"Hi." And she swears he smiles.
Her voice cracks. "Hi."
There's a beeping sound.
She looks up terrified, but it's just notifying them of the change in the rhythm. She should go call a doctor, she should get a nurse, she should move; but she can't. No, instead, she just sits there holding his hand. They just need a moment. A moment alone, a moment to breathe with ease; a moment before they're told he could have residue brain injuries, a moment before medicine comes flooding back in. They need a moment for him to smile, for her to gaze into his eyes. They're dark, blood-shot, but kind; it's him but different; the change making her afraid.
She finally gets the doctors, they need to do some tests. She steps out; she could stay, but she needs to take a breath. She needs to process. She needs to let go of anticipation that he'll code. She needs to face that image that she buried at the back of her head – her getting off the plane and facing Zoey, holding her hand and telling her he's not coming back. She needs to bury the funeral plans; she can let go of the eulogy, of the speech about how he lived; because he, he gets to live. She needs to say goodbye to images of holding their baby, raising it without him. All these fears. The garbage. The weight on her shoulders. It was killing her and she didn't even know it. She didn't know how afraid she was of everything, because the only thing that mattered was him. She didn't know she was terrified about Zoey, and the baby; the funeral, the eulogy. She hadn't know the details of her fear, because the big one – the one that he will die; the big one was big enough. But now, now that it's falling by the wayside, all the other things are creeping in – overwhelming. She's looking through the glass in the door; and then the curtain moves and for a split second she can see him staring, looking for her. He's alive and it's too much. She turns her back to the wall, her legs shaky and she just slides to the floor. She buries her head between her knees and tries to breathe. She can't. No, it's like there's no air. Her breaths are shallow and uneven; they're loud; they're gasps; drowning on dry land. Someone sees her, someone crouches down; someone lifts her up. There's a paper bag; someone's drawing circles on her back. They're telling her to calm down; that he's alright. But she's not. No, her life's been turned upside down and she stayed strong. But there's only so long, only so long she could hold it in for and now, now that he's alive, now that he'll be fine she's breaking at the seams; not breaking, bursting.
She finally gets the doctors, they need to do some tests. She steps out; he could ask her stay, but he needs to take a breath. He needs to process. He needs to piece together what happened. He needs to face that image that he buried at the back of his head – the blood, gushing out; and his hands covered in red – trying to help, James – the moment he went from alive to dead; the moment his eyes died. He needs to bury the taste of the ground mixed with blood; the sounds, the screams – he needs to bury it. No eulogy, no memory, no remembering – bury, deep; because he, he gets to live and he can't live thinking of death. He needs to say goodbye to the images of the massacred bodies; all dead – but him. He gets to live. All these memories. The garbage. The weight on his shoulders. It's killing him and he doesn't even know it. He doesn't know he's afraid of everything, because the only thing that matters is this – her, them, surviving. He doesn't know he's terrified of seeing James' face; of seeing the bodies, limbs out of place; of hearing loud sounds, of hearing screams. He doesn't know the fear that comes with closing one's eyes. He doesn't know yet that memories, they can't be buried deep. They can't be sent away without a eulogy. He doesn't know they will come back to haunt him. He doesn't know they will become the faces of his dreams; the companions in his nightmares; that he'll see it and re-live it. He doesn't know the power of his memories; the scars of his psyche, because in that moment he's just there, alive and well; seeing her gaze as the curtain moves away. And he can see the emotions in her eyes in the split second of eye-contact time, but then she's turning around; disappearing from his sight. He needs to hold her; take her fears away. But he can't. Because fears, like memories – they live. They live independently of reason and will. They crawl into dusty corners of our psyche and loom in the darkness; they hide and then come back alive. Fears, like memories – they propel life and they ruin it; they break precious things.
The tests are done and she comes back in after a while. Her eyes red and puffy. She cried. She can't hide. She sits next to him and he slowly lifts his hand, cupping her cheek. She leans into it. It feels like a dream. It's reality. Tears roll down her cheeks. Tears of quiet relief.
"Lie next to me."
"I can't."
"You can. The doctor said OK. If we're careful." He smiles at her. She smiles back. She sits on the bed. He moves slightly, but then he's in pain, his face grimacing.
"That's OK. I'll just sit here."
"No." And he pats the bed and moves further away, trying to mask the pain. She lies down. Slowly. Oh, so slowly. She's afraid to touch him. His leg is in a cast and so is his other arm. And the bandages on his chest – she's seen the cuts; not yet scars. But his shoulder – it's bare, untouched. And he nods his head, signaling OK. She lowers hers, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He rests his arm on her back; his hand trailing lines soothingly. He kisses her temple and with that she's gone. She cries. Silent sobs. For hours. He lets her. He just holds her. It's all she wants and it's all she needs. Just him. Breathing. Eventually she falls asleep and so does he.
That night she has no fears. That night he has no dreams. Tomorrow he will be haunted by memories; tomorrow the nightmares will come; the images will invade his mind. Tomorrow her fears will be gone; buried deep in the back of her mind. Because tomorrow will bring back the fear and she will once again let go of the details – bury them deep. Tomorrow he will be injured and she will be fine – her wounds invisible, on the inside. But not tonight.
Tonight there are no fears; no memories. Tonight there's just a dream. They both dream of the stars, of a time when this won't be their future, but their past.
Someone asked about my Tumblr a while back. I do indeed have one. But it's not really Scandal-centric, it's just filled with pretty stuff I like (and a bit of vic occasionally) and a bit of fitblr. If that didn't put you off and you still want to check it out - .com
Originally the title of this chapter was meant to be Screwed up in Sync, but I wasn't sure how that would work with ratings, so I kept it clean. Point being: they are royally messed up in sync. Other than that, back to the story at hand - stormy waters ahead. But they're both alive, and working their way up to fine :) Thanks for reading everyone and your reviews literally give this story life. And on that note - TofuQueen - I love the idea that it was Liv dreaming - I wish I had thought of that, coz that would have been an amazing twist!