22

Convalescence

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Medical Bay, Kl'Deesius.

Three days later

John found himself slowly coming out of a deep and dreamless sleep. Fog clouded his thoughts for several moments as he adjusted to the environment he was in, and voices slowly coalesced into recognizable people discussing medicine. He attempted to open his eyes, squeezing them shut again when the brightness of the room was too much to adjust to at that moment, and let out an involuntary groan.

"He's awake," Helen's voice. "John, can you hear me?"

Taking a breath, John tried to open his eyes again, more slowly, giving himself a moment to adjust to the light in the room. "I need a sec," he said, though his words slurred.

"Take your time," Helen replied, her words gentle, her tone strong and steady, like an anchor keeping a ship still at sea. Her voice dipped slightly as she spoke again. "Check his saline, he's going to feel dehydrated."

John opened his eyes finally, getting a look. Helen was there, standing above him, in her medical scrubs. She had just raised a penlight, shining it into each of his eyes, causing him to wince slightly. He made no other complaint, though. She needed to do what she needed to do, he realized.

"Do you remember what happened to you?" Helen asked.

John frowned, not wishing to remember. It was as clear as day, and he could feel his heart beginning to race, but he mastered the anxiety rising within him, before answering. "We were attacked," he said, dry-swallowing.

"Hold that thought," Helen told him briskly, stepping out of his field of view for a moment as she approached a wall panel, tapped a control, and then extracted a clear glass with water in it. She quickly stepped back to his side. "Here, drink some of this," she told him, as she operated a control next to his bed, causing it to incline enough for him to sit up.

Gratefully, he took the offered water, sipped it, allowed the cool liquid to refresh parched tissues and cool his incredibly sore throat. His neck felt like it was ablaze on the right side, and he instinctively reached for it. Helen intercepted his hand quickly. "Doc, what's goin' on?"

"You were stabbed in the neck by your attacker when you were down on the surface," Helen told him, her face reddening in anger. "We've managed to seal the damage to your throat lining and make sure your airways are kept separate from your oesophagus, but the damage is going to take a while to heal, even with this medical technology on board. At some point we may need to do a skin graft to repair the damage to your neck, but we're waiting to see how much your body can do on its' own first."

John sighed, feeling dejected. Injuries suck at the best of times, and he had gotten depressed just from breaking a leg once, but being a convalescent in a bed aboard a frigate was going to be worse in some ways, he realized. Then it hit him like a ton of bricks to the face. "Phee!" He called out, rising to an upright position before falling back with a bout of dizziness.

"You're in no shape to go running off, John," Helen admonished. "You've been in a coma for almost two weeks while we fixed the damage and kept an eye on you. It'll take time before you can go moving around."

"What about Mephicia?" John pleaded, desperation in his voice.

Helen put a firm hand on his chest, preventing him from sitting up again. "She's still with us," she told him. "The injuries to her chest were relatively minor. That weapon used on you was fortunate to have missed her heart and only puncture a lung and some limited muscle tissue. Mostly she lost a lot of blood, but we've had her hooked up with a fresh supply and she's in much better shape than you are."

John relaxed, releasing a tension he hadn't realized he had built up. Mephicia was more to him than a colleague, and had been a steadfast friend since they met at the lunar complex months ago. All he could think about was getting back at the motherfucker who tried to kill her, his fist clenching tight. "Son of a bitch could've killed her," he said in a low growl.

"John," Helen said in a harsh whisper. "That son of a bitch could have killed you!"

John slowly released the fist that he had made, willing himself to let the tension go. It was the most difficult exercise in willpower he had ever had to engage in throughout his life. "Is she awake yet?"

"We brought her out of the coma a few days ago once we were sure the repairs we made to her lung tissue had taken hold. She's sleeping right now, so try not to make too much noise," Helen told him softly. "I've a few things to take care of with Davidson and the others, and Stephen, I'm sure will want to come say hi. Rest as much as possible, you hear?"

And with that, she stepped out of the room.

John took a deep breath, ignoring the soreness in the right side of his neck. He had been given the controls to his bed, so he had it move into a recliner-configuration so that it appeared as though he was sat back on a La-Z-Boi, and he got his first good look around him.

The light was dimmer than he initially thought. The medical bay was cast in a yellow-ish hue from some side-lights directed up toward the ceiling plates, and everything was bathed in a warm glow. Only one of the remaining beds was occupied, and the display above it read out a series of vital signs in the Klankharii language. He understood their readings just fine, of course, and was thankful he had made the effort two years back to learn this language.

