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Simon & MJ #1 - Part 3

"Simon?" His eyes watched her slowly stand, she could see them moving, shining where he laid.

He'd said her name. She hadn't misheard it, she was sure it was his voice. All the days, long nights, forcing herself to accept she may never hear it again, no loving like that. She finally found her feet and went to his side. He barely moved, turning his eyes to watch her as she laid a gentle hand over his where it rested. Like he was fragile, and she was afraid.

"I'm going to get a nurse, okay?"

He swallowed, trying to find his voice again and tell her not to leave, but he was too slow. She left. He watched her walk out with purpose, the thing he loved so much in her, and he let himself close his eyes again.

He knew what was coming next. Nurses, doctors, they would come and poke and prod him, ask him a lot of questions to determine the state of his mind, and he'd answer succinctly and respectfully. And then they'd tell him how bad it was. He remembered all of it. He remembered hitting the ground, the pain that shot all the way through his legs and back and up through his neck and his jaw. It took his breath, he didn't even cry out. It hurt worse than the pain that came a few moments later in the form of the bullet. Neither hurt as bad as losing his consciousness knowing he would also lose her.

But she was there, with him. She had found him, and he wasn't whole. He could feel it. Some part of him was broken, he wasn't the man that left her, and she'd find that out quickly.

The nurses came in, just as he'd predicted. In heavy accents, they asked the questions he expected, and he answered them, as planned. A doctor followed him. He was British, to Simon's surprise, and he had kind eyes. They made Simon bitter.

"You broke your back when you fell, simple as that. We did surgery when you came in, you'll likely need another in the next few months, but we hope to get you back on your feet, Simon."

The hopeful outlook made him angrier. "I can't feel anything."

"For now." The man nodded. "The longer you lie here and think about it, the more I'm confident you'll be able to feel a bit. And we'll start working on standing as soon as you feel up to it."

Mariana was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Listening to a spiel she'd heard ten times already. That they didn't know how he would wake, but they had hope.

The doctor finally left and Simon fought for some calm. A calm he'd probably never really had, and he didn't know how to conjure it until she touched him. She had it, the calm he sought, and it washed over him immediately.

"I called Price." She said softly. "He's been worried about you."

Simon cleared his throat. "How long?"

"Two weeks."

He nodded, closing his eyes.

"You should rest, Simon." She covered his hand with hers, and for the first time since he'd left, he turned it over and grasped it back.

He opened his eyes again. "I'm sorry."

"Simon." She choked, tears of relief spilling out. She'd cried so much, letting herself, so she would be done by the time he saw her. But he was too important, he held too much of her in him. "I thought I lost you."

"No." He breathed.

"I should have known," She let out a wet laugh, "you wouldn't go down that easy."

"I wasn't done with you." He admitted, squeezing her hand again.

Mariana watched him try to relax. She knew he hated being regarded that way, flat on his back, unable to stand and take control of a situation. Even a safe one. It was on her shoulders then, to protect him, and she would die to succeed. He fell back asleep, which she was grateful for. She wanted him relaxed, she wanted him calm and rested. She wanted him to have what he wanted, which was the ability to put it all behind them.