A/N: A Washlina fic, enjoy, and leave a review to make me smile like a little kid if you want to :)
Her eyes catch sight of his motionless form, and her heart shudders.
Washington – no, David - lies in the hospital bed, so silent and still that any other might've thought he was dead.
Just like you did when he dropped to the ground, Carolina -
She brushes back the imposing thoughts with a visible shiver, and it's like she can hear the blood pounding in her ears. There's white noise in her mind, crowding and causing an unnameable claustrophobic feeling and she feels like she wants to scream or cry –
He moves.
She can't feel herself walk forward, but mere seconds later she's at his bedside, her helmet abandoned and on her knees. His eyelids flutter and the heart monitor beeps, adding to the cacophony inside her head. The bandage round his neck is soaked with blood, dark red and blaring in her vision, so stark against the otherwise white room that it makes her feel unnecessarily panicked. His armour is gone, replaced with a pale hospital gown that drains all colour from his tan complexion. He looks so ill, so desperately sick that she feels the anxiety and panic from the shooting return.
The way he just stood there, blank and uncomprehending, not understanding what was happening as the bullet pierced through the Kevlar on his neck –
He's on the floor, blood pooling around his head, and she's immediately at his side, too stunned to react, for the tears to fall. She can hear Tucker, hear the Reds and Blues cry out for him, for their friend. She can feel bile rising, and attributes it to the shock, the fear, the realisation that after all the others she'd lost, she'd lose him too, the only friend –
She remembers this feeling. The last time she felt it was York, hearing of his death, how she'd cried, the emotions she'd suppressed and allowed to build up breaking free of their restraints. She understands that Wash might not survive, that there's a high probability he's going to die and leave her on her own, the last of the freelancers and she'll well and truly be all alone…
"Carolina? Would you like me to pull you up a seat?"
She starts from the daze she hadn't realised she was in at Grey's sudden intrusion, turning around from where she knelt. She attempts to speak, refuse the offer, but no words come. A hoarse croak escapes her throat, and Grey just nods her head, leaving the room. Just as Carolina thinks she may have left, the Doctor returns, dragging with her a chair. It's unsettling, not hearing Grey's usual chipper tone, her seemingly endless enthusiasm. In a way, she feels as though she needs it.
"It's here if you need it," Grey says, and sets a hand on the ex-freelancer's shoulder. "Y'know, just in case. I think you'll be here a while."
"Thank you," Carolina manages, her voice quiet. She doesn't trust herself enough for it not to break.
"That's okay. Get some sleep, though. No offense, but you look like you haven't slept in days."
"Right," Carolina responds simply, and focuses back on Wash. It's true she hasn't been sleeping. She hasn't closed her eyes once since the shooting, not once. She feels as though if she so much as blinks, something will go awry, and Wash will be dead and gone and there'll be nothing she can do about it.
Eventually, she relents, and drags the seat closer to the hospital bed. She rests her chin on her folded arms, which are set down in the limited space by Wash's shoulder. He looks older – much more so than he did back in his days in Project Freelancer. His hair still favours the blond dye, and his dark roots show in his undercut. There are shadows under his eyes, much like under her own, and there are frown-lines etched into his skin. He isn't old; barely older than thirty or so, but war has worn him down.
She supposes it's taken its toll on all of them.
Carolina lifts her head, looks at her hands. They're hardened, calloused with her years of combat and experience, and coated with surface scratches. She looks at Wash's bare arms, observes the pale marks and scars that criss-cross over his skin. He isn't too much younger than her – four or five years at best, but the physical remnants of their shared history seem to have clung to him and aged him quicker than he should be.
Her left hand finds his hair, careful not to move his head, and her fingers weave gently through the thick strands. Wash's eyelids flicker again, his eyes moving beneath them as though he's dreaming. After particularly exhausting days back on Chorus, she'd find them in a similar position; Wash with his head in her lap, eyes closed and resting peacefully as she stroked his hair. It's different now. It's a requirement to be close to him, to know that he's okay.
His eyes are open, and he's looking straight at her. She wants him to say something, but then the realisation hits that he might not be capable. Maine never spoke again after his throat injury, only communicating through guttural growls that seemed to resonate through your bones. What if Wash is the same? Unable to speak, or communicate at all?
"Hey," Carolina says softly, and her fingers in his hair don't cease their movement. "You're awake."
He blinks at her, then his bloodshot eyes travel elsewhere, skimming over the room. The heart-monitor beeping quickens, and she remembers; the Epsilon implantation. His hand reaches for his head, and Carolina is quick to intercept it. She intertwines her fingers with his, stroking her thumb over his own.
"You're okay, you're okay," she whispers, and his breathing slows. The morphine is in effect, and it shows in the drowsy and lethargic movements. "You're still alive. Lucky, huh?"
His mouth manages a small, quivering smile. In a slight burst of confidence, she lifts his hand held in hers to her lips, leaving a small kiss there. His smile widens, and she's reminded with a pang of nostalgia of his rookie-like behaviour back in the project. He was childish back then, in an endearing and charming manner that only David could manage.
"Gave us a scare, Wash," she continues, not giving him a chance to attempt speech. "I – we thought we were going to lose you. Everyone came to visit earlier, by the way. Sorry I couldn't be here sooner."
She feels his fingers squeeze hers tightly, giving the only reassurance he's able to provide what with his condition. Carolina squeezes back and moves her other hand to brush his messy bleached hair away from his forehead. He must've shaved his beard, as all there is now is thick stubble gained from days trapped in their armour. She leaves his forehead, gently touching the side of his face instead with a sort of absentminded vacancy.
"Don't leave us," she says almost inaudibly. "I can't even begin to count the amount of times you've nearly died on us."
With that, she leans forward in her chair and presses a kiss to his forehead. His skin is warm and damp with sweat, but it's familiar and Washington, so she pays no mind.
The smile is back.