Title: Samson and Delilah
Author: Bluehaven4220
Summary: His thoughts drift to her again as he sits at his desk, and she disappears. It is then, and only then, that he realizes he is alone, and that he has lost her forever.
A/N: There is a companion video to this story. It is on YouTube at the following URL: http: / ca. youtube .com / watch?v vT6SX7TDhOs (just remove the spaces to create an actual URL). My name is the same there as it is here on FFnet.
ooOoo
And they'll all run pretty in New York City tonight. And someone's little girl is taken from the world tonight. Under the stars and stripes. Strong as you are, tender you'll go, I'm watching you breathing, for the last time. A song for your heart, but when it is quiet, I know what it means and, I'll carry you home, I'll carry you home.
Carry You Home- James Blunt
ooOoo
Unable to move, he can feel his world falling down around him, helpless to stop it from doing so. The IV in his hand pumping him full of fluids, his abdomen baring an elongated scar, a tube up his nose helping him to breathe. He closes his eyes and the dream he has been dreaming for weeks on end starts once again. This time, though, it is so clear it almost seems as though it is real.
He is riding through Central Park in a horse drawn carriage, the dark of the night unrelenting. The rain is pouring from the darkest clouds he has ever seen, soaking through his shirt and pants, but he does not feel it. In fact, he is too numb to really feel anything.
Suddenly his chest is constricting, it is difficult to breathe. His left arm has lost all feeling. It is ironic because he is not having a heart attack, but rather his grief is ready to consume him. He has never felt pain such as this before. If only he could see her one last time, touch her one last time, tell her that if he could take it all back, all would be right.
There is a figure in the distance, he can see her from where he sits. She is as beautiful as the day she stood in front of him and said yes. She stood in front of him, her veil covering her face, her dress trailing behind her, her train being held by her bridesmaids, her niece and his youngest sister, who was eighteen at the time. Yes, it is still branded in his mind's eye.
He can still see her smiling at him as his father walked her down the aisle, as per her request, tears streaming down her face as her hand joins with his. He can see himself kissing his father's hand in respect and then his father stepping aside. He can faintly hear the priest's words, whispering "Repeat after me..." and concluding the vows with expressing the notion that he may now kiss his bride.
He can still feel her lips pressing gently against his as he pulled her into his arms. The church had erupted in applause, and they'd walked down the aisle arm in arm, her smile broader than he'd ever seen before. They'd walked outside into the sunlight when they had been a series of shots fired. Instinctively he had attempted to shield her from the hail of greedy bullets, but once they had stopped, he pushed himself off her to find the front of his NYPD uniform stained with her blood.
He can still hear his own voice shouting to those around him. Shouting for them to call for an ambulance, a squad car. He knew someone had chased after the dirtbag who had shot at her, but at the time he didn't care. He knealt frozen beside his new wife, whose eyes were streaming. From the corner of her mouth he could see a trickle of blood. Her body jerked beneath his hands, and she took her last breath cradled in his arms.
But the woman standing in the distance is not the same woman he buried alongside her mother a week later. This woman is still wearing her wedding dress, and it is as white and as pure as she is. There is no blood running down the side of her mouth, her eyes are no longer glassy with life lost. She is somber, slowly gliding toward the carriage he is riding in.
He signals the man driving to stop, and he climbs down to find himself face to face with her. She has the same straw-coloured hair as she did, the same brown hue as her eyes did. And then he realizes who he is looking at...
He is looking at her.
Lifting the veil over her head, he stares into those same eyes. She stares back at him with equal intensity. Stepping back, he reaches forward to touch her face, stroking her cheek with the tips of his index and middle fingers. She says nothing, only capturing his hand in hers, and reassuring him that he is not to blame.
The tears begin to well as he kisses her fingertips, silently begging her to forgive him, telling her that if he could make it right, he would.
ooOoo
It is then that the sedative begins to wear off, and he is slowly waking up. There is someone standing over him, but he is not quite sure who it is. The person is holding on to his hand, telling him "if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Squeeze my hand..."
His fingers wrap around the one holding his hand, and his arm shakes lightly. He is still here, he is still alive.
Yet at that point he had wished he had died. He wanted so badly to see her again. He should have protected her, kept her safe. He should've dived in front of her and let her live. Why was she the one to take the bullet to the chest?
On that note, who the hell would shoot a bride coming out of the church on her wedding day?
His eyes open and he no longer sees her face, but the face of Mac Taylor.
He cannot speak, and this frustrates him to no end. He wants so badly to cry, the pain that seemed to have subsided suddenly blubbing to the surface. Unable to breathe deeply, the tears run down the side of his face.
He feels the fool, how could he allow himself to cry like this? He does not cry; he is stronger than this! His eyes roll back in his head, and his heart monitor starts to beep rapidly. The person who had been holding his hand is forced out of the room, and all goes black.
ooOoo
She is suddenly in view again, her eyes soulful and mourning. He tries to reach for her again, but she catches his hands again shakes her head.
"Don't ask to stay, it's not your time," she insists. "You can't come back to me yet, you aren't finished yet."
"I love you..." he sounds like a young boy terrified of the monsters lurking under the bed.
"I know," her language is simplistic, not at all like the woman he knew before. "I will always love you, but you cannot stay. You do not belong here, not yet."
"But why are you here, when I should be instead?"
"Because it was my time to go," she leaned forward and plants a soft kiss on his cheek. "Go back, they need you..."
He nods, willing himself to believe she is right. He stretches his arm out of the side, and falls backwards, landing not to the ground, but instead back into his body.
ooOoo
It has been three weeks since he has last dreamt of her, and he is ready to go home. He is tired of staying in bed, tired of his rehabilitation exercises, tired of being asked whether or not he is feeling better, tired of seeing the same food tray every day, but most of all he is tired of knowing that he will never see her smiling face again.
He is wheeled out of the hospital into his co worker's waiting car. Her curls shining the still rising sun, her eyes sparkling, her voice like music to his ears. She opens the passenger side door and helps him into the car. Closing the door as he buckled his seat belt, she thanks the orderly and walks around to the driver's side. Getting in, she buckles her seat belt and presses herself into back of the driver's seat. Sighing, she turns to him and smiles.
"Ready?" she asks.
Giving her a short smile, he nods once and turns to look out the window.
"Okay," she turns the key in the ignition and puts the car in drive.
He does not know how long it takes them to reach his apartment once again, but once they are there it does not matter. He helps him out of the car, takes his bag in one hand and grips his shoulder with the other, they head up the elevator to the fourth floor.
She turns the key in the lock and gets him into the apartment. Dressed in sweat pants and a worn out t-shirt, he has no qualms about rolling right into bed. This is what he does, and as his coworker sets the bag down in the corner of the bedroom, she turns around to head back into the living room. She has explained to him that she will be staying with him for the next week, having saved vacation time, to help him get used to the apartment again.
As she turns, he hears the words leave his mouth faster than he can stop them.
"Stay," he begs her, "here. Please..."
She smiles, nods, kicks off her shoes, and climbs into the bed beside him. Gently, he takes hold of her arms and wraps them around his torso gently. It is what he needs, to feel her body pressed gently against his, giving him that sense of security, that feeling of love between friends.
He feels her kiss his temple, and slowly he drifts off to sleep.
It is the first time in a very long time that he has not dreamt of the blood flowing from her chest, of her lifeless body cradled in his hands.
Instead he dreams of her lips pressed gently against his.
It is a good night.