The woman was faceless, but beautiful. He was filled with an intoxicating fragrance and wanted to get closer to the woman, for more. When he tried to draw in more, she touched him. A touch that was fire. But he couldn't help but want more. Pleasure. Pain. Stop. Don't stop.
He was jolted awake by a deep painful breath. Every muscle in his stomach was cramping. A hand was squeezing his.
"Easy, Captain. You must have been dreaming."
Eames. Her face was soft, her brow wrinkled with concern. The eyes that had looked at him so often in anger and distaste were now filled with compassion.
God, she looked pretty. And the fragrance – it was her. He had never been so close to her before, never noticed.
He had read somewhere that all of your senses heightened when you were dying ….
She held a towel soaked with cold water and touched it to his face and neck gently. He managed a weak smile. Eames as Florence Nightingale.
"Slow and shallow breaths. You're doing okay, just hang in there for us. Bobby's working on things."
"Eames." He should tell her – something. That he had been wrong about her, about Goren?
"Shhhh. Your job is to rest. We'll take care of you."
He closed his eyes and let himself drift back…..