Rick:
She was so pale. So small. Even unconscious, she looked in intense pain, her brows contracted, her muscles tense. At quick glance, no one would recognize her in this state. This wasn't the Kate Beckett I knew. It was an image of Kate Beckett I wish I could wipe clean from my memory. But this image of her sat right next to the one of her prone, bleeding out on the grass, reminding me of the fragility of life. The optimist in me wanted to call her sleeping beauty, and if she was awake right now, she might even crack a sarcastic smile at that. The realist recognized that she wasn't sleeping, just in a post-surgical coma. Still reeling from telling her that I loved her; how crazy would I be if I ever told her how beautiful she was. Who was I kidding? She looked like hell.
The picture was grim. Jim sat stoic on her right side, grief and pain aging him. It would kill her, again, to see the weight he carried, his fingers dodging the IV's dominating her hand. Jumbles of cords gaped the top of the flimsy hospital gown, leading to monitors posted above his head, orchestrating the multi-lined score of her EKG. I couldn't hear the beeping from here, but could see the steady rhythm confirming that she was, thankfully, still alive. Her left side was entirely too open, the gown doing nothing to hide all of the tubes, monitor cords, and gauze. The gown was providing a modest side boob action, but even from across the room, it looked bad, layers of tape and gauze stained with fresh blood.
I adjusted the position of my fist over my mouth, the sweat of anxiety causing a tickling perspiration uncomfortably suctioning my finger to my upper lip. From my post outside her Cardiac ICU room, I could imagine her discomfort, the rough tape stretched across her perfect lips as the ventilator tubes forced her mouth into a rough O, hissing air into her chest and sucking it back out again. Even unconscious, she looked extremely uncomfortable. No amount of fantasizing about Nikki Heat scenes would erase this image.
Josh - Dr. Motorcycle Boy - had insisted on only family being allowed to visit. Which to him, meant only Jim. After the way Dr. Davidson had come at me earlier, I took my welts, staying well out of his way. He blamed her "cop family" for the shape she was in right now, barring all of us from visiting. Right now, my worry about her doused the anger at him. He however, understood that protocols couldn't be broken, allowing an official post outside her door. Luckily LT was running it tonight; he hadn't even had a chance to go home to change out of his dress blues. On its surface, I was here to support LT, but really, I needed to see Kate. Thus my clandestine middle-of-the-night observation of her condition. I didn't quite have the courage to go in yet. Cowardly I know; I tell her I love her while she's dying on the grass, but can't go in to hold her hand now that she's mostly alive. Through a rattling exhale, I let the tears fall freely.
A nurse gently padded behind me with a soft "excuse me", her hands full of warmed blankets. I glanced down at the badge dangling off her scrub pocket - Kyla. Being always the gentleman, I pushed open the door for her, sneaking inside behind her. No Dr. Davidson, therefore, no rules. I'd like to think Kate would have approved.
"You had mentioned that she felt cold." Kyla coaxed gently to Jim, settling the warmed bundle on the bed at Kate's feet.
Jim mumbled in the affirmative, a bit startled, revealing his brief loss to sleep. Kyla simply nodded, busying herself with removing the colder blankets and unfolding the warmer ones slowly up Kate's battered body. Jim's bloodshot, tear swollen eyes met mine from across the room. His face a mask of pain only a parent knows. Redirecting his attention to Kate, I could barely hear him as he whispered a warm "Rick's here", rubbing his thumb along her knuckles. I could have sworn I saw her eyelids flutter slightly behind the eerie blue of the ventilator tube. Just for a moment. Hope.
Kyla's bustling temporarily dislodged Jim from the moment. As he shifted out of his chair, he offered a shaky and desperate question, "Is…uhm…Is it normal for her to feel so…. cold?" A father who needed answers.
Kyla somehow managed to keep her voice measured and reassuring as she moved back around the end of the bed to begin tucking the warmth around the more damaged side of Kate's frame. "Yes. Her body is in shock. Her extremities will feel cold because the body is prioritizing. Her heart is beating on its own, and the ventilator is temporary, to take the strain off her lungs. She may feel cold during this, but as long as the heart's still beating, there isn't that much cause for concern about her temperature." She sealed it with a warm smile to Jim and myself, "The warm blankets will help."
