A.N. This is a shorter chapter, but I will try to post another chapter shortly to make it up to you all :)

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It had been nine days. Nine days since Libby had had a conversation with Sam. Nine days since they'd smiled and laughed together. Nine days since he'd saved her life… again.

It had been eight and a half days since they'd learned the full extent of the damage done to him. Eight and a half days since they'd been told he was in for the fight of his life. Eight and a half days since he was stable enough that they could see him.

Eight and a half, long, grueling, excruciating days with slow progress.

It had been two days since they finally took Sam off of the ventilator because they thought he could finally manage breathing on his own. Libby wasn't ashamed to say she'd held her own breath for the scary moments after they took it out and he didn't breathe. That the doctor had been very close to re-intubating him, which would have been a huge blow against his recovery. And she wasn't ashamed to say that she'd cried when he finally took his first breath.

And now she—and everyone else—had been waiting for two days. Two. Days. For Sam to wake up. The doctors kept telling them, soon. That he'd be awake when his body was ready. Any day. But Libby didn't want it to be any day. She wanted it to be now. Today. She was ready. She'd been ready since the moment they knew he was out of the woods.

Two days.

Of waiting.

Libby hated waiting. In fact, she was a notoriously impatient person. But she would do it, for Sam. Sitting and waiting was the very least she could do, though it wasn't enough. How do you go about thanking someone and giving back to them when they've saved your life not once, but twice? Her master plan had been by bringing him into her family, to just be there every day, or only on the days he needed it, but that was before… before he'd taken a bullet for her. What could she do to repay that? Suffering the cramps and aches that arose from sitting so long waiting just didn't seem like an equal exchange.

Libby hated waiting, not only because she was impatient, but because when all she could do was wait, her mind had nothing else to do but worry. So, while Libby waited, she worried. Not just for Sam's physical well-being—which she did—but for how and even if their friendship would continue from here. Because there was a part of her, a very small part that spoke quite loudly that she couldn't smother, that kept telling her that the two times she'd spent time with Sam, he'd ended up in the hospital. The first time had definitely been her fault. Or at least, had been caused because of her. This second time was a freak accident, but statistically speaking, it was two out of two times. Was it in his best interest to continue to be friends with her when those facts were so overwhelmingly apparent? No. Was Sam selfish enough to care? No. Was Libby selfless enough to truly walk away when that would probably be best for him? Unfortunately, the answer was also no.

So, while she knew she wasn't strong enough to walk away, and Sam would never ask her or want her to, all that did was make the guilt she felt more intense. She hid it behind worried eyes and a chipper smile, but some days it almost drowned her.

Today was one of those days when the guilt pressed in from the false ceiling, when it slithered in alongside the beeping of the heart monitor, when it sat on her heart as heavily as Sam's unresponsive hand sat in hers.

And she could never stop the thought from crossing her mind that it was very possible that when Sam woke up, he would be… different. The doctors hedged, tried to assuage their fears, but would and could not outright tell them they had nothing to fear. Too many stories of amnesia, personality changes and anger outbursts ran through Libby's head. And when those thoughts crossed her mind, the guilt and fear sent her to the bottom of the ocean, struggling to breathe.

As they were now.

She squeezed Sam's hand, knowing he would not squeeze back, but needing the contact, needing the anchor—the irony was not lost on her, as anchors sink—to pull her back, away from those dark thoughts.

She took in a shaky breath and let it out slowly, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the chair.

"Hey Sam?" she called softly, knowing he probably couldn't hear her, but maybe, just maybe he could… "Sam, it would be really amazing if you would wake up now…" she trailed off, opening her eyes and looking at him. "I know you've been fighting really hard, Sam. You must be exhausted. But please, fight just a little harder for just a little longer."

She took in and let out another shaky breath.

"I know you had a lot to deal with in the forty-eight hours before all of this started, I know you had your legs cut out from under you, your foundation shaken, and it's probably not appealing, the idea that when you wake up, you're still going to have to deal with all of that, deal with all of them… but—and I know it's selfish but I'm asking anyway—I'm asking you to please wake up."

She squeezed his hand again. She'd been doing it for the past two days, waiting for a response, one that never came.

"I mean, I'm all for the silent treatment, I've used it to great effect myself a time or two. And your team is certainly suffering from it, but don't you think two days is a little extreme? I mean, really it's been nine days, but you didn't really have a say in the matter for the first seven, so I'll just give you the two. And come on Sam, two days? I think my record is two hours. So, I think you've made you're point. In fact, you didn't even need to make your point, because you have people who made it for you, who backed you up when the people who normally watch your back dropped the ball. It wasn't just me, Sam, though I admit to relishing giving your teammates a piece of my mind. It was Sergeant Westin and Rivers from Team Four—in fact Rivers has been in here checking on you pretty frequently—and it was even Spike, though he's not totally blameless in the first place. My point is, Sam, not only do you have a family who has properly examined past misdeeds and is ready to make amends, you have friends who are in your corner. So really, if you're worried about how difficult things are going to be when you wake up, don't. It's gonna be better than you think, because everyone out here is pretty much falling over themselves to fix it and do better."

She paused, searching his face for any sign of a response, but saw nothing. Sighing, she leaned forward and rested her head on the bed beside their clasped hands, and squeezed his hand once more.

"You won't even have to face the music from me," she offered. "What music, I hear you not ask? Oh, just the fact that I know what you did back in that square Sam. You walked the line between lying and reassuring so hard, and it took me awhile to realize it, but I'm clued in now. At first, I was ticked off because you lied to me, but then I realized that you didn't actually lie. When I asked you if we were going to get out of there—which yes, I know was a totally unfair question because I only wanted one answer—you told me yes, 'you're going to get out of here.' And I thought that was exactly what I wanted to hear, because I didn't catch that you said 'you,' not 'we.' So then, once I realized all of that, I was ticked off at how sneaky you were, and how oblivious I was. But then I realized I can't be mad at you, because you did it because you were already shot, even though I didn't know that at the time, and you honestly didn't think you were gonna make it, but you wanted to reassure me without lying. And how can I be mad at you for that? It'd be pretty jerkish of me to be ticked off at you for that, when you were bleeding out and all you were trying to do was make me feel better. Even so, I was still going to hold onto that grudge and let you have it when you woke up, but now I'm telling you, promising you, I will let it go, if you just wake up now."

Head still on the bed, she closed her eyes and sat there for several minutes, just listening to the wonderful sound of him breathing on his own. No mechanical sound of the pump filled her ears. Finally, she decided to try one more time, to throw her last plea out into the open air, knowing it was selfish and would probably fall on slumbering ears anyway, but she just had to. "I know you keep saving me, Sam, and it's not fair to ask you to do it again, to save me from drowning…" in all of this guilt, in all of my worry, in all of my fears… "but this time you don't have to take out a whole gang on your own, or stop a bullet, you just have to wake up and be okay. It's a small ask, right?" she chuckled under her breath, knowing it was anything but a small ask. "I have no right to, but… please?"

She waited, holding her breath for five counts, before picking her head up and looking at Sam's face.

His eyes were still closed.

She sighed. "That's okay, Sam. I know it's not fair to ask. I know you're tired, that you need time to recover, so you just rest up now. Rest up and get well; I'll still be here waiting, for as long as it takes."

She squeezed his hand again to send the message home, to offer him reassurance, to tell him she was there.

This time, his hand squeezed back.