For any one who is as depressed as I am by the death of our favourite English doctor.
Disclaimer: Beauty and the Beast does not belong to me, but to CW.
Requiem
Her alarm clock says it's 3am, but she is still lying in her bed wide awake. Ever since she finally lay down 2 hours ago, she has been shaking, her breath coming shallow, one hand clutching the pillow, the other one pressing the blanket against her heart. Sleep is evading her, perhaps because she is not even trying. Instead, she lets her memory haunt her.
She remembers the time when she was pressed up against her car; him leaning over her and teasing her with the promise of a kiss, only to pull away at the last moment. The flirty smile on his lips when he walked away, leaving her glad for the support of the car in her back as she finds herself short of breath. And guilty, because in that moment, she had wanted him to kiss her.
She thinks of the time when he really did kiss her, at her birthday party in the photo booth. They both had had too much to drink that night, he had a date with him, but still…she had noticed the way his eyes never seemed to stray from her for too long. And she had enjoyed his attention.
She regrets all these missed opportunities, when he invited her to do something with him but she declined – rain check, she had said. It has to rain sometime, Cat, He had pointed out. She wonders if the tears she's crying now are counting as rain, but then realizes that it doesn't matter anymore. He won't be there to cash in on these promises. Her fault.
She recalls waking up in the hospital, a nurse telling her about the brave doctor who saved her life with only a pocketknife. Oh, how ashamed she is to not have thought of him immediately. Him, who was a colleague she respected, a friend she trusted, a man she genuinely liked. A man who made her laugh in the most impossible situations, lightening up serious moments with his unwavering optimism, charm and British humour. A man who saved her life. Twice. And she let him die for her.
She knows she should be quiet; waking up Heather is the last thing she wants to do right now, so she presses a hand to her mouth to stop the sobs from escaping. It doesn't help much; her breath is still coming too fast, it feels as if she's hyperventilating. And she hasn't even faced the worst memory yet, the one of what has happened tonight.
She sees it so clearly before her inner eye, can still smell the stale air of the underground corridor, can still feel him standing next to her, the length of his body touching hers while his hands pressed on his gunshot wound. I'll be protecting you. It will be the best thing I've ever done in my life. The point of it, really. Her heart, which had already been fluttering from the adrenaline of the escape, beat even faster at those words. And still does now, when she recalls the sound of his voice.
She dwells on the way he looked at her in these last moments, with eyes that begged for forgiveness, even though it was her who was sorry. For if she had just trusted him, told him earlier, he would have never felt the need to team up with the enemy, never would have gotten hurt. But he was strong, despite his pain. Merely kissed her on the cheek and then walked towards the danger, sacrificing himself. She wishes she could be strong in the face of pain, too, but she is crumbling from despair and that terrible feeling of loss. And from regret, for she never told him how much he meant to her.
I am sorry. She doesn't say it out loud, doesn't even allow herself to think it because she knows if she does, she won't be able to keep her cries silent anymore. So she just whispers his name. Over and over again, tasting the void it leaves behind in her mouth, in her heart.
Evan.
Thank you for reading. Reviews would be appreciated!