Then he looked down to the bed itself, and the occupant.

Phee.

That was his nickname for her.

She objected, of course, though only in public. In private, she enjoyed hearing it, and the tone of voice he often used when speaking to her.

He didn't really know exactly when it all happened, but shortly after arriving on the garden world below, John and Phee had embarked on a series of casual dates. Nothing special, at least not to his mind. Often it would be a coffee or breakfast in the central dining area, or a walk around the perimeter to gaze out at the fields of foodstuffs that were growing on the planet, or the colonies of trees that dotted the landscape to generate oxygen and provide a natural boundary to some of the fauna that had been introduced. Eventually, these progressed to late-evening walks through the settlement, or long discussions out on the roof of one of the prefabs, and on a few occasions, they would spend hours indoors, reading in companionable silence, enjoying each others' company.

Four times now, both of them engaged in an intimate tryst, starting about six weeks before. Neither of them really talked about what it meant. John, because he didn't want to upset the balance of whatever was happening between them, and he didn't want to guess what Phee's reason would be. All that mattered to him was that she was enjoyable company, and he wanted to keep spending time with her, no matter what it was they did.

The last time was a few days before they transferred Edward and his daughter Leila to the Kl'Deesius for their own protection, and the day had been a fairly normal one for what was going on. Phee had just met him for another coffee date when both of them were seized by the need to release their passions, and they quickly took off to John's private room in the settlement, where they enjoyed an hour's pleasure. While they were hardly at the stage where they would publicly display affection to one another, neither of them were uncomfortable with the idea of some moments of tenderness in private even while getting ready to head off to their respective tasks, and that day had been pleasant, relaxing and enjoyable for both.

John was not ready to get too deep into his feelings at that time. Sure, he was attracted to her, who wouldn't be? She was strong, smart, exceptionally pretty with her sculpted athleticism, and was as steady as a rock in her temperament. Everything John would ever want in a partner, she possessed in spades, but given their unique circumstances, he did not want to move too quickly with his affections until he could be sure theirs would last longer than a few months.

Everything changed as soon as he saw the blade plunged through her chest that day in the transport building. He quite literally lost his mind, and that had only ever happened once in his life before that. Grief had motivated his reaction that last time, and it had taken Stephen to snap him out of it. Fear and rage was the cause this time, and he doubted he would have stopped unless he either knew Phee would be safe, or until he had passed out.

Obviously, he had passed out, and had no idea how they had returned to the ship for treatment.

Looking at her now, she was somewhat paler than normal, her hair tucked behind her head as she clearly rested. John wanted to go to her, but he was weakened, and she was probably still asleep in any event.

His mind wandered without him realising it, and he lost coherent thought.

Darkness.

He gasped slightly, wondering how he had drifted off as he did, as well as how much time had passed. He frowned a little as he looked back to the bed where Phee was resting, only to see it empty. He felt his pulse quicken, wondering what had happened to her, and looked to his opposing side, only to be startled by the fact that she was standing next to him, her expression unreadable, her face a pale mask. Surprisingly, she was no longer in medical garments, but was in a loosely-fastened uniform.

Just how long had passed when he lost consciousness a moment ago?

He frowned. "You were asleep?" He asked.

She shook her head, and spoke in her native language. "We need to talk," she said quietly.

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John's frown deepened. "What about?"

Phee looked unhappy. "What we've been doing," she said simply, pausing for a second, her tone flat. "It can't continue."

John let out a sigh, surprised that it affected him as deeply as it did, in spite of the fact that they only knew each other a few months, and had never really been all too serious about things. He suspected she might have been more disturbed by what had happened on the surface than anyone could guess, so he wasn't about to argue for her to change her mind. Whatever her reasons were, he would let her be. He nodded, blinking his eyes in irritation. "I guess not," he sighed, dry-swallowing. "I'm sure you've got some things to deal with that don't need any added complication-"

"You misunderstand," she interrupted him, her own voice quavering ever-so-slightly. "I saw, John."

This confused him, and his frown deepened. "I don't understand, saw what?" he told her.

This time, it was her turn to swallow, and the mask slipped slightly before she reasserted control over herself. "When our assailant plunged that blade of his through my chest, I was still conscious. I saw much, and I heard everything."

John still didn't get it. "Phee, I'm really sorry, I still don't get what you mean."

