Title: Caring
Summary: AU from "Mars, Bars". Don realizes that someone does care.
Don's hands shake as he pulls his keys from his pocket. He watches his fingers as they try and force the wrong key into the lock, but he ends up focusing more on the spots of blood on his khaki cuff than on the door.
He wishes he could feel surprised when a small white hand covers his, squeezing it for a moment before taking the keys and deftly opening the door. He wishes he could feel anything. Surprise, annoyance, anger, anything.
"You're in shock." Her voice says calmly. No shit, he thinks, but she's right and he can't find the strength to voice his comment.
She pulls him into his dark apartment, flicking on the light switches as she moves through the rooms. In his bedroom, she hesitates for a moment before reaching up to unbutton his shirt.
"Taking advantage of me, Mars?" His voice finally works again, but he sounds pathetic and lost, which is more embarrassing even than having her loosen his tie.
"Screw you Lamb." She snaps but now it's her hands that are shaking. He can feel them tremble against throat. He winces as she pulls his tie over his head, the cheap fabric pressing uncomfortably against the gash that leads from his neck to behind his right ear.
In front of him, Veronica is frozen, starring at his red blood on her white fingers. The tie hangs briefly between them, crimson and khaki, like everything else he is wearing.
"I hate you." She finally says, still looking anywhere but his face.
"Right." He responds stupidly, looking over her head, watching himself in the mirror that rests above his dresser. He wishes she hadn't turned on all the lights; for once, he finds it painful to look at himself.
So much blood, he thinks. How much of it is his? The cut on his skull was the worst. Thirteen stitches and still blood oozes out. His arm, struck by a stray bullet fired by Sacks, stings something awful, but required only eight stitches to close. Even in his current state, he is perversely amused at the thought of showing that scar off at the next company picnic, watching Sacks turn red with embarrassment.
But, he reminds himself, he should be nice to Sacks. Without him, Don would be dead right now. Beaten to death by Grieco. Christ, how ironic would that have been? Beaten to death by a baseball bat? His father would have laughed, probably would have enjoyed telling Don's college teammates how he had died. Bastard.
Would anyone have even cared? Ten minutes ago, Don would have said no. But now, with Veronica standing in front of him, trembling with his tie in her hand, he realizes that he must be wrong.
"Why are you here?" He asks, letting his gaze drift down to focus on her face.
"I…the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated." She tries to smirk, but fails miserably. Her face collapses and the tears she has been holding back all evening finally roll down her face.
Don stares at her, with no idea of how to react. Eventually he grabs a box of Kleenex off the bedside table, passing it to her, trying not to stare. Even though he is terrified by this weeping girl, he can't help but feel at least a little happy that she cares enough to cry over him.
He leaves her alone in the bedroom, still crying, and goes into the washroom. His hands are still shaking and rather than frustrate himself trying to undo the buttons of his shirt, he pops the ones closes to his neck off and then pulls the shirt over his head, before dumping it into the garbage. The rest of his uniform quickly follows, and he feels better, purer, almost immediately.
The hot water of the shower relaxes him even further and as the water runs from red back to clear, he can feel his nerves settle. As he towels off and pulls on a tee shirt and pajama bottoms, his hands are almost steady.
She is still in his bedroom when he returns. He freezes in the doorway, unsure of what etiquette is called for when you find your adversary curled up in your bed.
"That's my shirt." He finally manages, noticing how distorted the Ranger's emblem is over her chest.
"Yes."
"Why are you wearing it?"
She rolls her eyes and in that moment Don knows that everything will be fine. "Because I want to."
"And why are you in my bed?" If it were any other day, if he hadn't almost been killed today, he wouldn't be asking these questions. He would be on top of her, inside her, already. But today he is too tired, too confused, to act as he usually would. And that, of course, is why he finds her in this position.
"Because I want to be." She says, meeting his eyes just for a moment. "But no funny business mister." She chides as he comes towards the bed and the climbs in.
They lie there, side by side, in awkward silence for several long moments. It is Veronica who finally moves, always the bravest. Don adjusts and then there they are, lying together in his bed. Veronica's head is on his chest, her ear over his heart, her hand grasping at his grey tee-shirt. Don's left arm wraps around her small body and he wonders if she can hear his heartbeat increase as his hand comes into contact with her bare back, where the shirt has ridden up.
"I didn't know you cared." He finally mumbles, on the edge of sleep. He feels her tears seeping into his shirt, above his heart, as she curves herself more tightly against him.
"I do." She whispers back, "but you'll never get me to admit it in public."
And even though he almost died today, even though there may not be anyone else in the world who would care if he did die, he is happier in this moment than he has ever been.