A/N: OK, so here it is, chapter 4. And I gotta say, I'm not happy with it. Not one bit. I struggled a lot with this chapter and it just . . . well I just couldn't get it to work. So I'm hoping it's not too bad but, yeah, sorry for that. Hopefully the next one will be better.
Also, thankyou again so much for your comments. They are what keep me inspired and keep me writing so thankyou :)
...
"Truth Is Rarely Pure And Never Simple,"
- Oscar Wilde, 'The Importance of Being Earnest'
Shay has a lot of secrets, most of them not her own. Observations, murmurs, keepsakes she's accumulated over time. She notices things, she always has. Like her father's hidden relationship with vodka, far more intimate and committed than any his ever had with his daughters; or how her grandmother wore scarves on the days she was upset, as if it to burrow her head away inside them; that for as long as she's known him, her grandfather has been deeply unhappy, even though he smiles the most out of all her family members; her mother's unbearable homesickness for Spain, how it's loss created an empty place inside her that no family could ever fill; the love Shay's father continued to bare for her mother even after they separated, a love he was never able to leave behind; and the two plane tickets to Barcelona - one adult, one child, no return - which she found in her mother's bedside table when she was seven.
She never breathed a word about any of it.
It was the same at school. Kids loved to gossip, and Shay loved to listen. They told her everything and she collected the information like nuggets of gold, pocketing them away inside her for safekeeping. Her friends trusted her with their secrets, spilling the most obscene things because over time it became known that Shay Davydov didn't tattle. She couldn't. She couldn't break that trust. And on some level she knew there was a reason behind their concealment; some things aren't meant to be told. She could see the patterns of hurt and destruction branching out in consequence if she ever opened her mouth. So she didn't.
Of course, sometimes it was hard, seeing so much, knowing so much. Maybe that's why she held onto her own secrets, knowing the burden of keeping other people's. Or maybe she knew how easily a person revealed things, about themselves, about others, often without even meaning to, and knew they weren't trustworthy.
At any rate, she knows how to keep a secret.
That doesn't mean she likes to.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Shay closes the bathroom door behind her, hoping to give their conversation some semblance of privacy. She's not sure why it matters, she'll probably end up hashing the details of it out to Neal later anyway, so-
Maybe she just wants some separation. Between what's out there (Delphine, blood, panic) and what's in here (Cosima, her, their relationship, or lack thereof). She's not sure she can handle the two worlds meeting, not if she's to have this conversation with something approaching a clear head. Not if she's to keep her mouth shut.
"Surprised you answered," Cosima opens after a stretch. "I wasn't sure you would. It's late. Or early, I guess."
She wonders if that was her intention, to call and be sent straight to voice mail. To leave a message, and not have to actually talk. It's the coward's move but Shay can relate to its appeal.
Maybe she shouldn't have answered. Maybe that would have been better for both of them.
"Yeah, couldn't sleep." The words become a trigger and she cups a hand over her mouth to stop the intruding yawn. She's never been a night owl. If she's not out with friends, then she's in bed by nine o'clock. Her sleep is so restless that she needs the extra hours, especially since she usually rises early. "You?"
"Yeah," Cosima exhales. "I just . . . I wanted to apologize, for what happened."
Shay takes a seat on the toilet lid, hunches over. "You did that already."
"No, I mean, not for Delphine." The woman's name makes her stomach clench and her gaze finds the door, imagining what's taking place on the other side."For not telling you about this stuff. For not being able to tell you. I still can't. And I'm sorry."
I know.
She can hear it in her voice, saw it in her face when she came to her apartment that day, right before Shay told her to get out. She is sorry, she is.
But . . .
Shay sighs and looks down at the hand resting on her knee. There's blood up to her wrist, dried and caked, disappearing beneath her sleeve.
"It is what it is, I guess. And it's OK." It's not. It's really not. "But I can't be a part of that, Cosima."
The response is hasty, flustered. "Oh yeah no. I didn't, that's not why I called. I just," she breathes out and Shay feels her frustration, shares in it, "really wanted to say sorry."
