Achilles
"Yeah? Well, fuck you, Larabee, have a present from me." Parsons whitened as he jerked the knife out of his thigh, and in one swift move, slashed Chris with it. Chris jerked back, but not fast enough and the knife cut a long bloody line down from hip to thigh.
"Knife!" someone shouted and there was the crack of a gun, and Parsons slumped. Chris slowly reached his hand to his torn pants, feeling the unpleasant trickle of blood on his skin.
"Chris! You okay?" Buck was beside him, and he looked up, puzzled.
"Yeah," he said. He lifted his hand and frowned at it. "Buck--"
"Shit! Medic!" Buck slipped an arm around his back, and urged him to the floor. His leg throbbed painfully, so loud that he couldn't figure out what Buck was saying to him over the sound of it pounding in his ears.
"Chris? Chris?!" Buck's voice was urgent and Chris tried to respond. Some part of his brain was panicking, sure that this wasn't right, that he shouldn't be hit this hard from just a scratch. He shivered, and the movement jolted a moan of pain out of him. He was cold.
"Buck --" he tried to say, but he couldn't hear himself.
"It's okay, Chris," Buck said. The man was wearing just his t-shirt and pants, and Chris wondered vaguely what had happened to the jacket and shirt Buck had been wearing a moment ago. "Just hang on, okay? Just hang on for me? Please?"
Chris tried to nod, and then everything was a blur as people rushed up and he was stripped, lifted, laid on a gurney, covered in warm blankets and rushed across the uneven floor to an ambulance. Clipped words were being spoken above him, and he tried to concentrate but they kept slipping away, and he was so damn cold. Something stung at his elbow, and he looked. An IV was in place, and he followed the tube up to the bag of clear liquid over his head. Saline, an oddly clinical voice said, and he remembered the first time he'd seen someone dying of blood loss, the way they had just got whiter and whiter, and weaker and weaker, red pooling everywhere, looking like a big can of scarlet paint had been poured lovingly over the man's femoral artery...
oh.
He opened his eyes, even though he was sleepy, and shook his head.
"What is it, Chris?" The Texan accent gave it away when his eyes wouldn't focus.
"Not, dying!" he said as firmly as he could.
There was a pause, and Vin sounded like he was clearing his throat, "No, you ain't."
"Good," he whispered, or maybe he meant to whisper, because there was Vin's voice again, drifting away into silence.
This was nice. Peaceful.
Nothing hurt. He smiled, the smile growing wider as he realized that truly, nothing hurt. His heart had lost that pinched feeling that had constricted it ever since they had died.
The stress of his job had fallen away, a weight he hadn't even known was pressing so heavily on him. For a moment he felt the sorrow of parting, then that too sloughed off, shed, as unwanted as last year's skin.
It was all gone, and he felt so light, so free.
Far away, and at the same time, so close it kissed his skin, light bloomed. Forms were in it, and he heard them, calling in soundless joy that mended his heart while breaking it.
There were no words so tender, so loving, so utterly right, as these.
"Sarah? Adam?"
He took a step forward and the sound of their joy swelled as he moved just a little into the light. "Sarah?"
He took another step, almost completely out of the darkness, and something snatched at his heel before it could join the rest of him in the light. He stumbled, reaching his hands forwards, but as close as he seemed, the length of his arms was not enough to touch. He tried to move again, and the grip on his heel tightened, and he scowled, turning to look over his shoulder.
A golden thread was hooked precariously over the heel of his foot. He shook it off, and it reattached itself in less time than he could move. A second thread joined it, wrapping around his ankle tightly. He stared at them, and followed them back, and as he did, more threads came, weaving through the darkness like cobweb of purest gold, filigree fine, and as unbreakable as the thickest titanium.
The thread span away into the depths of the darkness, tugging at him, dragging him back.
"no...." he whispered, looking back, but the voices were fading, the light dimming, and the crushing pain choked him again as the six threads pulled him back into the dark.
"no..." he whispered again, and opened his eyes.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the fandoms listed herein. I am certainly making no money off of these creative fan tributes to a wonderful, fun show.