She wakes to the sterile smell of sickness and harsh light filtering through thin curtains, and it stings her eyes but it's a welcome kind of pain—even the dull ache throbbing through her side with every heartbeat feels like the pulsing of relief. At the back of her head a voice niggles and she shoves it back down; when she'd passed out in the ambulance…she'd fully expected not to wake up.
(I never knew there'd come a day when I'd be saying to you, don't let this good love slip away)
She's cold from the flimsy hospital gown and a radio plays low from somewhere in the room—no, there's a speaker, and it sounds like her iPod—classic rock blooming softly in the background, and relief turns to something that sends shivers like breaking waves surging down her back.
(don't, don't you know the kind of man I am? no, said I'd never fall in love again)
Arthur is here. Leaning over onto her bed, his head on his arms, asleep.
(but it's real and the feeling comes shining through)
Mercifully, the IV is hooked up to the wrist on her opposite side, and she's able to push her fingers gently through his hair. He's disheveled, still in the ruined clothes he'd been wearing the night she was shot—she can see what must be her blood smeared like rust on his sleeves—but he's never left her.
(I'm so caught up in you, little girl, and I never did suspect a thing)
She smoothes her hand over his cheek; there's a few days' worth of stubble and it scratches and despite all the tactile evidence surrounding her, she still can't believe he's never left her side.
(so caught up in you, little girl, that I never want to get myself free)
Her eyes sting and she wants to laugh or cry but it makes everything hurt and comes out more like a snuffle, and Arthur lifts his head and holds her cold hand against his face and kisses her palm, and the mix of emotions she sees there is like nothing else on the face of the earth.