Chương 302: 127.I Nearly Lost You 3

After the lights went out in the medical station, the Yukikaze felt unnaturally quiet. Not completely silent, strictly speaking. The life monitors still ticked along steadily. The circulation fans turned low overhead. Somewhere deep in the hull, a faint tremor passed through every so often, like some enormous metal whale rolling over in its sleep.

But to me, those sounds only served as background — specifically there to frame the fact that the second a person goes quiet, everything they'd refused to think about all day comes crawling back out through the cracks on its own. I'd assumed I'd pass out from sheer exhaustion. I didn't. I slept, technically, but it was the kind of sleep stuck in some half-dead in-between layer. One moment I was dreaming of that door. The next, the sound of the boss's boot grinding into Jess's foot.

Then Maki walking forward with the battle axe, the red alarm light strobing, her shadow stretched across the entire wall. The worst part was the small, unreasonable things that kept slipping in between — the torn suit, the snapped strap, that fat bastard's face, the one that still made me want to turn my whole stomach inside out. My eyes snapped open. My chest felt crushed, my breath refusing to catch up for a second, my whole body locked rigid before I finally heard myself force out a dry, wrecked breath.

The medical station was dark. Not pitch black — night-shift dark. A small warm light stayed lit at the head of the bed; nearby, the indicator lights on the monitors pulsed green and blue, casting a thin glow across the edge of the bed, the blanket, the metal rails. It took my eyes a few seconds to refocus. And then I saw her. Maki was still sitting by the bed. She hadn't left. She'd pulled the chair in close — close enough that if I raised a hand, my fingertips would brush her knee.

She must have changed out of the bloodstained outer tactical layer; all that was left was the dark inner uniform, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a fresh strip of white medical tape across the back of one hand. She sat perfectly straight. But it wasn't the straightness of someone full of energy. It was the straightness of someone who'd been holding on too long, afraid that if she relaxed even slightly she'd collapse — so she was using her own skeleton as a temporary scaffold instead.

I looked at her for two seconds before I managed, voice rough:"... Why are you still here?" Maki had been looking down — maybe at the monitors, maybe at nothing in particular. At the sound of my voice she looked up, and for an instant her expression wasn't as composed as usual. She looked more like someone caught in the act.

"You're awake."

"What I asked," I worked my throat, finding it dry as sandpaper, "was why you're still here."

"Aida said," she paused, "you might wake up in a panic in the middle of the night."

"So you're just sitting here waiting to catch the rabbit?"

"If you'd like to cast yourself as the rabbit, I have no objection." I almost laughed, but the corner of my mouth stung when it pulled, so I let it go.

"Your bedside manner is still a terrible deal."

"I'm not doing bedside manner."

"Oh." I looked at her, dragging the word out on purpose.

"Then what are you doing? Night surveillance? Human observation? The Kushima family's latest-model post-traumatic-stress companionship service?" Maki didn't answer right away. She just watched me, her eyes very still. The medical station's night light made her outline softer than it looked in daylight, but that didn't mean she'd actually relaxed. Quite the opposite — right now she looked like a blade that had been forced back into its sheath: contained on the surface, still running hot underneath.

A few seconds passed before she said, low:"I was afraid that if you woke up, there wouldn't be anyone here to see." The moment she said it, the whole medical station seemed to drop a notch in volume. I'd had a line ready — something to drag the mood back toward something closer to normal human conversation. But when I opened my mouth, I found I couldn't swallow it cleanly as a joke. Because I understood exactly what she meant. Not afraid I'd wake up and not find a doctor. Not afraid I'd wake up and not find water.

Afraid I'd open my eyes and think I was still back there. That door. Those men. That air. I pulled the blanket up a little higher and took a quiet breath.

"I see someone now," I said. Maki's lashes flickered.

"... Mn."

"So you can go back and sleep." She didn't move. Didn't even shift her posture. I watched her for a moment, unable to help frowning.

"Don't tell me you're planning to just sit there until morning."

"If it's needed."

"What counts as needed?"

"If you wake up in a panic again."

"I already woke up once."

"I know."

"Then you've seen the result. I'm alive. I'm talking. I still have enough energy left to be annoyed at you."

"I know."

"... Is that the only thing you know how to say today?" Maki finally let out a very soft breath.

"Shimo," she looked at me, her voice dropping lower than usual, "it's not that I don't know you're alive." She paused.

"I just haven't worked out yet how to act as though I almost losing you didn't happen." My breath caught. Briefly. But it caught. The Yukikaze was probably still circling that hellhole of a planet. The reactor was probably still running, dutifully, the way it always did. The Empire's garbage hadn't gotten any smaller just because we'd had a bad day. In theory, everything on this ship was still proceeding as normal.

But once that sentence landed, I had the strange sense that the entire world had contracted, pulling in tight around the edge of this hospital bed. I had to work hard to find the mouth I normally used to save my own life.

"Saying things like that," I said, staring at the ceiling, "really doesn't belong in a medical station at this hour."

"I didn't prepare a line."

"That makes it more dangerous, not less." This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Does it?"

"You normally talk like a mission report. Suddenly sounding like a person — who's supposed to survive that?" She went quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Then I'll switch back."

