Author's note: ok, I'm getting a little bogged, next chapter Sara will wake
up and things will get a little more interesting and a little more
shippery. Feedback always helps. Thanks.
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He stood a single step length into the room, his face blank, his body stiff, his breath held. From where he stood, frozen, he could see her gentle form dwarfed by the infinite expanse of the bed and the tangled jungle of tubes that surrounded her. The regular noise of her heart beating amplified around the room by a mechanical beat, the regular proof of her continued existence soothing part of his troubled mind. He released his breath, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He hadn't known how deep his need to know she lived, to know beyond the doctors words that she was alive, had been.
He ventured at last into the room, his hesitant steps a result of the emotions tumbling inside him and the vast quantities of energy he used with each step. Each step a mountain climbed, a desert crossed, a ceaseless journey. Coming to rest by her bedside he slipped into the battered and worn chair that awaited his presence and let his gaze rest on her, noting each detail, so infinitely small, so that her image would be forever tattooed in his mind.
She looked small and fragile lost within the hospital bed. Only her head that rested on the mound of pillows, sitting within the gentle depression they made and her arms that lay atop the covers could be seen, the rest of her petit figure hidden beneath the white woollen blanket and the cool, starched sheets.
Her skin was deathly pale, white as freshly fallen snow. So white that she barely stood out from the rest of the room. So white that her delicate features stood out on her face, as if a bright flash of a camera had gone off bathing her in harsh light. Her brown hair rested on the on the goose- feather mountains in rolling waves, a mass of curls and twists that led to nowhere. He reached out a hand and with only a finger drew back a lock of her silky mane that fallen across the upper reaches of her forehead. His hands looked red against the almost sickly grey of her skin and the finger trembled.
Pushing back the curl his eyes were drawn to her long lashes that lay brushing her cheeks softly caressing her pale visage. With a desire so strong a pain bloomed in his chest he wished that those lashes would rise allowing the rich chocolate of her eyes to gaze into his own. But the lashes lay still.
Moving lower his eyes began to tear as he saw that the soft, full mouth that he remembered was clasped around the alien tube of the respirator that caused the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest. A gentle whoosh would come from its rubber tentacle reminding him of the waves that would crash upon the shore, rushing up the beach to find a finger hold before being dragged back out to sea, their fingers leaving marks in the sand. Her lips, almost a shade of blue were dried and cracked, the red of her blood that could be seen in the crevasses the only sign of colour he could find on her.
He felt like weeping. Like a gaping hole had been torn within his heart, that no care could heal or fabric mend. Fighting back the salty tears and releasing a shaky breath he gently held her pale hand within his own, mindful of the invasive drip which pierced her skin. It was cold and limp, not like something that belonged to a human of flesh and blood but to a china doll. A delicate doll, with a porcelain face, that should be locked on high shelf away from prying fingers. A doll, that even the gentlest of breezes could snap in two and blow the pieces to the seven winds.
He sat there a slumped figure in the well used chair, her hand held like a priceless jewel in his own. His blue eyes, vivid with emotion, never left her face ringed by the waves of her hair. His mind noticed but didn't fully comprehend the cacophony of mechanical noises which filled the room, breaking the stifling silence which threatened to press down upon him. His mind never registered the artificial vein which led from her wrist to the sac for blood by her bed, replenishing the pints she had so selflessly lost. Lost for him. All that mattered was the sleeping beauty in the high, sterile bed, lying as if waiting for the prince's kiss to stir. And the hours drifted by.
He stood a single step length into the room, his face blank, his body stiff, his breath held. From where he stood, frozen, he could see her gentle form dwarfed by the infinite expanse of the bed and the tangled jungle of tubes that surrounded her. The regular noise of her heart beating amplified around the room by a mechanical beat, the regular proof of her continued existence soothing part of his troubled mind. He released his breath, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He hadn't known how deep his need to know she lived, to know beyond the doctors words that she was alive, had been.
He ventured at last into the room, his hesitant steps a result of the emotions tumbling inside him and the vast quantities of energy he used with each step. Each step a mountain climbed, a desert crossed, a ceaseless journey. Coming to rest by her bedside he slipped into the battered and worn chair that awaited his presence and let his gaze rest on her, noting each detail, so infinitely small, so that her image would be forever tattooed in his mind.
She looked small and fragile lost within the hospital bed. Only her head that rested on the mound of pillows, sitting within the gentle depression they made and her arms that lay atop the covers could be seen, the rest of her petit figure hidden beneath the white woollen blanket and the cool, starched sheets.
Her skin was deathly pale, white as freshly fallen snow. So white that she barely stood out from the rest of the room. So white that her delicate features stood out on her face, as if a bright flash of a camera had gone off bathing her in harsh light. Her brown hair rested on the on the goose- feather mountains in rolling waves, a mass of curls and twists that led to nowhere. He reached out a hand and with only a finger drew back a lock of her silky mane that fallen across the upper reaches of her forehead. His hands looked red against the almost sickly grey of her skin and the finger trembled.
Pushing back the curl his eyes were drawn to her long lashes that lay brushing her cheeks softly caressing her pale visage. With a desire so strong a pain bloomed in his chest he wished that those lashes would rise allowing the rich chocolate of her eyes to gaze into his own. But the lashes lay still.
Moving lower his eyes began to tear as he saw that the soft, full mouth that he remembered was clasped around the alien tube of the respirator that caused the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest. A gentle whoosh would come from its rubber tentacle reminding him of the waves that would crash upon the shore, rushing up the beach to find a finger hold before being dragged back out to sea, their fingers leaving marks in the sand. Her lips, almost a shade of blue were dried and cracked, the red of her blood that could be seen in the crevasses the only sign of colour he could find on her.
He felt like weeping. Like a gaping hole had been torn within his heart, that no care could heal or fabric mend. Fighting back the salty tears and releasing a shaky breath he gently held her pale hand within his own, mindful of the invasive drip which pierced her skin. It was cold and limp, not like something that belonged to a human of flesh and blood but to a china doll. A delicate doll, with a porcelain face, that should be locked on high shelf away from prying fingers. A doll, that even the gentlest of breezes could snap in two and blow the pieces to the seven winds.
He sat there a slumped figure in the well used chair, her hand held like a priceless jewel in his own. His blue eyes, vivid with emotion, never left her face ringed by the waves of her hair. His mind noticed but didn't fully comprehend the cacophony of mechanical noises which filled the room, breaking the stifling silence which threatened to press down upon him. His mind never registered the artificial vein which led from her wrist to the sac for blood by her bed, replenishing the pints she had so selflessly lost. Lost for him. All that mattered was the sleeping beauty in the high, sterile bed, lying as if waiting for the prince's kiss to stir. And the hours drifted by.