Karen had slipped into sleep about an hour ago. Her chest nudged regularly against his with deep, untroubled breaths. The relaxed tha-thump of her heart was a steady metronome against his skin, gently harbouring his attention in the subtle waves of rhythmic heat. Her breath rolled across his neck like a rounded summer breeze, lazily gusting over his scars, the almost unfelt pressure sliding past the bandages was a balm over its slow burn.
Focusing on her breath helped numb the burning sting of each of his. The cannula was certainly better than the mask but it still seemed to rub his skin raw, the incessant gale of oxygen scorching his abrading nostrils. His mind was caught too firmly in the haze of morphine for him to filter the discomfort out completely, but Karen's smell and the scent of Gerber daisies and freshly snipped conifer crept like a whisper with each breath, helping ease the chemicals into a nebulous whole.
Sounds were harder to ignore. The low churn of pouring oxygen was monotonous enough to establish a cocoon of sorts. Everything outside its droning grumble, the footsteps, the heart monitors, the faraway conversations, melded into an almost ignorable pressure pulsing at the edges of his awareness. He concentrated on Karen's breathing, on her heartbeat and the rustle of her clothes against their skin, determined not to be distracted. He wrapped the sounds like silk around the two of them, thickening his insulation against the hospital's ceaseless sorrow.
The morphine ate at his silk, dissolving it from the inside into useless half-tethered wisps. The hospital groaned through the holes in his cocoon, demanding his attention. Staccato snippets reared from the seething miasma as though calling him by name, and once identified they were harder to fend back into the moaning sea.
There was the teenage girl in the room above his, sobbing desperately into a stuffed animal that still smelt of the parents who died in the accident that took her right leg.
The old woman next door who couldn't sleep but stayed awake talking in a broken whisper to her husband, whose heartbeat grew slower with each minute.
Parents whose heartrate hadn't slowed since he woke up, who were waiting to hear if their newborn son would survive the surgery to clear his lungs.
A young man who was begging his girlfriend to open her eyes, promising endless pointless changes if she would just wake up, while the nurses holding her intestines in told him again and again to step back, to let them work.
Matt hadn't had this much trouble filtering the world since he was nine years old. Ambulance sirens lanced through his mind, his heart jolting as they seemed to drive right through his room. Shouted questions and mechanical answers battered his consciousness like heavy rain in a blustering gale. Wailing sobs raked his heart as he lay helpless. Useless.
Karen sucked in a quick breath, breaking her rhythm as she mumbled syllables that were lost around her sigh. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her hair, ignoring the tube burrowing against his cheekbone. He forced himself to hear each breath, to actively track its whistling passage past her rounded lips, its hiss through the regimented forest of teeth, and the minute echo as it curved down her throat.
His head slumped back against the cement pillow. He couldn't keep this up. Exhaustion sucked at his temples. Pain gnawed through his chest. The intermittently numbing fog of morphine kept him stranded between consciousness and sleep. God, he wished Foggy were here. He would've been talking about something, filling the world with his lilting tenor, shaping it into something Matt could swallow. He wondered if he'd finished at the precinct yet? If he'd gone home to catch some real sleep before he was back at Matt's bedside again tomorrow, determined to chat him into health?
Was Claire still at work? He'd lost her to the crush of bodies not long after he'd woken up. He wished she were here. She would know how to temper the hurricane of drugs and voices.
What time was it anyway? The thrumming energy of the hospital had stilled compared to when he'd first woken. It must be after nightfall ... Early morning maybe? Or was it closer to midnight? He wished they hadn't taken his watch. Not that he could've reached the button to tell the time with his arm pinned between Karen and the bedrail. But still, if he listened carefully he could feel the face under the glass and at least get an idea of the time. He was too tired to search out a clock in a nearby room. Every time curiosity extended his senses they wavered and snapped back to the room like an old elastic band. Or they'd be hooked around some piercing snippet of a stranger's life, snagged and tangled.
He took as deep a breath as his wound would allow, his nose buried in Karen's hair. Sunshine and coconut blew through his mind, banishing the fog for a precious moment. He should be asleep. His limbs were dipped in weighted molasses, eager to slip into slumber. The deep ache in his breast throbbed with each heartbeat, but even that determined rhythm couldn't ease his mind into quiet. The mild sting of the paddle burns harmonised with the deeper rumble pulsing from his chest like a badly sung opera, unpredictable crescendos snaring his attention and forcing him into a confusing labyrinth of echoing wildfire.
