Then Came You { a pedro pascal fanfiction }

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A.N. omg hi. this is the last chapter. there will be an epilogue that i'll post in a couple weeks, but we've basically reached the end of this fic. i love you all, thanks for reading along, and for all your kind words. can't believe i've been writing this for five months. 

"Easy cariño. You've got to let me help you." I exhaled, lifting her off the bed and gently placing her down in the wheelchair one of the nurses had brought over.

She'd been in here five days. Five fucking agonizing days.

On day three she'd forced me to go home, shower, change out of the bloodied clothes I'd still been wearing, pick up something for her to wear when she finally got out. I hated the idea of leaving her at the hospital alone, so small, on that clinical bed, loathed it... but she wouldn't take no for an answer.

I barely managed to get out of the shower and dressed when one of the nurses called me on my cell, the abhorrent, excruciating sound of Lucy screaming in the background making me nearly fall over.

"She's having a panic attack, she's-- um-- she's inconsolable. Should we sedate her or--"

"No." I'd spat out, blindly grabbing some of her clothes from the dresser and swiping my keys from the counter as I raced out the door. "I'll be there in ten."

When I raced into her room, she was crying so intensely she was choking, gasping for air like her lungs were collapsing.

I thought my heart would fall out of my chest, into a sad pathetic heap on the floor.

As soon as I'd gotten into bed next to her, gathering her quivering little form in my arms she'd wailed in relief, clinging to me like I'd been gone for months rather than the duration of an hour.

When she was finally able to speak, all she did was apologize. Over and over again despite my assurance that she in no way needed to atone for the way she was feeling. It was valid, she was hurt, fucking traumatized, she needed me and there was no scenario in which I wouldn't appease that need. I needed her just as detrimentally.

On day four the police had come to listen to her statement. The pap who had crashed into her had been in questioning since getting out of the hospital. There was an investigation going on regarding the graffiti on our garage door and the crash, whether or not there was any connection between the two.

I called my connection at the Times after the police left. We were set to meet with her in two weeks.

I would fix this; I would ensure that it would never happen again. I had no other choice.

"You can't carry me around for the rest of my life, Pedge." She huffed as I started wheeling her out of the room, the sad, clinical hospital bag of her things hanging off my shoulder.

"No, but I can, and I will, be carrying you around until you get back up on that leg."

She grunted, leaning back in the wheelchair, and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Sorry sweet girl, no use disputing this." I said, leaning down and kissing the top of her head as I pushed her out the automatic doors and into the parking lot.

A tense, unrelenting bout of anxiety had been living in the confines of my chest since the day of the accident, slowly eating at me from the inside out. I didn't know how to silence it, how to kill it off, it was only dulled when I had her in my arms, but it still blinked softly in the background, dousing everything in a low, red light that felt like a warning, some premonition of more turmoil to come.