This may evolve into a brief series of drabbles. I am posting as complete, for now.
We're a strange pair, aren't we?
He sits with her still, long after the words between them have faded into silence. Alexandria lies on the brink of slumber, eyelids shuttering though she tries, stubborn and obstinate as always, to pop them open again, not wanting to dream. Roy's long-fingered hand brushes along her forehead and down over her eyes, holding them gently closed, as his mother used to do when he was a little boy afraid to fall asleep because of the dark; he can feel the silk-soft lashes fluttering against his palm. Butterfly wings…
"Sleep," he tells her softly, "you need to rest now," and it's true; she's very tired. Voice dropping to a whisper, he adds:
"Count the stars for me."
He sits without a twitch, not moving a muscle, like a statue until he hears her breaths grow deep and slow. Her eyes stay shut once he removes his hand – oh-so-carefully – and only now does Roy allow himself to caress the little face, feeling the soft, baby-fat roundness of her cheek under his fingertips, trust himself to press a tender kiss to the bandaged brow (as she has kissed him, so many times) before he bows his back and turns his face into Alexandria's pillow, rests his head beside hers, and gives himself up to the quaking, shuddering sobs that carry grief and guilt-ridden relief in equal measure until fatigue overcomes him, as a little hand curls into the thick locks of his unkempt hair.
That is how the hospital staff find them, much later, when the moon has crept high into the sky in the small hours of the night.
They rouse him, spine cricked and aching, to wheel him back to his own room and bed – but Alexandria frowns, whimpering in her sleep; and Roy's wet, exhausted eyes are bright with need, vulnerable and inexorable, as he throws himself on the orderlies' pity and begs, "Let me stay with her. Please." It is the one hope he has, that, if they can refuse a desperate cripple, no one can be so cruel as to deny an injured five-year-old…
In the end, it is a simple enough affair to draw back the covers and pick up a still-drowsing child. It is not so simple to get an immensely tall, lanky paraplegic onto the rickety, narrow cot – but Roy's arms are strong even if his legs are dead and useless, and he needs little help lifting himself from the chair to the worn mattress.
He settles quickly and easily enough, and Alexandria is laid down in his arms. Roy cradles her close, despite his touch remaining as delicate as if he holds a porcelain figurine.
The little girl snuggles into him, soft and warm and precious, snuffling nose buried amid the buttons of his nightshirt over his chest, head resting on his heart, her one good arm reached up to hook about the crook of his neck. She sighs, though yet asleep, and murmurs, safe and contented:
"Papa…"
And Roy's gentle grip tightens securely as he presses his lips to the crown of her head, as his tears roll down into the dark waves of her hair:
Sleep now, my little Bandit daughter.