It shouldn't hurt, the fact that Cosima isn't trying for that (after all, isn't that what she wants?) but it does.
She forces a smile, even though it can't be seen. "Apology accepted."
"And thankyou," Cosima adds after pause, a breath to feel her acceptance. "You were . . ." Yet another pause, stretching on into a breathless silence. She wonders what she was, what she really was, to Cosima, of the feelings there. Was she merely a balm for blistering wounds? She offered herself as such, Shay can admit that. She saw Cosima's suffering and she wanted to help, to heal in whatever way she could. It's her own fault for investing so much in something that was never even given a name. "You've been really good to me. Too good." Cosima chuckles quietly to herself, self-deprecatingly. It doesn't suit her. "You're pretty awesome you know?"
The smile tears at her cheeks, small and sad. "It's been said."
'Why didn't you tell me you were in the military, Shay?'
Should I have told you? Really? We've known each other for less than two weeks. Is that enough time to dredge up a past that no longer matters?
She can't help but wonder now, why Cosima cared so much about her military background. It wasn't a secret she was purposefully hiding, rather a wound that was best left in the dark. So what could it have to do with Cosima's own secrets?
'Because really, I think from day one, you've been the liar.'
She knew, she knew from the very beginning that there were things between them left unsaid, stuff that just didn't add up. She thought to give Cosima time, to wait for her to open up. And if she didn't? Well that was her right.
She just didn't think the lies could prove so dangerous.
She thinks of the DYAD card waiting in her draw, calling for her, begging to be brought up. But that's a conversation for another time. Maybe. She hasn't decided yet. What would be the point, really, in using it? She wants Cosima to tell her the truth, not to force it from her. That's not trust, that's manipulation, pressure; two things a relationship should never be built on.
Or maybe it wouldn't be like that. Maybe it would be more of a 'well, your ex thinks I'm trustworthy so . . .'
The thought stings - the suggestion that Delphine trusts her (and Shay doubts she does) more than Cosima. Though that could have more to do with the brunette than Shay herself. A once bitten, twice shy kind of thing. Who knows?
She wants Cosima to trust her. If she can't do that, then it doesn't matter if Shay ever finds out what's going on - the information will be meaningless. She doesn't want to take the secret - that would be a violation - she wants it to be given, freely. Anything else would only hurt Cosima and that's the last thing she wants. She just, she needs to know if she's wasting her time. If there's any hope for them.
From the way things are going, she's guessing the answer is no.
She rises from the toilet and paces to the bathroom door, peaking it open to check on how things are going outside. Neal's bent over Delphine, checking her vitals for what's probably the fifth time. She can see he's redone her bandages, as well as added his own to cover the fresh incision. She watches long enough to be sure of the rise and fall of Delphine's chest and turns away.
"Cosima, does Delphine have any . . . enemies?" She regrets the question almost as soon as she asks it, but the curiosity pricks at her.
She's not sure how much she'll be getting out of Delphine, if she'll in fact be getting anything at all.
"Um, no. No, of course not." Her response is fumbled and something about it rings false, though that might just be tonight's lunacy kicking her paranoia into overdrive. "Why do you ask?"
"I . . ." It's there, the perfect opportunity to spill everything. She can relinquish all the turmoil this mess has brought, give it to Cosima who, arguably, is more equipped to deal with it - Shay's certain she knows more about what's going on than her, at any rate. She can wash her hands of Delphine and Cosima both, return to the life she's worked so hard to remake. It's not like she's a stranger to walking away from things. She fancies she's even gotten good at it. "It's nothing. She was just here yesterday, acting strange. Well, stranger than usual."
It's not a lie. Delphine was there, and she was acting strange. Shay didn't pick up on it at the time, too fearful and reproachful to focus on much else besides getting the woman off her doorstep. She was still recovering from a sleepless night thanks to her, after all; the effects of which she's beginning to feel more and more.
