Thanks, Wings of Love! *grins* Here's the fifth part:
"How is she?" I thought I was completely worn out a minute ago; now, I'm gabbling again as my heart jolts back to life with a painful thud. "Is she alive? Is she-"
"Sir," the doctor interrupts, looking exasperated, and I subside with an effort. "Please, take a seat."
I sink slowly into a chair, feeling what little blood is left in my face drain out as my hands curl into trembling fists. The doctor seats herself primly beside me, perching on the edge of the chair, and rustles the papers on her clipboard. "Detective Eames is in very serious condition," she reports matter-of-factly, and I feel an instant rush of relief followed by a surge of dread. "The insulin shock she experienced weakened her considerably, and her vitals are extremely low. We're doing everything we can, of course, but..."
Her voice fades away in an echo, as if I am travelling down a long empty passage. Thoughts are whirling through my head in violent storms, as my heart is flooded with emotion. I feel so badly shaken that I can't believe that's it's only been a few hours since this all began.
"Sir?" The doctor's voice cuts across my trance. "Would you like to see her?"
Would I like to see her? I'm halfway down the hallway before the doctor can stand up.
The doctor, all but tsk-tsking at my impatience, shakes her head as she leads me down a few corridors before reaching a half-open door. There's a glass window beside it, and I can see a few figures hovering over a bed inside the room. My heart rattles and races as the doctor ushers me in.
It's a small room, packed with equipment and furnished with one chair and one bed. A window filters some pale light onto the white bedsheets, there are some surgeons standing by who bustle around and look curiously at me, and there-in the bed. Lying deathly still, her face white and hollow.
I look at Eames, nestled among a mass of needles and tubes and bandages, and I think, 'God, she's beautiful'. I want to hold her close and kiss her awake, but instead I draw up the chair by her bed and take her hand in mine. It feels like a snowflake, icy-cold, feathered and translucent, ready to melt away into mist.
I don't notice everyone else leaving until they're gone, and we're alone. I can only watch her, look on as my partner fights with death.
"Eames," I whisper, and it comes out cracked and broken. I have to clear my throat a couple of times before I can go on. "Eames, can you hear me? I'm not letting you go, understand? You're not dying because of me, I'm not going to let that happen."
Her eyes, so finely drawn in her slender face, are shadowed and still. "It's my fault he shot you," I confess in a whisper, letting her hand fall back to her side and laying my head down beside it, falling to my knees. "This is all my fault. I can't let you die, I can't... don't die. Please, don't die."
The room whirls around me. My eyes stagger and sway like a drunken man, then fall into darkness. The exhaustion, hunger, and worry are too much; I drift off into a deep sleep.
"How is she?" I thought I was completely worn out a minute ago; now, I'm gabbling again as my heart jolts back to life with a painful thud. "Is she alive? Is she-"
"Sir," the doctor interrupts, looking exasperated, and I subside with an effort. "Please, take a seat."
I sink slowly into a chair, feeling what little blood is left in my face drain out as my hands curl into trembling fists. The doctor seats herself primly beside me, perching on the edge of the chair, and rustles the papers on her clipboard. "Detective Eames is in very serious condition," she reports matter-of-factly, and I feel an instant rush of relief followed by a surge of dread. "The insulin shock she experienced weakened her considerably, and her vitals are extremely low. We're doing everything we can, of course, but..."
Her voice fades away in an echo, as if I am travelling down a long empty passage. Thoughts are whirling through my head in violent storms, as my heart is flooded with emotion. I feel so badly shaken that I can't believe that's it's only been a few hours since this all began.
"Sir?" The doctor's voice cuts across my trance. "Would you like to see her?"
Would I like to see her? I'm halfway down the hallway before the doctor can stand up.
The doctor, all but tsk-tsking at my impatience, shakes her head as she leads me down a few corridors before reaching a half-open door. There's a glass window beside it, and I can see a few figures hovering over a bed inside the room. My heart rattles and races as the doctor ushers me in.
It's a small room, packed with equipment and furnished with one chair and one bed. A window filters some pale light onto the white bedsheets, there are some surgeons standing by who bustle around and look curiously at me, and there-in the bed. Lying deathly still, her face white and hollow.
I look at Eames, nestled among a mass of needles and tubes and bandages, and I think, 'God, she's beautiful'. I want to hold her close and kiss her awake, but instead I draw up the chair by her bed and take her hand in mine. It feels like a snowflake, icy-cold, feathered and translucent, ready to melt away into mist.
I don't notice everyone else leaving until they're gone, and we're alone. I can only watch her, look on as my partner fights with death.
"Eames," I whisper, and it comes out cracked and broken. I have to clear my throat a couple of times before I can go on. "Eames, can you hear me? I'm not letting you go, understand? You're not dying because of me, I'm not going to let that happen."
Her eyes, so finely drawn in her slender face, are shadowed and still. "It's my fault he shot you," I confess in a whisper, letting her hand fall back to her side and laying my head down beside it, falling to my knees. "This is all my fault. I can't let you die, I can't... don't die. Please, don't die."
The room whirls around me. My eyes stagger and sway like a drunken man, then fall into darkness. The exhaustion, hunger, and worry are too much; I drift off into a deep sleep.