A/N: Ick, this chapter is shorter than I wanted it to be. But it was going to be way too long otherwise, so I just cut it in the most reasonable place. Anyhow, be prepared for some angst and drama. The chapters after this are probably going to be pretty damn fluffy, so just bear with me. ;)
This chapter is also a product of sleep deprivation that I scrawled in my notebook while at band camp, so the writing is quite a bit weaker than usual. Sincerest apologies to all my readers who expect my best all the time.
The next weekend, Diaval showed up at her house with his usual grin and slicked back hair. He wore a sweatshirt despite the warm spring weather, and before she could even hand him a mug of coffee, he told her, "Get a coat. It's cold where we're going today." He kissed her cheek and handed her a paper bag of pastries. "It's an hour drive. We'll get dinner on the way home." He refused to tell her exactly where they were going, but she didn't mind; the surprise was part of the fun. Fun? Had she really come to consider it that?
She put on a jacket and grabbed an extra pair of socks. Her purse was chock full of Advil; she could assume that she would need it, regardless of what crazy suicidal stunt they would commit together. They clambered into his car and headed out of Ulstead.
The road was silent and relatively deserted. They didn't talk much; neither knew what to say to the other. Diaval unfolded the rumpled list and scanned over the things that were still uncrossed. Some, he knew, would never be crossed out—positions, for example, or running. Others were still possible, like hiking. The top one, though, was an enigma. No horse riding. He had no doubt that she was physically capable of sitting on a horse long enough to take a picture. Her physical capabilities weren't the ones in question. But he would do nothing to hurt her, and if that meant ignoring the top line of the list like an elephant in the room, he would do it as long as he needed. He knew that she would fight him over it. She might quit altogether, just leave him and whatever friendship they maintained hanging out to dry, if he pushed it. And he wouldn't risk that. He was far too selfish. These dark thoughts drove him to take her hand. She accepted his touch gratefully, and he relished in the stolen glances from the corner of his eyes. She was so beautiful. Her skin was fair, silvery; her cheekbones were high and almost wing-like. Her eyes were like emerald jewels, gold streaks highlighting them like the dawn sky, so similar to the gem that hung around her neck. More than anything—more than anything—he failed to understand how she couldn't comprehend her own beauty. She, the fairest creature he had ever seen, thought that her appearance was somehow ruined by a simple stick that she perhaps leaned on too heavily. She was almost ethereal in beauty, but all she saw when she looked in the mirror was her cane. He was determined to take the word crippled out of her vocabulary, even if—
A truck squealed out in front of them, all spinning tires and spewing exhaust, and it cut off his thoughts like a knife. Diaval jerked his hand away from her in order to swerve and avoid a collision. "Watch the road!" Maleficent snapped, tightening her grip on the handle. "And stop looking at me." She pushed her shoulder blades together and winced. "Are we almost there?" she demanded.
He tried to calm his throbbing heart, and he blushed at being caught staring at her. Leave it to her to get cabin fever from an hour car ride. "Yuh-Yeah, fifteen more minutes." A warm hand soothed the pain between her shoulders. The knotted muscles twisted and curled before finally smoothing over into her flesh, and she relaxed into his touch. He wanted nothing more than to flip up the divider between them and pull her close to him, let her rest her head on his shoulder, let their fingers lace through each other and finally be at peace. But here, there was no need for warmth to pass between them, no blanket to share. Only the two of them. He kept his eyes on the road and forced himself to keep from kissing one severe cheekbone. Grating his teeth, he took the next exit into a city much larger than Ulstead, a place known as Slaughtersville. The roads were humming with the life of midday traffic, and soon they were at a standstill. Diaval's face curled downward into a frown. "Maybe half an hour?" he muttered weakly. Her eyes fell closed, face expressionless. "Hey, I promise it'll be worth it when we get there." He reached to rub her shoulder, and a smile graced her face.
She leaned toward him and flipped up the armrest between them, scooting next to him. He curled his arm about her waist and restrained the urge to cry out in victory when her head fell onto his shoulder. "Don't look so smug," she scolded teasingly.
"Why shouldn't I?"
She didn't reply, instead inhaling deeply into the crook of his scarred neck. Goosebumps erupted over him and a chill went down his spine, and he resisted the urge to rip his eyes from the unmoving road before him and pepper her face in kisses. Finally, she told him, "You smell good." Her eyes widened slightly. She hadn't meant for that to come out of her mouth. Curse him for making her so comfortable, for letting her tongue loosen. But he really did smell good, even if it would only inflate his vain ego.
He finally gave in to the temptation to kiss her temple. "Thank you." His eyes were soft and warm with affection, and he continued, "I would return in kind, but there are far too many things about you that I could compliment for me to pick just one."
"You are quite the sycophant." She rested against him and let the steady rise-fall of his chest soothe her.
She faked asleep until she felt the car chug to a stop and heard the tell-tale words: "We're here."
