Welcome Ashley! Thank you! I like avi too
This is a short scene I wrote from Connie's POV. Part of it might not make sense unless you've read my other stories, but it's short and J+C, so here you go.
Jason is lying there, so still. He looks more like himself today, though; most of the swelling has gone down, and the breathing tube was taken out. And he's out of danger, the doctors say; he may wake up any time now.
I told Whit I'd stay and look after Jason so he could go home and rest. I don't think he's slept much in the last four days. Me either, but I can live on three hours of sleep, if I have enough coffee to keep me awake.
Speaking of which, I should go get some vending machine coffee from out in the hall. I don't want to go too far from his room, just in case. I am watching over him, after all.
I get up to leave, but as I look at him, something tugs at my heart. What if someone comes in and tries to…finish the job? Not that I could do much against them, but I could scream.
I sit back down in the firm pinkish-purple chair and pull it closer to his bed. I wish he'd wake up, but he needs to rest in order to recover. I have to wait until he wakes to find out if he's all right, if he's still the Jason I know.
The setting sun casts its rays across his face. His eyelids flutter, as if he's about to wake. My heart somersaults. But after a moment, I realize he's just dreaming. I hope he's not reliving what happened…I can't imagine what he went through. The image flashes across my mind of the video that Will sent—so much blood—It was like a horror movie, but because it was real, and I knew the person being hurt, it made me feel even more sick than horror movies do. I almost fainted. I could barely drive the car over to Jason's house that day.
The police and FBI have to find the people who did this. How could anyone harm Jason? He would never hurt anyone, at least, not someone that was innocent. It's evil, that's the only way to explain it. Whit's right. We need justice.Please be all right, Jason.
I lean over the right side of his forehead—the only part of his face with no injuries—and kiss him.
His skin is warm against my lips.
Something sparks inside me. I lean back, but it's like there's an electric arc between me and him, pulling me closer.
His dark, defined eyebrows, his chiseled face, so pale beneath the bandages, just a bloom of rose pink at his lips.
They draw me toward them and I lean over, my lips hovering above his—
No! What in the world am I thinking? What am I doing? He's like an older brother to me, like Whit is a second father, and I had a crush a long time ago, but I'm over it, totally over it—It's got to be the fact that I'm barely keeping myself awake. I need some coffee to snap myself out of this.
I get up to go get some coffee and maybe take a walk down the hallway, get some oxygen in my blood.
I turn to leave, but the sight of him lying there, so still, so vulnerable, tugs at me. I tear myself away and walk out of the room, down the hallway, to get some coffee that'll hopefully cure my crazy malady.