His & Hers

Mantovani's P.O.V.

The initial inhalation that I made in the absence of fire in my lungs caused me to feel like robbing something holy.

Slow--deliberate--as though I had to relearn the operation of air. The hospital room smelled of bleach and coffee that was old and stale and the kind of sterile silence that rubs against your ears until you start hearing every little thing: the drip of the IV, the little beep of the monitor that was keeping track of my heart (steady now, stubborn) and the soft rustle of Candice in the chair beside me.

She hadn't left.

Not once.

The head of her dark hair lay on the edge of the mattress against my hip, and the spilt hair was lying on the white sheet like spilt ink. One hand also remained clasped about mine in sleep--fingers woven together to such an extent that I felt her pulse as if it were my own still trembling where the right hand still trembled. There were bruises under her eyes, a nick on her cheekbone that was already scarred and a bit of dirt was still staining her jaw by the mountain. She looked wrecked. Exhausted. Stunning like only a person who has battled hell and who has not caved in can be beautiful.

It was quite some time--or was it?--longer than a minute--before I took my gaze off her, and the mere fact of her breathing smoothed out some jagged thing in my chest.

I almost lost this.

I almost lost her.

The thought of the red spot on her breast, of the finger of the sheriff tightening and of the moment I threw myself between her and the bullet--of all these hung round the back of my eyes whenever I shut them. I'd do it again. A thousand times. Knowing that did not prevent the shiver of cold sweat that ran at the thought of how near it had been--how near it had been that I came to leave her alone in this mess I had brought her to.

My throat closed. I gulped, and it was bitter and bad.

Her lashes fluttered. She awoke, if gradually, raising her head, and blinking in the dark under the daylight which came softly through the blinds.

Our eyes met.

Neither of us said a word, as we just gazed, for a second, as though we had to tell ourselves that the other was alive.

Then her face crumpled.

"Mantovani..." She broke on my name, and immediately fresh tears sprang up. She rushed on, taking care of the wires and tubes, and banging her forehead against mine so quickly that it was pain to both of us. "You're awake. You're really awake."

I put up my free hand--fancy, clumsy--and touched the back of her neck and held her.

"Yeah," I rasped. Throat raw as yet, where the tube had been pulled out hours ago. "Still here, piccola. Told you... I'd always come back."

She laughed--wet, broken,--and kissed me.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Desperate.

As she had to feel that I was breathing and living, hers.

I kissed her as well--hungry, aching, putting all the seconds I had passed in the dark into her mouth. Every movement was burning my chest but I did not care. And pain was nothing in comparison to the feel of her lips on mine, of her tears and hers on mine, of her hands on my face as though I were something dear rather than the monster I had always thought I was.

At the instant we separated, puffing, she did not draw off--but remained near, with her nose against mine, as she shared the breath.

I am afraid I have lost you, I said. I thought--I saw your heart stop. Twice. I counted."

I turned my head and shut my eyes, and in my stomach a shame had twisted itself.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "For scaring you. For making you watch that."

She shook her head and a tear shot down on my cheek.

No apology on surviving. Don't you dare." Her voice cracked again. "Just... don't do it again. Okay? Swear that you will never make me re-watch it.

I swallowed. Hard.

I can not tell I will not defend you, I said to her. But I can swear that I will struggle to keep on breathing. For you. For us."

She looked a long time at my face--to see lies, to see hesitation.

and she shook her head once, little and fierce.

"Okay," she whispered. "That's enough."

She kissed me once more, but more slowly, and more tenderly, full of the sort of love that lives through flatlines and firefights and midnight betrayal. Drawing back, she leaned her forehead against mine, and began to breathe steadily.

The doctors said you are a miracle, I said to myself, she said. None of them have ever witnessed a person returning after so much blood shed and internal wounds. They are terming it stubbornness.

I huffed a weak laugh. It hurt like hell.

"Must've learned it from you."

She smiled.

"Damn right."

There was a silence between us--pleasurable, cozy, alive.

I peeped through her to the window. The light of day was peeping through the blinds, and the room was soft gold. The city was getting up outside, cars, horns, ordinary life going on as though nothing had happened.

This room was different on the inside.

I looked back at her.

"We made it," I said quietly.

She shook her head and wept.

"We made it."

I took my lips and kissed her knuckles one by one.

So then we should continue to make it, I said to her. "One day at a time. No more empires. No more wars. Just us."

Her breath hitched.

"You mean that?"

With all I have left I said. "I'm done bleeding for power. I want to live for you."

She smiled, bright, broken, beautiful, and bending she kissed me again.

This time it tasted like hope.

Like tomorrow.

Like the rest of forever.

Beyond the door I could hear voices--the low rumble of Sanna, the laugh of Conti, the low murmur of Mom and the steady response of Dad.

Family.

Messy. Scarred. Mine.

And the first time in my life I allowed myself believing that I deserved it.