A/N: A short sequel to Running Through the Rain, set two years later. If you haven't read that, I'd be delighted if you did, otherwise all you need to know is that Fahim is the Daroga and he and Erik are a Thing.

He has not slept since—since—since—frankly he's not sure when he last slept properly. Four days maybe, maybe more. He has dozed. Has nodded off only to jolt awake. Has closed his eyes to rest them and ended up in a terrible nightmare where Erik stopped breathing under his hands, only to wake himself and consult his watch and find barely ten minutes had passed. Once he even dropped off and woke with Henry's hand on his shoulder, and convinced himself that Erik had died in the handful of minutes that he wasn't watching. It was all Henry could do to calm him down, and it was only when his fingers were pressed into Erik's wrist and he could feel the faint fluttering of his pulse that he was able to take a breath.

Henry gave him a soft smile, and squeezed his hand. "It is still a little soon to be certain, but it may be stronger than the last time I checked." His voice was barely above a whisper, his hoarseness not wholly from his disease.

That was yesterday. Or was it the day before? All the days have run together since Erik was shot.

This morning. It was this morning, and already it feels a hundred years in the past.

(Each time he closes his eyes, he can still see Erik sprawled on the saloon floor, his eyes flickering and the blood dribbling from his lips as he gasped, Henry's hands pressed into his side. The blood was sticky beneath his own hands when Henry made him take over keeping pressure on the wound, as he insisted that Erik stay awake, and felt for his pulse and muttered things to himself that went over Fahim's head because all he could think was that Erik was dying because someone came into their saloon, their saloon, the one they built with Henry and Warren and the others, their own damn saloon and someone had the audacity to come in and shoot him.)

(He would be angry over it, if he was not so terrified.)

Erik didn't know him when he woke. Between the fever and the bloodloss and the morphine he didn't see him, didn't recognize him or where he was even as he cried out for him, and Fahim couldn't keep the tears at bay, couldn't keep himself from crying as he whispered to Erik that he was here, as he promised him that he wouldn't leave, that he would never leave, but still Erik whimpered and moaned, his eyes rolling.

That wasn't even the worst of it.

(He's trying to forget the worst of it.)

After the fever broke, after Erik's eyes fluttered open and welled with tears to see him, after Erik slipped back into unconsciousness, too exhausted to stay awake and he, Fahim, he wept over him, relieved and exhausted and worn out and still aching with grief, with fear, with the thought that he could lose him, could still lose him, only after all that did Warren and Carlotta bundle him off to bed, blackmailing him by telling him that Henry wouldn't rest unless he did, would work himself into another haemorrhage if Fahim didn't take a break, promising that Christine would stay with Erik, would come and fetch him the moment that Erik woke, and even then he only slept for a little while, Henry's body warm beside him like a guard, Henry's voice low and hoarse in his ear, promising that all would be well if he would just let go for a little while, whispering poetry as if it might bear both of them away.

He's almost surprised that no one has slipped him laudanum yet.

(He would fight them if they tried.)

Unless it was Etta. He owes Etta so much. If it had not been for her, firing when she did, before he knew what had happened, then Erik might be—could be—

No. He will not—he cannot think that. Erik is alive. He is alive. And there's no guarantee that he'll stay that way, no guarantee that he's out of the woods, that there will not be another worse infection that will kill him, that there will not be pneumonia or a haemorrhage, but for now, for now he is alive and more well than he has been since this started, and he still might not be able to stay awake but his fever is gone and he is not dead. He is not dead, and Fahim will not let himself countenance a future where that is not the truth.

A moan pulls him from his thoughts, and he looks down at Erik, at his still face on the pillow, not still now, twisted in a grimace, cheeks ash-pale and lips tinged grey, and he groans again, half-coughs and gags when that makes the pain worse.

Fahim strokes back his hair, takes his hand and squeezes it. "You're all right," he whispers, "you're fine. Just breathe." And hisses at himself that it is so damn easy for him to say that. He's not the one who had a bullet pass through his lung.

Erik whimpers, swallows convulsively, and his breathing eases, slow breaths, still shallow, of course, but not ragged, not so weak Fahim has to check if he is breathing at all. And slowly, slowly, the grimace fades from his face. For a moment, a long moment, Fahim thinks he has fallen back to sleep, almost hopes he has if it will keep him from suffering, but then Erik's eyes open, warily, carefully, as if he is waiting for pain, and his gaze is hazy when he seeks out Fahim.

It feels better than he might ever have dreamed to see those eyes again.

Then they slip closed, and he sighs.

"Your hands are…so cold." Erik's voice is groggy, faint, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter when it's his voice, doesn't matter when he is well enough to talk at all, well enough to even consider complaining, and fresh tears prickle Fahim's eyes. He's cried so much it's a wonder there are any tears left in him.

"You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that."

Erik huffs, as if he might laugh, if he was well enough, and gently, lightly Fahim brushes a kiss to his lips.

The faint pressure of Erik returning the kiss is all he needs now.