“Good tantrum,” Rutger said quietly. “If I’m ever dying, I want you there.”
It had been that, she guessed—a tantrum. “Not your responsibility, any of you. It’s mine.”
Five minutes later, Vargr was still alive, and Vincent had pulled up a chair to watch him.
An hour later his breathing and heartbeat were what Vincent called acceptable, all considered.
She and Rutger stayed with him through the daylight to the next dusk, apart from both of them leaving to bathe and change clothes. Hers had been bloodied and stinking of sweat and fear. The pain in her stomach reminded her she was hungry, though perhaps that was nerves? Could you get an instant stomach ulcer from worry?
She wasn’t sure she could swallow anything or keep it down anyway.
While sitting propped against the wall in a corner, she fell asleep, and woke to find herself curled on her side on the floor. What sounded like a garbage disposal chewing though a whole side of beef was actually Rutger, snoring. He’d crashed beside her.
Pieces of bug—wings and legs—littered the industrial floor surface. The downside of the end of times, the roaches and bugs had figured it was their time to rule. Grimacing, she brushed them away then levered herself upright.
Even from the floor, she could tell Vargr was still breathing. This was good.
Keep doing that.She allowed herself a few more moments of unadulterated anxiety then pushed it away.
Vincent was elsewhere.
Her breath stank. She rose and found a toothbrush, brushed thoroughly with the mintiest mint flavored toothpaste ever, then went back to brooding over Vargr.
Soon after, they moved him to a bed outside.
Vincent had reset the open break in Vargr’s arm that he hadn’t felt was wise to do with him in shock. The crack and snap and wet sounds as he did that had made her feel ill.
His skin was finally clean of blood, though his feathers would have to wait—he needed a shower to remove all the spatters on his wings.
She sat cross-legged beside his pallet, touching him now and then to reassure herself. The veins twining down his arm had grown plumper and more obvious. His face looked pinker and his bad arm… she had hope again that it was not dead. The fingers had changed from a blotchy pale-pink and blue-gray to plain pink.
Miraculous, yes. She imagined her busy little nanites coursing through him. How much would they change him? What would he be when or if he woke though? That question loomed.
The other wounded were being treated with medical supplies they’d found above, courtesy of the War Quarter people sending them directions. Willow was back and had come in looking slightly furious at hearing of the shock treatment she’d forced Locke to do to Big Daddy. She only. Her call. Or so she told her.
Her responsibility.
She wanted to own that decision.
An hour later Vargr opened his eyes.
Both she and Rutger were waiting for this, hoping. Her butt was sore from the extended sitting, her legs asleep. Though she’d left a few times, she’d returned as soon as possible.
“You’re alive.” She picked up the hand belonging to his good arm and kissed it.
“I knew he’d live,” Rutger managed to say smugly from where he reclined opposite. “Welcome back.”
Vargr wet his lips, raised his head. What did you do to me? I feel like I’ve?—
She patted his hand. “Your arm was broken, and you have several bad chest wounds.”
“I do? It doesn’t feel like it. But I do remember that stinker stabbing at me, and the explosion.” His voice croaked, and he cleared his throat, swallowed. “Dayum.”
“Need some painkillers, buddy?” Rutger asked quietly. “We’ll get you a better bed.”
“Bed? I’m not in pain. I was going to say I feel like someone ran whisky into my veins then set it on fire. It feels… bloody good, in a strange way.”
“Oh hell,” She grinned. “That’s my nanites.”
