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*:ꔫ:*
The gates open, shouts of relief and victory overriding the previous uncertainty and fear of the fever. Someone yells Raven's name, and another person runs ahead, clearing space and calling for water.
You're moving before you even register it.
Raven is being supported by Finn, her weight sagging and head lolling forward. Her face is too pale, skin slick with sweat, eyes unfocused and bloodied. You don't need to touch her to know the fever has finally hit her. You saw the same symptoms in yourself.
"Careful," you say as Finn and Clarke bring her into the dropship. "Lay her down. Slowly. In the hammock."
They do. Finn hovers, hands half-raised like he doesn't know where to put them. Raven grunts when you adjust her, and your stomach twists hard at the sound.
"It's okay," you soothe. "You're safe. You did it. Just rest."
You strip off your jacket and fold it beneath her head. Someone presses a canteen into your hand, and you thank them without turning around. You tilt it carefully, watching her throat work lazily as she swallows, counting without thinking.
Your knees protest when you crouch, but you ignore it.
Finn is still there. You can feel him, even without looking. He keeps glancing between Raven and the rest of the dropship, waiting for something else to go wrong.
"She collapsed on the bridge," Finn informs. "Monty and Jasper finished the job, but she got the bomb there, and—"
"I know," you say gently, cutting him off without meaning to. You press your fingers to Raven's wrist, then her neck. Her pulse is too fast, but it's strengthening. "I know. She'll be okay."
You're aware, distantly, of the way your hands shake when you reach for the cloth. You wrap it tight anyway, wiping her forehead, her nose, her temples. You've done this a hundred times now. You could do it in your sleep.
Finn crouches beside you as you rinse the cloth. "You okay?"
You nod without looking at him. "She needs rest. Fluids. We'll keep an eye on her."
You don't say we, because you're taking on this responsibility yourself. Clarke's done enough, and you don't really trust anyone else to handle this.
He hesitates, and you know why. Earlier, before he left, you remember him telling you to sit down—to slow down and let someone else handle it for once. You remember smiling and telling him you would.
You adjust Raven in the hammock gently again, and your vision blurs at the corners when you step back. You blink until it clears. It's fine. You're fine. You survived the fever. That means something. That has to mean something.
