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I didn’t see that guy.
The words are still running on a frantic loop through his head. That and cold.
So cold.
How can he be this cold when his side is on fire? The thought scatters along with tiny pieces of himself—pieces he somehow knows he will never get back.
Flames lick at his insides and, even though he’s freezing, he cries to get away from them. But he can’t. He thinks maybe if he could stop shivering it would be better. But he can’t do that either. The harder he tries, the more violent the shaking becomes.
Someone is applying pressure to his side. His brain says it should be Murdock or maybe Frankie, but it's not. It's a woman. He thinks maybe she's trying to put out the flames, but all she's doing is driving them deeper. Face tries to explain; tries to tell her she's hurting him and please, stop. His pleas make the woman cry, but she doesn’t stop. She just presses down all the harder.
There are noises circling around him; sounds his brain tells him ought to be soft, but aren’t. Things like his own breath, his heart, and the steady tick of a clock. None of them are in sync either, and it's driving him crazy. He tries to pattern his breathing after the clock—breathe in for two ticks, then breathe out. If he could just get that under control, he thinks maybe his heart would stop racing. But he can't do it. No matter how hard he tries the erratic, half-formed gasps just keep coming. He can't control them any more than he can control the steady tick of the clock.
The thought scares him. His uneven breaths grow sharper and he feels himself coming untethered. It's too much: the shaking, the fire, the cold.
The clock his body seems determined to outrun.
With a whine, he rolls his head, desperate to block it all out; to find a way to escape. But he can't do that either. He can't, he can't, he—
Warmth presses against his forehead and, for one blessed moment, everything stops.
“Face?”
Murdock? He sucks in a small, hiccuping breath. And keens when the warmth leaves his forehead.
“Shh, easy. I'm here. Right here.”
The warmth comes back, proving the words to be true. It brushes over his hair, then gently slips under his cheek. He leans into the sanctuary of that touch with another whimper. He doesn't mean to make any noise. But like everything else he can't seem to stop it.
“Hey, could you check the spaghetti for me, please?”
Spaghetti? With a frown, Face turns his head and blinks blearily up at his friend. “Wha’?”
Murdock snorts a little. “Not you.” He says it softly, fingers once again carding through Face’s hair. Then he’s looking over at the woman who cried and made Face hurt. “I've got him, thank you.”
Face thinks the woman leaves then. If he could take his eyes off of Murdock he would know for certain. It doesn’t seem worth it. “Murdock.”
His friend smiles, but there's no joy in it; no exuberance or mischief or, well, anything. It makes Face wonder if Murdock is losing pieces of himself, too.
“I'm sorry, I didn't—” He shivers, teeth locking together so tight it hurts. But he needs Murdock to know. “I didn't see that guy. I didn't…”
“Shh, it's not your fault.” Murdock is soothing him before Face can even finish. “None of this is your fault.”
That non-smile comes back, and Face realizes there’s something in it after all. “Not… your fault… either.” He's gasping by the time he finishes, the flames in his side sharpening into knives. He cries out, muscles spasming at the intrusion, and reaches for the knives; tries to pull them out.
All they do is twist deeper.
“Murdock…” The name fades on his tongue—drowned by another gasp, another cry. Immediately, Murdock's hands tangle with his own. It doesn’t stop the knives. He thinks maybe nothing can. But he clings to those hands anyway. With every piece he has left of himself, he clings and refuses to let go.
Their hands are covered in blood. The sight—the feel—make Murdock’s stomach churn and his heart race. That's his friend's life coating their hands; making his fingers slip.
Tightening his hold, he leans close. “I've got you,” he whispers.
Face stares up at him, pupils blown wide and body shaking apart. When he tries to talk, all that comes out is a broken sound—one Murdock already knows will haunt his dreams.
For now, though, he files the memory away. Buries it deep along with the echo of the gunshot, the image of Face falling, the words of the gunman.
So he bleeds!
Murdock flinches, grief and hatred and fear careening around inside him like pinballs. A groan that almost sounds like his name draws him back. Grounds him in a world where Face is still bleeding, still hurting. Still trying to live.
If this man doesn't get to a hospital in thirty minutes—
Don't worry yourself. It'll be over in twenty.
Murdock doesn't have to look at the clock to know that nine minutes of that window are gone. Assuming the Attorney General is on time for his assassination, that means all of them have about eleven minutes left. It's a deadline in more ways than one. Especially for Face.
“Hey, waiter.”
The snapped words make him and Face both jerk. But Face's eyes never leave his. They just stare at him with an entire sea of unspoken things.
“Waiter, I'm talking to you.”
Face gives him a nod, wordlessly telling him it's okay even though it's not. Urging Murdock to go, even as his eyes beg him to stay.
The thug Face took down with one punch steps toward them, gun drawn.
Murdock pivots to meet him, but he doesn't stand and he doesn't let go of Face. “What is it?”
“Spaghetti’s on the plate. Get it out there.”
“Yeah, sure, all right.” Murdock says it mildly even though he'd rather spit in the guy's face. Then he looks for Gina. She's by the stove, pasta ladle still in her hand when their eyes meet. “Would you…?”
She nods quickly, already making her way across the kitchen. By the time she kneels beside him, the ladle is gone and her attention is solely on the life leeching away through a checkered tablecloth.
“I’ve got him,” she whispers.
And Murdock both loves her and hates her for it. He needs her there—Face needs her. But, needing and wanting are two very different things. All the gratitude in the world can't erase the rush of resentment he feels when her hands slip under theirs. When she takes his place.
He's mine, he wants to say. You can’t have him—and death can’t either.
Face groans, eyes fluttering shut.
The sight makes Murdock’s heart lurch into his throat. He draws Face’s hands toward him, holding on even tighter than before. “Hey, eyes on me, muchacho.”
There’s a grunt as a particularly harsh shiver wracks Face’s frame. But, then his eyes slit back open. They're glazed now. The intense look from only moments before is gone, replaced by exhaustion.
An exhaustion so deep it makes Murdock swallow. “Hey, fella, you with me?”
“With… you.”
The faint answer makes Murdock swallow again. He's tempted to find Face’s pulse point and count the beats. But he doesn’t. He simply holds on and wills his best friend to do the same. “I’ve got to go out front for a minute, but I’ll be back. You wait for me, okay? No running off with this pretty lady here.” Murdock flashes a smile—and grins when Face actually manages a breathy laugh.
“No… promises.”
It's a typical Faceman answer that is probably supposed to make him feel better. Instead, it leaves Murdock cold.
“Waiter, move it!”
Face doesn’t flinch at the shout this time, but Murdock does. The gun waves in his periphery and he reluctantly let's go of Face's hands. “I gotta go,” he murmurs. Then he starts to stand.
Trembling fingers stop him in his tracks.
There's no strength left in their touch, but from the moment they fumble against his sleeve, they hold him fast.
“Face?”
His friend chokes a little, hand already dropping back to the floor. “I didn’… mean it.”
The comment makes Murdock frown. “Face—”
“I'll wait,” he gasps. “… Promise.”
It's impossible for Murdock to tell how focused Face's eyes are this time. Everything has gone blurry; his world suddenly little more than blotchy patches of color. But he clings to his friend's promise. With all the hope he has left, he clings and refuses to let go.
Ever.