A/N: Sincerely sorry for the lack of updating, but I wrote this once without saving and as I was about to upload, the power went out. And I'm bitter about these things so I had to wait a bit until I wanted to write it again. On the plus side, I think it's better than the original version 'cause I completely changed it.


This is me pretending
This is all I need

Manny's POV

"Darcy...?" The vision that assaults my eyes is in plain sight. You've turned your head to my call, not answering, looking dead already. Your eyes. There's something different about them and I know what it is now. There's nothing there; it's a drawing with no emotion, a dream without a purpose. Please, no. You can't leave me. "Darcy!" My voice is stronger now, rushing to your side. You can't leave.

I haven't left your side. I carried you home myself, telling Damien to phone Peter and tell him what happened. It must have been a mix of fatigue and stress, but I can't help but wonder why you had to look at me like that before you passed out. Frightened. Of me. Why? You're back on my bed, your eyes shut as I watch your body rise and fall with every breath. My hand is holding yours, and I search for a pulse. Anything to tell me you're still here.

I fall to my knees and rush to press a towel on the deepest part of the wound, feeling dizzy as I see the pure white stain into a crimson red. A whimper cuts through the air as sharply as the blade sitting beside you, sitting motionless and taunting me with its piercing silver glare. I don't think I've ever seen so much blood, the bright color slicing through my vision as I struggle to keep calm. I see your eyes flutter shut, and a whine of panic surges through me. It's selfish, but all I can think is how much I need you here: laughing with me, taunting when I purposely do something stupid, teaching me how to have faith when the world falls apart at the seams.

You scared me. When you ran I couldn't find where you were, so I called Damien to help me look for you. He didn't seem to be too eager to spend his time on a Saturday to help look for a friend of mine that he's maybe spoken to a handful of times at most, but I didn't care. It's not you to just run away from me. I'm not stupid; I know I'm the only one you haven't completely shut out. You show it in the smallest ways but I notice. I have to notice. It's you, after all. You shift in your sleep, clutching the pillow with your able hand as what you call your 'defected' one lays limply in mine. I trace delicate circles along the blinding-white bandage that must have been changed earlier today, and I'm surprised even in sleep you don't flinch at the touch.

Your breathing is slow and shallow, uneven and quickening the pace of my heartbeat as I worry if I'll ever have a chance to spend another day with you. I press down harder, watching the blood soak through the towel and coat my hands. I shudder at how warm the liquid is, and how much of it there is. My throat is closing tightly, and I know I have to force myself to continue. I have to be the strong one here, no matter how much the thought of losing you is deteriorating my body at the second. I need to pull myself together, I tell myself urgently, feeling adrenaline rush through my veins as I press down again with the dampened cloth. I won't lose you.

My knees are starting to hurt from the time I've been kneeling on the ground, so I gently set aside your hand and move over to lie next to you in bed. I don't dare touch you; I can't see your eyes, and usually it's because of them that I can tell whether or not you give your consent. I take the time to watch you, trying to memorize how peaceful you look and how long it'll be until I see that again. The pit of my stomach feels hollow because I can't remember the last time I saw your eyes light up, the last time your nose scrunched in a blissful laugh. I close my eyes for a moment, letting weary eyes rest because I haven't stopped looking after you. It's not a burden, and it's not something I'm going to be tired of doing. You take your time healing, I'll be here every time.

"Hold this, press. I'm calling 911," I tell you, silently pleading with my eyes to follow through. A pale hand moves to press the towel against your wrist, letting me take out my cell phone and deliver the call. I close it shut once I'm done with my frantic message, falling back down to you and watching you struggle to keep your eyes open. I let your bloodstained hand rest, pressing down again with fervor and then wipe away more before I pull back the towel. I swallow, seeing a messily cut "W-h-y-?" spelled out across your vein, before the injury springs to life and coats my hands with sticky wetness. I begin to hate the color.

I can't place why I have the need to protect you more than the average friend. Emma, Spinner, Peter- they all play their assumed roles as it's unwritten lines tell them exactly what to do. I don't know why you let me in but not Peter, and I definitely can't begin to explain why I overly encourage Peter to be with you. Maybe it's because this isn't my role to play. It's a lover's role to nurture and heal, to cover old wounds and hold her hand as she struggles to stand back up on her own two feet again. It's his role. Why don't you understand that? I'm playing with a loose strand of your hair that's fallen over your face, and for a moment I think I'll tuck it behind your ear... but then I decide you look better natural.

Every second feels like forever, and I count every single drop of water from the showerhead on your hair before the paramedics arrive. It kills me that just now I realize you're so, incredibly beautiful, and how I notice it at the worst possible time. I don't know if you can hear me, but I brush a lock of hair away from your ear and whisper that I love you, that I need you here, and you can't die. I don't know if you can hear me when you close your eyes and don't open them again. I'm worrying that your systems are slowly shutting down with the loss of blood, but as I feel you try to place a hand ontop my own, I know you heard me.

Her eyes are opening.

The paramedics are here.

She looks at me and I lower my head, ashamed.

I'm not listening as they tell me not to follow, that it could get messy.

The look in her eyes are apologetic, telling me it wasn't my fault.

I have to be there, holding her hand and assuring her.

I try to nod but I find it difficult, her hand draped itself on my waist.

She's squeezing tight, like I'm her lifeline. I squeeze back, letting her know it's okay if I am.

She's so vulnerable right now, and the fact she's sharing it with me means so much. Too much.

The paramedics are saying something but I can't hear, she's trying to say something.

It doesn't cross my mind that right now Peter should be here, not me. But I'm glad it's me.

Her lips can't find words, and I choke back tears when I realize what the paramedics said.

Her voice floats in and I turn to look at her, letting her speak.

"She'll make it."

"We'll make it."