Chapter Text
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In her dreams, her head is in someone's lap. She knows this person. It’s not a mystery, these hands that card through her hair. She doesn’t feel confused, but there’s nothing around her. Nothing inside her. She’d rather keep this hallucination with every turn of the clock. She’s happy to keep dying if it meant feeling this, for just-
“Seven.” A voice, gentle-soft and so very small, breaking, a touch that’s- real. Real. It registers to her that the heart rate monitor was whining again. Seven breathes, coughing, her chest hurting and reminding her she’d forgotten to do so. The hands in her hair shake.
“The transfer didn’t go very well.” 467 sounds tired, a corner that’s weary with lack of sleep from where she sits. Hospital room, Seven registers woozily. “But, she’ll be fine. She just needs…”
“Rest?”
“I was going to say you.” 467 answers meekly.
A sob, a pitiful thing, “Oh, dear.”
Instinctively, Seven curls her arm around her girl. She’s barely conscious, stuck in waves of rolling nausea as she murmurs, “‘s okay.”
Her brain isn’t working very well at times. She’s laying on a bunch of grass, she knows she’s not, because her limbs feel like dead weight and her insides feel like mush. Lady is there, hair up into her bun but strands sticking out messily, lack of sleep in the darkness in her eyes, red from crying.
Seven says, “I’m here.”
“I know.” Lady says, bowing her head, kissing her on the forehead and letting it linger. She whispers against her skin, “Stay with me.”
It’s hard to piece apart what’s reality and what’s not. She stares for long hours at the ceiling of her hospital room, the lights molding and bending into vortexes. She doesn’t hear half the conversations around her, zoned out and trying to recenter herself. The mask is taken off her and replaced with doses of medication. It helps her think. She sips at a juice bottle, her head pounding, and listing until she’s able to rest it against Lady’s shoulder.
“-before it gets hectic in the lobby again.” Three grumbles, the conversation winking into existence for her. Three is packing a backpack. “I always end up leaving right as everyone gets off work.”
“Tell Five I said hi.” 467 says. She’s on her phone and laying over three chairs, her leg dangling off the side. “Make sure you give her and Tyke the good news about Sev, alright?”
“She’ll ask me before I even say it.” Three says. She tilts her head to the bed, “Get some sleep, you guys.”
“We will.” Lady murmurs. She sounds ghostly, bone tired, her chin resting exhaustedly on Seven’s head. “You do the same, Three.”
“Yeah. Take it easy.”
Thirteen seconds, like a nightmare. She doesn’t know why it keeps jolting her awake. She feels like sandpaper, rough and torn, but breathing is easier. Lady is here with her, the dark lights of the hospital room barely able to illuminate the hand that touches her face.
“Shh.” Lady whispers. “Just a dream.”
Is it? Everything feels fuzzy, a wakeful stupor she can’t seem to shake. Food and liquids taste ashy in her mouth. She gags, grimacing at the taste. It’s Lady who gently suggests lighter food. Tea, she says, it’ll help. A cup is warm in her hands, the sensation clearing her head. She tastes citrus.
Lady’s alive. It feels like a shock, one that freezes her in place, cup help in her hands- when did her hands look that thin? She blinks, awake, and looks to her side. Lady looks better. Less pale and sad, attentive, and meeting her gaze with a birdlike tilt to her head.
“Seven?” She asks.
“I had twenty four minutes to save your life.” Seven recites, feeling the memory like it’s digging fingers into her brain. She feels entranced, and I did it. Lady’s face softens, her hand cupping her cheek and for once, Seven can breathe so easily, feeling it warm and grateful in her stomach. She thinks she’s forgotten how to kiss Lady. Or she’s dehydrated. She ends up going slack, resting her head against Lady’s shoulder. Lady combs a hand through her hair, sighing, relaxed.
“I know what you’re going through.” Lady whispers. “Just stay with me, dear.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Seven says.
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When she walks, she needs her cane again. She gets dizzy easily and nearly falls, having to lean against someone for support. Time traveling is a nauseating experience that she spends nearly five minutes recovering from, head buried against Lady’s shirt and trying to breathe. She feels multiple hands comforting her, not just Lady’s. 467’s hand, a weight on her back and her shoulder. Five who keeps stepping in and out of her space, nervous, wanting to help but knowing there’s no easy fix to this. Three, who opens the front door for their group and helps them inside.
Tyke, who quietly scampers into her legs. Lady lets her down to the floor, lets Seven crouch down and hug the toddler tightly and sigh.
“Seven, you need to stop getting sick.” Tyke complains as a way of greeting.
Seven can’t help it. She laughs.
