The bed is too big for her tiny, frail body. The crisp white sheets. The nauseating antiseptic smell. The tubes in her arms. The cuts on her face. He hates seeing her like this, he hates everything about it. Despite how he feels, he can't bring himself to look away. A stark contrast to Pierre's restlessness. He's been pacing in the bleak room ever since they've been allowed to see her, twenty-five minutes ago after they'd waited in the hallway for more than two hours.
"Should we call someone?" Pierre frets.
"We're both here."
He sees Pierre stop before he resumes walking, his shoes slightly squeaking on the tiles.
"Right. Yeah, sorry..." He knows as well as he does that they're the closest thing to a family she's got. Her parents had both passed away a few years ago, which explains why Pierre is her medical emergency contact. "I texted my mom. You should call Arthur or your mom, they're probably worried."
Squeezing the bruised, unmoving hand he's almost clinging to, he sighs. "I'll do it later." There's no way in hell he's stepping out of his room. Not until she wakes up. Not until she is alright.
As if on cue, she stirs and the slight movement has Pierre rushing to her side, on the other side of Charles. They watch with bated breath as her eyes flutter and her face twists in pain.
"It's too bright in here. Turn off the light," he tells Pierre, who complies without question, even though Charles is closer to the door.
It takes her a couple of minutes to finally come to, and when she finally sets their gaze on them, they sink in relief. His throat is still tight, his heart still pounding, but he can breathe a little easier now.
"Uh-oh... You're both here." Her voice is tentative and raspy, but fuck if it isn't the best thing he's ever heard right now.
"Hey bestie," Pierre murmurs with a small smile. "You scared the shit out of us."
"Sorry 'bout that", she mumbles. "Am I in trouble?"
He shares a look with Pierre and swallows the lump in his throat.
"Is it bad?" she asks.
The worry flashing in her eyes almost breaks his heart.
"You're okay," Charles tells her as he mindlessly traces light patterns on the back of her hand. "You're gonna be okay." He's not sure which one of them he's trying to reassure more.
She nods slowly, still a bit groggy. Something flashes in her eyes and she tenses, squeezing his hand. "Is the driver alright?! The one in the Audi?"
Pierre's face darkens, as does his. The circumstances of the accident are still mostly a mystery to them but she seemed to be aware of what had happened.
"He's already been checked, he barely had a scratch," Pierre snickers.
Right now, they were both entertaining the idea of beating him to a pulp.
"What about your car?"
The air gets sucked out of him. Of course she'd be worried about the damn car.
"Don't even go there, Emily," Pierre growls. "Like I give a fuck about the car when you..." He stops mid-sentence and runs a hand in his hair. "I'm just so fucking glad all you got was a concussion and a sprained ankle."
Neither of them mention the angry cuts all over her body and face. She'll notice soon enough, and they will fade in a few days. He doesn't tell her how much of a freaking miracle it really is, that she'll walk out of here with minor injuries.
