Disclaimer: I don't own it.
AN: For EloraCooper4 because she is an unbelievable writer and her fic 'You'll Never Be Alone' inspired this! If you haven't read and reviewed it, do it! And all her other stuff. It's fantastic.
It was nearly time. He could tell. It was a combination of a lot of things over the last few days, really. The added feeling of unconquerable lethargy, as if he didn't feel exhausted enough already; the increasingly concerned clicks of nurses tongues and shaking of their heads as they checked his progress charts; the look on Mark's face when he last came to visit, the smile sliding off his face when he entered and saw Collins' face, waxy and tired. Yes, his time was drawing closer.
It was midnight when he awoke, the tiny digits of Benny's watch staring at him from across the room. Benny had left it there earlier that day, claiming that the clock in the room was wrong. Collins knew it was really just to give him an excuse to return. Even Benny was afraid of saying goodbye.
Now Collins was shivering. Again. The hospital sheets were wrapped tightly around him, slowly soaking in his sweat. He couldn't breathe. He pushed the blankets off him roughly, grabbing at the collar of his loose hospital pajamas and pulling it away from his neck, his throat undulating thickly as he gasped for oxygen. He could feel his windpipe clouding over. He sat up, pain searing across his wasted chest with the sudden movement. A soft tingling sensation began to spread down his arms and legs, paralysing his fingers and feet as the machines hooked to his body began to shift from their monotone beeping to a more frenetic, siren-like alarm. His whole body was stiffening, he was nearly crying in his effort to breathe and his chest was aching horribly. He jerked forward and, feeling his throat clear just a little, he took a deep breath and screamed.
'Angel!'
His voice reverberated off the walls as the machines wailed. He fell back on the pillows shouting hoarsely, all thoughts of breathing abandoned.
'Angel! Baby, I'm coming! Take me! Angel, do it! Now!'
The sweat poured off his face, and the nurses burst through the door of his room. They swarmed around the bed, yelling instructions, grabbing his wrists to take his pulse, flipping switches, checking charts. Collins laughed, long and loud, tipping his head from side to side with euphoria. They didn't understand. He didn't want to be saved. Not this time. He took a deep, shuddering breath once more and screamed his girl's name. He remembered her face and her eyes, the way her hands felt, the sound of her laugh. He laughed too. Then he remembered other things. Teaching his first philosophy class. Maureen crowing at graduation. His grandmomma's weathered face breaking into a smile. Hymns sung at church when he was a little boy. He bellowed once more, this time appealing to the Heavenly Father to come claim his soul.
The nurse closest to him grabbed his arm, coming at him with a syringe – to heal him, to placate him, he didn't know what – before he wrenched his arm away, his wasted muscles finding power in the fever gripping him. The remaining nurses grabbed his other arm and his legs, they were pinning him to the bed, stopping his convulsive movements. He choked out one more laugh. He was still an anarchist, rebelling against authority even in the face of death. He felt feather-light fingers brush his forehead, even though no hands were near his head. He shut his eyes and smiled, stopping his struggling and resting back on the pillows, waiting patiently now, as he heard the machine tone escalate even further and the nurses voices grow frantic, yet softer. The light searing through his eyelids was growing darker, the pain fading from his broken, disease-ridden body.
'I'm coming, baby,' his voice sounded distant. 'I'm coming home'