And there they are racing down the emptying road as the clock ticks late into the night. Sarah forces her mind to focus on driving and not the unaccustomed feel of the steering wheel in her hands. Connor has insisted on sitting at the back, and she thanks him hysterically now for otherwise the silence would be an inescapable embarrassment.
"When…you said you trusted me, did you mean that?"
Despite the insecurity she constantly feels about having to make conversation, this isn't that. Sarah knows it from the bottom of her heart, that it's more of a genuine question, that even if it's out of the line, she needs an answer from him.
"Why?"
It takes a long, breathless moment of silence atop the illusive hum of the car engine for her to realize that she isn't going to get one. Taking her eyes off the open road, she sneaks a glance over her shoulder to see him curled up in one end of the backseat, his head lulled against the window. He blinks wearily, his eyes bleary before he lets them fall closed.
She pulls into the parking space, throws off her seatbelt and takes a moment to breathe and get her mind sorted out over everything she's done, which is more than she was told. Though she doubts this would get her into trouble of any kind, what troubles her is that her actions might have just blurred a line.
"Connor," she gives him a gentle shove in the shoulder, bending over the car door. "Wake up. We're here."
He grumbles softly, blinking open his eyes, addled, "What time is it?"
"Late," she's never seen him like this. "How long was your shift?"
"'bout twenty-four hours," he tells her as he scoots out of the car, landing on his feet and steadying himself on the doorframe. "Look, you can – take my car if you need to go."
"I don't," maybe she doesn't want it there any more, the line. She can't help but wonder where they'd stand without it.
Oh, he mouths, with a nod.
"Don't you have a shift tomorrow?" he asks her, leaning back against the elevator wall and supporting himself by gripping on the bar.
"I'll worry about that when I'm finished with this one," she states blandly stepping out the elevator.
"Sarah –" he catches her arm as the door closes behind them, and it makes her heart skip a beat. "You don't have to do this."
"It's fine," she asserts. "Really, Dr. Berman would have me watch over you anyway, and – I hated staying at the hospital as much as you did."
Their eyes meet for what feels like an eternity, before he turns away to unlock the door. He lets her in first.
Everything in the furnish is so undoubtedly him, sleek and minimalistic, and a little fancier than she expected. The city lights spill in through the glass wall on the other side, landing on a coffee table covered in magazines and medical journals. On the righthand side is a wall of his medical certificates, and a furnace on which stood a row of spinning tops, five of those, a collection.
"You can stay in the spare bedroom if you want." She jumps at Connor's voice and draws her hand back just as she was about to lift one of the tops off of its dock and give it a spin.
"Right. After I finish checking you."
"You'll find the kit in the kitchen," he steps closer. He has removed his jacket and even in the dim light she can see blots of dried blood on the side of his scrubs.
She goes, brushing past him, into the dark. She flicks the light on, a balmy, warm hue that reminds her of the sunset glow at that Hawaiian bar she went once. He invited the entire team to celebrate a patient who made it through surgery, and all she did was putting in a central line. Everything is black except for the counter top, snow-white and stainless marble, and everything looks brand-new, not much sign of living. Everything has its tranquility, a dignified calmness that possesses the air. It's the same air around him, as she comes to realize now, that always makes her feel at peace in his presence.
She finds the med kit sitting alone in the cabinet at the corner, and makes her way to the dining room. He sits at the table in compliance as she takes his blood pressure, pulse and sats, and the numbers come out mostly satisfying. She checks his pupils, pinpoints, expectedly nonresponsive thanks to the morphine.
"I meant it."
She draws back with the flashlight, and forgets to turn it off.
"When I said I trusted you, I did," an earnest look, his eyes sway a little, "I do."
"Well you're wrong," she clicks off the flashlight and puts it back in the kit. "I couldn't have done it. I wouldn't have – hurt you."
"No," his eyes are locked on hers. "You wouldn't because you knew that a doctor had your back, just like you knew I had your back when you did the central line, every time."
"Right," she laughs in a self-deprecating manner. "My ED rotation ends in two weeks and all I can do is a central line."
"That's not the point," he frowns at her.
"Then what is?"
"I was told that when given responsibility, people rise to the occasion," he quotes. She tilts her head, listening. "You have it in you, Sarah. You proved it, when you made the right call and…you saved my life."
That moment of gaze must have been the longest one she's shared with another person in this life. She's lost count of how many beats her heart skipped before she takes hold of the words, "Anyone else could've done it."
