A/N: This was based off of two Tumblr prompts: "Only Human," and "Take a Deep Breath." The latter is from a prompt list, "100 Ways to say 'I love you.'"
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ideas! I hope you enjoy.
He's always thought of her as more, somehow. More than human.
(As ridiculous as it sounds, it's true; between her crashing into his orbit in that bar, and the slice of her soul hidden in the journal pages, she seems larger than life, a mythical force of nature.)
But now...
Now, he's all too aware of how human she is. Covered in blood, unmoving... He isn't even certain she's breathing. (He knows he isn't.)
It's all a blur in his mind, the moments before. Her hand on his arm, pushing him aside. Him going easily. (He always does what she wants, why should this time be any different? He had no way of knowing-)
The gunshot.
Her falling.
He's distantly aware of Wyatt firing back, but he can hardly bring himself to care. He drops to his knees, kneeling by her fallen form, heart racing. Desperate for even the slightest sign that she's still... He can't even finish the thought. Of course she is. She has to be.
"Lucy?" He can barely choke out the word. "Lucy? Hey, hey, Lucy?" He touches her shoulder, gently, and offers the slightest prayer. "Please."
Finally, finally, she stirs. Groans.
(And he never thought he'd be happy to hear her in pain, but that noise means she's alive, and oh, that's all he needs.)
"Lucy, you're okay, hm? You're gonna be fine." It's true. It has to be true. But there's so much blood, and he can hardly think at all. He can't do this again, can't lose another woman he-well. He can't. "Take a deep breath." Please don't stop breathing
She shifts. Whimpers. "It's okay," she manages, and he almost wants to laugh. Of course. Only Lucy Preston could be bleeding out, and trying to reassure everyone around her. "I'll be okay."
"Shh," he murmurs. "Don't try to talk. Just stay with me."
Of course, even in this state, she won't stand for being told to be quiet. (Or lay, as the case may be.) "I'll be okay." Impressively determined, all things considered. "The-the journal."
The journal? What does she mean? He could care less about the journal right now, as long as she's alive. The journal is just a book. Lucy is...
All he has left.
He's half aware of Wyatt and Rufus stepping in to take care of her, and he wants to thank them, but he can't find the words. Shock, he thinks. He's in shock. "Don't worry about the journal."
"Nooo..." She's impossibly pale, and her eyes are barely open, but still, she's fighting with him. Never let it be said the she doesn't know how to hold her ground. "Haven't written it. So I can't die. But you can. And you-you can't."
Oh. Ohhh. It hits, with sudden intensity that leaves him almost breathless, what she's saying.
She took the bullet for him, because she was scared that he would die, and she thought she couldn't. She thought she was invincible. (Between her and Rufus, he's going to be completely gray by the time this rebellion is over.)
"But you're hurt."
She doesn't hesitate. "Would be worse if you..." Her body chooses that moment to acknowledge the massive amount of blood she's lost, and she goes limp, finally passing out.
"Lucy?" He thinks he might sound hysterical, but he doesn't care. "Lucy, wake up. Please wake up. I-" He doesn't quite mean to say it, but it slips out anyway. "I love you, draga. Please."
Everything after that is a blur: Getting her to the Lifeboat, holding her together until Agent Christopher can get a doctor there, watching him stitch her up... And praying, desperately praying that she holds on. He can't lose another woman he loves. Can't sit by another graveside and find the strength to pull himself back up. He could hardly do it the first time, and now...
He can't.
When she finally wakes, three days later, he's by her side.
"Flynn?" Her voice is weak from disuse, and her eyes are only half open, but she's already searching for him. The desperate panic that has been his every waking thought since the accident finally fades, just for a moment.
"I'm here," he murmurs, reaching for her hand before he can talk himself out of it. Can't help but be stupidly relieved when she doesn't pull away, just grasps his hand tightly in her own. "What do you need?"
"I-" A fit of coughs overtakes her, and he glances around, grabbing a cup of water with his free hand and bringing it to her lips. She drinks greedily, clears her throat, and tries again. "I told you I wasn't going to die."
That ridiculous, wonderful woman. Awake less than a minute, and already saying 'I told you so.'
He can't help it; he laughs.
"You did," he says finally, lighter than he's felt in days. "No need to go to such lengths to prove it next time, hm?"
She rolls her eyes, trying to pull herself into a sitting position. Even as he reaches for her to stop her, she seems to realize it's a bad idea, grimacing in pain. She glances at the hand now on her shoulder, the one previously caught in her own, and very deliberately reaches over and grabs it again.
"You, ah..." Of course his brain chooses this moment to stop functioning. His wife used to tease him for being terrible at this sort of thing. Settling for a distraction, he mutters, "You picked a fine time to start believing in the journal."
She doesn't miss a beat.
"And you picked a fine time to stop."
It stings, even if it isn't meant to. "I never stopped," he insists, needing her to understand. "Never stopped believing in it, or-or you. I just... I thought-"
I thought you were going to die.
He can't bring himself to say it, but she squeezes his hand, and he knows that she knows what he means.
"I heard you."
"Heard me?" He tries to retrace their conversation, to figure out what she means, but comes up blank.
"When I passed out." It takes him a single second to realize what she means. And he can't bring himself to regret what he said, but if she hates him for it-if she pulls away from him-if he loses her-
Without quite meaning to, he holds her hand a little tighter.
The pain meds they have her on must be strong, because she's already starting to drift off again, eyes fluttering shut. Still, she manages, "I heard what you said. And I... I want..."
She's still trying to force the words out, and he desperately wants to hear them, but he knows it isn't the time. She needs to rest, to heal, and he needs... A proper night's sleep, for one thing. This cot by her beside hasn't been very comfortable. But he won't be sleeping properly until he knows she's okay. So he leans over, pressing his lips firmly to her forehead. "Shh. We have time for that, hm? We have time for that. Sleep, now, love."
For once, she actually listens, though he suspects the drugs may be responsible.
Still, as she caves to sleep, a soft smile dances on her lips, and he can't help but smile back.
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