My first awareness was of pain-- burning pain in my shoulder, the radiation of a puncture or incision, and the deep ache of osteologial damage. Next was the heavy, nauseous feeling of anaesthetic. I could feel a nasal canula running into my throat, my mouth foul-tasting and dry. There was a catheter, a pulse oximeter on one finger. My hand and arm were immobilized, probably strapped to my waist so I wouldn't disturb the shoulder.
Hospital, then. I hadn't died. I couldn't think further than that. I would focus instead on what was present. Pain. Cold. Heavy limbs. Nausea. Overhead lights too bright, even through cold lids. A heart heavy with... no.
There was a weight, warm, at my side, but no pain. Had I been hit more than once? Hit in the side and the anaesthesia had yet to wear off? I didn't recall a second shot. Cautiously, I opened my eyes. A brown... his brown... head was resting, forehead against my stomach, sitting forward, hands clasped as if he were praying. For me? Why? He'd made it clear that I'd pushed him too far. Why was he here? Oh. I'd made him my health care proxy, and typically, I hadn't told him, just expected he'd do it. He had, since he was here. Damnit. Yet again, I'd just taken from him, with no please, no thank you, just greed and selfishness. And now he was here, and probably feeling guilty on top of everything else, though it was as likely the dealer would have come after whomever he'd caught first. I just happened to be home. Better me than him. He had people who needed him.
Oh, God. I can't handle this. I hurt, and I can't look at him, and if I tell him to go he won't, out of duty, and it's way past too late to tell him I don't want duty from him, even if I don't know what to label what I want. What do I want? I want a guy hug, and coffee in the mornings, and to see what's under his shirts and his pants, to not have to wait until I get into work to see his smile or hear his voice-- all the things I threw away because I'm incapable of returning all the things that I want. What is it I want? Love? I believe in it, now, but it's not a one sided thing, and I don't know how to love properly. I'd only hurt him, time and again.
I couldn't have moved to intercept the bullet someplace more final? I'd had time to aim and pull the trigger as he came in, him pulling his own after my trigger was already fully depressed. I should have had time, too, to compensate for his lousy aim, step further into it, let it hit the mark. I failed, again.
- - -
God, please, I don't know what to ask for. Please, help her heal, her body, her heart. Please, don't let her come out of this more scarred, permanently wounded. Please let her listen to all of us when we tell her she's wonderful, worthy, and brave, all the things that she is. Please make it so I haven't caused that lost look in her eye that she had when Max and Russ drove away to take up permanent home in her eyes. Please, make her believe me when I tell her I'm wrong, that she's nothing like Zack, that there's nothing she could have done. Please, make her believe me when I tell her there are things he probably saw that make healing impossible, for him, and that even love won't heal some things. But please, please, please, make her one of those things love can heal. I'm not asking for me-- I'm asking for her, for all those who love her. Please.
I shouldn't even be touching her, much less sitting here with my head on her stomach, trying to listen to her breathe, assure myself of her warmth. I've lost the right. But I had to, I'm too weak not to, seeing how drained and small she looks, how even on all the drugs she's hunched in pain. I don't know what I'm going to say when she wakes up. I can't possibly look her in the eye after what I've done, but I have to if I'm ever going to make her believe what's true. Her breathing's changing. Is she waking up? Is that a ... spasm? A sob?
Temperance, please. Don't cry, please.
- - -
I stopped at the sound of a choking noise just inside the curtain. They'd told me not to come up, but to hell with that-- I'd driven like a bat out of hell for three hours after I'd gotten his message, and I would see her if I wanted to. There was a rustle, and I heard him speak.
"Temperance, please. Don't cry, please."
I parted the curtain, not even an inch, not enough for even him to hear it. Tears were streaming down her face, her eyes screwed shut, silent sobs and shudders wracking her, as he sat at the edge of the bed, hand tentatively on her shoulder, urging her not to cry, but not doing the one thing she needed most, the one thing that would calm her-- even if what those two downstairs had told me was true, he was still the only one who could comfort her. She loved him too much not to believe him, to do as he asked, even after this-- or at least I knew that was how it had been between her mother and me. If he'd just keep telling her, she would be fine, get past it. And yet, here he was, holding back as if he no longer had neither the right nor the duty to touch her. I couldn't stand it any longer, so I parted the curtain and spoke from where I was standing, behind him.
"Hold her, you fool. Hold her, and don't let her go. I never took you for a coward."
His shoulders and back firmed, tensing, but he didn't take time to look back or respond to me-- just sat forward to gather her in tenderly, keeping guard of her shoulder, then pulling her to him until her face was buried in his shoulder. I waited until her good arm crept around his waist, to return the embrace, then stepped back and drew the curtain again.
Fool. But he was her fool, as I'd been my Christine's, and I'd better make sure it stayed that way.
- - -
I started toward her curtained-off area, then paused at the look the fierce older blonde man who'd just gone in to see her gave me on his way out. Something I shouldn't disturb? I'd just check to see if the agent was still with her before we moved her upstairs.
I heard muffled crying, a man's and a woman's, both of them saying "I'm sorry," and "it's alright," and "I didn't mean to hurt you" over and over again, their words interrupted by sobs and "please don't crys," again from both of them. I listened, a moment longer, as they both said "I love you" at the same time, and then there was silence. Silence, then followed by a different kind of tears-- tears of release, and not sorrow. I'd leave them to it, a bit longer, before coming back.
I returned to the front desk to speak to the orderly. "Come back in ten minutes, please? She's not quite ready to go yet."
He nodded. "Whatever you say, doctor."
I'd let them finish here before I disturbed them again. It is the recovery room, after all.