Faintly, his pulse pounded beneath her fingertips and she allowed herself a weak prayer of relief.
"How is he?" Tristen yelled back from the cockpit over the noise of the rotors around them.
"Alive," she whispered feebly, startling back to reality.
"What?" yelled Tristen in frustration, unable to hear. She cast an anxious glance back over her shoulder.
"Alive," Alex yelled back, slightly louder.
Tristen shot a glance to the sky ahead of them. "How bad?" she called back.
"I don't know," the redhead replied, feeling more than a little ill, unsure she wanted to know the truth.
"Well, look!" the darker-haired woman bit out in frustration, her voice rising in impatience.
Nodding mutely, her eyes filled with misery, Alex fumbled to unbutton his shirt, her soul shrinking in dismay at the amount of blood that stained it. Carefully she eased the blood-soaked material away from the bullet wound. Nausea gripped her, as she turned her head squeezing her eyes shut before answering. "Bad," she answered, forcing the word past her suddenly paralyzed throat. "Real bad."
From the cockpit, she heard Tristen curse as if from a distance. "Blast," she muttered, her voice infinitely weary. For a long moment she was silent, the only sound between them the sound of the rotors chopping the air. "Can you do something?" she called out at last.
Clutching the blood-stained shirt in her hand, she pressed against the wound. "I've done all I can!" retorted Alex in frustration. "I'm not a doctor, what more do you want?"
"A miracle," Tristen yelled back, pulling back on the stick. "Hang on!" she ordered as they hurtled sickeningly through the jungle, low over the winding, muddy river below.
Unmoving, Michael lay in the bed as still as death. It was as if he was already gone, Tristen thought, pain clutching at her heart. Beside the bed, a faded blue chair sat uninviting and uncomfortable, a token to courtesy not comfort.
Sitting, she didn't notice. She knew her time here was limited. New orders had been waiting her on her desk this morning when she'd walked in - orders to Langley and the Proteus project on the table there. It seemed she'd been relieved of duty here as Deputy Director, due to some dispute over her role in the unauthorized rescue of Alex Delacorte and a few American agents. Technically, the move was lateral, but she knew it for what it was, a demotion. Her career as a spy was more or less over, and she'd been relegated to an administrative paper pusher.
It was a bitter pill to swallow, but one she'd known was coming for quite some time. It'd only been a matter of time before she crossed swords with the committee and one of them lost. It had been inevitable it would be her.
Taking Michael's hand in hers though, she had no regrets. The new Deputy Director would be a good one, one that the committee would find they couldn't push aside so easily - assuming he lived.
She intertwined her fingers in his, fighting the lump in her throat. For a long moment she sat in silence knowing the time for goodbyes had come. Whatever she might feel for him was immaterial, always had been. Whatever battles Michael would have to fight, he'd have to fight on his own from here on out.
"You know I'm going to miss you," she whispered, ignoring the tear that trailed damply down her cheek. Sniffing inelegantly, the brunette wiped perfectly made up eyes. He didn't stir.
Desolation clawed at her. She wasn't sure she could do this.
Tightening her fingers on his, she heaved in a trembling breath. "Look here," she managed at last. "You're going to have to wake up, Michael. There's too much riding on this for you to flake out on me now, you hear me?"
He didn't move.
Heaving to her feet, Tristen dropped his hand, pacing the room. Bowing her head, she nervously raked her fingers through her hair. "Please Michael," she whispered, "you're going to have to fight."
Silence fell heavily on the room, darkness beginning to shadow the corners. Soul-bruised, Tristen wrapped her arms around herself knowing there was nothing more to say, nothing more she could do. Hot tears slid down her cheeks, dripping off her chin.
Pausing, she stared out the empty picture window knowing this was it. What a way to end it, she thought. I'll never know, and neither will he.
Spinning on her heel, she walked back to Michael one last time. "Live," she whispered fiercely, brushing aside a stray wisp of hair that had fallen into his eyes with shaking fingers, as she bent and kissed his cheek. "Live and love her."
Her fingers trailed across his skin as she straightened, her chin coming up defiantly. Staccato heels crossed the tile floor pausing at the door, as she turned for one last look.
She saw the flinch of his hand as he stirred, and she grinned, her brown eyes crinkling in a sad smile. "And give them hell for me," she whispered.
The door clicked softly as she shut it behind.