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Recovery is slow. She sleeps a lot, but she’s eating and breathing again. Her friends visit everyday, always drawing her into affectionate hugs. Tyke is barely aware that anything terrible has happened. When Seven dozes on the couch, she stacks legos on her tummy and builds a fort around her to keep her safe, even if it becomes a massive inconvenience when she has to get up.
She keeps dreaming of yellow flowers, broken over the floor and wilting. It makes her wake up in the dead of night, heart hammering. Her abrupt start always startles Lady awake, her hand flying to touch Seven’s chest.
“Shh, shh.” Lady hushes, hand over her heart, lips to her temple. “Just a dream.”
“Did you want a winter wedding?” Seven blurts.
Lady pauses, half awake, blinking sleepily at her. Her lips tilt up a fraction. She reaches up to tug on Seven’s ear.
“Go back to sleep, dear.” She says, quiet joy in her voice.
Lady cuddles with her when she naps, recovering her tiny amount of energy in bursts of sleep. Oftentimes, it’s outside, listening to Tyke and Gigi as they tussle in the yard. Lady will be sitting in one of the outdoor chairs with a book in hand. Seven feels no shame at all as she feels her energy tank. She pitifully slides into Lady’s lap. Lady is laughing at her, peppering kisses onto her head as she rests against Lady’s shoulder, already half asleep.
“Darling.” Lady sings softly. She’s petting a hand through her hair, affectionate and warm. “You’re looking better.”
“Mm.”
“How do you feel?”
“Less sick.” Seven mutters. “I’m just tired.”
Her unpredictable narcolepsy is easier to handle when Lady is nearby. As the days go on, she can eat and taste food. She can breathe and it doesn't feel like dust down her lungs. She’s annoyed to find she’s getting fan mail, of all things, which 467 teases her about relentlessly.
Savior of Wattropolis is a strong title, the kind that makes her head spin. It’s so much more than anything she’d imagine on her profile. To have that associated with 727. It’s a pipe dream from before but here, right now, it’s real. The attention is off putting, but it’s not an ill feeling. She feels okay with it. Good.
Game night becomes a thing where Team Lucky gathers at her kitchen table, Lady beside her and hiding laughter in her hands as cards end up scattered across the tabletop. Wine glasses and snacks, jokes tossed between each other, camaraderie. It’s the kind of air that makes her too comfortable. She ends up with her head on the table, pillowed by her arms. Where conversation hushes into quiet, low voices, the occasional giggle. Lady, there, scooting closer to her and massaging at the muscles between her shoulder and spine.
“What did Seven’s hand look like?” 467 asks.
Five is prying at the cards under Seven’s elbow. Seven moves a little to let her have them.
Five says, “Full house.”
“Oh, fuck off.” Three complains. “You fell asleep on a full house? Swap me teams.”
“You’re a filthy traitor and I hope you feel bad.” Seven grumbles.
467 laughs, bright and loud, and it’s one of the last waking thoughts she has before dozing off. She uses these nights as a measuring stick for her health. She stays up longer without getting tired. She can go longer and farther.
One night, 883 joins them. It’s awkward, but the woman hands her a bouquet of flowers. There's no coldness in her face, only quiet understanding.
“You saved my life and countless others.” 883 murmurs. “For that, I hope… we can be friends.”
“Uh, yeah.” Seven handles the bouquet, feeling out of her depth, embarrassed. “Sure.”
Lady gets a vase for them at the kitchen table. It’s a beautiful set of violet flowers. Their house fills with different gifts from everyone, strangers and friends alike. It becomes a museum of memories, a monument to everything she’s become. It’s an entirely different world from the office she lived out of next to the golf club.
She curls up on the couch, hot cocoa cradled against her chest, watching the snowfall. Lady joins her with a blanket around her shoulders. Their legs are tangled together under the covers. Lady rests her head against her shoulder, content and happy.
“Winter sounds nice.” Lady says at last.
“Mm?” Seven hums.
“You looked nice, holding a bouquet.” Lady continues.
“Ah.” Even still, she has the ability to make Seven blush. She scoffs, “Is that so? Next winter is a long time.”
“Eager?” A teasing wisp against her neck.
“No.” She says, just to be annoyed.
Lady giggles. She’s settling more comfortably against her, pulling the blanket up to her chin. The drink is warm, a delicious kind of taste she can finally feel. Organs and lungs and stomach and muscle and bones. Her skin, where Lady breathes, the gentle touch giving her goosebumps.
“A whole year.” Lady echoes. “That’s a lot of planning.”
“Do you want it to be a big thing?”
“No.” Lady kisses the underside of her jaw, lazy as a cat curled into her favorite spot. “We have plenty of time to decide.”
“Mm.” Seven nuzzles the top of her head. “Love you.”
A huff of laughter, “I love you too, my sweet Seven.”
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