Disclaimer: If all Wuzzles are Weezles, and all Weezles are not Muzzles…eh, SPD still isn't mine.

Author's Note: Back to my drabble-challenged ways. This is a sequel to 'Dependence', so take a look at that if you haven't already.

- -

Worst-Case Scenario

She had once considered becoming an interior designer. Being something of a fashionista back during her days in the celebrity limelight, she'd figured picking textiles for drapes and colors for walls couldn't be so different from doing the same for clothing.

For example, she would have done the walls of this waiting room in a tasteful amber shade, something earthy and warm and not overwhelmingly cheerful. She'd add plants and a touch of feng shui to improve the overall arrangement and energy. There should be less decrepit toys in the corner, ones that didn't look like they had been around since her grandmother's generation. And there definitely needed to be some gossip magazines on the coffee table to take people's minds off their own troubles.

Unfortunately, the way the waiting room was now, everything was white, in that awful hollow way it always appeared beneath fluorescent lights. She didn't want white because it reminded her of everything about the 'place after'. Angels' clouds, God's robes, pearly gates, and the great white light. Everything she didn't want to think of as she sat there in tense silence.

Sky's mom and sister were present as well, but no one felt like talking. His mother was trying to read a science journal she held in shaking hands, and his sister was catnapping in the corner of the couches. Sydney was spacing, lost in memories of one of her closest friends. She remembered the battle that had indirectly caused this excruciating wait, the one that had stolen Sky's sight but had also been the catalyst for the two of them to step beyond the boundary of friendship.

Not that they had stepped very far. All they'd really done was acknowledge their mutual feelings for each other. There wasn't much time to deal with that, not when other, more pressing matters were at hand, like the possibility of restoring Sky's vision. That's what the doctors were trying to do in there, right through those grey double doors.

Maybe she should do a light purple color for the walls. She'd never seen anything purple in a hospital before. People in here didn't need to be reminded that they were in a hospital, awaiting potentially the most important news of their life. A change of environment was what she really needed right now, but leaving was out of the question.

Sydney wasn't sure what kind of time the clock on the wall was measuring when it told her only two hours had passed; eight or nine hours would have been more believable. But two was what the clock reported when the doctor finally emerged from the double doors, wearing an expression so apologetic it could only mean one thing. All three occupants of the waiting room turned as white as the walls.

"I'm very sorry," the doctor said in a low voice. His hands were jammed deep in the pockets of his white coat and he couldn't quite meet their eyes. "I'm afraid Schuyler didn't make it."

Sydney stared at the man who had just confirmed her worst fear. Her insides seemed to liquefy, losing all strength and semblance of integrity as she slumped to the floor. Her blue eyes blurred with tears, and she gripped the nearest thing at hand—a corner of the coffee table—until her knuckles went white. It was her solitary anchor, a physical force to keep the black well of emotion inside her from swelling and consuming her whole.

Distantly she heard some thumbed down medical jargon, the doctor saying something about complications, unique brain chemistry, and…organ donation? Oh God…

It was merciless how quickly her mind was able to grasp the full meaning of the doctor's words, and then the waiting room was filled with her bereft howl.

x-x-x-x-x

That dream had literally driven Sydney out of bed and straight towards the Medical Center at six o'clock that morning. She hadn't actually gotten permission to be away from the Academy, but the bone-deep fear she felt said that nothing was more important than being with Sky before he went into the operating room.

Now they sat together quietly in his room on the ward, his right hand intertwined with her left in a gesture as still as they were. To the unfamiliar observer, the connection might have been innocent, a silent lending of support and comfort as he sat in the hospital bed and she held vigil in the hard-backed, yellow plastic chair beside it. Or it might have been something more intimate, if one carefully observed the way their fingers curled around each other so comfortably, like the embrace of sweethearts or the afterglow of lovers. It was the only source of contact between them, and certainly an observer wouldn't know what it was indicative of if the two didn't know themselves. All that mattered was that it felt right.

"What time is it?" Sky asked after what seemed like an eternal silence.

"Twelve till," Sydney answered.

Her left hand was bent oddly to avoid touching the plastic bracelet around his wrist, the one that bore his name in tiny black print. The one to identify him in the event that he was unable to do it for himself.

"Are you scared now?" she asked when Sky didn't answer.

"No," he said automatically.

Of course not. Sky Tate didn't get scared. His current expression betrayed nothing to her, but she remembered those first few days when decipherable emotions had become almost the norm to see in his clear green eyes. It seemed like he'd clammed up again, at the worst possible time.

