In every way that matters, the muted silence that Jack falls into is worse than the near frantic pleading. So much worse. Maura's hands feel clumsy and awkward around his and she fights the growing lump at the back of her throat.
He is, she thinks, finally understanding and watching him go through the process is like going through it herself a second time.
When he finally speaks, his words are so quiet, Maura wouldn't even have caught them if it wasn't for the fact that she's been watching his face shut down on itself through it all. Her hands tighten around his and her throat tightens along with them.
"Jack--" her voice falters, and her face falls. The remnants of that calm poker face shredding until she's not the all-knowing psychic or the calm and loving maternal figure. She's just a woman trying to come to terms with the fact that even if her daughter wakes up, there is no guarantee there won't be lasting, catastrophic damage.
"I don't know." The words are soft and broken. A quiet confession. Time is a bathtub filled to the brim, an ocean, a constant, an all at once. And Maura Sargent can dip her toes in the water, can submerge herself fully and swim through it. But she can't see her daughter waking up.
The door swings fully open to admit Dr. Lindsfield, a man whose body and voice both fill up any room he enters near immediately, the nurse from earlier trailing close behind.
"Good afternoon, Jack," he says, his booming voice filling the room from corner to corner.
Maura lets go of Jack's hand and takes a step away, ostensibly to give the doctor some room to work. If it's also giving her the opportunity to turn half away from the bed so Jack can't see the bright sheen in her eyes resolve itself into tears, then that's just a bonus.
"Or should I say good morning?" he adds with a wink and grin.
Behind him, the nurse breathes a quick and obligatory laugh.
"Glad you decided to wake up. Gave us quite a fright, young man. Quite a fright. Your mom here has been worried sick." A quick gesture towards Maura who doesn't make any attempt at correcting the assumption, too busy looking up at the ceiling and surreptitiously wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm.
"We'll have to run you through some quick tests, but good news is you made it through relatively unscathed." The doctor picks up the chart from the foot of the hospital bed, flicking through it while he speaks. "No broken bones. Couple of scrapes and bruises. You'll probably feel some soreness around your ribs and where the seatbelt caught you. State that car was in, it's a damn miracle anyone got out of it alive."
no subject
He is, she thinks, finally understanding and watching him go through the process is like going through it herself a second time.
When he finally speaks, his words are so quiet, Maura wouldn't even have caught them if it wasn't for the fact that she's been watching his face shut down on itself through it all. Her hands tighten around his and her throat tightens along with them.
"Jack--" her voice falters, and her face falls. The remnants of that calm poker face shredding until she's not the all-knowing psychic or the calm and loving maternal figure. She's just a woman trying to come to terms with the fact that even if her daughter wakes up, there is no guarantee there won't be lasting, catastrophic damage.
"I don't know." The words are soft and broken. A quiet confession. Time is a bathtub filled to the brim, an ocean, a constant, an all at once. And Maura Sargent can dip her toes in the water, can submerge herself fully and swim through it. But she can't see her daughter waking up.
The door swings fully open to admit Dr. Lindsfield, a man whose body and voice both fill up any room he enters near immediately, the nurse from earlier trailing close behind.
"Good afternoon, Jack," he says, his booming voice filling the room from corner to corner.
Maura lets go of Jack's hand and takes a step away, ostensibly to give the doctor some room to work. If it's also giving her the opportunity to turn half away from the bed so Jack can't see the bright sheen in her eyes resolve itself into tears, then that's just a bonus.
"Or should I say good morning?" he adds with a wink and grin.
Behind him, the nurse breathes a quick and obligatory laugh.
"Glad you decided to wake up. Gave us quite a fright, young man. Quite a fright. Your mom here has been worried sick." A quick gesture towards Maura who doesn't make any attempt at correcting the assumption, too busy looking up at the ceiling and surreptitiously wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm.
"We'll have to run you through some quick tests, but good news is you made it through relatively unscathed." The doctor picks up the chart from the foot of the hospital bed, flicking through it while he speaks. "No broken bones. Couple of scrapes and bruises. You'll probably feel some soreness around your ribs and where the seatbelt caught you. State that car was in, it's a damn miracle anyone got out of it alive."