Summary: (Oneshot, Cuddycentric) Breathe in. Breathe out. Pretend that your whole existence does not depend on these few minutes.
Notes: Yay! Another House fic! I'm quite proud of myself. /grins/
Breathe
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The simple act of filling and emptying your lungs of air should not require so much thought. And yet, you are thankful it does. Because it occupies your mind, distracting you from the horrible reality.
The reality that...no, must not think of that. You'll suffocate. You're suffocating...
Breathe in. Breathe out.
You sit here, a blur of flashing lights surrounding you, blue and red, blue and red...a obnoxious, blinding kaleidoscope. You look away, eyes scanning over everything but the mangled heap of metal only feet in front of you. There's a man beside you, asking questions in an unusually smooth voice. It reminds you of the piano.
He plays the piano...no, must breathe.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Hands probe the side of your head. You hear nothing specific, just a collage of sounds, of engines, of voices, of blaring horns.
There's pain. You flinch. The smooth voice continues talking. Your head is being turned, a square white cloth taped above your eye. You reach up to feel it, only to pause halfway. Crimson mars the ivory, there's blood on your hand.
Is it yours? Or is it his?
No, it's yours. It has to be.
A watery voice in the background tells you you're good to go. "Good to go where?" internally, you question. But outwardly, you thank him and turn away. An automatic reflex, the usual façade. Fools everyone but the few who know the real you.
And he is one of the few. The bitter, sarcastic one. The one that holds your heart. The one that is now trapped inside a monster of twisted metal and shattered glass.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Pretend that your whole existence does not rely on these few minutes.
You can feel your sanity slowly returning, shock fading away. You're glad; pain is better than numbness. At least this way, you can focus.
You turn your head, hearing shouts. They've finally reached him through the debris. Your heart gives a leap, but you shove it back down, realism outweighing naïveté - pessimism outweighing optimism?
In your own little universe, seconds are eons, and finally, he's on the blank white stretcher. They're carrying him toward you, but you take a blind step in his direction anyway, only to stumble. High heels and freeway shoulder do not mix.
They lift him into the ambulance, and you follow, the familiar atmosphere not at all comforting - too many people are lost during these trips.
The siren is switched on, and you are jostled around a little as they pull onto the road. You settle for watching as the paramedic performs the necessary functions - you have far too much at stake to risk an error of your own judgment. Thank God, there don't seem to be any major problems.
Your gaze falls to your own lap. Your hand grips his, unconsciously. You pray for him to wake up. Could he please squeeze your hand?
There. You feel it.
Breathe in.
Your eyes snap to his face; the brilliant blues open a second later.
"Damn, I love this view." The voice is weak, there's no smirk, but tired eyes are alight with humor. You glance down. You're bent over him, cleavage thoroughly exposed.
You shake your head and sit back. A tiny smile breaks through. His hand remains clasped in yours.
He'll be fine.
And finally, you can breathe.
end