Jenkins flipped idly through a six-month old "People" magazine, utterly bewildered by all of the pictures of impossibly young and even more impossibly beautiful people. Who were they, and what on earth had they done to garner so much attention, except, apparently, to dress in increasingly scandalous outfits, spend obscene amounts of money and try to outdo each other in outrageous behaviors? The immortal shook his head and tossed the magazine aside. The more things change, the more they stay the same, he thought jadedly. Memories of the Seventeenth Century court of the Sun King, Louis XIV of France, suddenly surfaced. Much the same thing happened there—lavish parties every night where bored, rich youths tried to outdo one another in obtaining the most expensive clothing, the most elaborate hairstyles, richest foods and wines, engaging in romantic liaisons at the drop of a handkerchief. He smiled wryly to himself. Those were definitely some days!
A faint groaning suddenly pulled him back from his reverie. He shot up out of the chair and went quickly to the side of the hospital bed, leaned over it.
"Cassandra?" he said softly, his voice still slightly anxious even though they had all been assured that she would make a full recovery from the surgery. He still remembered the punch-to-the-gut feeling he'd had when he found Dr. Nassir's business card on the Annex floor and realized why Cassandra had actually gone to New York. He still remembered how he felt that day in the neurosurgeon's office as the man explained the experimental surgery that was the Librarian's only hope for survival. He still remembered that awful, numbing fear as he gaped at the scans of Cassandra's brain, the malignant tumor sitting in her skull like a fat spider. He could still hear those terrible words, implacable as a sentence of execution.
'Cassandra has no time left, Mr. Jenkins. She either has the surgery, now, or she will die within the next few days'.
There had been so much he wanted to say to her before they took her away. But there was only time for a short, generic statement of the love he felt for her. Propriety wouldn't allow him to say any more, even at that dire moment. Propriety, and fear. Fear of opening himself up again to another, allowing himself to feel love, to give love. He could still feel her thin arm and trembling hand slide through his fingers as they took her away, he powerless to help her. The interminable waiting. The gnawing fear that he would never see her again, a fear more powerful than any he had felt before going into battle. He hadn't prayed in years, but that night Jenkins prayed as though his own life depended on it.
Before he even knew what he was doing, Jenkins now reached out his hand and laid it tenderly against her cool, too-pale cheek.
"Cassandra?" he called again. This time he was rewarded with the sight of her clear blue eyes, a little glassy right now, peering confusedly up at him. As soon as she recognized the tall man, a faint smile came to her lips.
"Hey, you!" she said weakly. "How long have you been here?" Jenkins then realized his hand was on her face, and he quickly removed it. He picked up her hand, instead, and gave it a little squeeze.
"Not long," he lied. He'd actually been there for hours. In fact, he spent as much time as he possibly could at her bedside as she recovered from the surgery. She was asleep most of the time, drifting in and out of consciousness and lucidity, but he didn't care. He just couldn't stand the thought of her being in the hospital alone for any length of time; she'd had enough of that as a child. He even sneaked into the hospital at night to sit by her side well after visiting hours, under cover of the ridiculous- looking Cap of Invisibility. He chalked his fixation up to guilt; he didn't dare let himself think that might be motivated by anything else. It was guilt—for refusing her request for a date during what might've been her last night on earth. Guilt for not picking up on her symptoms sooner. Guilt for "leading her on" romantically, however unintentional on his part. Guilt for allowing himself to become so close to her emotionally.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, and she wrinkled her nose.
"Like an elephant stepped on my head." He patted her hand reassuringly.
"That's to be expected," he said. "Are you hungry? Or thirsty? I'm more than happy to bring you something. Are you in any pain? Shall I call a nurse for you?" There was a tiny shake of her bandaged head.
"No, I'm okay, thanks," she said. Suddenly she took hold of his hand, holding onto it with surprising strength.
"I haven't thanked you yet for saving me," she said, looking him hard in the eyes. "If it hadn't been for you…"
"It was nothing," he protested gently, unable to look her in the eye.
"Yes, it was!" she replied. "I would probably be dead right now if not for you." Jenkins flinched inwardly at the word "dead". Cassandra looked down for a moment, nervously swallowing hard before looking up again.
"I'm sorry for putting you on the spot like that in the lab. When I asked you out. And I'm sorry for yelling at you and accusing you of being a coward. I…I was just thinking of myself then. That I had so little time left and so much that I still wanted to do. Still so much living." Tears filled her eyes and slipped from their corners.
"You have nothing to apologize for, Cassandra," Jenkins said quickly, his heart pounding. "I'm so very sorry that I didn't understand how sick you actually were, that I didn't see the signs or even ask how you were doing. That's inexcusable in someone who calls himself a caretaker." He paused for a moment, uneasy.
"I want you to understand something, Cassandra," he said quietly, fervently. "I do care for you very much. And I meant what I said to you before the surgery, I…I do love you, very much."
"But just as a friend," she stated flatly, trying hard to keep her emotions out of her voice.
From deep within the immortal, something screamed like a wounded beast, screamed for him to tell her that he loved her as more than a friend—much more. He shoved it away, though, the usual objection rising up and coming to his rescue.
"A knight…cannot break an oath," he whispered, his face the very image of stoic misery. He immediately began reciting to himself his litany of self-justification as he watched the tears pool in her sad, blue eyes and fall: He had already sworn himself to Charlene. He was far too old for Cassandra. She would end up being yet another loved one that he would outlive and bury one day. She simply deserved so much better than a broken down old charity case.
Before the surgery these reasons had been perfectly plausible, even sensible, but they all rang hollow now. They were nothing more than comfortable excuses. They were nothing more than cowardice. The Librarian looked steadily into Jenkins's eyes, could see plainly that he was lying, trying to convince himself as much as anyone else that he wasn't in love with her, that he couldn't be in love with her. But right now she was just too damn tired and in too much pain to fight for him.
"That's okay, Mr. Jenkins," she said, smiling weakly, unconvincingly. "I understand." She closed her eyes and let go of his hand.
"I'm feeling awfully tired, now, Mr. Jenkins," she said softly, then opened her eyes again to look at him. "I think I need to be alone now. I need to get some sleep." The quiet dismissal struck him like a hammer-blow.
"Of course," he whispered, his brown eyes full of pain. The immortal brushed her hand with trembling fingers, and then he turned and quickly left the room.
As soon as each one was alone, they both wept bitterly.
