In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning...
With a gentleness that went against all his established negative feelings for the woman in his arms, he held her head steady between his palms--part of him wanting to crush her skull for being so damn infuriating and part of him wanting to thrust her away from him as fast as humanly possible--and looked at her.

"I'm here."

She hiccuped and gasped like a fish out of water, eyes streaming and face flushed. "He's not! He can't be! I won't let you take him!"

She still wasn't seeing him.

He tightened his grip just the slightest bit, forcing himself not to wince when he used one shirt sleeve to wipe some of the collected liquids that were streaming down her face.

"Al. I'm here."

He didn't know what posessed him then. What strange magnetic force that caused him to do what he did next.

But it happened so fast he wasn't given enough time to ponder.

He pressed his lips to her forehead swiftly before withdrawing.

She went still as a statue, seeming to finally stop breathing completely. The only indication he had that she hadn't suffered a heart attack was when she blinked.

Al blinked again, this time some clarity coming over her expression as if she saw him for the first time. She looked like some sort of bewildered animal, staring at him with wide, watering eyes.

"Breathe," he muttered, trying not to think about the (wince) kiss he's just pressed to her forehead, thinking that drastic times called for drastic measures. "Breathe."

A huge gasp was his reward, followed by a squeak and her throwing all her weight at him, wrapping her arms around his ribs in a crushing embrace. "Jonathan!"

The leather volume he'd had in hand hit the floor, the pages becoming crushed under the weight of the book's spine, and Al continued to blubber, trying to explain between violent heaving breaths what had sent her into hysterics in her sleep.

She thought he was dead. She was clinging to him because she thought he was dead.

She was crying because...because...