Epilogue: Chase the Morning

She flopped down beside him, her chest rising and falling with her accelerated breathing. He glanced over at her, their eyes meeting. Breathless laughter filled the room. He didn't even care that his ribs hurt like hell. It had been worth it.

Their clothes were scattered around the bed, like debris from the center of a blast radius. His heart rate slowly returned to normal, and the soreness in his chest started to fade. Goosebumps rose on his skin as his excess body heat evaporated. Sneaking a peak out of the corner of his eye, he saw the same tiny bumps on her skin. A drop of sweat slipped from her collarbone down between her breasts. Before he could entirely appreciate the view, she tugged the tangled blanket over her body.

This cot wasn't made for two people. It had been fine when she was on top of him, but now things were starting to get a little cramped. He threw an arm casually over her head, trying to stretch out his cramping back. Surprisingly, she shuffled closer to him, using his shoulder as a pillow. Fine by him, because he certainly wasn't sharing his. They settled in to a comfortable silence.

He'd had a feeling someone would be stopping by. Hayman had finally let him out of the infirmary that afternoon, under the condition that he didn't pull a Byrne (her words, not his). The first thing he had done with his newfound freedom was stumble back to his quarters and collapse onto his mattress. The beds in the hospital really were absolute shit. His intention had been to grab a quick nap, but when the soft knock came on his door, he discovered that he'd slept for nearly six hours.

When he had opened the door and seen her, he wasn't surprised. But he did feel a little anxious. This was the first time they'd been well and truly alone since his brush with death. She'd kept him company enough while he was hospitalized—all his friends had—but there had never really been a moment to talk over what had happened. Not that he particularly wanted to, but somehow he got the feeling that she did.

He'd had these stupid fantasies to keep him occupied, fuelled by his inability to get out of bed. He imagined her tiptoeing to his cot in the middle of the night, climbing in beside him… But it was too public, even when the patients were sleeping. He dozed off enough during the day—because it was so frigging boring—that he hardly ever slept through the entire night. And Harua Tak or Tom Mathieu would wake him up anyway to check his blood pressure. No, there hadn't been any opportunities for what he had in mind.

Although, they had come close once. About a week ago, when the ward was curiously empty—not completely, but no one was super close to them—and she had taken him by surprise. Out of nowhere, she just slid her hand under the blanket, but before anything could happen, Hayman had burst in. He panicked, she quickly withdrew her hand, flushing. And after that, nothing.

Until last night.

She had darted inside his room and he'd closed the door far too eagerly. But she hadn't jumped on him, like he'd been hoping for. Instead, she started up their usual banter. He couldn't tell if she was stalling on purpose. So he played along, ignoring the warmth pooling in his stomach, refusing to break first.

And then she switched gears completely, mid-conversation, staring at him, suddenly dead serious.

"Why did you do it?" she had asked.

He didn't need her to clarify. Frankly, he'd spent a fair share of time thinking about that himself. He couldn't remember actually deciding to move. It was a subconscious decision, one his brain didn't even get time to register, before he had a bullet ripping into his abdomen. As for the why, he didn't really want to think about that. He knew damn well why. It was the same reason he'd charged after Cole during the mortar strikes, the same reason Dom had jumped in that tanker in Mercy.

He knew. She knew—or suspected, at least. But he wasn't ready yet.

"Do you really need to hear me say it?" he'd asked, his voice quiet.

She was disappointed, and he was surprised by how much that hurt. But she had to know who it was she was dealing with. And she did. A small smile spread across her face, tinged with exasperation. "Not today," she had said, snaking her arms around his neck.

And then she'd kissed him.

They weren't nearly as energetic as they had been in the garage. For being out of the infirmary, his whole front still ached if he so much as took a particularly deep breath. He was pretty sure his ribs wouldn't appreciate it if he fucked her up against the wall again. To her credit, she had been surprisingly mild. Taking him by the hand, she'd led him over to his mattress. It had all been quite slow and intimate, like it was the first time. She had delicately removed his clothes and gently pushed him back on the bed. Then she stripped—slowly, sensually—and then she was on top of him.

Her fingers brushed over his chest, jolting him from his reverie. He looked over at her, confused, but she was just distracted. Off in her own daydream, she was fiddling with whatever was closest to her. He didn't really mind; he relaxed, trying hard not to wonder how much time they had left.

She was almost tickling him, but he wouldn't laugh. They were in a sort of trance now, all pretensions and façades gone, and amazingly he didn't feel the desperate desire to bolt. He didn't plan on scrutinizing it too closely, though. For once, he was going to just turn his brain off and enjoy the moment.

Eventually, her fingers began to move. Between his pecs, down over the top of his abs, still heading south. A grin was starting to form when he realized that she wasn't trying to start something. Her hand stopped, hovering over top of his most recently acquired scar.

Suddenly, the moment balanced on the edge of a knife. If he didn't do something, or if he waited too long, the spell would be broken. It was dangerously close to fracturing already. To say anything would ruin it, but to ignore it altogether would be just as disastrous. He was on the brink of panicking when he understood what he needed to do.

Slowly, cautiously, he placed his own hand over hers, and pressed her palm against the scar the bullet had left behind.

She let out a breath, nestling into the contours of his body. And he found himself smiling. He closed his eyes as his grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly.