A/N: OK, so this might be ridiculously soppy, but I'm in a soppy kind of mood, so there we go. And thank you yet again for the wonderfully positive reviews to this fic.

Sarah x


Following procedure, Serena got a nurse to check Henrik over before she did anything else; truth be told, it made a decent distraction for a few minutes while she composed herself. Whatever she was feeling – the love, the guilt, the pain, the fear – had to be put to one side for now. She had to be strong and put him first, as ridiculously tempting as the idea of confessing all to him was.

Once the nurse was done, Serena sat down and reached for his hand, taking it in hers gently. "How are you feeling?" she asked, as idiotic as it probably sounded.

"I'd say I'm fine, but given the state I'm in, I doubt you'd believe me," he said dryly.

"Henrik," she warned him, her tone soft and laced with more care than she'd anticipated. When had Serena Campbell gone soft?!

"I feel awful," he finally confessed. She so wanted to tell him, but she wasn't sure she had it in her to do it when she could see he was still so weak. "You don't look so good yourself, Serena," he added with stern care clear in his voice. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinised her, taking in her unwashed, messy hair and pale face, and the marks under her eyes from a night of sleep that wasn't really sleep. "How long have you been here?"

She met his eyes, willing now to let him know how much she really did care. "Since yesterday afternoon. Michael had to practically drag me up here. I didn't want to," she answered honestly. "I was probably just being a coward. I didn't want to see you like that."

"You're no coward, Serena Campbell," he gave her an unusually weak smile; she squeezed his hand lightly. If only you knew, she thought to herself. But despite her ill feelings, she gave him a soft smile, just happy she hadn't actually killed him.

"Henrik," she began, swallowing hard as she forced herself to be tough enough to put herself through the pain of discussing this, sooner rather than later. She felt like the guilt was going to drive her insane. She couldn't hold it in any longer; she needed to say something, and if he hated her, he hated her and there would be no way for her to change that. "Henrik, what do you remember about what happened?"

"Well, the knife wound tells a fairly reliable story, doesn't it?" he gave an attempt at a joke, but Serena's face turned stony as she silently warned him she wasn't messing around. He sighed, and said, "If you're getting at the fact you were the one who pulled a Swiss army knife out of my body, and probably put it there, then yes, I remember what happened."

Taken aback at the direct nature of his answer, Serena was thrown. She didn't know what to say to that. She looked at their joined hands; why hadn't he put any distance between them? Why was he still gripping her hand with the little strength he had? Why wasn't he accusing her of trying to kill him?

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm not some sort of psycho, Henrik," she explained to him as she tried to extinguish any thoughts of that kind that may have gone through his mind.

"You are manipulative, discerning, power-hungry, guarded, bad tempered, disobedient, treacherous, above your station with ideas as selfish as they are illogical," he stated bluntly.

"Gee, thanks," she said sarcastically; being told who she was, who she knew she was, stung a little.

"But you're not psychotic," he assured her. "Yet," he added with a weak smile. She had to smile back at him. At least he acknowledged that she was not a madwoman. At least he didn't feel the need to section her. She swung their hands gently, just glad he didn't hate her. "Give it a few months with me and you may require some professional help."

Serena laughed, admiring him for maintaining a sense of humour under such compromising circumstances. The door opened and Michael Spence walked in, saying, "How are the big man and baby Rena today?" in his usual self-assured, over-confident, over-familiar yet affectionate fashion. He leaned against the railing at the side of the bed, next to Serena.

"Call me that again and I will castrate you, Michael," Serena threatened, her tone deadpan.

"I take it back," Henrik muttered. "You may actually be psychotic."

"Well, at least you're alive and verbally kicking," Michael replied to Henrik's remark. "You weren't in very good shape yesterday." He handed Henrik a card; he looked at it suspiciously.

"Is there a bomb in here?" he asked the American, who just laughed. Serena wasn't used to him making so many little jokes. She had an unpleasant feeling he was using his dry humour to disguise the discomfort he felt as he lay there helpless. He opened it and read the names and messages there. "'Get well soon – don't make me come up there and kick your arse into gear,'" he read out. "Well, Miss Naylor has a way with words, doesn't she?"

"That's our Jac," Michael snorted. Serena allowed herself a grin at Jac's daring remark. Only she would have the nerve to write that in a card to Henrik Hanssen.

"Thank you," Hanssen said to Michael.

