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They've been examined and debriefed until Bud feels a lot like a lab rat. An exhausted lab rat who's responsible for averting the extinction of his species, and who – he sniffs himself – stinks.
The bathroom in this swank hotel is twice as big as his berth on the rig. Benthic Petroleum really went all out this time. Bud shucks his borrowed clothes and steps into the shower. He lets the water run as hot as he can take it and just stands under it in bliss. There's some sort of irony about water feeling this good when he almost died under three miles of the stuff, but he's too damn tired to figure it out.
When he's scrubbed himself all over twice, he steps out into a fog of steam. Swiping at the mirror, he peers at his face and thinks about shaving—decides against it. He'd probably cut himself and bleed to death on the floor.
Wrapped in one of the fluffy hotel robes, Bud opens the door into the suite. The TV is turned to CNN on low. He stands in front of it and watches the headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen for a while, then turns it off. He was there; he doesn't really need to see the rehashed version.
Finally, he lets himself turn toward the bed. And there she is.
He'd expected Lindsey to make a big deal about them being assigned to the same room, but all she'd done was call first shower. Now she's curled up, asleep in the middle of the king bed, with her wet hair making a damp spot on the pillow.
Christ, she's beautiful.
He remembers the NTI water tentacle and the way it went right to her, the way her face was the first thing it communicated with. Figures she'd be the first one they contacted. She'd be his first contact, too.
He watched her die and then come back to him. Not even NTIs can beat that for sheer amazement.
Shaking his head at how sappy he's gotten, Bud heads over to the bed and sits on the edge. He thought he'd been pretty gentle, but Lindsey opens her eyes with a little sigh.
"How you feeling, Hot Rod?" he asks.
She smiles at him sleepily. "I've felt better. What'd you do to me?"
Bud has a momentary flashback of her dead and blue at the moon pool; he pushes it aside.
Lindsey sits up, wincing. "What about you?"
"Daisy fresh." He grins. Her hair has started to dry and frizz in the way he knows she hates. He's always liked it, though, that piece of her she can't control or contain. He takes a handful of the rough strands and tugs lightly.
She grimaces. "I must look awful."
"Yeah," he agrees and she punches his shoulder. "Hey!"
"Oh, you're a real tough guy."
The grin on his face probably looks really stupid, but Bud can't help it. Here they are again, alive and together. And even though Lindsey is bruised, and too pale, and mostly a giant pain in his ass, Bud is still crazy about her. He yanks on her arm until they're lying on the bed, facing each other.
They just lie there for a while. The skin of her chest is faintly bruised where the robe gapes. He touches it gently with a finger.
"I thought you were dead," she whispers.
"Yeah, well, you were dead. I win."
She laughs softly. "I think that lets you off the hook." At his uncomprehending look, she prompts, "Til death do us part, remember?"
Jesus, he thinks. Only Lindsey.
"Yeah," he says, and his voice is a little rough. He's no good at this. "Yeah, I remember. So now what?"
"Well." She brings his hand to her mouth and kisses his palm. "I think I always knew marrying you was a one-way ticket."
His heart rolls like a fucking wave in his chest. "But you came anyway, Mrs Brigman."
"Yeah," she says. "I came anyway."