Finally.

I know I'm not a great writer, but it would mean everything if you'd give it a chance!

Thank you my lovely Emma for all your help. Love you.

Un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.

All disclaimers apply.

Chapter One

Time is a fickle thing—it can either pass by entirely too quickly or excruciatingly slow. Sometimes, one can hear time tick and tick, the seconds slowly melting away into minutes, and the minutes seem to drag on and on, the hours can feel like years. Sometimes, one does not even feel it pass by, and it's like a breeze, passing by and in a blink of an eye, it's gone and everything's changed. Time can go on and on, eternal and on a loop, but it stops, momentarily, pauses when the moment is right.

It is steady and stable, yet it is relative, and no one really knows what can happen in a matter of minutes. It is meaningful and meaningless. It is important, yet it is far too easy to take it for granted.

For Robert Crawley, right in this moment every second counts, yet he isn't even aware anymore of time passing. Every heartbeat reverberates against his ear loudly, his heart thumping in an erratic rhythm, mocking him it seems. Every breath he takes feels heavy, too heavy.

"She's going to be okay, Robert," his sister, Rosamund, tells him as she gingerly places a hand on his tensed shoulders.

He turns to her, eyes wild and doubtful, the plethora of emotions swirling inside of him leaving him breathless, overwhelmed, and unable to process anything but the fear residing in him, taking roots in his chest.

"You don't know that," he snaps at her, though he doesn't really mean to, it's not Rosamund's fault. But really, Ros doesn't know that, neither does he, and the pain emanating from deep within his chest is too much, it's making him weak, festering, infiltrating his mind, and his thoughts are becoming his own poison. "No one knows that," he adds quietly.

Rosamund frowns, her hand circling his shoulder now, and she gives him a gentle squeeze—firm and reassuring, meant for him to know that he isn't alone, a boost. "She's a fighter, your wife," she tells him, and he knows that, of course, he does, and he agrees too. But how many battles, how long does she have to fight until she is no longer a fighter and the will to fight is gone? "She has survived Mama all these years, she can win this fight too, Robert. She's going to be fine."

Robert grunts, but offers his sister no reply, because what is there left to say? Whilst verbally sparring with Mama and taking criticisms and jibes on a daily basis does require a good fight and a sturdy backbone, this is different. Being involved in an accident is different. Fighting for your life is an entirely different story. At this point, he just wants his wife to wake, to smile at him again, and taunt him or tease him, to stick her often freezing toes against his, to see her vibrant blue eyes—twinkling in mirth or mischief. He doesn't have a clue what's going to happen, but he just needs her to be okay.

He hears Rosamund sigh before she drops her hand and encloses hers around his,, gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze, and Robert feels as though somehow, at least a piece of him pieces itself back together.

It's a long way, but it's a start.

(…)

He doesn't know how much time has passed from the time he's gotten the call from the hospital that his wife had been rushed in, to the moment he burst through the hospital entrance like a wild man, frantic and scared, to that moment, now, that he sees the doctor coming out of the operating room, walking towards where he and his sister are seated.

Robert stands from one of those horrid plastic chairs he's occupied and walks up to meet the doctor halfway. The question itches up in his tongue, and he bites it down because he isn't sure he can even be proper or stable right now, considering how frenetic he feels at the moment.

"Are you Mrs. Crawley's family?" the young doctor asks, his brown eyes settling on Robert and then shifting to Rosamund who has come up to stand beside her brother.

"Yes," Robert responds, nodding. "I'm her husband."

"I'm Doctor Riley. I'm your wife's attending physician," the Doctor says, offering Robert his hand.

Robert extends his hand to shake the doctor's proffered one. "How is she? How's my wife?"

"So far we've stabilized her," the doctor answers, his voice is firm but gentle, it's almost soothing. Hs eyes are soft and sympathetic. "She has two broken ribs, and she broke her left leg, she has some bruises and scrapes, but no internal damage. She's very lucky."

Robert sighs in relief, his tensed shoulder deflating, and the hands he isn't even aware he's balled into fists, unclenching on his sides.

"She's still unconscious, but we're moving her now to a more private room," Doctor Riley adds. "The blow to her head caused some trauma, but other than caution for possible concussion, we are yet to know the extent of her injuries when she wakes."

"What do you mean, Doctor?" Robert asks, instinctively knowing that there is more to what the doctor is saying.