She sat up and opened her eyes, which quickly focused on a road sign. Slaughtersville's Year-Round Ice Skating. "No way in hell." He ignored her rebuke and left the car. She followed him suit.. "Diaval, you're insane. I'll hurt myself—or somebody else—in there." God, why was he so smart? He knew the only way to get her inside was to walk away from her protests. He knew she would follow. She wondered when they had really gotten to know each other so well. And she wondered why she continued to follow him into the skating rink.
Diaval helped her lace up the skates. "Do you want me to have an ambulance on standby?" he joked.
She turned to meet his teasing gaze with a stern one. "I hate ambulances," she retorted. "I would rather take an hour in a car than spend five minutes in one of those wailing machines."
He chuckled. "Alright, alright, no ambulances." He pulled her up and helped her staggered over to the icy floor; her balance had dissipated and vanished, abandoned beneath their chairs in the form of a cane. Hesitation was written on every fiber of her face. "I've got you," he assured her. He placed both hands on her and steadied her. One of her hands held a vice grip on his shoulder while the other grasped the wall. "See, it's not bad."
No, it wasn't bad. It was horrible. It was freezing. It was slick. It was dangerous. The ice was drawn into ruts under her feet. The whole place screamed risk of paralysis for cripples. "Three laps and I'm done," she mumbled.
"Let's make them count, then." Grip not wavering, he shot forward, dragging her reluctant form along for the ride. She feared that her feet would surely buckle beneath her, slide in opposite directions, but Diaval didn't let an inch of space come between their bodies. The ripples in the ice seemed to smooth over as they picked up speed. Cool wind blew her hair back. He laughed at her expression of pleased surprise. They flung sharply around a curve. She clung to him desperately. Her back moaned in protest of the extra stress, but she didn't tell Diaval to stop. This was the closest feeling she'd had to flying since the accident. The feeling was addictive, a drug, a passion, something that could never be sated; her cravings hadn't been sated for a very long time. She lost count of the laps they spun together, arms entangled, bodies touching.
Eventually they slowed with flushed cheeks and slightly runny noses. "What was that about three laps?" Diaval breathed, panting from exertion. His face was so close—he was so close—that his nose was about to touch hers.
"I don't quite rem—" The kid came out of nowhere, spiraling like a truck without snow chains. His foot caught hers from behind. The blades on their skates clashed in a clank of metal. The boy managed to right himself and kept skating, but Diaval's eyes were filled with horror and focused only on Maleficent as her arms left his. Her limbs flailed outward. Her legs scraped about uselessly for friction. Gravity pulled her backward, backward, in slow motion. He dove after her far too slowly. A sickeningly loud crack met his ears and resounded through his brain when she collided with the ice. He dropped to his knees beside her, mindless of the way the ice wet his pants. Before he could muster even a word, her face contorted in agony and a weak, pained whine rose from her throat.
He grabbed her hands and folded them across her chest off of the ice. "Maleficent? Can you hear me?" Her mouth opened to reply, but a cry emerged instead. He bent over her. "Okay, hush, hush. I'm going to take you to the hospital." He slid one arm under her knees and the other beneath her neck. "This will hurt a bit. I'm going to pick you up, okay? Hold on if you can." His voice was low and urgent and nearly panicked; his fingers trembled beneath her. He lifted her as gently as he possibly could. "I'm sorry," he whispered. She was heavy, but he hardly noticed the weight. He managed to skate over to the edge of the rink.
"I'll call 911!" someone boldly announced.
"No!" Diaval shouted, stilling the chaos that was about to ensue between the other patrons. Softer, he continued, "She won't ride in an ambulance." He doubted she would be able to protest in her current state, but he wouldn't let them make the situation worse for her. "I can drive her." He quickly unlaced their skates and discarded them. Their belongings flashed by him—shoes, purse, cane—and he struggled to piece together what was worth leaving behind. Some people tried to help, but ended up getting in the way. The purse was over his shoulder, and someone accidentally thwacked him in the calves with her cane. He lowered her into the car seat and reclined it as far as it would go.
When he finally cleared a path through the people—they seemed to have multiplied to watch him carry the injured woman to the car—he threw on his flashers and hurried onto the street. She was silent except for the occasional whimper or choked sob. Her face was tight, drawn, pale as a sheet, and blood trickled from her bitten lip. Traffic began to pile up and soon Diaval was laying on his horn and dodging bullets left and right until he was finally forced to come to a standstill with the rest of the cars. "Shit," he hissed. Bowing his head, he was unable to do anything but gently stroke her hair. "Millie, I'm sorry. Hang in there. Please hang in there." He bent to kiss her forehead. "I love you."
One thin-fingered hang latched onto the front of his shirt, pulling him down ever so slightly. "Dia…" she whimpered through clenched teeth. He tried to hush her, but her grip on him tightened. "Diaval." He bent closer to hear her nearly inaudible voice. "I—I…" She was fighting unconsciousness. He touched her forehead. "Luh-love you." She reached for him, lips moving but uttering no speech until he let his brush hers. She relaxed into the short, sweet kiss and her eyes fluttered closed.