"Don't." I answered too fast. Fast enough that I wanted to reach back into my own throat and shove the word back down. Maki looked up at me. I had no choice but to add, stiffly: "... At least not tonight." She didn't smile. But that tight, white-knuckled layer behind her eyes finally loosened, just a fraction. I turned my head slowly to look at her.

"Back there..." I stopped, then asked anyway.

"Were you hurt anywhere?"

"Nothing serious."

"Minor injuries?"

"Scrapes. Bruises. And Aida said if I don't rest soon, my brain might give out before my body does."

"That's a pretty optimistic assessment of you."

"I thought so too."

"The way you looked back there," I looked at the tape on the back of her hand, remembering the sound the axe had made, my throat tightening again, "was genuinely a little terrifying." Maki didn't defend herself right away. She just looked down at her own taped hand, as if it was only because I'd said it that she was being forced to look, again, at what she'd done.

"I know," she said.

"I'm not saying you were wrong."

"I know."

"I just—" The sentence stopped there. Just what? Just that I'd never seen her like that before. Just that while I felt relief, I also felt like the person standing right in front of me had, for one moment, turned into someone I didn't quite know. Just that I could still see, with total clarity, the look on her face when she saw the blood at the corner of my mouth — the look of someone about to split completely open. If I said all of that out loud, it would be too much. Too full.

Too much like a step that couldn't be taken back once taken. So in the end I picked the line that sounded the least like the actual point.

"... I don't like it when you turn into that." Maki's fingers tightened slightly.

"Into what?"

"Into..." I frowned, trying to find a phrasing that wouldn't embarrass me too badly.

"Into someone who'd break in half right along with me, if something actually happened to me." This time, she was quiet for a much longer stretch. I almost thought she wouldn't answer at all. Then, low:"Probably more than half." Something knocked against my chest. Not hard. Just once. But enough that I couldn't immediately decide whether to breathe first, or start swearing.

"Maki Kushima," I looked at her, "sitting by a hospital bed in the middle of the night saying things like this to a patient — isn't that a medical ethics violation?"

"I can go sign a waiver with Aida tomorrow."

"Saying what?"

"Saying I have no intention of taking advantage of a patient in a vulnerable state."

"Then what exactly are you doing right now?" She finally let out a short, faint laugh.

"Failing to control myself." I'm doomed. That was worse than everything before it. Because it didn't sound like a joke, and it didn't sound like stubbornness. It sounded like a small, true thing she'd never intended to hand over — but she was too tired, too afraid, too far past the point of re-arming herself properly, and it had slipped out anyway. I looked away, staring at the edge of the blanket, and it took me a long time to force out:"You're really against the rules today."

"You already said that this afternoon."

"I'm filing a repeat complaint."

"Received."

"You're making it very hard for me to sleep."

"Should I leave?"

"... I didn't say that." Maki looked at me and didn't push it. She just reached over and pulled the blanket, which had slipped down to my waist, back up. The motion was very light — light enough that it felt less like covering a person, and more like handling some precision instrument that would crack if she used a fraction too much force. I looked down at her hands, and suddenly asked:"Have you not slept at all?"

"Mn."

"How long?"

"Since you fell asleep."

"So — not at all."

"More or less."

"Are you sick?"

"A little, tonight."

"I thought you always were."

"Then that means my condition's stable." I actually laughed this time. Small. But real. After the laugh faded, the medical station went quiet again. Different from before. Earlier, the quiet had been two people afraid of crossing a line if either spoke. This time it was more like — the line was still there, but we were both sitting right beside it, and neither of us was pretending not to see it. I was getting sleepy. Not the passing-out kind. The kind where you can finally let your shoulders drop, just a little.

Just as I was about to close my eyes again, a very soft cough came from the next bed over. Maki and I both turned at once. A second later, Jess's voice came through the curtain — a little hoarse, but every bit as punchable as ever.

"For the record," she said, "I wasn't eavesdropping on purpose." She paused a second.

"It's just that the two of you talk like someone slowly drilling into a wall with a screwdriver. It's very hard to keep pretending to be asleep." I froze, then felt a vein throb at my temple.

"You're awake?!"

"Woke up partway through." Jess's voice was still thin, but that inherently irritating spark of hers was already coming back online.

"I was going to go back to sleep, but then someone nearby delivered 'I almost lost you' with all the gravity of a deathbed speech, and I felt obligated to respect the dramatic tension."

"Shut up," I said.

"Can't. Patients have the right to speak." She paused, then added, "And I'm the critically injured patient here, so my right to speak is probably a little bigger than yours." Maki ignored her, giving the curtain a cold look instead.

"If you're awake, you should be resting properly." It went quiet on Jess's side for two seconds. Then she laughed. Lighter than usual, with a little less of its usual deliberate provocation.

"That was my plan," she said, "until I remembered that this afternoon, someone drove half a lander through a door and then went to work on people with a battle axe." Her voice slowed down a little.

"Honestly, Kushima. I've never seen you like that before." The air in the medical station tightened slightly. I'd expected another jab — something like fiercer than I expected, or you should really consider a career change to professional executioner. She didn't. This time she sounded far more serious than usual.