"But you did." She'd never forget the look in his eyes, that genuine, unswerving trust. "Thank you Sarah."
"You're welcome Connor," she hears herself saying his name. Sure this time he hears it too. Butterflies, they light up her whole heart, and puts on her face the brightest smile she's ever smiled.She is the one to break the gaze, and her eyes land on his bloodied scrubs, "You need to change out of that."
"And you can have some of my clean shirts too," he grins, turns and makes his way to the bedroom.
City lights. They sneak in through the slit in-between the curtains, a peculiar reminder that she's lying in a strange bed. She resents the feeling of unfamiliarity, especially when in such a vulnerable state for one, sleeping. It closes in on her, making it hard to breathe, her oxygen-deprived brain drifting in and out of consciousness. Tossing and turning. Her hand lands on something soft, slightly cooler, skin. Without looking, she runs her fingers over it, muscles, hair, chest, face. Lips, they're on hers. Breaths, moisture, cravings. She feels it surge through her. Eyes, blue, dark in the dark. They're flickering, burning with desire. He rolls over on top of her. Kissing, sucking, their tongues entwine. Every drop of blood in her body screams for more. She grasps onto his arms. Muscles, rippling beneath her hands. Skin, smooth, unscathed, an arousing touch.
All dreams feel real when you're in them. True. All dreams have a tell. Also true. She has found herself, from a very young age, to have the ability to know a dream from reality, and to make herself wake up if it's a bad one. Not this time. She wants this. She wants him.
Flickering, city lights, wavering curtains. That's it, that's the cue. Remember where you were, where you are, and snap – she feels her eyes open, a flick of the switch, the lightroom is dark.
Sweaty, wrapped up in the sheets, her heart racing, shortness of breath, not abnormal when waking up. She feels for her own lips, and runs a hand down the length of her body. His t-shirt smells like him. It felt so real.
All of a sudden she's afraid, of herself, as if she's committed a crime. Maybe she did, but no murderer is guilty when they kill in their head.
She gets up and walks to the curtains, and peals them apart. City lights, a thousand pair of eyes, scrutinizing, judging. She turns her back, inhales, and exhale. She needs proof, for the first time in her life, that her imaginations aren't real.
The clock ticks. It's just past midnight. Her bare feet are cold on the floor but she doesn't care, sauntering all the way to the kitchen. She fills two glasses with water, downs one and carries the other in one hand and the med kit in another. He has left his bedroom door unlatched. She stands in it for a moment, in the dark. The city light seeps in through the draperies, and carves out his profile in a silver lining. His face is peaceful, expressionless, a beauty as always. She moves closer, and all she can hear is his breathing, in sync with her own, slow and steady, a natural hypnotic.
She lowers herself down on one knee, and waits for it. His eyes are fluttering. Any second now. A switch is flicked. She finds herself looking into the exact same pair of blue eyes, dark in the dark, pained, confused, and a trace of panic.
"It's okay it's me," she quickly reassures him. He's catching his breath now.
"What, are you doing," he blinks at her, frowning.
"Nothing. I just – had a messed-up dream and I had to…check on you," she trails off at the half lie, reflexively pulling back as Connor tries to haul himself up with his good arm, and winces at the attempt to free his injured one of the sheets.
"That, was creepy," he complains, chiding.
"No, don't get up," she brings the glass to his lips. "I just need to check your pulse."
"I'm not five," he tells her, slightly annoyed.
"Nope. You're just my patient. Besides, I do what the nurses do all the time."
He pauses a beat before scooting himself over to the edge of the bed and dropping his legs, and extends his hand to take the glass. She pinches his other wrist, and counts as he drinks. Fifteen seconds, twenty-one beats. She puts it down to the fact that she just scared him and that he's in pain.
"Looks like the morphine's out of your system," she can see that his pupils are fully dilated in the dark, but uses the flashlight one more time just to be safe. She puts it back in the kit and grabs the Tylenol bottle.
"May I be released from your observation?" he asks through the pills in his mouth, before swallowing them dry.
"Yes, you are," she grins, packing up the kit. "Go back to sleep."
He obeys, tucking himself back under the covers. She gathers the stuff and gets up to leave.
"You too," more of a question than a command. He's asking, even a little pleading.
"Don't worry," she says to him over her shoulder as she makes for the door. "I will stay with you tonight."