DISCLAIMER: All characters in this story, including but not limited to Pete Wisdom and Kitty Pryde, belong to Marvel Comics Group and are used without permission. No profit is being made. There is also no relationship between this and Tilman Stieve's "Ergo Bibamus" story of a similar title - I wasn't aware of that story's existence till some time after writing this one. Though there is no explicit content in this story, I consider it somewhere between a PG-13 and R rating (alcohol abuse, death).
ARCHIVING: If anyone wants it, go ahead; I do request to be notified (infinitepryde@lycos.com). My net access is likely to go down without warning for an indeterminate period, so please don't be surprised (or insulted) if there's no response.

"He's asking for you."

She stared at the telephone receiver for a moment. The man's voice was quiet, its accent pleasant and familiar; she thought she ought to know him. "... Who? Who is this?"

"He's asking for you." Only repeated, nothing more than that. And a moment's pause. "We've arranged a flight. And a car, once you arrive." A flight number, a time - barely six hours away - she registered them both as she searched through her memory. She'd heard the voice before. Where -

("Shall I find your girlfriend a seat?" "The confused one is...")

Dial tone.

"... Pitman?" she whispered.

"Immediate family and clergy only." Hospitals looked the same everywhere; the bland expression on the nurse's face was equally universal. Someone with too much to do faced with someone who was too insistent.

She braced both hands on the counter, leaning forward. "He was asking for me. I've come from America."

The nurse's eyes flicked up at her, calm. "The only permitted visitors are immediate family and clergy. His family are with him now. They'll be out in less than ten minutes. You can ask his sister about his condition." Her glance back down dismissed the younger woman without another word.

Once she would've gone in, and to hell with the consequences. But ... it was a hospital. She didn't dare.

When she sat down to wait, she found her hands folding in her lap, tight against her body. Her shoulders hunched; her knees pressed themselves together.

She felt very small.

When the visitors emerged, only one of them was a relative after all. The other was black-haired and blue-eyed, yes, but less at home in his tall, slightly gawky body than any of that family. She stared at him, and the sudden surge of fury brought her to her feet and six other men and women in the lobby to a quiet, abrupt alert. More than one hand was suddenly out of sight.

He lifted his hands quickly to forestall both her and a few of the others. "Ah," he said aloud, clearly enough for the hospital staff nearby to hear. "His fiancee's here."

She whitened as if she'd been slapped, but the quick dart of the man's eyes warned her to play along. "Y-yes. Yes. I came as fast as I - can I see him?"

"Of course." The sister's tone might as well have been regal; her face betrayed nothing as she stepped forward, but when she took the younger woman by the shoulder, her fingertips bruised flesh down to bone. "Stuart, see to the paperwork, would you?"

Nurses and orderlies melted out of their way with a glance from the older woman's emotionless eyes. The American girl wished silently that she could vanish as easily.

But she hadn't had to come at all. Had she?

Of course she had.

She'd sat this vigil before. Then he'd been broken, bleeding, shattered - misshapen and covered in crimson. The best doctor in the nation had given him barely even odds of surviving till the morning, that time. But he had survived. She couldn't imagine a world in which he hadn't.

She stared at him for a long time, silent. The swollen hands. The yellow tinge to his sickly, pale skin. The machines and tubing, pressing fresh blood into his system, feeding him oxygen, keeping him from choking, keeping him in a parody of life.

If he opened his eyes, she'd been told, there would be more red than white - maybe more red than blue. But it wasn't likely he would. He hadn't been conscious since the day before. He hadn't been coherent then.

"Did I do this?" she asked, her voice very thin.

His sister stood behind her, not touching now. Remote. "No, he did it to himself." She paused. "We only helped."

The American girl covered her eyes with her hands and wept. Quietly, the older woman turned and left her there, alone with him.

Liver failure. Heart disease. Malnutrition. Brain damage even before the fall and head injury that had brought him to the hospital. He'd been dying already.

The last time he'd been awake, he'd asked for her. He'd made his sister promise to have her told. A few minutes later, he'd closed his eyes.

"I should have been here," she whispered to the body lying in front of her, and to the machines. "I should have been. I should never have gone back."

He'd known, his sister said, that he was dying. Why had he asked for her? To talk to her? To say something? What? They'd said everything they could to each other. They weren't even on speaking terms anymore.

But he'd asked for her. And her sister had left her with him.

Was it something he needed to hear from her, then?

She'd said she didn't feel young.

She'd been right. She hadn't felt young since she'd been fourteen.

For a little while, though, she'd been happy.

Someone came in behind her. The footsteps were heavy. (Had it been an hour already? No one had tried to shoo her out.) She didn't turn around.

He didn't say anything; neither did she. He only stood there, watching. And in time he went away.

She wondered if he'd tell Pitman she was there, or who else from the Crown would come; and she found herself crying again, without a sound.

His sister came again, finally. This time she seated herself across from the American; the calm, emotionless eyes focused on the younger woman, bored in.

"Where - where's your father?" The words were barely a whisper, her throat tight and painful.

"Told him," the sister answered. "He didn't believe it. Doubt he ever will."

The American girl nodded silently, then swallowed. It didn't clear her throat; it hurt, too. Not as much as her head already hurt from crying. The sniffle was undignified, but it helped. She reached out with one hand, glancing up to the older woman for permission - finding no clear yes or no, she laid her hand on his.

His fingers were cold. Damp. They felt wrong.

Are you waiting? the girl asked, silent. You're the one who left. I tried to find you. I looked ...

I couldn't bear to look in the right place. I was too afraid of what I might find there. And I was right about that.

I was wrong about something else, though. And I know why you called.

She swallowed again, and blinked to clear the blurriness once more. When she drew a deep breath, the older woman only nodded, once.

"I love you," the American girl said quietly.

His sister closed her eyes, then rose. She took the younger woman's hand on her way out; they left the room together.

The news of the death two hours later was only a formality. The place had already been empty behind them.

"Do you need somewhere to stay?" his sister asked.

The American girl shook her head. "No. I have somewhere."

Perhaps his sister thought one of the men had arranged it; perhaps she understood. Whichever, she left the girl alone.

The bolthole was in almost the same condition she'd seen it in before, except that there were no papers littering the floor. Ashes and cigarette butts instead, and a great many empty bottles, and things she preferred not to think about.

Parts of the writing were still on the wall, ancient rust-colored stains. There were more stains at the bottom of the stairs outside; he'd bled where he'd fallen, and no-one had seen any reason to clean it up.

She set her bag on the floor seated herself on the filthy mattress, looking around at the place where he'd spent the last weeks and months. Only three things in it were clean: little picture frames, glass protecting images. A picture of his family when there were still four of them, himself as a sullen, angry teen. A wedding invitation - so he had gotten it.

A picture of her she'd never known existed. She was sitting in the window where they so often had. The sunset made her a silhouette. Its light in her hair gave her a halo of scarlet and crimson.

Black and haloed in blood, and she thought about angels, and if she'd had any tears left, she'd have cried again.

"I love you," she said quietly to the air. It was true. She always would have come to him, if he'd only asked.

And he had asked, in the end. And she'd come. She had. She would.

She leaned down and reached into the bag, and took out the first bottle. After a few minutes, she began to drink.