Impulsively, she gripped his wrist, squeezing it reflexively. "You lost control, John," she said in a voice that seemed pained. She quickly recovered, though. "That's the issue, and when you were brought out of the coma today, you panicked over my well-being... You've become too attached, and if anything were to happen to me, You would... I can't let you face that kind of..."

Finally, John understood. She wanted to save him the anguish of finding out she had been injured or killed by putting distance between them. The only problem was while it seemed like a good idea from a superficial level, people's feelings didn't work that way. She could tell him that she never wanted to see him again, and he would still be in anguish if she were hurt, no matter when it happened. How to explain it to her?

Then it hit him. She would feel the same if he were hurt badly in her presence.

He didn't know how he knew, but he did.

"How would you feel if I got hurt?" John asked her.

"Please don't-"

"No, this is vital," John interrupted her, his tone imbued with as much steel as his weakened condition would allow. "Let's just say that we go our separate ways, and that some months down the line, I were to be killed in a suicide bombing on the surface," he paused to let that sink in, watching as her face reddened slightly despite her anemic appearance. "Would it be as if I were no more important to you than Edward Mensar? Would you feel a general sense of sadness? Would it just be like 'he was a nice guy, what a pity he's dead'? Or would it cut into your heart like a knife?"

Phee was shaking her head slowly, as though in denial. "That's not fair," she hissed, removing her hand from John's wrist.

"No," John agreed. "It isn't. None of this is, and I think you and I both know the answer to that question. If anything were to happen to any of my friends, even though we can often go months at a time without hearing from each other, it still affects me. Just knowing Stephen was beat up by one of the survivors was like a kick in the head for me. Davidson, he could be killed tomorrow... You think I'd be happy about it? He and I find it difficult to get along, and I wouldn't necessarily call him a close friend either, but I respect him, and even though I have only seen him on occasion since we came to the planet below us, if he were to get injured or killed, I'd still be hurting for him." He took another breath. "If you think that breaking off what has been a fun, enjoyable, and meaningful connection just because of your... I'm sorry to say, silly idea, that it would cause me less pain should anything happen to you in the future, then I'm sorry, but you don't understand human emotions as well as you think you do."

His heart was pounding now, and while he still felt weak, he was now wide awake, his mind clear. "Phee, if you need to step away for your own well-being, I get it. I can understand needing time and space to deal with your own issues," he told her gently. "But calling things off because you think it will make things easier for me," he stopped to look at her face, which was now turned slightly away, glancing anywhere but at him. "That's not going to work. If anything happens to you, I'm still going to be broken up by it, and you walking away from what we've been doing won't change that."

At those words, she looked back at him, her face red, her mask slipping to reveal the fear that she was clearly feeling.

"I'm not going to make you stay where you don't want to be," John told her. "But I consider you a close friend and someone who I'm willing to risk my life for no matter what happens in the future. Sorry," he said, shrugging a shoulder, wincing as it caused his neck to flare up in pain. "You're just going to have to accept that about me."

The silence between them was drawn out, but Phee's hand seemed to find its way back to his arm. She still looked a little fearful, and she dry-swallowed again. Blinking furiously a few times, she took a deep breath to steady herself, and her mask settled back over her face again. John was resigned to the possibility that she was going to walk out of his life in spite of his words, and he was prepared to accept that and wish her all the best.

Then she spoke.

"You've given me something to think about," she told him in a calm, quiet tone. "I need time, John."

After a moment to be sure she didn't want to add anything else, he replied. "Take all you need," he told her. "You'll always be able to find me if you want to talk about anything."

He held her gaze, as she did his, for several moments.

Then, with a final squeeze of his bicep, she turned away and walked out of the medical bay with poise and rigid self-control.

John marvelled at her ability to hold herself together like that, even though it left him feeling a little sick to his stomach to have no clue how she was really feeling in that moment. He let out a sigh, and willed himself back to sleep.

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Stephen walked into the Medical Bay with Janet a short time later, to see how John was doing. As usual, the place was spotless, the damage that Janet had caused to the bulkhead near the door had long since been repaired, and there was now only one patient in the room.

John looked worse for wear. He was significantly less pale than he was when he had been brought aboard the ship at the time of the attack, though he still looked as if he could use some more rest. The wound on the side of his neck looked red raw, the surrounding skin inflamed and angry-looking. Helen had earlier said there was a possibility a skin graft might be needed, but the puncture site had been stitched up, and it looked to Stephen as though new skin was already starting to grow over the site of the wound. John was staring up at the ceiling, and Stephen felt his heart pound in his chest as he thought that maybe something might be wrong.

"John?" He asked, uncertain.

