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     �	  "Paint by Numbers" 
 by mrsronweasley  

 Disclaimer: Not mine.

 Author's Notes: Written for the DS_Flashfiction Paint Challenge.

 

 Fucking hell, this was worse than watching paint dry. Or grass grow. Or
watching paint drying on growing grass, though Ray was sure Fraser would
probably find that process abso-fucking-lutely fascinating. 

 He tapped his foot, and drummed a beat on his thigh, then jumped up,
because he wouldn't sit still anymore.

 "Come on, come on, come on, what the hell is taking so long..."

 "They're doing all they can, Detective. You won't help by annoying every
nurse that passes through the waiting room." Welsh sipped at his coffee
and made a disgusted face, though Ray wasn't sure if it was a response to
the coffee or his pacing. 

 "They've been there for hours, Lieu, wouldn't they come out and tell us
anything already? I mean, hours." 

 "Vecchio. Sit. Your ass. Down."

 Ray sat back down.

 "They'll tell us when they're done with the surgery, and not before,
because Fraser's bullet hole is more important than your whining,
understood?"

 Ray's stomach clenched at the words "Fraser" and "bullet" and "hole" but
he made himself nod and then attempted to sit still. They'd taken Fraser
in at eight forty four. He remembered because the clock was right above
the swinging doors that led to the OR. That was where he saw Fraser's feet
under the light green sheet, and then there were doctors and nurses
obstructing his view, and he looked up, and the clock read eight forty
four against the light beige walls. The paint was old and grimy. He hated
hospitals.

 He closed his eyes, but the scene just replayed louder and with more red
this time, and he heard himself yelling again, and Fraser's surprised
gasp, and Dief, whining and trying to bury his muzzle in Fraser's stomach.

 Missed the heart, missed the lungs, missed the spine. 

 Ray heard the rattle of the ambulance and opened his eyes quickly. All
got quiet again.

 He clenched his fists tight so his fingers would stop shaking. His cup of
coffee had grown yellow film over it, the halogen lights reflecting in the
rainbow surface, like oil on pavement. He forced the bile down and
clenched his jaw. 

 It was eleven twenty three. Missed the heart, missed the lungs, missed
the spine.

 What had he forgotten? The spleen. No, that was lower. 

 The kidneys. No, not them, either.

 Frannie came back from the bathroom. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair a
total mess, not shiny, like it usually was, but matted and tangled. She
looked so small, had he ever noticed how absolutely tiny she was?

 He watched her as she sat down carefully next to Welsh, watched Welsh's
big hand cover hers, looked away. He was sitting a few seats down from
them; he didn't want to be touched, or patted, or comforted. He knew Welsh
wouldn't have, but he stayed away, anyway. He didn't want to be there. He
had nowhere else he could be. If he still smoked, he would have gone
outside, but he didn't anymore, so he stayed put.

 Eleven twenty nine. 

 The paint stayed the exact same puke-beige shade it was earlier. It
wasn't even drying. It was old, and dried, and chipping in places, and he
wondered what kind of hospital this was, with chipping walls, and what
kind of equipment they had, and what kind of doctors. 

 He remembered watching Fraser's blood drying on his uniform, encrusting
the bright red with a duller, more brown shade, bumpy, almost bubbling. He
closed his eyes again, but the red blared at him, so he opened them, and
this had to end sometime, at some point, it would have to end, because it
was eleven thirty two and still, nothing.

 He hit his head against the wall, and it felt kind of good, so he did it
again, softly, thump, thump, thump, and again, until he saw a nurse
glaring at him, and practically heard Welsh's disapproval from the other
side. 

 Missed the heart, missed the lungs, missed the spine.

 Fuck this, he needed to move.

 He got up and was almost out the door when the doctor he'd seen hours
earlier came walking through the swinging double doors, making them creak
on their hinges. He was taking off his cap, his hair sweaty at the roots.
Ray froze. He heard Welsh and Frannie getting up behind him. He wanted to
ask something, but he opened his mouth and croaked, instead.

 "How is he, doctor?" It was Welsh. Welsh had asked.

 "He's going to be fine. He'll be a while in recovery, and you can see him
tomorrow - tomorrow, Detective," he added and Ray hadn't realized he'd
moved until he was told to stand still again. "But he was very lucky.
He'll make it."

 The paint on the wall began flowing, he wasn't sure why, but it was like
drying in reverse. Then he realized why, and legged it out of the waiting
room, not looking back. 

  
� 

End "Paint by Numbers" by mrsronweasley 

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