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The River Thames tastes like shit.
But then, this is not very surprising. Konstantin did always try to warn you that this city stinks like bad breath.
Around you it is black, black. The bullet wound on your shoulder feels like nothing at all, but you can faintly register the thick, red plumes that spread like clouds around the exit wound, and you are clever enough to know that this is not good.
Hm. This was not part of the plan.
For a moment, you cannot see Eve. For a moment, it is agony and it is cold. The empty sort, the sort that eats at your skin until there is nothing left. But then you find her, thrashing around violently just to the left of you, deeper down in the water than you are, safer, and you think you feel yourself smile.
Your bullet-proof vest cuts into your skin uncomfortably, and when the sniper gets you again it is nothing but a dull thud. Still, you are losing too much blood, you can feel it, and there are still so many things you need.
You need Eve to surface close to the boat, out of the sniper’s range. You need another lungful of air. You need to be able to reach for her, to hold her, to soothe the panic in her eyes, to tell her it is okay, that she will be okay, that Carolyn owes you this final favour.
You need to tell her that the campervan, parked haphazardly by Tesco Express, has probably been ticketed and towed. You need to tell her that you will steal her another one, a better one, one with a cup holders that fold out properly, one with a fridge and gas hobs, not the shitty little electric ones that take too long to heat up.
You need to walk with her down the cobbled streets of Naples, of Palermo, of Nice and of Seville. You need to feed her tiny pastries that leave crumbs at the corner of her mouth, and you need to see the look of delight on her face when she tries her first bite of Sicilian arancini. See, it is really that good, you will tell her, and maybe she will scoff, and maybe she will roll her eyes, and maybe she will press her beautiful mouth against yours, and maybe she will sigh into the very centre of you, and maybe you will feel her the thud of her heartbeat through the heel of your palm, and -
There are so many things you still need.
But you of all people should know you do not get to choose when you die, or how you die, or how you will say goodbye. And as your arms refuse to pull you closer to her, and as you sink further down, and as she gasps her way to the surface, you know that you and Eve are saying goodbye.
It is dark, and it hurts, and you are not ready.
But look at Eve! Look at the way she wrenches and fights her way through the water, like a rabid animal! Look at the way she calls for you, even now! Look at how she reaches for you, so stubbornly! Look at the way the Thames parts her soft curls until they are a halo around her face! Look at how she survives!
She is beautiful like this, forever.
/
You are awakened from death rudely, with a fist slamming down on your chest like a sledgehammer, and if The Thames tasted like shit going in, then it tastes worse as you splutter it back up, your stomach convulsing violently as you heave up a sickening mix of bile and river water.
You open your eyes to find Pam staring back at you, blinking like an owl.
“Oh,” Pam says, “Hello. I wasn’t expecting that to work.”
You groan. Each inward breath feels like a deadweight against your chest. There is a gurgling in your ears, a metallic tang on your tongue, and you wince as a sharp pain shoots through your eyes and your nose and the tips of your fingers.
“I think you’re in septic shock,” she says.
You grunt in response.
You try to ask: where is Eve? But your mouth will not open, and your breath is coming out in short gasps, and you feel yourself losing consciousness again.
“I’m really sorry,” Pam says, her eyes wide and pleading, right before she stabs a syringe through the center of your chest.
Ah, so this is how it feels to die! you think, as you choke and splutter noiselessly into the empty night.
/
“What the fuck did you do?”
“I injected 1 miligram of adrenaline directly into her chest cavity.”
“What - are you some sort of fucking doctor now?”
Eve! you think. How terribly she must treat hospitality workers!
“She had stopped breathing. Her heartbeat was faint. She was only mildly responsive to CPR. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry, I -”
A pause. “No, no, it’s fine. I just -” There is another pause, longer this time, and then Eve exhales a long, weary breath.
You think you can feel it against your cheek. It is nice.
/
Here is the thing about waking up after having your semi-conscious body dragged out of The River Thames: it hurts like shit.
Your head feels like someone has taken an axe to it, and there is a very unpleasant ringing sound in your ears, and you do not know where you are, and you do not know how much time has passed, and you do not think you can move.
There are hands, you are sure, sweeping over your forehead like a ghost, brushing away clammy wisps of hair and soothing over your cheeks.
And then:
You blink open your eyes, and there she is, there is Eve, draped half across your chest and half across an armchair. You clear your throat, and she freezes momentarily before she shoots up like a spring, her eyes as wild as her hair.
“Oh - oh my God,” she chokes, closing the distance between you. She takes your hands, gentle gentle, and holds them to her chest, soft and forgiving, like a prayer. You have never been held like this before: held to be held. Held because she just wants to touch you, because she can, and because you will let her. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Eve says, and oh, you are crying, and so is she.
Your throat is like sandpaper, but, “Eve,” you say, just once, just because you can.
“Hey, hi,” she says. “I, uh, really thought I’d lost you. You know - for real this time.”
“Yeah,” you say. You attempt to prop yourself up on the pillows, and then hiss at the dull, stabbing pain that grips at your chest.
“Careful,” she says, settling you back onto the bed.
“I feel like shit.”
“Yeah, you’ve been out for 5 days. You have a couple of broken ribs. Sepsis, too, we think.”
You groan at the shooting pain in your toes. “And what about my face?”
She chokes on a laugh, and then, “still beautiful,” she says a moment later, quiet and serious.
“Even like this? Stinking like rotten fish and dirty river water?”
She laughs wetly into your hair. “Yes.”
“Really? Eve, you have no taste. ”
“Oh,” she scoffs, but she is smiling, and she is still crying, and you are crying too, and here you are together, finally.
“Lay here with me for a bit?” you ask, careful careful, and then watch in delight as she clambers in beside you, as delicate as an ox.
“This isn’t going to work,” she grumbles almost immediately - so impatient! - wriggling and squirming by your side. “You’re taking up all the space.”
“Oh, I am sorry, let me just move over a bit,” you say, and you make a show of trying to wrench yourself up.
“Stop that,” she huffs, rolling her eyes, and it takes her maybe two, three minutes to stop tapping her foot.
Eve, you want to say. Be still! We have all the time in the world!
She turns to you, her brow furrowed so deep you think it might get stuck like that. You wonder: did I say that out loud? You wonder: when will she kiss me next? You want to reach out, to smooth your fingers over the curve of her jaw, but your eyelids are so heavy all of a sudden, and you think: yes, I need to sleep now.
“I am so tired,” you tell her.
“Yeah,” she sighs back, a confession. “Me too.”
Slowly, slowly, she brings her hands back up to your face. Her fingertips are cool against your flushed skin, and your eyes flutter shut as she runs them over the arch of your eyebrows, along the sweep of your jaw, across the plain of your neck.
You open your eyes to find her staring back at you. Her cheeks are a very pleasant shade of pink. Your heart stops, and then it starts, and you have tomorrow.
You allow each other a moment of silence: to finally be still, to watch and be watched, to settle at last.