Where A Witch Goeth

Chapter Thirty: I Ain't See That Comin'

"Celie? Baby, please wake up."

The voice was low and urgent. And warm, and accented with a familiar Southern twang. I sighed in relief. It was all a dream. Or this was a dream. Either way, it was good to hear his voice.

"Celie, you have to wake up. We might not have long," he whispered frantically.

Knuckles rubbed hard across my sternum—the uncomfortable, practiced technique doctors and first responders used to rouse stunned victims back to consciousness.

It fucking hurt.

"Ow," I complained, sitting up.

Okay, it didn't hurt as much as my head.

"Fuck," I hissed, putting a hand near the back of my skull.  I was afraid to touch it and induce more pain.

"I know your head hurts, girl. I'm sorry. They hit you hard. Fucking Cutter," he growled.

That's when I realized my eyes were still closed. I opened them and stared into a face I wasn't sure I would ever see again.

"Nick," I whispered.

It was him. He looked older, worn by pain and ordeal, but it was really him. I took in his  unkempt, dark blonde hair, the lip bit in concern, the dimple that I knew was there beneath the facial scruff, and the eyes. The warm brown eyes raking over me with a look like—

A look that probably matched my own. A look where all terror, confusion, and conflict faded. A look of... finding home.

He smiled. He smiled and then winced in something like pain or overwhelm. A single tear fell down his cheek, beneath his closed eyes, and he dashed it away immediately.

"Fuck, I didn't expect to still—" he growled, but whatever else he was going to say was drowned out as I lunged for his neck and crushed his head to my shoulder and smothered his scruffy hair in kisses.

I didn't cry. I didn't curse. I just held on. Held on to the man I had loved and lost.

Held on to the man I thought I had killed.

He held on, too. As I smothered his hair with kissed and breathed in his familiar scent, hee felt up my spine. Every vertebra, every muscle, my shoulder blades, then the caps of my shoulders. Then he took my head in his hands, kissed my temple, pressed his forehead to mine. He was breathing hard, trying to control his emotions.

"You feel...just the same...oh god, girl. It's really you. It's fucking you and I...I-"

I put my hands on his face and choked back my own tears. "It's really me. It's really you. Shit, Nick. I was so scared for you...I've never been so happy to see anyone..."

Our mouths found each other naturally, and he kissed me hard.

I meant to kiss him back. I would have sworn I did.

Except, I guess I didn't. Or maybe it was just that his kiss was so brief that I didn't have a chance to. I don't know exactly what happened, my head was still a mess. Whatever happened, it didn't feel like kissing Nick. And I knew what it felt like to kiss him. To be kissed by him. I'd never kissed any man as much as this one.

Whatever happened, Nick didn't seem to think it was as awkward or disconnected. The next thing I knew, he was pressing a cup of water into my hands as he supported my back with one hand and tried to pat comfort into my thigh with the other.

"I don't know how long you've been out...you might have a concussion. Look—" He put two fingers in front of my face, then three, then one, but he didn't bother to ask me what to do. He was a cop, I was a social worker, our business was trauma, and we both knew how to evaluate a victim for disorientation.