"One.. two.. three.."
An agitated voice punctuated the dense air of the emergency room.
Figures clad in blue scrubs stood motionless around the bed and the tall man hovering over it. After the heartmonitor had smoothened to flatline, they had stopped using the defibrallator. The doctor had resorted to pumping the patient's heart back to life.
A pair of mad eyes fixated on the face of the unconscious young woman, his hands continuing the ministrations.
"One, two, three.." The anxiety in his tone was overshadowed by the controlled, almost robotic persistence.
Nothing.
The light in her eyes had already faded, indicated by the cruel monotonous sound of the heartmonitor few minutes ago. He had felt her heartbeat descending steadily into paralysis beneath his fingers. He had wittnessed the desperate glint in her eyes – fear, will to live - extinguishing, slowly being replaced by a black dullness, an empty darkness.
He could not give up.
The humid air suffocated him. With a quick flicker of his shoulder he shifted his surgical mask off his mouth.
"One.. Two.. Three" He panted, feeling his shallow breaths clogging up his throat in panic.
Please.
One of the assistants approached him wearily as if he were a dangerous animal. He reached out an arm to lay a hand gently on his shoulderblade.
"Doctor Usui.." He hesitated, but seeing his face, stepped away. There was a manic, primordial in the doctor's expression.
"One.. Two.. Three". His voice was calm and sinister.
He knew his ministrations were too rough, risking broken diaphragm. But she - they – were slipping off his hands.
"Doctor.. There is no.."
"Shut up." A feral snarl erupted from his gut. The assistants glanced at each other helplessly.
"One..two..three". His own sweat was stinging his eyes. His jaw clentched, as his hands kept moving of their own.
She was awoken by the sound of the door of the apartment closing.
Opening one eye, she squinted at the clock on the bedside table. 1:28 AM.
She willed herself to move, but her body - still immobilized by sleep - failed to comply.
She heard his steady footsteps reaching the bed.
At least he was not drunk - she could tell that from the sound of his controlled, quiet movements. She could hear him taking off his tie - the silky texture sliding off the collar of his shirt with a smooth swoosh. She could visualize his long fingers opening his belt with efficient movements.
Few hours ago, when the Chinese dinner she had bought for them on her way from work had gotten cold, she had finally called him. He said there were some problems in the hospital and that he would be late.
She had believed him immediately. Had he ever given her a reason to distrust him? Or perhaps his dull, almost inaudible voice had convinced her readily that he was under an unprecedented amount of stress.
Even great Usui has bad days at work, she had thought to herself wrily.
But now, as he slipped under the bedcovers, she felt doubt tugging at her heart. He had not touched her.
In past, after particularly busy days at work, sometimes they would go to bed right after dinner. But regardless how exhausted and unromantic they felt, he had never gone to sleep without planting a small kiss on her cheek or spooning her with a relieved sigh.
Now as she felt slight tug of the blanket, she knew he had turned his back at her. Something was wrong.
We'll talk tomorrow, she thought, tired, before letting sleep wash away her worries.