"There might be some cognitive damage, because of the trauma," Doctor Riley explains. He hesitates, pauses, before breathing in and out. "She might suffer from memory loss, but that something cannot fully asses, it isn't definite, until she awakens."

The words feel like a bucket of cold water poured all over him-jolting and bone-chilling, because what, what is he supposed to do if his wife can't, doesn't, remember him? How is he supposed to go on when the one person that matters most to him does not even know who he is?

"It's a possibility," the doctor tells him, and he isn't even sure at this point if it's supposed to be reassuring, because it really is not working. "We're only looking at it as a possibility."

But the panic rising inside Robert as the words sink in does not tamper down with the doctor's cautious reassurances. It only intensifies—the bile rises to his throat and the world feels like it's closing in around him.

"Thank you, doctor," Rosamund says in his stead, as he is slow to do it himself. She stands beside him, nudging him slightly, reeling him back to reality and out of him poisonous thoughts.

The doctor nods. "The nurse will inform you of the room number once Mrs. Crawley's been transferred," he says to them before bidding them goodbye when his beeper goes off.

"Robert," Ros whispers as she gives his arm a gentle squeeze. "She's okay, Robert. She's okay."

Robert breathes in, the words permeating through the bubble he's created for himself. He could feel his legs giving out on him, feels Rosamund pull him towards the chairs, sitting him down and settling him. He can feel the motions, lets his sister lead him, but he isn't sure of what he's happening.

But his wife is okay, she's okay. She's made it through, and she's okay.

"She's alright," he echoes, feeling like a child as the information settles in his brain. It feels surreal—like all of this has only been a bad dream, but it isn't. God, it isn't. It's all been real. "She's alright," he repeats, as if to convince himself, and yes, maybe he is.

"She is," Rosamund assures him, "Now, you have to pull yourself together before you go to her. Be strong. She needs you to be…she's going to need you so much."

He breathes in deeply. Rosamund is right. His wife needs him now, needs him to be beside her, and right beside her he will be.

(…)

She is beautiful, even with the tubes and machines hooked and attached to her, even with the bruises and scrapes covering the surface of her skin, she is beautiful—so fragile and so beautiful that it breaks his heart to even look at her. But look at her he does, because he is afraid that if he looks away even for a second, she might disappear.

He takes a seat next to her bed and takes her hand in his, holding on to it, hoping that she would help anchor him through this sea of pain he's drowning in.

"Oh Cora," he breathes out as he places a kiss against her knuckles. Tears press against his eyes and he is barely able to stop them from flowing down his cheeks. He holds on to her tighter, her lack of response weighing heavily on his chest. "I'm so sorry, darling."

He is supposed to protect her, supposed to make sure that this doesn't happen. He should have driven her, should have been there for her, maybe he could have prevented this from happening.

He should have done something, could have done something.

He only wishes now that she is fine, and that she awakens soon, for his heart feels heavy, feels so alone without her. And as their future remains to be unseen, remains to be a mystery (will she remember him? Does she still have her memories? Or will he be a distant, forgotten memory?)—he feels unable to breathe.

"Please, wake up my darling," he pleads with his sleeping wife, trying to push the negative thoughts away. He can only slay one dragon at a time, and this is enough dragon to slay for him at the moment. He lifts her hands and brushes his lips once more against her skin. He is sorely disappointed and more than just a little hurt when his pleas continue to fall on deaf ears.

(…)

Hour stretch into days, and it sees no progress in his wife's condition. She's still under a coma, fast asleep, oblivious to the world around him, oblivious to his pain and the deep twinge in his chest that arises whenever he sees her laying in her hospital bed, unmoving.

His heart aches everyday for her, it breaks and until she awakens, he isn't sure how to piece the parts back together. And there is always that matter of her possibly losing her memories (god, could the doctor have left that out for him instead?).

His family tries to help him, in any and every way they can, but nothing helps. As it is, he can barely drag himself away from her, he sets up vigil by her side, only ever agreeing to go home to shower. But he stays by her side, doesn't want her to wake and find herself alone, and he isn't there. Rosamund offers her silent but steady support, and so does her husband, Duke. Mama and Papa are even more quiet, but he knows that they are there for him, for his wife. His wife's mother, Martha, is there too, having arrived a few days prior, and she is anything but silent (for she is not herself is she is not loud, Robert muses), badgering him to take breaks and go home to sleep and shower when she thinks he's overdoing it. But she is there for her daughter, for him, too. And all in all, Robert is grateful.

