And so he sat back down in the chair and waited. He felt her continue to relax and watched her, ignoring the monitors. He could see her breathing slowing, could feel the pulse in her hands receding.
And he slowly leaned forward allowing his own head to come to rest on the edge of the bed in such a way that he still had her hand wrapped in both of his.
Then—he was finally able to let go. For his Doctors had told him that if he didn't take his medication every day, his heart wouldn't last more than twenty-four hours at the most. Well . . . he hadn't taken his medication in more than forty-eight. And it was only his iron will, the same iron will which had allowed him to, despite all of his multitude of fears and phobias, start accompanying his best friend on missions to save the world all those many years ago, that had kept his heart going.
So, two hearts, which for the better part of eight decades, had beat as one, two hearts which had been joined first in friendship then in love, slowly wound down together until—