his back, her fingernails scratching lightly until he looked at her again. "Don't hold back," she said, and stretched up to kiss him, pressing up against him until he lowered himself, slowly, to rest on her. He kissed her hard, slipping one hand under her back and between her shoulder blades, right over her spine, as he drew himself out of her and then thrust back in, letting out a full-body groan, releasing maybe half of that tightly-reined control.
She knew he wouldn't let go completely, knew he would keep his other hand braced on the bed so he never put any weight on her injured shoulder, but at least she could release her own building moan without feeling entirely wanton.
She would wonder, later, if there were any situation in which he could be completely at ease, if it wasn't this, if it wasn't here, but for now it was almost freeing, knowing she was one hundred percent safe with him, that she didn't have to worry about falling off the bed or banging her head on the headboard or, yes, landing badly on her bullet wound and getting distracted by the pain of it.
She didn't have to think at all (though of course she did, couldn't shut off her mind any more than he could his instincts), keeping her focus on the physical, the solidity of his muscle and the fullness of him inside of her and then—and then there was the look in his eyes, and the way he kissed her, and—the warmth of his panting breath against her neck, the guttural groan that came from deep inside of him, the shift in sensation when she wrapped her legs around his waist—the words he muttered against her skin that she wouldn't decipher, that she could if she wanted to but absolutely wouldn't, the way he pressed his lips to every inch of exposed skin on her upper body, carefully skirting her wound—the breath that was taken from her when she finally came, when he shook against her, trembled, and she wondered if that was it, if that was his loss of control—but he never did let his weight fall on her.
He fell to the side, instead, rolling over onto the mattress, and she rolled with him, neither of them willing yet to separate, resting tangled and exhausted and satisfied, and he kept his arm around her waist, holding her close to his chest.
After they caught their breaths and were lying just to lie, her fingers drawing circles on his forearm and his nose nuzzling her cheek, he said, "Are you hurting?"
She had to laugh again, had to turn and kiss him, a kiss with too much meaning that she wasn't willing to read just yet. "What would you do if I was?" He narrowed his eyes, started to reply, and she laughed again. "I mean, besides offer me painkillers or, or a massage or—" She'd lost her point. "No, I'm not hurting."
"I was just checking," he said, nudging his nose into her cheek again, his tone approaching sulky.
She petted at his forearm, turned onto her side and pressed her back to his chest before picking up his hand and kissing the back of it. "You worry too much," she murmured. "I know you always will. But sometimes I'll have to laugh about it." She paused. "It's precious."
He made a "hmph" forceful enough that she could feel it disturb the hair at the back of her head. "I don't think anyone would ever associate that word with me."
"I do," she said quietly. "Dealbreaker?"
He pressed his face into her hair, pulled her even closer, and she could tell he was fighting a smile when he said, "No. You'll have to do better than that."
"Okay," she said, in a fake patronizing tone. "I'll try harder." She giggled, and felt the answering rumble of his chuckle behind her, and then she relaxed into the pillows and sighed, closing her eyes.
She felt small in his arms, in the best possible way. Her size and gender had often frustrated her when confronted by people who thought they could intimidate her with their size and testosterone, and it was strange, in a way, that the biggest, bulkiest man she'd ever met was also the one who most made her feel like an equal, who she never felt like she was looking up at even when it was a physical fact.
She was small, and it didn't matter. It actually felt pretty nice.
(It would be too easy, she thought, to get used to this.)
xxx
Can you feel it yet? Like a longed-for thaw.
Feel the blood rush back; feel the frost withdraw.