Now that she thinks about it, though, Delphine was off. Well, as much as Shay can determine from what little she knows of her and what could qualify as her brand of 'off'. What she knows is that she's domineering and bitter but when she saw her earlier, she wasn't either of those things. She was just . . . sad. And defeated.
Mostly defeated.
She wonders now if Delphine knew, knew what was going to happen to her? Was this shooting not a random act but rather something calculated, expected even?
In that case, did Cosima also know what was coming?
No. Shay doesn't think the woman would be on the phone to her right now if that was the case. She would be out hunting Delphine, she may even have been in the parking lot with her when the shooting happened. Maybe instead of one body, she would have found two, and the blood on her hands would have multiplied.
Cosima's form, pale and limp looms before her, features slack in death as blood congeals over her heart. Her glasses lie in pieces on the ground.
A shattered breath escapes her.
"Are you OK?" There's a sliver of alarm in her voice, understandable considering what happened the last time Delphine paid her a visit.
Her concern is genuine. Of course, it is. Whatever might have happened, whatever may or may not exist between them, Shay doesn't doubt that Cosima cares for her. She strikes her as the kind of person who cares for everyone she meets, at least in some small way.
She has a big heart. That's never been in question.
Shay's just not sure how much space she takes up in it.
"Yeah, she didn't . . . do anything." She shakes her head, paces back and forth before the mirror. Her reflection catches her, casts a ghastly vision of red, and she has to turn her back. "I don't know, I thought maybe she was scared. But it's nothing."
She wants to tell her, she really does. And not just because she hopes Cosima can shed some light on the situation. It's not right to keep her in the dark, to keep such a big secret that so obviously impacts her.
But it's not her secret to tell, not really. Delphine was adamant, desperate, that Cosima not find out. Perhaps the reason is an emotional one, or maybe it's due to something more logistical, something tied up in the reason Delphine was shot in the first place. Maybe telling Cosima could actually endanger her.
Shay just doesn't know. She doesn't know enough to make the call.
"Um, OK." Cosima doesn't sound convinced, and she recognizes that all she's achieved from this line of questioning is to worry her. Well done.
"Listen, I'm going to try and get some sleep."
"Right, yeah. Of course."
Shay hesitates, thumb hovering over the end call button. "Take care of yourself, Cosima."
There's a pause as the other woman senses the words for what they are - a goodbye - and clears her throat.
"Yeah. Yeah, you too."
Shay hangs up first.
…
"So uh, like, what is this?" Cosima ducks her head at the question, cheeks coloring slightly as she traces a finger along Shay's bare spine. The blonde can't help a shiver at the touch but if anyone asks it's totally from the cold. Naked, blankets strewn on the floor? Totally the cold. The fingers stop just as they're drawing enticingly lower and she nearly pouts.
Cosima winces slightly in self-recrimination, though Shay assumes it's from her words and not her deplorable teasing. "Damn, sorry. Not usually this awkward."
She smirks, remembering their first date. "Not sure I believe that."
"Oh no, totally suave. Scout's honor." A hand raises in pledge and Shay has to bite back a laugh, cheeks hurting at the effort of containing her smile.
"Oh really? How suave are we talking? I mean, is this Clark Gable standards or . . .? " She trails off at the adorable look of confusion on on the brunette's face.
"I have no idea who that is."
"'Gone with the Wind'." Her mouth drops open in offense at the blank look that greets her. "'It happened One Night'? 'Misfits'? Seriously?"
Cosima shakes her head. "Yeah, I don't think any of those were made this century."
"You, my dear, are uncultured." She softens the words with a kiss to her shoulder though, smirking when a shiver arises beneath her lips. "You know I'm going to have to make you watch 'Gone with the Wind' now, right? I spent half my childhood in love with Rhett Butler, constantly fantasized about running off with him and Scarlett."
Amusement danced in Cosima's eyes. "Both of them?"
"Hell yes. To this day, they remain the great unrequited loves of my life." She gazes off into the distance, pretending to be caught up in the imaginings of their romantic union, until a light smack to her side pulls her back.