"I think they're moving you out of Intensive Care today," Michael told him, and Serena saw a small smile grace Henrik's face; she was sure he loathed Intensive Care. "Keller sideroom, as far as I've been told. Ric and Jac are in charge of you for now, anyway."

"Why does that make me rather nervous?"

"Because there are times they'd both quite happily string up by the ears," Michael said cheerfully. "I'm sure they'll move you soon enough. Get well soon," he said, and Serena knew from his grin she was about to receive an insult and lo and behold - "I don't like the idea of Rena in charge for too long."

She glared at him; that thought had slipped her mind. She was second-on-command to Henrik now, wasn't she? "Heavy-duty bolt cutters or a good old-fashioned meat cleaver?" she retorted, her voice sugary sweet.

"Jeez," he said, holding his hands up.

"Are you ever going to stop calling me that?" she asked, catching Henrik's quiet smirk in the corner of her eye.

"Nope," he replied. "It's too much fun. Anyway, I don't have anything else to wind you up with at the moment. Right. I will see you both later," he said, leaving them alone once more.

"Would you sack me for murdering him?" she joked.

"No, but I fear the police may have something to say about it," Hanssen replied. "He's irritating, I know, but his heart is in the right place," he paid the American an unexpected compliment. He turned to put the card on the unit but groaned in pain as he did so; Serena immediately tried to take it from him and do it but he snatched it away from her. "It's fine," he snapped.

"Sorry," she said, sitting back down in her chair. She felt rather awkward as she watched him struggle to do something so simple, but he pushed away her assistance. She'd forgotten, as he had lay there unconscious, that he was a proudly independent man; he wasn't going to take to the powerlessness and the helplessness very well, she'd realised.

When he was lying back down, something brought back her dreams of last night. She didn't know what it was, but something about that moment made her think of cool snow and bare feet and white clothes. It reminded her of her pretty dress that she was glad she never saw herself in, and the white suit he'd worn. Of cuddles and kisses and safety. Of the reassurances she'd never needed before.

She realised too late she was wearing a guiltily childish smile as she reminisced of the previous night. "Is something amusing?" he asked.

"Have I ever seen you in a white suit?" she asked him curiously, wondering why she'd dreamt up such a thing.

"Serena, I don't think I even own a white suit," he answered.

"And have you ever seen me wear a white lacy dress?" she added, paranoid that she really did own that dress somewhere in the disorganised mountain that was her wardrobe.

"I've never had that pleasure, no," he replied with a small smile. "I don't think I've ever seen you in a dress at all, actually."

"And we've never been out in the snow together?"

"What are you jabbering on about?" he sighed. She realised it was probably the oddest string of questions he'd ever heard, though at this hospital she wouldn't be surprised if he had actually heard stranger.

"Nothing," she quickly brushed it away, too embarrassed to tell him what her tired, terrified mind had dreamt up as a comfort for her. "It's nothing," she smiled. It obviously had no basis except for her subconscious mind trying to give her something pleasant to think about. There was no suit, no dress, no snow, no bare feet. Just her.

His hand stretched up and his fingers brushed her cheek, and he said, "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop torturing yourself," he told her. "Do you honestly think I believe that you stabbed me deliberately?" he demanded.

"Stranger things have happened," she remarked.

"You're not a monster, Serena," he reminded her, addressing her worst fear – that she'd turned into some sort of evil demon. She feared she was capable of things she'd never thought of before, and she didn't like it. The thought that she had that potential evil in her frightened her to death. She was meant to be a mother. A doctor. A businesswoman. A lover. Not someone who was capable of stabbing another being.

Her hand moved to cover his; she felt her own fingers touch her face and she realised she probably looked like hell. She felt like hell.

"It was a dream," she confessed. He looked confused so she elaborated. "The suit and the dress and the snow. I fell asleep here twice and both times I had a dream. It was snowing. I was wearing a white dress I probably would look a horrific state in," she chuckled. "You were in a white suit."

"I see," he smiled. "I have a feeling I would have enjoyed this."

"Funny," she sneered at him jokingly. "We just stood there, talking. I don't think you once let go of me," she said, leaving out the most embarrassing parts. It was difficult enough to explain the easiest parts.

"You really are very odd," he informed her.

"Do the words pot, kettle and black mean anything to you?"

She felt his thumb stroke her cheek lightly; she actually hadn't noticed his hand was still on her face. She just smiled. It was the only thing left to do. He was alive. He didn't hate her. He didn't blame her. It was all she could have asked for.


Hope this is alright!
Please feel free to review and tell me what you think!
Sarah x