Her eyes flicked as raw and wounded before she locked it down. "Someone needs to maintain watch protocols. Recovery phase requires monitoring?—"
"Pel'vix is handling it. Along with Ren'val and three other medical specialists who've actually slept in the past day." I moved slightly, blocking her path to the supplies. Not physically restraining her, but making it clear I wasn't backing down. "You're off duty. Medical order."
"You can't order me?—"
"I'm Chief Medical Officer. You're under my supervision. And I'm officially removing you from active duty due to exhaustion-induced impairment." The words came out harder than I intended, but sometimes care required force. "You can walk to the rest quarters voluntarily, or I can carry you. Your choice."
Her face went pale, then flushed. Anger, finally. Better than that hollow exhaustion. "This is completely?—"
"Necessary. Yes." I held her gaze, refusing to flinch from the fury there. "You're an exceptional physician, Bea. You saved lives today that would have been lost without your skill. But you're destroying yourself in the process, and I won't watch that happen."
"You don't have the right?—"
"I have every right. Your health is my responsibility. And right now, you're a patient whether you admit it or not."
She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Blinked. The color drained from her face again, and I saw the exact moment her body decided it was done pretending.
Her knees buckled.
I caught her before she hit the floor, one arm around her waist, the other supporting her shoulders. She weighed almost nothing. Had she lost weight? When had she last eaten a full meal? Her body trembled now, no longer able to maintain control.
"Let go," she said, but there was no strength behind it. "I can walk."
"No, you can't."
I lifted her easily, cradling her against my chest. She was tall for a human woman, five-ten, I'd noted in her file, but still so small compared to my eight-foot frame. Fragile in a way that made something protective flare in my chest, dangerous and unwelcome.
She tried to push away, but her arms had no strength. "Put me down."
"Rest quarters are in this direction." I started walking, ignoring her weak protests. The medical team watched us pass through the main ward, but no one commented. They understood. They'd all seen Bea push herself past every reasonable limit.
The rest quarters were small rooms the colony used for overnight medical observation with basic beds, minimal amenities, but clean and private. I carried Bea into the nearest unoccupied room, felt her body sag further against mine as if proximity to a bed was permission to surrender.
I laid her down carefully, scanned her vitals with my wrist unit while she glared up at me with exhausted defiance.
The readings were worse than I'd feared. Severe dehydration. Blood sugar is dangerously low. Stress hormones elevated toconcerning levels. Heart rate elevated but thready. Her body was running on fumes and stubborn will, nothing else.
"I'm starting an IV," I said, already pulling supplies from the wall cabinet. "Don't argue."
"I don't need?—"
"Your blood sugar is forty-three. Normal range for humans is seventy to ninety-nine. You're hypoglycemic." I prepped the IV line with practiced efficiency, and found a vein in her arm on the first try. She barely flinched when the needle went in. "Saline with glucose. You'll feel better in thirty minutes."
She watched the IV bag hang, watched the clear fluid begin dripping into her arm. "This is unnecessary."
"Your body disagrees." I pulled a nutrition bar from my medical pack, I'd started carrying them after the first day, anticipating this moment. "Eat this. Slowly."
She took the bar mechanically, unwrapped it, and took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. The motions automatic, programmed by years of medical training that knew even if the mind resisted, the body needed fuel.
I sat in the chair beside her bed, monitoring the IV drip, watching color slowly return to her face. The room was quiet except for the soft beep of monitoring equipment and her mechanical chewing.
When she'd finished half the nutrition bar, she spoke. "When did you last sleep?"
The deflection was predictable. Classic avoidance, turn concern back on the questioner, make them defend their position instead of accepting care.
"Six hours ago. Four-hour rest cycle during the treatment protocol implementation." I met her gaze steadily. "I'm functional. You're not."
"I was managing."
