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It's like a motor in me has wound down to a certain pitch and then stuck.
I'm just not buying the hungry remark. If his skin weren't the chalk side of white, it might be more convincing. And if his neck could actually keep his head up, my jaw might also ache a little less.
I pause to listen to what's going on outisde thee four awful walls, but I can't hear a damn thing. It takes more concentration than I'm capable of to hear beyond this room and his quiet, labored breaths.
I should get up. I should tie up this tablecloth of weapons, get off my haunches and go back out there and wait for the cavalry to show up.
I don't move.
Well, not up, at any rate. I do move sideways, though, in an ungainly crab-like shuffle and land heavily, with my back against the sofa and my right shoulder and arm pressed to his. The jolt I give him barely registers and I know all that numbness means nothing good, but this is for me. The acid still flooding my system, fluttering my chest and pounding my blood, is not going to let me leave his side now. No matter the consequences. Not when I'm this close to doing the impossible and getting us through.
"-utch?"
Like a magnet, his voice pulls my tired head round.
"Party over?"
His head is still tilted down so it comes out a little muffled, but at this point I'll take any reassurance I can get.
"Fat lady's singing, Starsk."
I have no idea what my scrambled brain really means by that, and judging from the lack of response, neither does he. Damn. I need more than this listless profile, I--
A noise registers from the other room.
I take in a steadying breath. I ease forward a little and turn back awkwardly, my foot nearly asleep. Thankfully, Starsky has hitched his left leg up, so there is a kind of right angled space in front of him I can shift into.
"Starsk?" I lay my right hand on the shoulder in front of me. "Starsk, I gotta go check things."
No response and I resist the sudden urge to shake him.
"'kay."
Too soft, too soft.
I bite my lip and lean closer. In a second it comes to me. I need to see his eyes. I'll know I can leave if I can just see his eyes. I reach my hand from his shoulder towards his face.
I stop.
I'm afraid.
I'm afraid to tilt his chin up. What if the eyes I need are dulled and closing? What then?
I swallow, and something verbal comes out, a little loud and fast, as my fingers hover.
"You take it easy. You stay right here and you take it easy. Cavalry'll be here any minute, you hear me?"
I make to rise, but the tiniest of movements stops me.
"Cavalry's here, partner."
And there it is. The chin is up and those eyes, which fix on mine, are as clear as they have ever been. My fingers squeeze into his shoulder -- too hard I'm sure, but I am suddenly helpless. He needs immediate surgery for a bullet that has spilled too much of his blood, but the utter conviction in me behind the eyes blazing out of that pallid face unlocks everything.
I rise. I tie up the tablecloth and for the first time that night, walk with a lighter step over that threshold.
All I needed was to see his eyes.
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