Thrashed suddenly, violently trying to get up. The IV line pulled taut. Dropped the bandages and grabbed his shoulders.
“Stop! You’ll tear everything open!”
Didn’t hear me. Didn’t see me. Fighting something invisible, something I couldn’t see, trying to escape whatever hell his fever-addled mind had dragged him back to.
Had to use my weight, press him down on the mattress. His strength even half-dead was shocking, had to work to hold him, feeling the heat of him, the power coiled in muscle and bone despite the damage.
Going to hurt himself. Going to rip open everything I’d just fixed.
“Hey! You’re safe! Stop fighting!”
Yelling now. Urgent. Commanding. ER nurse voice, the one that cut through trauma-induced panic, through shock and fear and pain.
Please work. Please.
Those dark irises finally focused on my face.
The thrashing stopped but panic didn’t leave. Stared at me as though he’d never seen another human being before. Confused. Wary. Utterly lost, searching my face for something, answers, threat assessment, anything that made sense.
Something fierce rose in my chest. Need to fix this. Fix him. Make the terror disappear.
Had no idea how.
Then... unconscious mid-stare. Going slack under my palms.
Stayed frozen for a moment, breathing hard, fingertips pressed to his shoulders. Feeling his chest rise and fall beneath them. Fever burning through his skin into my touch.
“What the hell was that? Fever? Head injury? Something worse?”
Released him slowly, checking the IV line. Still in place. Saline still flowing. His vitals all over the place but not crashing.
Yet.
Tremors again. Pressed them flat to my thighs, tried to breathe steady.
“Get it together. He needs you to get it together.”
It happened twice more over the next hour.
Started to recognize the pattern: he surfaced unpredictably, remained under for random intervals, came back different each time.
Once, he lay completely still with those dark irises open, watching me with calculating precision. No reaction when I checked his injuries. No flinching when I pressed antiseptic totorn skin. Just that flat, assessing stare, cataloguing everything, filing it away.
It made my skin crawl. Made the tremors worse.
“Pick a personality, buddy.” Changing the IV bag. Trying to sound normal. In control. “This Jekyll and Hyde routine is getting old.”
The next time, he pulled away from my touch as though it burned. Defensive curl despite weakness, drawing into itself, breath coming fast and panicked until consciousness flickered out again.
Couldn’t predict it. Couldn’t understand it.
Was it fever? Head injury? Something about those surgical scars and whatever they’d done to him?
What if I was making it worse? What if I was supposed to be doing something, and I didn’t know what?
Each time he surfaced, I talked to him. Steady as I could manage. Calm as I could fake. Filling silence with my voice because I didn’t know what else to do.
“You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. I’m just treating your injuries.”