Jim simply nodded. I can just see Kate's hand near his, so pale and blue that it's almost transparent. It looks cold, much like her hands did when we barely escaped that freezer. A sense memory of her delicate finger danced over my chin, the faint echo of her shakily whispered, "Thank you for being there." I take a moment to swallow the pain and tears down. No need to break down here, now. That moment had only been a few months ago, her vulnerable confession of, "Being a cop, I always thought I'd take a bullet, not freeze to death," replaying roughly through my thoughts. The parallel of her - maybe- dying now of a bullet and of cold briefly kills the optimist in me. Just like then, I want to hold her tight to keep her warm, and remind her that she isn't dead. Yet.
"I'm just going to do some checks of her vitals." Kyla's voice was low and motherly, despite her younger age. Jim took that as his cue to move, standing slowly and making his way to me near the door.
Resting my hand on his shoulder, I hear his tenuous sigh attempting to hold back the sobs.
"It's not supposed to be like this." He paused to clear his throat, thick with suppressed tears, "I was supposed to grow old with Johanna. And kids are supposed to outlive you." Raising a hand to wipe the solitary tear tracing his nose, he keeps his gaze past Kate's form.
All I could muster was patting his shoulder softly. Any more, and I would find myself just as emotionally unstable as he was. Maybe even more. Someone had to be strong here; I would beat myself up for being a coward later.
"They..uhm.. they said the first 48 hours were critical. So they are keeping her unconscious for most of it, give…give her heart a chance to heal. I guess." His eyes blinked as more tears escaped. Jim needed our familial support as much as Kate did.
We both turned with a gasp as a quiet expletive escaped Kyla's muted demeanor. She deftly tapped the emergency call button on the side of the wall as her free hand pressed hard into the gauze layers. Fresh blood was pooling on the bed, just under one of the drainage tubes.
My grip tightened on Jim's shoulder, more to cement both of us in this moment, than for comfort of any kind. "What….what is happening?" His voice found a deep strength, as the reassuring beeping morphed into a more frantic and interrupted gallop.
"Right now, sir, there's just a little more bleeding than usual." Her face spoke of calm, but the shake in her voice told us she was clearly lying, "Nothing to worry about, but just need some extra hands to get everything set back in place."
She shouldn't play poker. Both Jim and I could read the distress clearly set in her tone and movements. We could do nothing, so we let the alarms on Kate's monitors sear the sense memory in. Kate couldn't die. Not like this.
Other nurses rushed in, one of them ushering both Jim and I backwards out of the room. As she skirted back in, she yanked the curtain across the rail, blocking us not only with the decidedly curt door click but also with the privacy of fabric. The last thing we heard, over the cacophony of alarms, was Kyla's voice losing its charm, "Extensive bleeding into her thoracic cavity, the inferior lobe tore. Pressure dropping fast!"
We just stood there, arms-length from the barriers, both physical and emotional. LT could sense our pain, but said nothing. Even though he was a patrol officer in the precinct, he had been working closely with Beckett for years. He had mentioned that she was respected and admired throughout the entire precinct, a rare trait across such diverse departments. Patrol would feel this loss just as much as Homicide. She couldn't die. Not like this.
As the tense activity on the other side of the door began to mute, Jim's voice, soft and gentle it was nearly a whisper, pushed past silent sobs, "Thank you." He just kept staring straight through the door, lips quivering, unable to watch but too attached to look away.
I was just barely keeping it together myself, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I had been holding. I finally pulled out a soft, "Thank you?"
He nodded curtly, chewing his lower lip. It reminded me so much of her, when she was stuck on something for a case.
"For….for what?" I turned my head slowly to make eye contact. I should be the one thanking him. For providing the world with her.
"For tackling her. For taking care of her." The alarms on the other side of the door ceased, returning to the reassuring rhythm we had both been hoping for. "Both doctors said she was extremely lucky. That something nudged the bullet to the side slightly. That's the only reason she's here." He couldn't look me in the eye, but had turned his head slightly in my direction, swallowing his emotions.
A reluctant chuckle accompanied the head shake I answered with, and for a moment he looked up at me. He meant what he said. All of it.
We both looked back through the door into the room, moving to the side to allow nurses to exit, the recognition that she was back to baseline bolstering his strength.
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to her. Even if she doesn't make it through the night. Know that."