The hospital waiting room was crammed nearly to bursting with uncomfortable overstuffed chairs, in spite of the fact that Emily was the only one in the room. A pile of dated magazines sat in a stack on the little table next to her chair, but she didn't have the wherewithal to focus on reading anything in that moment.
Mind a million miles away, her gaze was practically burning a hole in the faded powder blue wall across from her, at the yellowed and curling paper taped there pronouncing that abusive behaviour would not be tolerated. Anywhere but at her hands that were still stained with dried blood she hadn't quite been able to scrub out of the ridges of her palm, the furrows of her nailbeds.
She wanted to pace, to move about, to burn off some of the frenetic energy still coursing through her veins, but her body felt like it was made of lead. Instead, she wrung her hands around the plastic water bottle she'd bought from the vending machine, the satisfying crunch of it giving way under the pressure of her grip breaking up the monotony of the droning air conditioning in the otherwise deathly silent chamber.
"Are you here for Derek Morgan?" a nurse asked, startling Emily out of her trance, not having heard her approach.
She wanted to gesture at the absence of the other people waiting and say something sarcastic, but couldn't quite muster any response other than a weary nod. "Yes... Yes, I am," she stammered. She wanted to ask if he was okay, but wasn't sure she could handle the answer.
The nurse glanced down at the chart as if she needed a reminder of what she'd come to say. "Good news and bad news," she explained, a look of apology on her face.
Emily sat in stunned silence, mouth hanging open slightly as the nurse explained that Derek was in a coma and they had no way of knowing if, or when, he would wake up. She wanted to say something, to do something, but she couldn't even muster the strength to cry after the emotional turmoil of the day...and all the days that had come before, leading up to this point.
"Can... Can I see him?" she eventually managed to ask, feeling so numb in that moment that a house could fall on her and she'd barely even feel it.
Elizabeth flung the door open when whomever was at the doorbell wouldn't stop ringing it. "What?" she demanded before she saw the interloper. "Jesus Christ, Ian, what the hell happened to you?"
"Good to see you too," he remarked dryly in the face of her astonishment. He pushed past her into the foyer.
Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth closed the door, followed after him to find that he'd already poured himself a drink. "You're dripping blood all over my floor," she pointed out.
As if suddenly remembering that he'd been shot, he glanced down at his wound, looking mildly perturbed. "Your bitch of a daughter fucking shot me," he informed her. "You wouldn't happen to have a first aid kit, would you?"
She arched a brow. "I thought Faeries could heal themselves?" she asked, spitting the word faeries like it was an epithet.
"Not without magic," he retorted as if it should be obvious. "And I used the last of that to make a weapon to kill your beastie, only to have Her ruin everything!"
"What happened?" she demanded, enunciating each word as if he were particularly slow.
He poured a second glass of liquor, tossed it back. "I had everything under control until she came bursting in and shot me," he snapped.
"So, you failed," Elizabeth muttered, obviously displeased.
He grinned wickedly at that. "Don't be so sure..."
It was approaching three AM and Emily hadn't left Derek's bedside for even a moment. In spite of the doctor's warning that it was unlikely he'd wake any time soon, she wanted to believe otherwise, wanted to prove everyone wrong, prove that Derek was strong enough to pull through this.
She was struggling to stay awake, nodding off briefly before snapping back awake, when a knock on the door startled her. Fran was stepping into the room, looking rather trepidatious about encroaching on Emily's grief.
"Here, dear," she said gently, extending a to-go cup of coffee. "It's from the nurses' station," she said by way of explanation, given that the little coffee shop in the lobby was closed. "It's not good coffee," she said apologetically, "But it is coffee and you look rather like you could use the pick-me-up..."
She offered a gentle smile in thanks, taking the proffered cup and downing a hearty swig. She pulled a face at the bitterness and slight hint of burnt dregs.
Fran couldn't help but laugh a little. "I warned you..."
"You didn't have to do this," Emily murmured, but gestured for her to sit nonetheless.
"You've been here all night," Fran explained, "You must be exhausted – you should go home and get some sleep, take a shower...come back refreshed tomorrow. I'll stay here with him and I promise to call you if anything changes."
She shook her head before she'd even finished speaking. "I can't," she insisted. "I just can't... It's my fault that he's here and I can't leave him like this."
Fran nodded, not bothering to argue with her logic, suspecting that Emily wasn't one to be dissuaded once she had an idea in her mind. "Would you mind if I kept you company in that case?"
"Didn't you just finish a shift?"
She nodded. "I'd like to stay," she said, "I've been looking after him so long, he's the closest thing I have to family... I'd really like to know he's going to be okay."
Emily offered a faint smile at that. "He's a good guy," she said, almost apropos of nothing, staring at his sleeping face, trying to ignore the purpling bruises painting his face and the patchwork of burns and scars across his torso. "He makes the people around him feel good..."