Tidbit Compilation

Gutless Nights

 Sylvia couldn't sleep. She simply laid in bed stone-still, her mind drifting from one irrelevant subject to the next until she wandered back to the beginning of her train of thought, starting the cycle anew. This, she realized, was quickly becoming tiring. Unfortunately, it was not enough so for her to actually fall asleep. Exhausted, she thought for a moment, but when no solution presented itself, she numbly went back to her previous thought. She looked at her alarm clock, the glowing numbers reading just past two in the morning. Sighing, she turned from her back onto her side. On most nights, changing positions usually put her into a dead sleep, but that was before —

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of quick and heavy footsteps, followed by the creak of the bathroom door and the unpleasant sound of retching. Booker.

Ever since he came back from being Garnock's Host, Booker had been struggling, both physically and emotionally. Any mention of the incident, even three months later, was enough to send him into a state of distress. He was seeing Linnius again, much to Sylvia's relief, but even the psychiatrist couldn't do anything about Booker's physical state. It was going to be a long road to recovery.

She considered getting out of bed. There was nothing else for her to do. She knew that if she did, though, Booker would start worrying about her, and he didn't need that kind of stress in light of recent events. You know what else he doesn't need? she thought, He doesn't need to go through his recovery alone. Having persuaded herself, she threw her covers off rather unceremoniously and made her way into the bathroom.

As soon as she walked in, the rancid smell of vomit greeted her nose. Booker was sitting on his knees in front of the toilet, holding his head in his hands and breathing heavily. Sweat-soaked blonde hair stuck to his forehead and the back of his neck, and even from a distance Sylvia could see just how much his palms were trembling. He looked embarrassingly pitiful.

"Booker," she called softly, "Are you alright?"

He sat up a little straighter, having noticed her presence. His weak, tired voice replied, "I'm fine," before he clutched the sides of the bowl and threw up what little he had left in his stomach. Sylvia sat down beside him and placed a hand on the back of his neck, hoping to provide some sort of comfort. Once he finished, he used his arm as a pillow against the seat of the toilet and groaned.

"Hey, you're gonna be fine," she told him reassuringly, "You'll get through this."

He spat into the water, clearing his mouth of some of the residue. "Did I wake you?" he asked.

"No."

"Don't" — he coughed — "don't sugarcoat it, Sylv. I'm sorry for waking you up. Just go back to sleep, I'll be fine."

"I'm not sugarcoating, Bookworm," she informed him firmly, "you didn't wake me up. I've been lying awake for hours, and I'm not going back to bed. Do you need—?"

"What?" he interrupted, shifting concern from himself to her. "How long has it been since you haven't been sleeping, Sylv? That's not good for your health!"

"Neither is this," she retaliated. "I'm going to get you a glass of water. Stay put and let me know when you're done, okay?"

She stood up to leave, only to feel his bony hand grasp her wrist. Months earlier, those same hands had been so much softer. Fingers lightly calloused from shelving books, skin kept smooth, filled with much more life and health. What was left of them now was dry, cracked skin and the all-too-visible outline of bone. Every feature down to the prominent juts on his wrists was made clear and, Eila help him, he looked so vulnerable.

She glanced down at him. When he saw that he had gotten her attention, he gave her wrist a gentle squeeze, then allowed his hand to slide until their palms were even. His cornflower blue eyes gazed up at her with a shot of stubbornness behind his black, square-framed glasses. Sylvia sighed. It took no words for her to know that he wanted to get the water himself.