Helena's heart clinched. She breathed deeply in an effort to steady herself, wanting both to look away from and yet never leave Myka's glassy-eyed, increasingly-distant gaze. Blood ran a red river beneath them. This was a nightmare.
Her nightmare.
And she was wide awake.
Helena shook her head. She had not spoken after the scream. She refused to believe this was happening to her again. She feared her throat might slam shut altogether, or worse, that if she finally did manage to speak, the calm she'd spent a longer time than most working back into her voice would be gone, replaced by utter panic.
She swallowed hard.
"Myka, I'm sor—"
The operator on the end of the phone asked her to please state her emergency.
Myka groaned once more as her eyes fluttered closed.
"Heeeey," Myka wheezed, as her eyes struggled against drugs and her voice the delirium. Her hospital gown was unbuttoned at the left shoulder, which was now more or less an oversized bundle of gauze.
Pete entered the white-walled hospital room, taking a seat opposite from Helena. Myka's head rolled like a newborn's and she blinked hard in an attempt bring her visitors into focus.
From her seat in the chair beside the bed, Helena's throat tightened. It had been her hope, once, recently, to never again see Myka in a hospital bed. She considered that with a thoughtful incline of her head and silently reprimanded herself. Selfish, Helena.
Myka pouted, catching the look on Helena's face. "It doesn't hurt, mmk?" She rolled her head back towards the IV drip, indicating the morphine pump.
"Oh man, Mykes, they've got you pretty plastered, don't they?" Pete asked, or rather, Helena thought, he croaked. He quickly scrubbed a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose before running an anxious hand through his short-cropped hair. He sniffed quickly and blinked several times.
Helena realized this was the most distraught she'd ever seen him.
He returned from the perimeter search, face ashen, just as EMTs were loading the gurney into the ambulance. Myka's shoes were all he saw before they shut the double doors, leaving nothing but a pool of blood beneath his feet. He looked at Helena, who was looking less-than-pleased after being kicked out of the ambulance, and couldn't tear his eyes from the blood smeared all over her shirt.
Setting her jaw, Helena stepped forward, over the scarlet, and opened the driver door. Pete stared at the road, where the ambulance had driven through the pool of blood—Myka's blood—and followed the glittering crimson tracks with a hardened gaze. Helena crawled back out of the car with something pinched between her thumb and index finger.
Pete slowly brought his eyes to it.
Helena glared at the somewhat-intact slug in her hand while Pete retrieved his keys, which he was already regretting ever tossing to Myka, from the blood.
They said nothing as they sped to the hospital.
Myka mm'ed in response and blinked with great effort, thoroughly oblivious. She closed her eyes for a moment, absentmindedly twirling a long finger in the air, before opening them once more, struggling to meet Helena's gaze.
"Heeeey…He-le-na."
"Yes?"
" I'm really…" she frowned, sticking out her bottom lip, and Helena's heart lurched when she realized just how much she resembled Christina after accidentally breaking mummy's vase after rather flawlessly executing a magnificent move during kenpō practice, "reeeally sorry—"
"No, Myka, please, you have nothing," Helena cut across her, resting a shaking hand atop Myka's, which was taped over and set with an IV line, "nothing to be sorry for." She sucked in a tense breath when she found those glassy green eyes.
"But we're finally back out in the field and…" Myka's gaze fell. Her forehead creased into a frown, and she moved her lips silently, as if searching for the right words or maybe just any words, but nothing came. Instead, she heaved a sigh and blinked with heavy eyelids. Her chin dropped as she succumbed to sleep.
Pete moved forward and placed a reassuring hand on Helena's shoulder. "She's gonna be out of it for a while. I'm gonna...call Artie."
Helena heard the hesitation, felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for him. She stood up and turned to face Pete, tore her eyes from the dried blood on his shirt, and reached out to...what? Squeeze his shoulder? Hug him? She didn't know. She didn't know what to do.
Pete hadn't seemed to notice. He was now staring at the phone in his hands, and Helena knew full well the difficulty of the conversation he would soon be having.
"Anyway, uh," Pete continued, clearing his throat as he made to leave the room, "I can grab coffee?"
Helena attempted something close to a smile. It felt so remarkably...inadequate. She didn't know what to do. She felt a sudden, confusing rush of something close to anger and frowned. She quickly tamped it down, filed away it for later, replaced the frown with a half-smile.
"Thank you."
She turned away from the door to gaze once more at Myka, pale and motionless, but alive. The nearby monitor beeped evenly. The air condition hummed overhead.
Helena sank back into her seat, buried her face in her hands, and began to cry.