"I used to think," Jess said slowly, "that you were just the type who was very good at locking herself away. Cold. Difficult. Talking to people like you were grading them. Looking at everyone like they might be a problem waiting to happen." Lying in bed, I got a very bad feeling about where this was headed. Sure enough, the next line came straight for me.

"Now I know," she said, "that at least when you look at Shimo, it isn't like that." The curtain never opened. But I could picture Jess perfectly right now — propped against her pillow, still looking terrible, and still wearing the expression of someone who loves watching things get complicated. Maki didn't answer. I felt the tips of my ears start to burn.

"Did you take too many painkillers tonight," I said, flat.

"Starting to hallucinate?"

"Nope," Jess shot back instantly.

"My eyesight was excellent today. Especially the part where somebody had you pinned to the ground, you had blood on your mouth, and Kushima had that look on her face — yeah. I couldn't un-see that if I tried." Her voice paused, and when it came back, it had drawn in a little.

"I'm not making fun of either of you right now." That line made both of us go quiet. Because Jess jokes about absolutely everything — which is exactly why the one time she says she isn't, it lands heavier than the joke would have.

"I just never knew," she said, quietly, "that someone could turn into that, just from watching another person turn into something else." Nothing was left in the medical station but the monitors' steady ticking. I didn't speak. Neither did Maki. But I knew I wasn't the only one who'd heard it. A few seconds later, as if deciding the mood had gotten too heavy, Jess pulled it back herself.

"Of course, you don't need to make that face right now — the one that says I've hit something true," she said.

"I haven't lost enough blood to forget basic common sense. After tonight, I've learned at least one thing."

"What?" I couldn't help asking.

"If anyone ever tries anything with Shimo again," Jess coughed once, her tone edging back toward its usual obnoxiousness, "I should probably check first whether Kushima's got an axe on hand." I almost threw my blanket over the curtain at her. But Maki, in that instant, didn't do what I expected — didn't shut it down with a cold look right away. She just lowered her eyes, waited half a beat, and said, perfectly level:"I don't need an axe." Even Jess went quiet for a second at that.

I closed my eyes and wanted very badly to bury myself in the pillow and evaporate on the spot.

"You two are really something..." I muttered. Jess let out a shallow laugh from behind the curtain.

"Fine. Let me try a more serious version, then," she said.

"Shimo — I owe you one tonight. And I owe her one too." She said it very simply. But simple is sometimes the hardest thing to manage. I opened my eyes, looked at the medical station's dim night light, and after a few seconds answered, low:"Heal your leg first. Then we'll talk about what you owe."

"So heartless," Jess said.

"And here I was finally trying to take the sentimental route."

"It doesn't suit you."

"Suits Kushima better?"

"It doesn't suit her either."

"Hey." Maki finally spoke — mild, but with that familiar hint of warning back in it. Strangely, hearing her sound like herself again made me feel a little steadier. Probably Jess felt the same way. Because she laughed quietly on the other side of the curtain, then said, lazily:"All right, I'll shut up. You two carry on. I promise I'm actually sleeping this time — assuming you stop turning the medical station into a late-night confession booth."

"Nobody is confessing anything," I said immediately.

"Sure," Jess said, deeply unconvinced.

"Whatever you say. It's just that the whole room is completely saturated with one more step and something's going to happen energy. That's all." I opened my mouth. Then decided to give up on educating her entirely. I was too tired to argue with an injured menace until sunrise. The other side of the curtain finally went quiet. Really quiet, this time. I looked back at Maki. She was looking at me too.

The instant our eyes met, I understood, all at once, exactly what Jess's supposedly obnoxious little comments had actually disturbed. It wasn't that a secret had been exposed. It was that the thing we'd managed to hold down through silence, through looking away, through work and crisis after crisis — now had a witness. Someone who knew. Someone who'd seen it happen. And because of that, it stopped being just a line between Maki and me that we could both pretend not to notice. It had a shape now, hanging in the air.

Inconvenient. Also very hard to pretend didn't exist. Maki watched me, and finally asked, quietly:"Can you still sleep?" I thought about it, and answered honestly:"Wasn't sure before. Now... a little better."

"Because Jess stopped talking?"

"That's one major contributing factor."

"And the other?" I looked at her. The small lamp at the head of the bed made her eyes look deeper than usual, like there was a great deal sitting down at the bottom that neither of us had gotten around to fishing out. My throat moved, lightly. Then I said:"Because you're still here." Maki didn't answer. She just, very lightly, very slowly, pulled the chair one inch closer. She didn't touch me. She didn't say I'll stay. But the motion itself was more of an answer than a lot of words would have been.

I closed my eyes again. The medical station was still dark. The Yukikaze was still flying. The world outside hadn't gotten any better. But the things that would normally crawl in through the cracks during daylight had, for now, pulled back a little further. Somewhere between waking and sleep, the last things I heard were the monitors' steady rhythm, the low tremor of the hull somewhere far off, and, right beside the bed, a breath that was very quiet and very steady. Like someone was really still there.

And, for now, wouldn't be leaving.