Delphine quits smoking.
It isn't hard, not at first. She's too busy - making sure Cosima gets enough water and sleep - to notice. Besides, at this point she doesn't want to risk stepping out for even a moment. It's not even a conscious effort until Cosima chokes on her breakfast Sunday morning; mouthfuls of toast and blood dropping into her lap. That's when she knows. That's the day she digs a half-empty packet of cigarettes out of her purse and buries it in the trash. To hell with it, she thinks. To hell with coughing and lungs and oxygen tanks and everything.
Delphine doesn't know what she hopes-prays- it'll do. Like maybe if her lungs are healthy, Cosima's will get there as well. She decides breathing in tobacco isn't anywhere close to breathing in fire; breathing in Cosima. She quits smoking.
Cosima asks about it only once. She's sprawled on the couch with a blanket haphazardly thrown across her lap, a bin of tissues by her head. Delphine shrugs and tells her she wants to be there for her 24/7. Cosima kisses her knuckles, then, after a beat, snickers. She tells Delphine she's dropped a peg on the French ladder.
It gets harder at night. When the only light is coming from her laptop and the only sound from Cosima's ragged breathing. When her eyes are drifting closed but she doesn't want to risk Cosima waking up and needing her. This is when her fingers make their way to her lips in a practiced motion, a ghost nestled in between them. She opens her eyes wider. Brightens the screen. Downs another cold cup of coffee.
Cosima's cell phone rings twice, one night. Delphine doesn't answer it the first time. The second time, Cosima shuffles in the bed. Delphine presses the talk button.
"Cos?"
"No, I'm sorry. Cosima is sleeping. I did not want to wake her."
"Oh. Right, ok. Hey, tell her I called, yeah?"
"Of course." There's a pause on the other end.
"Hey, Delphine?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For watchin' out for her."
.
Delphine looks at Cosima every day and every day Cosima looks worse. Her lips are rough against her own. Her skin is paler, her laugh quieter. She can barely keep yogurt down anymore. Delphine insists they wheel in a heart monitor, and she doesn't argue.
.
Cosima quits breathing.
.
It happens at exactly 2:53 am. The monitor pulses and slows and pulses and slows and slows and stops completely.
.
.
The days blur together. Delphine lights a cigarette.