Honestly, now he just wants his wife to be awake, needs to see her awake, smiling up at him, vibrant blue eyes peering up at him.

It's been weeks now, and still, she lays asleep, the monitor beeping as her heart remains steady—his consolation, is that she's stable and healing. But he misses her, misses her too much.

"She's never the one to go out without a bang, you know, my daughter," Martha tells hm one day. They have spent many weeks together sitting by his wife's bedside, sometimes sharing silence, but often sharing tales of the woman lying steadfastly on the bed (mostly, Martha regales him stories of his wife when she was younger, long before they've met and fallen in love).

Robert remains silent, even as he shifts to look at the flamboyant woman beside him.

"She likes to make a statement," Martha continues, shaking her head and smiling fondly, albeit a bit sadly. "She doesn't say much, doesn't even interact much with others, but when she does, she likes to leave an impression, the whole shebang."

Robert nods his assent. He knows this, know that his wife does not do anything halfway. She always goes all out.

"Cora is many things," he agrees, smiling, remembering the times his wife's exploded in ager, the many times she's impressed him with the things she can do, the things she does. She is everything.

"She is. But most of all, Cora is a survivor," Martha says, her eyes falling to her daughter's sleeping form. "She is good at adapting, surviving. She fits in well, without losing who she is. And she is a fighter."

"That's what Rosamund said," he admits to his mother-in-law, and he does believe it, he really does. He knows it. "And it's what I know. I know she'll pull through." He pauses, sighs and tries to keep his voice from breaking. "I just want her to be awake now."

He looks at her, at Cora, his heart feeling like it's being held in a vise grip as she remains sleeping, unmoving. It's almost been a month now, and though most of her physical damages have healed nicely by now, she still remains dead to the world.

"Cora, please," he begs quietly, and when she fails to respond, he excuses himself, needing a moment alone for he feels he might break down from the feeling of everything weighing him down.

He just really needs his wife back.

(….)

She feels pain…so much pain radiating from the base of her skull to her forehead, to her temples, and good god, every part of her body. Her muscles feel like they are on fire, and even as she attempts to just tilt her head, they protest. She feels like she's been run over by a truck.

Oh, how wonderful.

She groans, trying unsuccessfully to command her eyes to open. They feel heavy, and her mind is telling her that she should sleep it off, that trying to awaken when she has this much pain residing in her head is a bad idea.

She hears someone say her name frantically, excitably, and she isn't entirely sure who it is, the voice is indistinctive and a bit far, and her brain is just a tad bit too hazy to decipher whose voice it is. She tries again to open her eyes, and slowly, they flutter open. Her vision is blurry, the images she sees are nothing more than shapes and silhouettes with color, and she blinks, and blinks again until she maintains focus and the blurry images become clearer, the colors and shapes taking a definite picture.

The light overhead blinds her and she shuts her eyes abruptly, momentarily blinded by such a bright light.

Where is she?

And wherever the hell she is, what is she doing there?

The questions are left unanswered as she feels someone take her hand and squeezes it. She opens her eyes again and she finds her mother peering up at her, a small watery smile tilting her painted lips up. Mother's eyes are tearful as well, and she almost can't believe it as she sees moisture trailing down her mother's cheek. She reaches out to wipe it away, groaning slightly at the effort it took for her to even move her arm.

Her mother chuckles, warm but obviously joyous, and she feels light, feels like she's done something right if mother is acting that way. She lifts her brow in question, because she can't speak, her throat feels so dry—and gods, she needs water, now.

"I'm okay," mother says as she smiles again and reaches towards the side table to get a cup of water. Mother offers it to her, holding up the straw so she can sip properly, even as she remains lying in bed.

She takes a long sip, gulps the water greedily, feeling instant relief as the cold beverage slides down her throat and the fire in her throat recedes, and it feels no more than sandpaper—scratchy and rough, but at least it's not burning.

"Thank you," she croaks out, reaching out again to clasp her mother's wrist with her hand and gving it a gentle squeeze. She gives her mother a wobbly smile.

"Glad to see you awake," says a young man beside her mother, who seems to have sprout up from nowhere. His smile is soft and gentle, and his brown eyes are settled on her with warmth in them that she almost feels safe. "I'm Dr. Blake, your physician," he introduces himself, and, ah, that's why he looks so polished.

