"No, thats not necessary, I'm alright." I answer without looking into his eyes. I didn't like the way he looked at me, the sympathy, it irritated me. The scrutiny, as if he was afraid I'd just run away, no matter what I'd seen, no one was able to leave the one they loved alone in such a state. But he'd never understand, at least I hoped he wouldn't.

No one deserved to feel this way, the consuming ache in my chest, every time I looked at him, every time he crossed my mind, the memory of him walking around his home. The very power in his movement, in his walk, in his being, comparatively to the way he lay motionless. All because he'd loved me too much. The overbearing guilt, the knowledge that the bullet was so clearly meant for me, it was to be my fate that he suffered now. One's own pain was nothing in comparison to watching your beloved in pain, it hurt so much knowing he was hurting. Knowing it was my fault, despite how much I'd wanted to get away, I should've been smarter about it, listened to him. He was right, I was in danger, he had been trying to protect me.

The yearning, for him. For him to come back to me, the way he'd once been, the way I hoped fervently he would again be. It was different to be separated from the one you love, then to know they no longer were, then to know they were suffering. It was so very different. The knowledge a loved one was out there, alright was a comfort, a luxury of its own in their absence, in your separation. But the knowledge of their suffering was a torment, an imprisonment, that allowed for absolutely no freedom from the worry that caged you in.

I turned away from James, walking back into the room in which Xavier lay. My eyes raking over his motionless form. After the fatal wound, his body had placed itself into a temporary coma in order to recover, how long this recovery would take, no one knew. In the past for some it could take up to years. But Xavier wasn't just anyone, he was the man that upon being shot, hadn't even looked at his wound and instead kept his eyes on mine. Wiped my tears, whispered he'd loved me in what could have been his very last breath. He wasn't some ordinary man, and neither was his love. His heart would continue to beat for it was strong, so very strong as was his love. He would awaken, and soon.

I settled myself into the chair once more, keeping my gaze on the rise and fall of Xavier's chest, wanting so badly to rest my head against the warmth of it. To hear his heartbeat, to feel it against my skin, but I couldn't. His wound was still fresh, as were the stitches, that could harm him, reopen his wounds. I also had no right to touch him, although at times I couldn't resist, I needed to know he was there, he was alive and I wasn't hallucinating. I swallowed thickly as a knock sounded on the door, turning once again to look at the intruder.

The doctor stood there, looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to allow him in. He was a relatively tall man, thin, his sweater and jeans covered by a white doctor's coat and I wondered if those were always necessary. He was a middle aged man, and the hairline of his dark hair was beginning to recede. Cole and James stood behind him, Cole's cold eyes staring at me blatantly, he still held a certain dislike for me. Xavier's injury had only strengthened it, rightly so.

I nodded at them, getting up from my chair and plastering myself against the wall as to stay out of their way. The doctor moved the chair, beginning his regular check while James and Cole stood on the other side of the bed. James offered me a small smile as he caught my eye, although it didn't reach his eyes. They remained dull and filled with worry. He crossed his arms across his chest as he looked back over to Xavier and the doctor that was very gently probing at the area around his chest.

I let my eyes drift over to Cole, blinking in surprise at his cold accusing stare. That was another person that clearly held me responsible for Xavier's current state, perhaps the only one besides myself. A part of me hoped Xavier would too. It would simply be so much easier. It would be so much easier to separate myself from him, if I saw discontent for myself in those stormy grey eyes of his. Instead of the adoring soft silver they always melted to when on me. I didn't know if I was capable of simply walking away from him now, it would be so very difficult for me now. My heart belonged to him, I'd been so ready to join my life with his, while he had taken so many. That wasn't something I could forget, but so wasn't the way his eyes had stayed trained on me in what could've potentially been his last moments. I couldn't ignore how I had been the last thing he wished to see. His love for me the last thing he wished to declare. It was said a dying man never lied, and he had so clearly told me the truth. He loved me, with all of his being, that he had been so very ready to sacrifice for me. But what of the being he'd taken the life of. How was that ever justified. How would I ever justify my love for him.

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