Ships Adrift in a Strong Tide

Relapse

Damian closed Mar'i's door behind him, leaning against it until the soft click sounded.

He'd been in here plenty of times before. Sometimes he entered her room unbidden after patrols when the desire to see her was so great that he'd been imagining it between punching crooks in the face. Sometimes he came here after a text explaining a nightmare she'd had. Sometimes he stumbled in while she giggled against his mouth, reaching for the clasp of her brassiere and brushing her hair out of the way.

Today he entered quietly, two thick books against his back and eyes that noticed details but didn't speculate about them. He noticed the two chairs pushed up against the side of her bed, empty now but tilted in such a way that told him that someone had been here recently enough that Alfred hadn't gotten the chance to straighten up. He noticed the dark hair that curled against her forehead, slightly damp from sweat, and the rest of it that waved over her pillow and off the mattress. He noticed the IV drip set up next to her bed, but he averted his eyes because it made him uncomfortable.

He pulled up a chair so that he was closer to her face. "Alright, Grayson," he said clinically. Talking to an unconscious person seemed strange to him, although he'd been doing it for the last few days. "Today I've brought a copy of the Tamaranean book your mother gave me, as well as the anthology of Arabic poetry I found bookmarked on your table yesterday."

Tamaranean was an extremely difficult language, but Mar'i had been teaching him slowly. He was struggling through a book her mother had given him. The language was based on glyphs, phonetic in nature, which was a simple enough concept to understand except that Tamaranean phonics were the most convoluted thing he'd seen since Polish grammar.

When he became frustrated with the Tamaranean book, which happened rather quickly, he switched to the Arabic poetry. After a while, however, he put that down, mostly because he was making himself tired.

"Mar'i," he murmured. He slid his fingers into her hand, which was warm. "It's been difficult these past few days. Your father has been insufferable in his temper. Your mother weeps when she believes no one is listening. Father often breaks things when he is not paying attention—pencils, mostly, but two days ago he opened a drawer too quickly and last night he broke a wine glass simply holding it. Alfred has been baking nonstop, to the point of negligence to his other duties."

He paused to lace his fingers through hers, an odd feeling as her hand was absolutely limp. "And I... In the past few days, I've received scores of stitches, a split lip, and a sprained ankle. And, well, I believe I've been reading the equivalent of fairy tales in some nonsensical alien language."

"The others are concerned, of course. Todd has come by every day, even going so far as to use the front door yesterday. Tim and Stephanie stopped in to describe to you the most recent of her sonograms. Cassandra comes by and she sits next to you, although she doesn't seem inclined to speak while she's here, as far as I know."

He stood and pulled her blankets over her more tightly, although she hadn't appeared to move since the last time they'd been arranged. The gesture was comforting to him.

"Please do not think it selfish of me to ask that you get you get well."

He was aware that she likely couldn't hear him. Speaking to her was therapeutic enough that he didn't feel like a complete imbecile.

"There's that children's story about the woman who pricks her finger on a needle and does not wake until a prince rescues her, and the one about the princess and the apple with the same idea that a kiss will wake her.

"I'm not a prince, and I don't cannot even fathom exactly what it is that I feel for you. There was never any need to define it until now, but perhaps I do love you. It's selfish of me to realize only now, I suppose.

"I'd like to kiss you, but it isn't because I think the depth of my own feelings will save you. Wake up when you are ready, Mar'i. I want to kiss you now because it's been days since I kissed you last and I'm beginning to fear that I won't be able to do it again. I won't be able to bear it if I could have kissed you for the last time today and I did not. I suppose that's selfish."

He leaned over her and, gently, he touched his lips to hers. Even her lips were hot. The sensation was odd, kissing her when she was not able to reciprocate, and he began to think that perhaps the memory of their previous kiss, in the dim morning half-light as she whispered that he should stay in her bed instead of returning to his own, was better.

It was stupid, but he couldn't help but check to make sure that she hadn't suddenly woken, that her fever hadn't broken, that her eyes weren't fluttering open.

Of course they weren't, and he squeezed her fingers as a wave of disappointment broke over him.

"I'll come back tomorrow to read to you," he whispered, and he gathered the books as he headed to her door.