"Are you sure?" she prodded, and when he merely frowned, she added softly, "Well, I am."

"Of what?"

"Of…" Could she say it? One sweep of her cornflower blue eyes took in the made-for-daytime-soap-opera scene around her: the pale blue walls; the thin, spotted hospital gown; the non-allergenic acrylic blanket; the IV line attached to his left hand. The spectacular view out the window that he couldn't enjoy anyway.

Her devastating dream.

"I'm afraid of something going wrong."

"The odds of that are small," he said rationally, paraphrasing what the doctor had told them. It wasn't very reassuring to her. "Practically nonexistent."

"But still there." The growing constriction in her throat was a testament to the feelings she harbored for the man beside her, feelings that weren't really a secret, but that she'd never acted upon until that fateful battle four weeks ago.

When Sky had lost his vision, she had insisted on being his eyes, and that had involved a lot of contact and mutual trust. They knew they liked each other, but it just wasn't the time to do anything about it. He'd spent only one week at the Academy. Then he'd been sent to a specialist in New Orleans, and one in Denver. It had taken two weeks for these so-called experts to pronounce that there was nothing wrong with Sky's eyes.

There was something wrong with his brain.

Now he was in the Medical Center at UCSF, awaiting surgery that would hopefully restore his sight. Neurosurgery. In ten minutes, a team of medical staff was going to take him away so that some doctor could cut open his head.

The thought never failed to make Sydney shiver. She didn't care that the doctor operating on him was one of the top neurosurgeons in the country, or about the 94 per cent success rate. She didn't care that she was three hours away from New Tech and the Academy, potentially putting the city and the planet at risk should an attack occur that she couldn't get to fast enough.

All that mattered was that other 6 per cent, the sliver of chance that threatened to take Sky away forever, and make her nightmare come true. The doctor had told them not to worry about it too much. Probability was overwhelmingly in Sky's favor, and really, they faced much worse odds as Rangers every time they ran out into a battle. But the difference there was, Sydney ran out with her team to share those odds, even helping to improve them with her skill and perseverance.

"Syd." Sky's voice soothed her only marginally. "I'm going to be fine."

"If these last four weeks were your hell, then this is mine," she informed him, and felt his hand tighten around hers.

"I thought I was the pity case here."

"You were." Her reply was uncharacteristically acerbic. "Four weeks ago. Don't you think—"

She cut off abruptly, shame twisting in her stomach at her selfishness. She'd nearly said that this was probably easier for him than it was for her. His lack of concern for his own life was angering her, or more specifically, his lack of concern for what his life meant to her.

"Do my feelings mean anything to you at all?" she demanded, blue eyes dark like a storm. "Here I am, scared to death that something might go wrong in there, and all you can do is make fun of me."

Sky sighed. "What do you propose I do, Syd? Call it off? I don't intend to spend the rest of my life blind."

"I didn't mean you should call it off. I just meant—I mean, I wanted—" Tears were prickling in her eyes from her mounting frustration, and from the clock announcing that they only had six minutes left together.

"C'mere." Sky held his other arm towards her in a gesture they'd both become familiar with. She hesitated a moment before gingerly climbing over the bed railing to sit in his lap, being extra careful not to disturb the IV line.

She leaned against him and closed her eyes, finally able to let some of her pent-up emotions drain away. It was almost therapeutic, sitting there and feeling his solid, steady presence and warm embrace. It countered the frightening memory of her dream and made it seem like only that—a dream. Her imagination had run away with her; that's what had happened. It was prone to playing the what-if game whenever the heart was involved. Sky would be okay. He had to be.

He held her in silence until the clock struck the hour, and the doctor came in, clearing his throat none too discreetly. Sydney flushed a dark pink and scrambled off Sky's lap, while Sky merely smirked. He didn't seem to embarrass anymore; he'd said it had something to do with not being able to see people's reactions.

Sydney stepped back as a medical team came in with a gurney and helped Sky onto it. Starched white pillow, sterile white sheets, and gleaming silver railing. A little shelf for devices she didn't want to think about. She glanced up at the doctor.

"How long will the surgery take?" Her voice was strangely hollow.

"Anywhere from one to four hours," the man answered. He waited patiently to see if she had any more questions, but at her wordless nod, he inclined his head and left with the medical team. Sydney followed a moment later to the doorway, leaning against the jamb as she watched them wheel Sky away into an elevator and an uncertain future.