"Hey, do I need to leave you three alone?"
Shay masters an innocent blink. "Jealous?"
"I think I'll have to see this movie before I can decide whether there's anything to be jealous of. For all I know, Rhett's an old drunk with a beer belly and Scarlett's last century's version of the crazy cat lady."
She gasps. "Blasphemy."
Cosima rolls her eyes and grumbles looking away but she can see a grin pulling at her lips. Shay fights back her own, she might be enjoying this conversation a little too much.
"So I guess I can agree to seeing this 'Gone with the Wind', but only if you watch an episode of 'Star Trek' with me."
"I suppose I can be amenable to that," she murmurs, giving in to the call of Cosima's flesh once more. Another kiss. Another shiver. "As for this so called suaveness, I think I'll have to see it to believe it."
"Just you wait. I'll be charming the pants off you in no time, Missy."
Shay trails a finger around the edge of Cosima's breast, tracing her way inwards, closer and closer. She muffles a grin against her neck as this elicits the biggest shiver yet. Definitely enjoying herself too much. "Hmm, a bit late for that, don't you think?" she asks, drawing attention to their far from modest states. No pants to charm here.
"See? It worked. Told you I was suave." Cosima grins and she has to kiss the smugness off her face. Can't risk the wind changing and it staying that way. It's a truly altruistic move on her part.
"I think you're confusing who seduced who here." Kiss.
"Oh is that what happened?" There's a twinkle in her eye that fills Shay's chest with warmth. "I mean, I had my suspicions, what with the massage and all . . ."
Shay plasters on an innocent expression. "You were tense. I was helping."
"Mmhm." She's completely unconvinced and the blonde rolls her eyes, giving up the ruse. She hasn't forgotten what started this, either.
"Whatever you want."
"What?" Cosima pulls back, confused.
"The answer to your question." She keeps her voice deceptively nonchalant, expression gentle, reassuring. "We can be whatever you want, whatever you're comfortable with."
Cosima bites her lip. "And what if . . . this is what I'm comfortable with?" She glances down at the two of them, naked, entwined, utterly at ease. "Just this. At least for now."
"Then it's what you're comfortable with," she says easily. When Cosima raises a doubtful eyebrow, she shrugs. "We just met, Cosima, I have no expectations."
"Yeah?" Shay smiles at her tone, the beginnings of hope there.
"Yeah. I do have one rule, though." She waits, watching as Cosima sits up a little straighter, ensuring she has her attention. "Respect. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, I want us to respect each other." She hesitates. "I'm not here to be used, Cosima, and I have no intention of doing that to you, either. Serious or not, let's stay open about our intentions towards each other, OK?"
"Yeah, of course." She nods quickly and there's something like relief in her eyes, like she was expecting something else, something more.
Shay continues. "Honesty, it's important to me. If something happens at work with Delphine and you want to come over here to forget? That's OK, I know how that goes."
She's used her own share of people to forget, to feel better, and she doesn't want to be on the other end of that. Nor does she want Cosima to have to deal with any guilt after the fact.
But it's harder to use someone who's offering.
"But I need to know. I need to know that that's what's happening."
As long as she knows what the situation is, where they both stand, then Shay has no problem with employing sex as a tool to make Cosima feel better. It's not as though Shay gets nothing out of it. On the contrary, she gets to have - let's be honest here - some pretty awesome, mindblowing sex, and she gets to have it with someone whose company she really enjoys. It works out well for both of them.
Though in some ways it is unfortunate. She actually likes Cosima, they click, and if circumstances were different she could see this evolving into something more, a real relationship even. But she has enough sense to realize that the likelihood of her being anything more than a rebound for Cosima is relatively small. The woman wears her heart on her sleeve, and right now it's riddled with pain and anger, not to mention still the property of one Dr. Delphine (that last part can be seen from a mile away).
"OK?" Shay finishes.
