The Hardest Part of Loving You
21:59 - Toyko, Japan - The day of a public shootout
It's bright when she wakes. Overly bright. Overhead, what looks a cross between stadium spotlights and alien spaceships hovers, blurring her vision and clouding her mind. The world is a blur, the silence a defeaning vacuum that brings to mind the incessant hum of oldschool television static. She wants to throw up – she wants to scream. She wants to touch her swollen belly, to check that the baby is well and alive.
Instead, Nakiri Erina does none of the above. A wave of nausea washes over her, and it's all she can do to blink, unfocused, for hope of clarity. When she tries to speak, she's surprised to find she can't, and even moreso when it becomes apparent that there is a tube down her throat.
She panics, but her body refuses to move. Her hearing returns, and it's to the din and panic of voices talking over her. The words she can make out do not bring any respite.
When she gives herself over to sleep once again, it's her husband's face she sees, and his voice she hears.
He's laying by her side in the single hospital bed when she wakes, his nose pressed right up against her neck and his arms around her deflated middle. There's a small, but noticeable wet patch on the shoulder of her gown.
It isn't until she tries for a long, deep breath that he lifts his head. Dark circles and red rings line his eyes. "You're awake. Are you thirsty?"
She swallows. Sometime between her surgery and now, someone's seen fit to remove the tube in her throat. She nods tiredly; he sits up, pours the water, and holds the plastic cup, straw and all, to her mouth.
The memory of their last night is fuzzy, but she remembers enough. A stubbornly self-righteous executive chef from one of the nation's top hotels – one she remembers from a food consultation three months prior. No doubt driven to jealousy and madness by her less-than-glowing review and subsequent recommendations.
He'd had a gun. Yukihira had jumped in front of her, pushing her to the ground and catching the bullet in his own body. She remembers his blood on her dress, and then she remembers her own blood blooming between her legs. Her water had broken in the fall.
She remembers screaming for her husband, even as she'd screamed for her baby.
The bandages around Yukihira's left arm, not to mention his presence, cements the fact that he, at least, had survived it all. She prepares herself for the worst. "The baby?"
"You went into premature labour." Yukihira's voice is just a note from breaking, but the man has always been a master at keeping it together in difficult situations. "She's in intensive care."
"She's alive?"
"For now." The deep amber eyes waver, and the man himself swallows, clearly fighting back a sob. Still, he keeps it together. "Ryo and Alice are flying in. The gunman's been apprehended. I'm going to make sure he's put away for life, I promise you."
She guides him forward. He's afraid. The realisation hits close to home – all the moreso because she knows the same sentiment lives within her own broken self.
I'm afraid too. It's all too easy to name the source of the fear. I could have died. He could have died. We could have had to live without each other.
"Hold me, will you?"
Yukihira leans into her then. Wordlessly. He's obviously cried some over the past few hours – and he does so again, the salt trickling from his face to hers. Against the skin of her neck and close to her ears, the man sobs. His hands find her own. His breaths are hot, his words those of adoration, fear, and regret.
It's not often she gets the chance, but now that she has it, she understands what it means to play the protector. So she kisses him fiercely and holds him tight, running her hands through his sweat-damp hair. "I love you," She tells him, fighting through shaky breaths. "I love you."
"I'm weak." He trembles against her. "I almost lost you."
"Lost me? You saved me. In more ways than one." She shakes his hands off her own and cups his face, forcing him to look at her. "Yukihira. You're strong. I care about you, and I'm your wife, so please – please let me share your fears. Please let me take care of you, the way you take care of me."
The amber eyes waver once again. "Our daughter."
"Will be just fine, if she's anything like her mother." And really, she believes it.
He stares at her. The seconds pass, and then slowly, but surely, the resolve returns. The tears dry.
"Has anybody ever told you that you're one hell of a woman?"
She nuzzles into his cheek, suddenly tired once again. Sleep would be so sweet. "Save that for when we send that bastard to prison."
