The Long dawn

Mantovani's P.O.V.

My consciousness came back in bits--sharp jagged bits that cut deeper than the bullet ever had.

Then there was the pain: a living entity, red-hot and angry, wrapped around my chest like barbed wire that was tightening with each inhalation. Then the cattle, the sounds, beeping monitors, low voices, chattering in desperate Italian and English, the drip, drip, drip of an IV line somewhere overhead. Odors ensued: antiseptic, blood (mine, mostly), the slight odor of coffee that some one had spilled somewhere. And finally--her.

Candice.

She lay huddled against the bed in the little corner beside me, with her head on the edge of the mattress, and one of her hands still clodded in mine even asleep. Her hair had dropped round over her face and strands of it had clung to the lines of tears that were still not quite dry. She breathed quietly and irregularly the type of rhythm that follows hours of weeping yourself to pieces. The view of her, weary, battered, gorgeous-- struck me more than the accident which drove us here.

I tried to speak. The first thing that appeared was nothing; my throat was covered with sandpaper and rust. Suck, I gulp, copper, regrettable; I could only manage a hoarse whisper:

"Piccola..."

Her head swung up too quickly to make it look otherwise. Large eyed, with red rims, unbelieving.

"Mantovani?" My name came to her like the break of glass.

I tried to smile. It felt more like a grimace. "Still... here."

She uttered a sob, half sob, half laugh, and sprang, crashing her face again my neck, touching the bandages and the tubes cautiously, and desperate at the same time. The tears soaked the thin hospital gown she was wearing immediately, wet and quick, and her shoulders trembled so much that the bed was rattling.

"You scared me," she choked out. "You scared me so much. I believed--I believed you were dead. I thought I'd lost you."

I reached up my free hand--slow and trembling--and ran my fingers through her hair and caught her firmly against me yet every motion gave a new blaze of fire in my breast.

"Couldn't leave you," I rasped. "Promised... forever. Not... breaking that."

She drew away to look at me, and her eyes went swimming, and she was looking to see whether I was real or not. "You flatlined. Twice. They indeed jolted you into a thousand or more. Oh, Mantovani, your heart stopped. It just... stopped."

The words landed heavy. I recalled snatches--the suffering, the darkness that was oozing in, her voice was calling me back like lifeline. I recalled that I had thought, If this is it, then at least the last sight I had was of her.

But I wasn't gone.

I was here. Breathing. Bleeding. Hurting. Alive.

And she was even gripping me by the hand as though it was the only thing that held her together.

I am very sorry, I said, feeling the soreness of my throat. To frighten you. To... everything.

She shook her head fiercely. "Don't. There is nothing to be sorry about surviving. There is no need to apologize that you love me enough to shoot that bullet. Fresh tears spilled over. "Just... don't do it again. Okay? Swear, never again promise me that you will do the same.

I swallowed hard. "Can't promise... I won't protect you. But I can promise... I will fight my level best to be back again.

She laughed and her lips were wet and broken, and she bent down and kissed me. Soft. Careful. Sampling of salt and comfort and the type of love that endures gunshots and hospital and midnight cheatings. I kissed her back with all I had remaining, long and deep and hurting, and laid all the words that had never been spoken in that one point of contact.