Cosima contemplates her for a moment, warmth seeping into her expression. "Yeah. Yeah, OK. Scout's honor." the promise is softer this time, earnest, and the kiss that Shay has to lean forward to meet is gentle, tender. She can taste the gratefulness, the honesty on her lips and her heart flutters at the contact. OK. Definitely OK. Heat fills her from the inside out, pulsing, consuming and as Cosima pulls her closer, she fails to keep back a moan.
She wonders how hard it'll be to keep her emotions in check when she has this to contend with. She's finding it increasingly hard to give a damn, though, especially when Cosima's hands return to the path they abandoned earlier. Not giving a damn never felt so good.
…
She's only taken one foot outside the bathroom when Neal pounces. By now, he has to be chaffing at the bit for information, for anything that could make sense of this bizarre surgical situation he's been talked into. She scans her mind for any possible answers that could come near satisfying him, comes up blank. She doesn't know a whole lot to begin with herself,so what exactly is she supposed to give him?
"So, who's this Cosima?"
OK, not what she was expecting. Somehow, she thought that, on the list of urgent things to discuss, her dating life rated pretty low. "Really? That's the first thing you bring up?"
He crosses his arms, utterly unapologetic. "I thought I'd start easy, work my way up to gunfights and DIY surgeries. Besides, the mention of her earlier seemed to strike a nerve."
That's putting it mildly.
She considers him carefully before answering.
From the outside, they look like an odd choice for friends. He's more than a decade older than her, with bristly salt and pepper hair that's beginning to fall out in clumps (much to his dismay), and the spectacles on his face need a good clean. They work in the same hospital, he in the emergency department, and she in rehab. They never mix except for the occasional lunch or coffee break. He's grouchy, she's sunny, he's high strung, she's mellow; the one personality trait they do have in common is a sense of humor. When they first met, though, they just clicked, and now he's one of her closest friends.
On this, she can be open with him.
Shay mirrors the crossing of his arms, though her stance is more defensive, bordering on self-conscious. "She's . . . an ex." Somehow, saying it breeds an edge of finality. There's no more wrestling over the fact, in letting it pass her lips she knows it to be true.
She was probably foolish to think there was any chance of reconciliation to begin with. Not even two weeks into 'dating' Cosima and her life's gone to hell in a basket case. What exactly was she hoping to salvage from that? This is supposed to be the easy part, the beginning, where every thing's still fresh and exciting. It's later on that things are meant to become complicated and, well, she's not sure she can do more complicated than this.
It's her own fault, really. She knew her time with Cosima would probably be brief going in, rebounds don't usually last after all. And yet she allowed herself to care too much. Fantastic.
"Hmm."
His thoughtful expression raises alarms. "What?"
"It's just, in the entire time I've known you, I'm not sure you've ever had a relationship serious enough that you'd ever consider someone an ex."
He's not wrong. In fact, it might even be a stretch to call what she does relationships. They're more like flings, affairs. Not one night stands, exactly. That's not her style. Many of her hookups up are friends she has arrangements with, or else acquaintances she's formed an attachment with. She needs to know a person, to feel them out first in order to take them to bed. But she likes sex. And she likes people. She likes forming connections with people. But that's where things usually end.
Not that what she had with Cosima could really be called a relationship, either. They were barely together more than a week and it was . . . a strange set of circumstances. She just, well she felt more for her. And more isn't something she's felt in a long time.
Companionship, lust, those are things she's used to.
With Cosima there were both those things. But there was also-
Well, it doesn't matter now.
"It's . . . complicated." That's actually the simplest way to put it, ironically enough.
Unaware that she's trying to save him a headache, Neal looks less than satisfied with her response. He lets it go, though. Like her, he understands the need for privacy. "It always is. And this Delphine?"
Where to start? "Even more complicated. She's Cosima's ex."
He blinks, all lightheartedness disappearing from his expression. She did say complicated. "Now I'm worried."
"You weren't before?"