But wait, what, she's in the hospital? Why? When did that happen? There are a million question running through her head, but her doctor beats her to it.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Like death warmed over," she quips, thinking nothing of it, until mother throws her a look. "I'm fine. Just, my head, I feel like a marching band has taken residence on my skull."

"It's normal," he says, nodding. "I'll have the nurse bring something in for the pain, but don't be so alarmed, it's normal for someone who suffered through a head injury."

She wants to nod, tries actually, but the movement only adds up to her pain, and so she settles down, her lips twitching.

He asks her a few more question, if anything hurts, and where, if she is feeling any discomfort, etcetera, and she answers his question, though somewhat mechanically because she's still trying to get her bearings. A nurse comes in and hands her the painkillers which she pops in her mouth easily, washing it down with the water, before she turns to the doctor.

"So, I'm in the hospital?" she asks unnecessarily. She knows she is, he's her physician for god's sake. "What happened?"

Her mother then gasps and looks at her disbelievingly—or is that fear in mother's eyes, she doesn't know—before squeezing her hand once again. "Don't you remember what happened darling?"

She'd shake her head if she could, but that would be painful so instead she murmurs a no and bites down her lips because something feels wrong. Is she supposed to remember? Yes, probably yes. But what is she to remember? She is probably involved in a car accident, and now she's out of the woods—so to speak—so what is the matter?

Before she can ponder more about that, the door bursts open, and a man comes charging in the room, his eyes wild but totally excited, and she'd think it's adorable, if only she's not missing half of what she is supposed to remember. She thinks that his are the most beautiful eyes she's ever laid eyes on, and he is quite handsome, his lips are curved (he looks happy even when he's frantic), and the twinkle in his eyes as they lay on her form—that's something she's not about to forget anytime soon.

The said man flings his arms around her gingerly and hugs her tight to him. Mercifully, her lungs don't protest, only her brain. What the hell is going on in here?

She pushes the man away and then she has to look away when a sad expression fills his eyes. It's a deep pang in her chest that she cannot place. A familiar feeling of heartache that she isn't even sure she's experienced before.

"Robert, darling, slow down," her mother says slowly but sternly, and Robert backs away from her, as if burned.

He stares at her, she can feel it, even if she isn't looking back at him. She is about to tell him, them, something—anything, but she doesn't know what. Luckily, the handsome young doctor saves her.

"Ma'am, do you remember anything from your accident?" the doctor asks.

She feels Robert's and Mother's eyes on her and she tries not to buckle under the pressure. "No," she murmurs. "I don't."

The doctor nods slowly. "Do you know who you are? Your name?" he asks once more.

She tamps down the urge to laugh, because what a ridiculous question—of course, she does. "Cora Levinson," she says softly but certainly. What do they think they're getting at?

Both mother and Robert gasps, and she isn't sure why, she isn't sure why the doctor is shaking his head too, as though he is only realizing how much damage the accident really has made on her brain—and that is probably the case.

"Do you know who I am?" the Robert guy asks her, and she bites her tongue, mother literally just mentioned his name…but other than that, she really doesn't know him.

God, she wishes that the pill knocked her out for a few more hours…maybe she can face this better when she's had enough sleep and no little dwarves hammering away in her head or something.

"Who are you?" she tosses back at him, and he looks at her, crestfallen, looking very ready to just breakdown and cry. What the hell is going on?

"Tell me what date it is," the doctor asks of her. And really, are these people a bunch of nutjobs or something?

"October 2009?" she says, feeling uncertain now.

Mother gasps from beside her and the Robert fellow looks like the world just caved around him. The doctor remains passive, but he looks like he's uncovered something that's made him sad. He shakes his head slowly, slightly, almost imperceptibly, but she's seen it.

"Miss Levinson, this is Robert Crawley, he's your husband," the doctor says slowly, gesturing to the man who looks like his world just crumbled to his feet, and she isn't sure how to process that little tidbit. Married? She is married? How? Why? "And it's not 2009 it's October 2015," he continues, making a sharp gasp escape her mouth.

Is this a joke? Because if it is, then it's certainly funny. But one look at her mother's and Robert's faces, she realizes it is anything but.

Now you begin to wonder what the fuss was all about. Tell me what you think! Yay or nay? Should I continue? :)