And then she’s leaving, walking out into the water, and Godzilla’s getting more and more distant. Everyone’s leaving me, and I cry harder. My hand keeps shaking.
“Ava. Ava, baby.” My hand shakes again, and I look down to see a crab’s gotten ahold of it. I shake it again. “Wake up,” the crab tells me, and it’s got Rafe’s voice.
My eyes flutter open, and I blink slowly. The room is dark, and the bed underneath me is soft. There’s a window and mini-blinds off to one side, and sunlight filters through. Someone’s holding my hand off to the side of the bed. I turn and look, and see Rafe’s gorgeous face. I lick my lips. “Hey.”
“You were having a nightmare, baby,” he says, and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry I woke you up, but you were crying.”
“You were leaving me,” I murmur, still groggy. “Everyone’s leaving me.”
“It’s the morphine. You’re just having crazy dreams.”
“Don’t leave me, too,” I tell him.
“I won’t, baby. You’re mine.”
“I like that,” I tell him sleepily. “I’m going back to bed now.”
He chuckles softly. “Okay, Ava. I’ll be right here.” He gives my hand another squeeze, and I slide back into unconsciousness.
? ? ?
When I wake up again some time later, I have to pee, my shoulder is killing me, and my mouth feels like the desert. My hand is gently held in Rafe’s, and his head’s resting against my leg, dozing in his chair as he holds on to me. His dark curls are everywhere, jaw unshaven, and it looks like he hasn’t left my bedside. It’s a good look for him, and I just stare with a sigh of pleasure. I could look at him forever.
But then my bladder insists otherwise. I squeeze his hand to wake him up, and he jumps to alertness, jerking upright. “Hi,” I say softly.
His eyes warm as he looks at me. “Hey, baby.”
I get goose bumps just with how he says the casual nickname. “I need to use the bathroom.”
He helps me get out of bed and I shrug him off to go take care of things, and when I leave the bathroom, he insists I get back into bed. I do, though I’m mostly feeling fine, just tired and achy. Well, that and my shoulder is crap. It doesn’t feel right to relax, though. Something’s wrong. “Where are we?”
“My island. Tears of God.” He moves to my side and tucks the blanket gently around me. “How do you feel?”
“Poopy,” I tell him. As if he can sense my thirst, he gets a pitcher from the bedside, pours me a glass of water, and then holds it to my mouth. I reach for it, only to notice that my bad wrist is now wrapped in a bandage, and my pinky has been given an official splint. He helps me drink and I lie back on the pillows again, feeling weak. Memories flick through my mind, of Duval and Rose. “I guess I fucked things up, huh?” I’m trying to be all casual about it, but to my horror, tears flood my eyes.
“Oh, baby, no,” he murmurs. His hand touches my good one and he strokes it, caressing me, rubbing my arm. Just touching me everywhere he can. “You did great. Things just went wrong. It happens.”
Things went wrong, and now Rose is dead. I went through hell to try to save her. I risked my life for hers, and all the while, she had no clue I was in danger. She was only truly at risk when I showed up. I remember her scream and her falling over me as Duval shot her.
“I couldn’t save her,” I whisper. My face crumples and I begin to sob.
“I know, baby. I know.” He sits on the bed and pulls me against him gently.
Of course he knows. His best friend died, too. I cling to him, weeping. I’m an ugly crier, and I blubber against his chest for what feels like forever, wetting it with miserable tears and snot and unhappiness.
I killed my best friend. I let her die.
“You couldn’t protect her, baby. She chose her path.” His hands smooth up and down my back, soothing me. “You did your best. We all do our best. Sometimes it’s just not enough.”
There’s pain in his voice, too, and I know he’s feeling what I do. He’s thinking about Garcia even as I cry over Rose. Eventually, my sobs turn into hiccups, and Rafe holds me against his chest, rocking me, soothing me.
I feel so safe with him. I never want to leave the circle of his arms, ever.
? ? ?
I fall asleep again in Rafe’s arms and wake up later that night. They’ve stopped giving me morphine and switched it to some heavy-duty Tylenol, which means I’m hurting and cranky, but at least I’m not having weird dreams. Rafe insists on me staying in bed and spoon-feeds me soup like I’m an invalid. I’m torn between thinking it’s sweet and wanting to knock the spoon out of his hand.
But then after dinner, he climbs into bed with me and we cuddle, and I forgive everything. His hand trails through my hair and his fingers move down my arm, and we don’t talk. We just touch and enjoy each other. He’s got me cradled at the perfect spot, tucked under his chin, and if it makes my wounded shoulder hurt a little, I don’t care.