"About whether or not I was going to be arrested for performing an illegal surgery? Of course." Again, that swirling of guilt in the pit of her stomach. Just what has she dragged him into? "About you? I was cautiously apprehensive. I figured she was some stranger you came across on the street, and you were just playing the good Samaritan. But this? What the hell, Shay? Now I'm worried." He watches her closely, searching, and she tries to force some semblance of energy into her features, to erase all exhaustion and anxiety.
"I'm fine. Really." He scoffs. "Really.I know this all sounds . . . crazy, but I've got it under control."
He shakes his head. "You're a terrible liar."
She tries not to think about how she used to be rather good at it, once upon a time, and changes the subject. "Speaking of liars, what was that back there?"
"What was what?"
"About your wife? Sabine's French, not German." Her tone struggles for teasing, falling slightly flat. Nonetheless, he allows the diversion and even attempts a look of innocence.
"Don't give me that look, I failed geography. Besides, I thought it would help put her at ease. And we did meet in Paris."
"Paris, Texas."
"Same thing." She shakes her head at him, unable to be but vaguely amused. He continues before she can bother to protest the point. "I think it was all a wasted effort, though. I got the sense she didn't like France very much."
There had been an edge in Delphine's voice when Shay suggested traveling back to France. But that's the least on her list of worries at the moment, in fact it doesn't even make the list.
"Well, thankyou. Not for lying," she adds when he looks a little too smug. "But for doing this. For coming when I called."
"It's why you have my number," he reminds her. "Though when I gave it to you, I didn't think this was the kind of thing you'd be calling on me for help with."
"That makes two of us." She sighs, uncrossing her arms. "Still, thankyou. You didn't have to."
He concedes that with a nod. Eyeing her closely, he purses his lips, unimpressed. "You look terrible."
She doesn't doubt it. "It's . . . been a long day."
That's an understatement. Was it really only that afternoon Cosima was knocking on her door trying to smooth things over?
He grunts, deciding not to push for now. She's not sure how long she can rely upon that to last. He knows her too well, all her dark hidden corners, to not see right through her.
"How's the patient?" She's neglected to ask, knowing they wouldn't be discussing trivial things like Cosima and Paris if she took a turn for the worse. She also wanted to savor what little time remained to her, outside the hell she ducked into the bathroom to escape from.
He follows her gaze to Delphine, frowning. "Hasn't come round yet, probably be a while until she does - her body needs time to recover from all it's been through. Pulse oximeter's still too low to take her off oxygen but it's rising, so give it a few more minutes and we'll see. Blood pressure is also low, but not dangerous. That's going to be a wait and see while watching carefully one." He turns back to her, expression grim. "Honestly, she's lucky to be alive."
She purses her lips. "I know."
"Speaking of the patient, I found, uh, this in her coat."
Her eyes widen at the appearance of a gun, which he carefully retrieves from the bag at his feet. Dangling it between his thumb and forefinger, he holds it away from himself like a deadly contagion, mouth wrinkling in no small level of disgust.
Like her, he's a pacifist.
"Jesus." Automatically, she grabs for it, Neal being all too eager to relinquish all ownership.
Unlike her, he's never held a gun before.
She was trained on an M16 rifle and an M9 handgun, so she knows her way around both types. Delphine's is a handgun but it's not a make she's familiar with, a Glock maybe? Still, the process can't be too different. She presses the release, unloading the magazine and checking it over.
There are nine cartridges and one of them is missing a bullet. She tries not to think about what that means.
"Do the French have a a mafia?" he ponders aloud, to which she can only shrug.
It sounds crazy but . . .
Well, she's not so sure there's an explanation here that won't sound crazy.
What kind of science involves guns and attempted assassinations? Not to mention breaking into apartments and doing background checks on an employee's girlfriend? She'll be the first to admit she got a D in all her science courses barring biology but she's fairly certain none of this was ever mentioned. Maybe they really are dealing with black holes (in ways they're not supposed to), or aliens, or time time travel, or ninja turtles. The kind of things the government might not want the public to find out about. Though that's a little too conspiracy theorist for her.
