Javier wasn't conscious when his heart finally failed, but from the moment he woke out of his fever, he'd been waiting for it to happen.
Tied down to the hospital bed, there had been more than enough free hours in each day, and nothing much to fill them but waiting. And, waiting, there had been several times when he had been sure it was about to happen. Times when his heart had labored a heavier beat than usual in his chest, accompanied by a sensation of pressure and a sick churning, like the sucking in a clogged drain. Each time, he'd find himself torn between conflicting instincts, breath held as he listened, waiting, while an angry voice in the back of his mind urged him not to stop... Not when it could be the last real breath he had.
And finally, the next beat would come. And the next, and the next, and the pressure in his chest would ease, leaving only slow, quiet dread behind.
Next time, maybe. Next time...
His heart no longer beat, but it was funny how similar it felt watching his partner get shot. The sick lurch and that sucking feeling were almost identical despite the lack of real function beneath it, the frozen anticipation painfully familiar. And he couldn't have breathed if he wanted to, so focused on his partner's chest—the alarming stutter in its rise and fall as Kevin struggled to pull air into his lungs.
And the relief as Kevin opened his eyes, fogged with pain, but seeing him... His partner's breathing was evening out, and the bullet hadn't breached the vest...
And next time...
Javier was going to make damned sure there was no "next time".