Author's Note: Spoilers for finale. See End Notes for more information.
He'd scrubbed his hands pink and raw.
There is still ruddy brown under his fingernails.
His entire appearance is fathoms away from how he was dressed just a few hours ago. His coat has been discarded and his black strip of tie has been jerkedly pulled down to sit skewed against his chest.
But it is the red that paints him in slowly drying shades that commands the most attention.
Some part of him thinks he should find fresh clothing, if just to change his garish appearance, but he can't bring himself to move from this one highly uncomfortable, mass-produced plastic chair. It is the first time he's sat down since he found her - oh Christ he can't think of that, not now - and even though the seat is causing his back to twinge, he bears out its uncomfortable nature in silence.
His mind has a moment now to think, now that the chaos and the slurry of words and prayers and pleas have abated. It's in this moment that his mind decides to remind him of the very instant they met, her and him. She had been brusk and authoritative, already shaping the ship to her needs while giving him half-truths and a smile; he later learnt that smile to be one she used subconsciously, when she lied or played a part, a turn of her lips he doesn't think she ever realized occurred.
In that cluttered helo bay, he met Dr. Rachel Scott.
He met her again with a defiant look on her face as she told them her true mission.
And again when her research failed her.
During the trials.
The cure.
The murder.
He had never witnessed such a bold cut of a human before, a person so complex and puzzling that he had to relearn them at every turn. She had fought him and fought with him, sharp words barbed with bare truth and twisting lies as her weapons, but even now, he doesn't think there was a single instance in which he'd lost respect for her. He'd met Dr. Rachel Scott a thousand times over on their journey, and never once did his mind suggest such a thing. It had warned him, to be sure, when his heart began to waver, that she could not be trusted; he'd listened once to that part of him, and his subsequent actions had clouded the waters between him and the doctor.
But in that hallway, he'd met Rachel.
Just as she'd said, it wasn't up to him anymore. They aren't on his ship, they aren't at odds any longer. He isn't just the captain, she isn't just the doctor anymore. In that hallway, they were two people working on being true and whole again, and it had struck him in the moment that he wasn't ready - not yet - to commit himself completely to another. Especially not one that had seemed so free for the first time since he'd known her.
And God, she had seemed so weightless.
He'd wanted to tell her the quiet things he'd thought alone at night, the things that kept him up because he knew they bordered infidelity and toed the line of propriety. Because none of those things had mattered in that instant; neither were married, neither were beholden to another, neither had a reason beyond not yet. So he'd given her the only thing he could at the time: a promise.
Find me.
He had decided then that he wouldn't stop living his life because she would be leaving, but he would always keep a part of it open for her, in whatever fashion she returned. And he saw in her a spark of hope that had stolen away the breath in his lungs, a tilt of her head and a shine in her eyes that had told him she would take him up on that offer, if ever they met again.
If ever they met again.
Christ, he should have told her, right then and there.
His fingernails catch his attention again.
He knows he should try to clean them again, but he can't seem to move from his uncomfortable, plastic chair. His once crisp, white shirt crackles quietly against his chest as he breathes, the muddy red drying fully and coating him in a decaying, vivid reminder of recent events. Others had attempted encouragement, tried to wedge him free from his position and at least wash up, but all he could manage was the soapy hell he'd put his hands through.
Because he can't leave his horrible chair.
He wants to make it easier for her to find him when she wakes up.
Author's End Note: You can blame this on IfUKnewUCouldNotFail, and shepweir always, as they seemed very upset that I may or may not have murdered Rachel in the previous chapter. And thank you so much to The Mistress Snape, AtoZee, Scousedancer, ScarlettKate1013, and lizb1813 for reviewing the last chapter and proving how much love there is for Rachel. A special mention to MorningGlory2, for giving me proof that I did my job adequately as a writer. (I will try to get back on track with reviews, so lets hope this starts a trend.)
Edit: Since I evidently didn't make this clear: she lives. I just took a different approach than "yay everything is going to be ok", because it isn't, and probably won't be for a while for them both. I hope this is in some small way a peace offering to those who were so upset over her death in the previous chapter.