So maybe a meth lab then. A super secret, high security meth lab. In which case, she really needs to introduce Cosima to Breaking Bad, educate her on all the ways that will not end well.
Jesus. Delphine's not the only one who's going to need a holiday after all this.
Carefully, she unpacks the bullets, shoving them into her pocket to deal with later - the last thing they need are any accidents. She reloads the magazine and waits for it to click into place. You, my dear, are going in the safe.
"You OK?"
The question catches her off guard. It shouldn't. "Yeah."
"You're shaking."
She forgot. The shaking's persisted for so long now, it seems to have become a part of her. It's almost like she's an addict in the beginning stages of withdrawal, right before the pain sets in; the entire body nothing but a coil of agonized nerves, screaming for attention.
"It's the blood loss." She can't fool him, but she tries anyway, and thankfully he doesn't press, just squeezes her shoulder and turns away. "You should eat something. Before you faint," he advises, heading over to the bed to continue his packing. He's already made a start, she can see. The surgical supplies have gone away and so has his stethoscope. She's about to follow up on his orders, knowing it will help with at least some of the trembling, when she spies him reaching for the remains of the transfusion kit.
"Neal-"
"Don't even start," he interrupts without sparring her a glance. "You know the waiting time between donations."
It takes 12 to 16 weeks in order for iron levels to be restored. She knows but . . .
Delphine needs blood. "I can handle it." It's not false bravado, she really can. She's handled worse. Her iron levels will drop and she'll feel like shit for a while, but it won't kill her. The lack of blood might kill Delphine, though.
Neal doesn't budge. "I'll see if I can swipe something from work. No promises."
She supposes she can't expect anything else. In the end, his priority is her, not some stranger who's probably tied up in criminal activity.
She rakes a hand through her hair, further demolishing the bun that's become such a mess it barely qualifies as one anymore. Though she wants to fight him on it, she's too tired to do anything but surrender. Reluctantly, she gives a nod. "What if it's not enough? What I gave her."
"Then I hope you've worked out your story for the police because I draw the line at helping you hide a body."
"Jerk." Her lips pull up at the edges though.
She spends the next 10 minutes helping him pack, chewing halfheartedly at a sandwich he sent her off to make before starting. It's sardines and tomato sauce, hardly her most nutritious choice, but it's food and it'll suffice. Honestly, if she didn't need to eat, she wouldn't have bothered. Each bite sends down another stone to reside in the pit of her stomach, creating an uncomfortable weight that refuses to depart. Beyond that, it irritates the already present nausea. On more than one occasion she has to cover her mouth, suppressing the mild urge to vomit.
It doesn't take them long to finish. There's not much he's taking back with him. The blood pressure monitor and oxygen cylinder are staying behind for as long as Delphine still needs them. It's expected he'll collect them in a few days. Sooner if she doesn't-
Well, if she doesn't survive that long.
Her first aid kit has also been added too: odds and ends she didn't have on hand, antibiotics, some extra bandages since she'll be doing a lot of redressing. There's a suture kit as well, for when it comes time to close up the entry and exit wound, or in case the incision reopens. She scans the items on the couch, searching through what he's left her.
There's one glaring absentee.
"Where's the morphine?" Her mouth clamps shut, shame setting in. She knows why there's no morphine. "Sorry," she exhales. "I just . . . tylenol won't be enough for the pain when she wakes up." If. If she wakes up.
But she's already asked so much of him and this, this she can't ask.
Neal inclines his head in acknowledgment of her apology, and her fears. "She's alive. She'll cope." The response is blunt, lacking true sympathy. If there exists some level of resentment for the woman who dragged him out of his few precious hours of sleep, she's not going to judge. He probably thinks they're accessories in a crime now - who but a criminal would be so insistent on avoiding the hospital?
It's something she's thought about herself, and another source of guilt. Maybe it was the wrong thing, bringing him into this. But Delphine needed medical care, the kind Shay can't provide and . . . she couldn't just let her die.
"She'll suffer." And Shay will have to watch, unable to do anything; useless, helpless.
