Page 121 of Katya and the Young God

Pieter’s face is over hers, and there are tears streaking down his cheeks, and her head is in his lap. He cradles her face as she coughs up great mouthfuls of blood.

He strokes her hair back, and his fingers tremble against her cheek.

Katya takes in a great big breath, and she can, she can actually breathe, and —

“Katya,” he whispers, and his voice breaks in two.

Next to him, Selene scoots close, and she’s still wearing the pink and purple puffy coat.

Katya struggles to sit up, struggles to get her elbows beneath her, and Selene nods at her.

“I fixed your lungs,” she says, and her voice is small, no longer deafeningly loud. Just her own voice, from the small body in front of her. “Sorry about the blood.”

Again, Katya can’t find words, so she just nods back, her eyes swimming.

* * *

after an eternity and a half,Katya looks up, her eyelashes sticking like glue to her cheeks, her mind clawing its way back to itself, bit by fucking bit.

She props herself up on her elbows, and despite whatever Selene did, she probably still needs a blood transfusion. And some water, her throat feels like someone poured grit down it. And some painkillers because whatever happened to her foot is —

She blinks up.

Across the room, lays Beatriz. Unmoving.

Katya tries to speak, but only a wheeze comes out, and Pieter cradles her closer.

“It’s okay, I got you, it’s okay,” he whispers, his voice broken in half, and it takes Katya a moment to realize the words are coming to her in Russian.

She locks eyes with him, and his slate gray eyes are shining, wet. His curls lay over his face, sweaty, like whatever he did while she was...out...was too much for him.

Katya swallows again, coughs, then swallows, struggling upright. Pieter guides her up, a hand between her shoulder blades, a fine tremble going through his fingers.

Selene sits, cross-legged, in front of her, her eyes wide. Katya tries to give her a comforting smile, probably misses the mark somehow terrifyingly.

“Any danger?” Katya croaks out, and gets a look of disbelief in return.

“Katya, you were dead,” Pieter whispers, as if that’s a thing Katya could forget. “You were gone, and —" He falls silent again, wrapping his hand around hers, stabilizing himself.

Katya gestures towards Beatriz’s still form.

Pieter doesn’t look away from her, but his lips tighten, almost imperceptibly. “She won’t be bothering anyone,” he says, voice flattening out, almost vicious, but Katya can’t find it in herself to be at all bothered by it.

“His brother is clearing this building, he said,” Selene chimes in, her eyes flickering to Katya’s chest, to the gaping hole in her shirt, where her skin is shiny and new. “Said he’d get us out in a bit.”

Katya twists her fingers in Pieter’s, looking up at him again, squeezing his hand. “Thank you.”

His hand tightens in hers, and he leans forward, pressing a kiss against her lips, an earnest, eager kiss, like someone who has been without water in a desert, like someone who is starving.

“I would do it again,” Pieter mumbles against her, like he cannot bear to keep any distance between them. “I would call in a hundred people if it means I get you back.”

Katya grips his hand tighter, and it’s almost to the point of pain, but instead she just rests her head against his breastbone, eyes fluttering shut as finally, finally, she passes the fuck out.

Epilogue

Katya wakes to find herself in her overlarge bed, in clean pajamas for the first time in over a week, and Stepan the dog curled up tightly near her feet.

Not on her foot, because her foot still throbs with the deep pain of an injury gone very, very wrong, but near.

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