I wrote this for a contest on LJ a while back because there weren't many entries and I didn't want the community to die after only three weeks. Not my best work.
Disclaimer: I don't own -Man
Miranda hated hospitals. Once the frantic blur of battle passed, and reality was restored, all that was left was waiting. Time, as if in compensation for the misstep in its stately march, slowed to loiter in the cheerless halls. She loathed waiting, and wondering. Waiting for the news that, this time, it wasn't enough; wondering if, this time, her friends would pay the price for her failure.
She sat tensely outside the high care unit, back straight and hands rigidly folded in her lap. Her bag and clock waited beside her in preparation for her departure for her next mission. She would leave soon… but not yet. She had to know if they would recover. So she waited.
The doors opened and a white-clad man entered the passage. She leaned forward, white knuckled, for his words. Allan was doing well, and sleeping. Lenalee was stable, but not out of danger yet.
Miranda leaned sideways to rest her head against her clock, taking comfort in its harsh ticking. She knew there was no need for her to be there. She was useless, nothing more than a hindrance. And yet, every time, she couldn't bring herself to leave until she was sure they would be okay.
A smiling nurse strode briskly along the corridor and entered the room behind Miranda. How can she smile at a time like this; in a place like this? Miranda went back to replaying the events of the morning and worrying about her friends.
The nurse's cheerful voice broke the exorcist's train of thought. "Are you going to eat your fruit salad, sir, or should I take it away?"
"No… leave it." The response was muted and hoarse, as if uttered at great effort. "I'm saving it… for my daughter."
"Is she coming to visit you?"
For a few moments the only sound was wheezing and labored breathing, then, "And my wife. They said they would come early today."
"Oh, that's lovely. I'll go see if I can find them."
The nurse left the room. If Miranda had been paying attention, she would have seen the sadness in that smile as the nurse checked the time. Instead, she glanced curiously into the dim little room. A chair waited on each side of a bed piled high with blankets. An old man lay in the bed. From the length of his legs and the width of his shoulders, she could tell he had once been a tall man. His sun-marked skin told her he had spent his time outside; the lines around his eyes and mouth told her he had liked it.
Now all his energy was focused on merely drawing the next breath, and his once powerful frame trembled with the agony and effort of it. Occasionally his fingers twitched against the blankets, but other than that he lay perfectly still, eyes fixed on a portrait on his bedside table. Waiting.
Without warning, a tremor ran through his body. His mouth widened, as a gurgling sigh came from his throat. Miranda watched, transfixed, as he fought for air. His struggles weakened, and with the last of his strength he turned tear-filled eyes back to the portrait.
Something inside her broke. It wasn't fair. He was fighting so hard. They always fought so hard, and she could never truly help them, never really spare them the suffering they knew better than they should. She wasn't even aware that she had moved, activated, until he turned to look at her. She stood in the doorway, silently willing him to hold on, to fight. Still tired from her long innocence activation earlier that day, she trembled almost as much as exhausted man in the bed.
His eyes widened as they met hers and his lungs laboriously drew life-giving air. Realization caused the unshed tears to fall, then his hands tightened on the sheets and determination defined every line of his wasted body. Long moments passed as they fought merely to endure, waiting, wondering if they could hold on. The only sounds were the rasps in his throat and the relentless metering of time.
It was enough. Quick, light footsteps broke the noisy rhythm and soft feminine voices filled the heavy air. Two slender figures took their places at his side and entwined their small warm fingers with his large cold ones. A smile touched his face, deepening the familiar lines one last, spectacular time. Still Miranda held on.
Until there was little more she could do, and no more she could give.
His grateful eyes met hers once more and he nodded his acknowledgment to her. She knew the look too well. You have done all you can here, it said. Enough. And thank-you.
As the life left the shell of his body, and sobs filled the now silent air, Miranda felt a sharp shard of life lodge in her own bruised heart. She may not be able to spare people pain, she may even indirectly worsen the harm they must endure, but her eyes had been opened to something she had not considered: the others' perspective. They willingly risked agony, even death to achieve what they believed in. They gave everything they had. Tragically, sometimes it just wasn't enough. And that was where she came in.
Time. She had never understood why they thanked her for it. She understood, now. To them, it wasn't worthless. To them, it was enough.