Balling her hands at the thought, she knocks them against her thighs in the beginnings of a rhythm; an attempt to get some of the energy out. It's there inside her, trapped, tense, begging for a release. It demands an outlet, a distraction, something to soothe the strain of her muscles and the tight cavity of her chest. She can feel it like a band, constricting around her racing heart, about to-
Один, два, три . . .
"Give me a number."
The voice startles her, yanking her back to the present and she struggles to comprehend. Neal's watching her closely, eyes ticking between the beat of her fists and the quiver of her lips. Out of everyone she knows, he's the most familiar with the signs. Not even Styles understands her like this.
"What?"
Normally it's a comfort. Today it's more of a hindrance, an obstacle in convincing them both of just how fine she is.
"Your number between one and 10. Give it to me." His voice is firm, brooking no argument so she knows not to try.
Her fists unwrap and she forces her shoulders to sag, to pretend. The question is familiar, little more than routine by now. "6 . . ." He crosses his arms, unbelieving, and she amends. "8."
He frowns and although it was an answer he was obviously expecting, he looks worried. "I can stay."
Please.
But she shakes her head. "No, I'll be OK." It's the truth. This isn't the worst she's been, by far. Not to mention, she has skills now that she didn't back then. She's a lot better at this, coping. She no longer needs someone to hold her hand at every hurdle. "Besides, your next shift starts in," she checks her watch, eyebrows shooting up at the time. She'll be having breakfast in less than four hours. "45 minutes."
"I can call in sick."
"Go." She masters her most convincing smile, squeezes his elbow reassuringly. "I'll be fine."
He watches her carefully. There's conflict between her words and what he sees right in front of him, what he knows, but he can't put his life on hold for her; she doesn't want him too. Nor can he force his presence on her when she doesn't want it. Boundaries, it's one of key aspects of their relationship. "Fine. But if that number reaches 9, you call me."
A nod. "I promise." This time she's not lying.
She's worked too hard to get to where she is now, to see it all fall away.
"If I don't make it back to pick up the stuff beforehand, I'll see you at the meeting on Friday," he says as she's showing him out the door. He's run through a list of the supplies he's left for her once more, told her the things to watch out for, and when to take the stitches out. Most of it is stuff she knows but the refresher is nice, even comforting. "If she takes a turn for the worse, my phone will be on. Though I'm not sure there's much I'll be able to do at this point." He lets out a breath, sparing one last glance at Delphine's resting form. They took her off the oxygen just before and now she breathes evenly, in out, in out, all of her own volition. That's comforting too. "It's on her now."
Her gaze follows his, hoping that the woman, who appears so frail now, has some hidden reserve of strength left in her. The surgery was a success, she has that in her favor, but if she's going to survive, she's going to have to fight.
Luckily, Delphine's never struck her as the type to take things lying down.
Shay smiles, reaching up on tiptoes to give Neal a peck on the cheek, willfully ignoring the fact that he has to bend to allow the action. "Give Sabine and the boys a hug from me. And let her know I won't be able to make it to Yoga tomorrow."
Neal grumbles but acquiesces. "You know she'll be texting you all week, worrying her head off."
She knows. Her husband visiting her this late at night, or early morning, will be a dead give away that some thing's wrong. Sabine knows what those kind of visits usually mean. Though this time, her assumption would be wrong. "Tell her I'm fine."
"If you were fine, you wouldn't have called me."
True. "Tell her . . . I'm working on it. I just need some time."
He grunts his disapproval but nods, walking out into the hallway. When he leaves, he doesn't look back. One look at her and all his willpower to leave would probably evaporate, she suspects. Frowning, she leans her head against the side of the door, watching the retreat of his figure, and fighting the urge to call him back.
Never again is she doing online dating. That high five girl was a dream compared to this.
...
A/N: Thankyou for reading! Let me know what you think? Anything you didn't like? Also, I made a shaysima/cophine video if anyone's interested watch?v=fDWcjR0XNIs
