The hospital smells like morphine and death. It's well past visiting hours, nearing two in the morning, but the nurse couldn't bring herself to throw me out. Her mother is still out running errands, in the next town over.
She doesn't have a clue. Somehow, that makes things easier.
One of the neighbors had been out for a walk, heard me panicking, and called for an ambulance. They revived her, and I rode along — holding her hand — all the way to the hospital.
We got lucky, but barely.
She's the palest I've ever seen her, skin dry, eerily smooth. Two tubes feeding her oxygen are taped beneath her nostrils, her finger clipped with a pulse monitor. The vein running along the inside of her elbow is stuck with an IV that seeps clear liquid.
Lyra's entire body is deflated, lacking energy and drive. She breathes lightly, as though taking in too much air will make her collapse entirely, and she's hardly able to move her limbs. The sight of her terrifies me.
What has she gone through — the rough and tumble girl I fought with at ten years old, who took down Rocket and fights like a hero? Seeing her this way, tattered and lying in a hospital cot, my heart sinks.
"Why won't you let them try the operation?" I ask quietly, squeezing the flat of her palm to mine.
She closes her eyes and she looks so, so tired. "You saw the file. The chances of it being successful, this far along… and a heart transplant is costly — even with insurance, it will ruin any chance of financial stability." A pause; a breath; a small, aching cough. I hold her hand a little bit tighter. "We would be in debt the rest of our lives."
"It's just money, Lyra," I say desperately, grappling at straws, by this point. "We can make it work — it can be replaced! But you…"
I leave off at that, letting my words hang in the air for a while. She looks away entirely. "We both know how this ends, Silver. We've hardly got anything left, except maybe the apartment, and there's no way I could let you use that."
Bitterly, I swallow what words get caught in my throat. I manage to breathe, "We can make this work. We can get you a new heart."
"Silver," she starts firmly, but has to take a few moments to consider her words. "I don't want you to base your happiness on odds." Her lips curve into a downtrodden smile. "I knew something was wrong, and I didn't do anything. I wish I had." I can feel the I'm sorry in the limp curve of her fingers around my hand, the way she holds on with all the energy she has to spare.
My chin ducks to my chest. "You — you don't need to apologize." I rub the flat of her hand with my thumb and glance off, shaking. "This, though — I just don't — I don't understand."
Lyra waits, ever patient. I reach forward to push a few strands of her hair behind her ear, feeling it brush against my fingers. A cold, confused laugh forces its way up from my throat. Her eyes duck as she stares at her lap, lying below sterile white sheets.
"I thought I would spend the rest of my life with you," I tell her softly. "I really did."
I lean down to rest my head on her legs, and she hums quietly, placing a hand on my head. "I guess I'm lucky, then, aren't I?" she replies evenly.
Lyra's hand is so cold. "I don't get it," I tell her.
Her fingers nestle into my hair and stay there, sitting atop the curve of my temple contentedly, while she looks into my eyes steadily. "I get to spend the rest of my life with you."
It takes more than it should to swallow the sobs that threaten to breach the surface. "You don't have to do this. You — don't deserve this, you know that."
Tersely, her head dips, neck craned so low I can hardly see her face. Her smile is ragged. "Lots of people don't deserve things, Silver."
The sheets don't feel like the ones in our room, thick and plush and warm, smelling like flowers and sweat and the wild. They're thin, and cold, and beneath them all I can feel are her pale, motionless legs. "That's a funny thing, isn't it," I start, with a squeeze to her hand. "I figure I don't deserve you."
"You think so?" Her hand in my hair slacks as she draws it up, and her fingers twisted with mine draw closer, hugging my palm to hers.
I can hear her cough into her elbow, hollowly, tightly, as though she's trying to keep something in.
Lyra sighs as the room falls silent again, arm dropping back to her side. The inside of the joint is stained cherry. I tilt my head and stare at her profile, away from the sight of it. "Maybe you're right."
There's a little bit of red clinging to her lip, and I lean over to swipe it away with my thumb. She looks ashamed. "You're too good for this," I tell her. "Why did you wait so long?"
Why did you never say anything?
For a while, she makes no noise at all. Her heart monitor continues to rise and fall, steadily, slowly, sometimes less often, sometimes more. I can hear footsteps down the hall, a nurse doing a walk-through to be sure everything is all right.
Nothing is alright. How could it be, with the way things are now?
"You know that saying?" Lyra starts, and I have to move a little closer to even hear her.
"What? What saying?" I ask, feeling my eyes start to burn. But I don't blink, for fear that it will end the moment, and that she'll be gone by the time I open my eyes.
Her smooth, warm voice slides over the air, hushed like a secret. "Bend until you break?"
My heart twists.
Lyra continues, staring into the crook of her arm, still smattered with red. "I guess I just thought I'd give it a try."
a/n idk