Heavy footsteps drew his attention back to the hospital. He heaved a sigh. Just someone doing their rounds. Don't listen. Think of Karen. He inhaled her scent again, willing it to settle the storm clouds circling his fragile mental oasis. The footsteps protruded again and he flopped his head back in exasperation, grimacing as the motion pulled on his stitches.
He listened for the steps, wondering why they had piqued his sluggish awareness. A heavy tread with a low thud, so a big man. Nothing unusual about that. He cocked his head as something else reached his ears. A sharp clipping with every other step. Stethoscope? Clipboard?
His addled mind seemed to swerve, careening through a rush of breathing and heartbeats and low sobs which drowned the man out, concealing him in a sonic swell. He sighed, tightening his arms around Karen. Just a doctor doing his rounds. No point getting interested. Just relax. Sleep.
The footsteps surfaced again and this time he caught what made them stand out to the thrum of the ER below. What doctor wore tactical boots to work? Apprehension prickled along his spine, urging his fingers into fists.
Matt straightened up, determination focusing his senses as he reached out for the intruder. Was he an intruder? He was walking with purpose, quickly, evenly. He knew where he was going. He wore a long woollen cloak; it grated uniquely against his thick cargo pants. Something solid and metallic pushed against the fibres of one of the pockets with every other step. A baby wailed a piercing smile and an artery ruptured in an OR.
Matt gave his head a shake. He felt drunk. Information gusted by in confusing waves. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, ignoring the complaining groan in his chest and concentrated. On the footsteps. Only the footsteps.
Now. The heartbeat. Steady. Healthy. Strong. One floor below, heading to the stairs.
Coming this way, then. The assassin?
What else was there? He hadn't shaved in a few days, his steady exhales whistled through the stubble. His hair was damp, as were the shoulders of his coat. Raining outside. The man reached out to open one of the double doors leading to the stairwell and Matt's eyes snapped open.
There. As his coat swayed towards the door as he pulled the handle. The wool swept across smooth plastic fastened over the man's hip. The tiny scrape was enough to echo through the plastic and tell Matt what was hidden inside.
A gun.
He could smell the waiting powder, feel the tension of the hammer, already cocked. The gripped cylinder of a silencer poked through the holster, rasping against the nylon lining of the coat.
That was all Matt needed to know.
"Karen? Karen, wake up."
She groaned slightly against his chest, her breath hitching in a sudden yawn. She sat up, her heartbeat jumping in surprise.
"Matt? Sorry, I must've dozed off. Hey," she added, one hand coming to rest against his jaw. "You okay?"
He nodded, thinking fast. Where was safe? Where would she go? He didn't have long. The gunman had already started up the stairs.
"I'm fine." His voice was a rasping croak. Good. "Well, uh –"
"What is it? You need something?"
"Some jello?"
"Jello?" Laughter shook through the syllables.
"Yeah, my, uh, my throat's really dry. Guess because of the breathing tube." Please, Karen, he begged silently.
"Oh, yeah, that makes sense." He heard her check her watch. "Not sure if the cafeteria'll be open now but I can go check?"
He nodded, letting his relief show, hoping she interpreted it as motivation to hurry. "Thanks Karen. I appreciate it."
"No problem." She kissed his cheek as she swung off the bed. Slipping on her pumps she asked, "Flavour preference?"
"Anything." Please, just go!
"Sure, okay." Her tone was quieter. "I'll be right back."
"Take your time," he croaked after her, sending a quick prayer to aid his wish.
As soon as the door clicked shut he pulled himself into a sitting position, teeth clenched against the warning burn in his chest. Okay. He judged he had maybe one minute before the gunman got here. He listened carefully for a second, then sagged in relief as he heard Karen's staccato footsteps click into the elevator. There. She was safe. Now.
To work.
He pulled the IV out of his arm and snapped his fingers hard, using the echo to map out the room. Bank of machines to his left, sink in the far left corner, storage to his right, window on his left, closed.
The bullet wound snarled as tightened his left fist. He took a deep breath, fanning a fiery flare. Then another, stoking the fire. It rumbled angrily. He took one more, pulling the pain from his chest, wrapping it around him, numbing it with familiarity. Embracing its roar.
The footsteps stamped closer along his corridor. He needed to be quick. This fight couldn't last long. He couldn't last long. But then he didn't need to. Just long enough. One well-placed kick and it would be over. Provided he didn't get shot first.
He pulled the nasal cannula off his face, winding it around his left fist as he had done so many times with tape in Fogwell's Gym. He felt the gentle tug as the slack tightened. The footsteps were right outside.
He took one last, slow breath.
Time to let the devil out.