Warning: Sensitive subject matter! Dark!Fic! Please prepare for sadness.
Not a happy fic!
---Senseless
She thinks she hears voices, but she can't be sure. The sounds are thick and muddled, blurred beyond recognition. Unintelligibly dull and infuriatingly persistent. She wishes whomever – or whatever – is making that noise would just… cease.
She thinks she's indoors, though she's not certain. The yellow light that washes over her could just as easily be the sun, but she cannot feel the warmth of its rays. This could either be because the light is the unnatural glow of the overheads or because she stopped feeling anything sometime ago.
She thinks she's standing, but she doubts she will hold out much longer. The weight of her body seems to have multiplied and her legs tremble under the intense pressure. It is as if firm hands are gripping her shoulders, pushing her down, pulse after pulse. She tries to shrug off the offending load without success. Her body shudders violently. Perhaps the shaking is the cause of her inability to see straight.
She blinks furiously in an attempt to clear the cobwebs from her eyes and focus on the image in front of her, futilely wishing for tears to cleanse the fog. She is no longer in control of her body though, and she is unable to attain the stinging, salty release.
She is aware that her legs have taken her forward before giving out completely. Anticipating the sharp pain of a cold, hard floor she is surprised when softness cushions her fall. She sits on a cloud.
Her senses are flashing on and off, like the erratic bursts of light that flicker just before a dying bulb is snuffed out. She needs something clear and crisp or she fears abstraction will prevail and she will be no more than a vague fragment of what she once was. She tries to pull something salvageable from the wreckage of her current sensations.
She feels something smooth and tender beneath her fingers, like fuzz on a peach. Cotton. Sheets. She's on a bed.
She smells the burn of cleaning solvent and the stale trace of fear. The latter is something she would encounter anywhere, but the former – she's in the infirmary.
She hears someone speak her name – Elizabeth. They're speaking about her, not to her. Opening her mouth she attempts to voice a question, but if she does make a sound she cannot hear it.
She sees a shape beside her on the bed. The silhouette of man lying down. John.
She smiles involuntarily. John. A switch flips in her mind and the world before her swims into focus. She can't remember how she got here or what she's supposed to be doing, but she can see very clearly. John is on the bed beside her, his eyes closed in contented peace.
"Hey," she soothes as she brushes her fingers gently across his forehead, sweeping his hair to the side. Upon contact she realizes that he is cold.
Grabbing the sheet from its position at his waist, she pulls it up to his neck, tucking it securely under his shoulders.
"Better?" she asks, placing her hand on his cheek. Her brow furrows. Still cold.
Looking around the room, she finds a blanket on a nearby gurney. She reaches for it and drags it across his still form, wrapping it snugly around him. She returns her hand to his cheek. He is, if possible, even colder.
She glances around the room again looking for something else to cover him, but finds only metal and plastic. Deciding that it is her only option, and that no one would suspect her of anything but trying to help, she kicks off her shoes and lies down beside him.
She drapes her arm across his chest and presses her body against him. Her chin rests on his shoulder, the heat from her breath caressing his neck.
"John," she whispers, her fingers running idle circles along his arm, "I've been thinking." She hesitates, but only for a moment.
"Maybe you're right. Maybe I am just afraid." She frowns and her fingers pause as she gears up for her confession. "I don't want to be afraid anymore, John, and I don't want to hide it. I love you and maybe it's time they knew it."
She exhales the tension and her head settles deeper into the pillow. Her fingers resume their motion and she grins. "I know you've told me this before – but I wasn't ready."
She kisses his cheek, her lips soft and gentle. "I'm ready now."
"Elizabeth."
She ignores the offending voice and snuggles closer to John, tightening her grasp.
"Elizabeth."
This time a hand accompanies the voice, pulling gently at her shoulder.
"He's cold," she informs the intruder, brushing off his touch. "I'm just trying to warm him."
"Elizabeth, don't do this."
She doesn't know what he's referring to, but she knows he is sincerely shaken. Why in the world is he crying?
"Rodney," she says quietly, concern tugging at her heart. She turns her head without loosening her grip on John. "Are you alright?"
"No," he answers after a moment. "No one is alright. But this isn't helping, Elizabeth. You've got to let him go."
Her tone is professional, though her position is not. "I'm just keeping the Colonel warm, Rodney." The words sound hollow, even to her. She wonders briefly if now is the time to reveal their secret, but decides against it. "I'm sure he'll understand when he wakes up."
"When he…" Rodney trails off, pain etched into his features. His hands become tight white fists and he continues, his voice strangled, "He's not waking up, Elizabeth!"
Panic stings her like the slap of an open palm across her face. It's too much noise. She sits up, her whisper harsh and low, "He will if you don't shut up!"
"No," Rodney challenges urgently, "he won't. He's dead, Elizabeth," his voice trails off, faint and thinned by anguish. "For the love of god, he's gone."
Tears bleed down her face, splashing haphazardly across her bare forearms, seeping into her skin. The liquid is absorbed and cycled through her system, only to rematerialize again, a shadow of the tear it was before.
"No," she insists, searching for John's hand. She clutches it desperately, willing him to squeeze back. "No," she repeats. "No, no, no, no…" Her mouth stops moving but the words continue to echo in her ears, a distant, steady rhythm.
Arms wrap around her, but they are not John's. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
--End