The second day: was a lot like the first, and so was the second, and the third.

The fourth day: the experts filed in to give their opinions. None of them were hopeful. A few people stayed to hear them, shook their heads sadly, and left flowers, as if he was already a corpse.

The fifth day: the nurses inserted permanent tubes and monitors, his doctor grimly made a schedule meant to 'maintain current function', and I was told that I couldn't stay there 24/7 any longer. I was given a schedule as well.

The sixth day: I was alone with him. A few cards, and more flowers, continued to arrive, but not like before, and no one called to see how he was doing any longer.

The seventh day: I thought he looked pale, and cold, and ready for his coffin. The guilty showed up, saw that wax like facsimile of what had once been a damned strong man, gave their condolences to me, and never came back again.

The eight day: I could see death at his right hand. He was slipping away in that damaged shell and everyone was helping him by ignoring him completely, by pretending that he was already dead.

The ninth day: I leaned close to his ear and whispered, 'I'm still here, lover. I won't give up on you.' He didn't so much as twitch.

The tenth day: his eyes opened and seemed to look around. I let myself hope, until I was told that it was just reflex, without a mind behind it.

The eleventh day: I tickled his feet, and scratched his arms and sides lightly. I smoothed hands over his cold face and kissed his lips that were clamped around the breathing tube. 'I know you're in there.' I told him, but the eyes didn't turn my way.

The twelfth day: the doctor asked me if I wanted to continue life support. He tried to push a paper at me, permission to terminate. I threw it in his face. There were bruises. He'll probably sue me later.

The thirteen day: I watched the nurses clean him up, check all of his tubes and monitors, and almost reconsidered. His muscles are flaccid. He's sinking into himself, dwindling into nothing but a heart that I'm forcing to continue beating. I sat for a long time after and thought about what he would have wanted.

The fourteenth day: I held the termination papers in one hand, and his hand in my other, knowing what I had to do. When I felt the slight, return grip, I cried and let myself hope again, even though logic told me that it was only reflex again.

The fifteenth day: those blue eyes turned my way, cloudy and unfocused. I rubbed his face, kissed him, and pressed myself against him as long as they would let me.

The sixteenth day: he started breathing again, tortured, slow, but definite. The doctor was guarded in his opinion, so sure of his previous diagnosis. By the end of the day, they removed the breathing tube, and he continued those slow, shallow, breaths on his own.

The seventeenth day: those unfocused eyes found me. Lips moved without sound. 'Duo'.

The eighteenth day: he smiled at me and said, 'love.' I spent the next hour telling Heero what an idiot he was for trying to stop a suspect's escape vehicle with his body. The smile never wavered, though, and his lips were ready and eager when I kissed him and cried afterward.