John, slightly startled by Stephen's voice as he and Janet approached the bed, glanced at him, briefly glanced back up at the ceiling, and then returned his stare back to Stephen, dry-swallowing. "Stevie?"

Stephen stepped up next to John's bed, Janet grabbing two chairs automatically to slide them into place next to them. Then she stepped next to Stephen and waited patiently. "Glad you're still with us," he told John in a gruff tone that masked his overwhelming feelings of relief.

The dam burst at that point, as both Stephen and John dissolved into hissing sobs, gripping each other's arms tight, as Stephen expressed his relief that John was going to be well again, and John in turn expressed his own feelings that Stephen wanted to ask about, but couldn't at that time.

Janet continued to wait patiently, her face a picture of patient understanding as both men expended their energies and slowly found themselves regaining control of their emotions. Within a few minutes, Stephen was sat down, Janet next to him, and John pulled his hand over his face, sighing as he expelled the last vestiges of his own emotional outpouring.

"How's everything, Stevie?" John asked, his curiosity masking something else.

Stephen was going to ask about it. Janet looked between them both for a moment. "That's a complicated question, John," he began. "Security has been doubled on the surface, Jason's still missing along with the other prisoners, and something's going on with Davidson, Miradima and Helen that they're not telling us about. I've not asked because my mind has been elsewhere," he sighed.

"Stevie," John spoke gently, as though admonishing him. "How are you?"

Stephen nodded. "Better, now I know you've pulled through the worst," he admitted. Janet's hand slipped into his own, and he squeezed it gratefully, which didn't go unnoticed.

"You guys are good?"

Janet's head rested on Stephen's shoulder, and she nodded gently.

"Very," Stephen said simply, smiling in spite of himself. "How are you?"

John turned his head back to look at the ceiling. "That's complicated," he said slowly. "I mean, the injury sucks, and that's gonna be a bitch to deal with for the next few months," he sighed heavily, and his face winced a little in pain. "Fuck, I hate this," he said quietly.

Stephen could understand. When he was laid up on a stretcher back in the lunar complex, he felt both useless and a burden to everyone around him. Getting back on his feet and being able to pull his own weight again was the only way to pull himself out of his funk. "Yeah," he said in agreement. "I need to step out of the room a sec," he told them both. "Need anything while I'm gone?"

"I could use some water," John said, but Janet stood as soon as he did.

"I'll get it for you," she offered, approaching a dispenser.

"Be back in a sec," Stephen told them both as he stepped through the exit.

Janet came back with a cold bottle of water that had an attached straw, and handed it to John.

"I'm sorry," she told him, picking up on his melancholy and sadness. "This has to be depressing."

John nodded, apparently not trusting himself to speak at that moment.

"He was pretty cut up about your injuries," she told him. "Wanted to go looking for the guy that did it."

Again, John nodded, swallowed. "Yeah," he said, his voice cold. "I wouldn't mind having a word with that fucker myself," his tone was hard. "He could have cost me more than the neck injury."

Janet frowned as she pondered his words, and then thought over the last few weeks. It wasn't often she saw John around the settlement below, and on the few occasions she did, he was often in the presence of at least one Tau Cetian security officer... Nearly always the same one.

The officer in question was female, sturdily built with a certain athleticism about her, and almost as tall as John himself. Like all Tau Cetians, she appeared sculpted and defined, and in her capacity as a security officer, looked like someone you did not want to fuck with. She also looked like someone who knew how to keep her cool, and their exchanges in public seemed to be relatively at ease but always studiously professional.

Though if Janet were honest, they could be talking about toe fungus and vomit jokes and she wouldn't know it, since she didn't speak a word of the Tau Cetian language, and the security officer never spoke in English.

Regardless, something about their interactions had made John seem more at ease than usual, and this latest comment of John's as he lay in bed, morose, gave Janet pause.

"How is that security officer friend of yours? I noticed you usually walk around with her on your rounds," Janet smiled uncertainly.

John's face was a mask of sorrow, and his reply was a long time coming. "I probably won't be seeing her again."

Janet frowned. "What happened?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," he said apologetically. Janet nodded, ready to drop the subject. "Just... Now she wants to save me from having to deal with..."

When he didn't elaborate, Janet left the subject alone. Whatever was going on with John and this woman, it was a raw wound that would take a while to heal. "Sorry," he told him gently. "I... I hope you'll be OK."

They both waited for Stephen to return, Janet feeling awkward for trying to ease the man's discomfort only to make it worse.