He pulled away. "Lie still." He kept one warm hand on her shoulder, not daring to touch her back. "I'll get you to the hospital soon. They'll fix you right up, I promise." He couldn't remember ever breaking a promise to her before. No, that was false. He had promised to keep her safe, hadn't he? Even if not verbally, he had sworn to keep her from being defeated by the terrible list. The stupid fucking list, the only reason they were in this mess. It was easier for him to blame the list than it was to blame himself. "We'll be there soon," he whispered.
Soon turned out to be an hour and a half, but Maleficent's pain had not subsided; over every bump and knock in the road, she whimpered or cried out and Diaval wiped away her pained tears when it grew too much for him to bear, seeing her in so much pain. She could only give a soft whine when he lifted her thin form and carried her inside, where they were greeted by a harried nurse with a wheelchair. He filled out the paperwork as best he could while they took her in for x-rays. The last he heard of her voice for almost an hour was the sound of her whimpering his name.
The nurse approached him quietly from where he paced in the waiting room. His nerves had several of the other people on end. "Sir, please calm down."
"Is she alright?" he demanded, ignoring her platitudes.
She touched his arm. "She's going to be fine," she soothed. "Some of the mechanics in her back were knocked out of line." She presented him with the x-rays that he couldn't understand, and she blathered in Latin for a while before finally saying the words he wanted to hear. "The chiropractor was able to realign everything good as new. She's on some heavy pain killers, but once she's awake you can take her home." She rattled over instructions at him—keep her off her feet for three days, several prescriptions that she probably wouldn't take anyway, other things that he didn't care to follow—before letting him into the room.
She was pale and tiny in the bed, face drawn into discomfort. He took her hand and kissed the back of it. "Millie," he whispered.
He didn't expect her to stir, but she did. Soft emerald eyes met his. "Diall," she slurred. He scooted closer to her and touched her cheek. She squeezed his hand with a weak effort and gave a weary smile. "Hah' choc'late?"
He blinked at her. "Yes, I'll make you some hot chocolate when we get home." He stroked her cheek with gentle fingers. "How do you feel?"
"Sweepy." Her other hand touched the back of his, stilling its movements, and she leaned into the warm embrace. He gave a slight smile. "Love you."
He bent to kiss her forehead. "I love you. Go back to sleep."
"Stay?" Her eyelashes fluttered in protest, not wanting to succumb to slumber.
"You couldn't keep me away." She seemed to relax at his words and stilled into a short but deep sleep. When she awoke an hour later, she was positively loopy, but Diaval managed to coax her into a wheelchair. She was discharged, and he put her in the car. Day had long bled into night. "Millie, I have to drive." He was glad that the medications had taken away her pain, but her uncharacteristic behavior was throwing him off.
She smooched his cheek sloppily and rested against him. "I can drive."
He laughed. "You have specific instructions not to drive for the next twenty-four hours." He wiped away her sloppy kiss with the back of his hand and placed a much neater one on her cheek. One arm curled around her waist. "Lie down. You shouldn't strain your back."
"Will we get hot chocolate?" Her head obediently hit his lap, but she didn't look anywhere near sleeping.
"I'll fix you some tomorrow morning, I promise." At least that was one promise he knew he could keep. A gentle hand stroked her hair, hoping to soothe her into restfulness, but it was to no avail.
When they finally pulled back up into her driveway, he gathered her tall frame into his arms for the third time that day and carried her inside. Her limbs were splayed at awkward angles, making him struggle to get her to bed, and her fits of giggles did absolutely nothing to assist him in the matter. But he managed. He placed her there on the mattress and helped her under the covers before turning to go back to the car and gather the things they needed inside, like her cane and her purse, but her voice drew his actions to an abrupt halt. "Diaval?" He looked upon her with pursed lips and concerned eyes. "Will you give me a bath?"
He tried his very, very hardest not to laugh at her. "In the morning." Hopefully by then she would be less drug-addled and more her usual self. If she wasn't…well, that would just be another broken promise. He turned to go once more, but he was once again stopped by her soft, vulnerable voice.
"Please don't leave me." Emerald eyes were finally weary as they met his. One hand patted the space on the bed next to her invitingly. "Stay." He looked from her to the door and back again. Their things could stay in the car until morning; he had no intention of leaving her by herself anyway. His feet moved toward her by their own accord. He lowered himself onto the bed beside her. She wriggled closer to him beneath the covers and kissed his lips. "Thank you." She nestled her face in the crook of his neck. "Love you."
He whispered with internal confliction, "I love you too." Did she mean those words? Of course she didn't. They were a result of the drugs. But there was still the hope. There was always the hope. The hope was what kept his heart alive when she let him pull her close and didn't slap him away. It was in the little pecks he placed on her cheeks and the way she sometimes scolded him for staring too long. He had hope.
Slurred with drowsiness, she asked him, "Can you sing that Mister Rogers song for me?"
She fell asleep to his voice of an oncoming storm rumbling darkly, "It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor…"