Chương 5: 03.Barely Breathing, But Alive 03-2

The medical bay always smelled like civilization working very hard to pretend it wasn't a slaughterhouse. Disinfectant, ozone, burnt polymer, and some sickeningly sweet hemostatic gel, all layered together until you started wondering whether the Federation had designed hospitals this unpleasant on purpose—to give you the distinct impression that dying on the battlefield would have been faster. I sat on the triage bed and let the automated medical arm lock my head in place.

The wound near my ear had just been flushed. Cold sterile solution ran down the side of my neck and I badly wanted to swear at it. My shoulder had been stripped and re-dressed. My ribs ached like someone had left nails in the bone. Every part of me was communicating the same message: congratulations on surviving, please proceed to the billing counter. Wonderful.

"Stop moving." The medic didn't look up. His voice was as flat as a textbook that had been dead for three days.

"Right ear, external laceration, three-point-two centimeters. Shoulder contusion. Suspected minor rib fracture. Mild concussion. If you keep shifting, the sutures go crooked and that's your problem." I squinted at him.

"You're saying this like I personally drove my face into the warship." The medic finally looked up.

"Combat record shows you piloted an enemy vessel into a ramming maneuver."

"The ship rammed. Not my face."

"Outcome was comparable."

"It really wasn't." I was still arguing when David—the still-alive David—laughed quietly. I turned and glared at him immediately.

"What's funny."

"Nothing." He was standing off to the side, holding a hot drink he'd acquired from somewhere, one shoulder of his jacket scorched through, his cracked glasses replaced by clear medical-issue visors. Cleaner than before, but the battle still showed.

"I've just never heard anyone argue with a medic about whether they rammed a ship with their face."

"Expand your experience."

"I feel like I did that today." I snorted and turned back. Insufferable. He'd developed this particular rhythm that was genuinely irritating—not openly combative, not deliberately contrary, just these flat, well-placed observations that landed exactly where you least wanted them to. The medical arm extended two thin stabilizing clamps and gently spread the wound near my ear. Then the sterilization beam came on. My whole body locked up.

"Hss—" Fuck. That one actually hurt. Not the kind of pain that made you scream—the fine, hot, precise kind, specifically designed for people too stubborn to ask for help. David clearly noticed. Because the next second I heard that infuriating calm voice say:"Wasn't this a small injury?" I kept my face completely neutral.

"It is."

"Then why are you gripping the bed rail?" I looked down.... Shit. I was. Hard. I let go immediately and pretended nothing had happened.

"Normal reflex."

"Right."

"That 'right' had no sincerity in it whatsoever."

"I thought you needed sympathy more than accuracy."

"I don't need sympathy, I need pain management." The medic cut in without looking up.

"You declined the analgesic injection." Two seconds of silence.

"... I didn't think it would hurt this much."

"Next time, don't overestimate your own threshold."

"Next time, the Federation could start by improving their medical equipment design." The medic didn't respond. He'd probably treated enough front-line cases to have developed enlightened patience—the ability to let unhinged patients talk themselves out. I focused on getting through the sutures and accidentally looked sideways again. David was standing next to the triage bed. Not crowding, not performing concern—just there. Quiet.

Occasionally, when the beam hit somewhere that made me tighten my jaw, his gaze dropped slightly. It was a strange feeling. Like you'd thought you were just dragging back a useful Imperial translator from the battlefield, and then you found out he was apparently also the kind of person who stood in the medical bay while you got your ear stitched.... That was an inconvenient amount of effort for someone to put in.

"Companion name." The triage terminal beside us lit up and displayed a registration prompt.

"Please enter." I was going to ignore it. But David reached over naturally and typed a few characters into the floating keyboard. The terminal read it aloud:"David Rosen. Relationship to patient: joint combat personnel." I caught it in my peripheral vision. Oh. So your name was David Rosen. Honestly, more normal than I'd expected. I figured someone with an Applied Foreign Languages degree who could calmly calculate firing solutions on a hostile bridge would have a name that sounded like an academic paper byline.

I must have stared too long, because he turned his head.

"What?" I immediately looked away.

"Nothing."

"Were you just reading my name?"

"You're imagining things." Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"But your ears are red."

"That's inflammation from the wound."

"Is it."

"Yes."

"I see." Fuck. The most infuriating thing was this "I can see right through you but I'm too polite to say it" routine. I was about to snap back when the medical arm finished the final suture with a beep and retracted, spraying a layer of transparent repair membrane behind my ear.

"Done." The medic checked his data pad.

"Ear laceration treated. Shoulder and ribs need further scanning. Remove your shirt, upper body." I looked up.

"... What?" The medic's response was completely flat.

"Scanning for bone fractures and internal bleeding."

"I know what a scan is, but he's still standing right there." I gestured with my chin toward the very inconveniently placed David. The medic glanced at him.

"Non-essential companions may step outside temporarily." David took a polite half-step back.

"I'll just—""Wait." The word was out before I could stop it. I froze. What was I doing? Had the concussion scrambled something that hadn't been fixed yet? Both the medic and David looked at me. The triage bay went quiet for a beat. I had no choice but to push through.

"Don't go yet." David raised an eyebrow. Barely perceptible, but infuriating, because he clearly knew there was something behind that request.

"Reason?" he asked. I straightened immediately.

"In case the doctor starts using medical terminology I can't follow. I need a translator." The medic looked up.

"I'm speaking standard Federation."

"Which makes it worse. I have a concussion—comprehension is impaired." Medic: "..." David: "..." I kept my expression completely neutral.

"Just stay." David studied me for a moment, then answered quietly: "Alright." That single word, delivered perfectly flat, somehow managed to be unsettling anyway. Insufferable. I looked down and started unfastening the blood-crusted inner armor clasps. Objectively, this wasn't a scene with any romantic potential. My shoulder was a map of purple and black bruises, there was a red scrape along my ribs from shrapnel, and dried coolant had left grimy streaks near my collarbone.

My overall condition fell somewhere between dragged from a car wreck and lost a bar fight with ten construction mechs. Zero aesthetic value. But naturally, this was exactly the kind of moment when you became hyperaware of whether the person next to you was looking. I pulled the outer layer down slightly and felt compelled to issue a preemptive warning.

"If you laugh, I'm breaking your replacement glasses too." David looked perfectly innocent.

"I'm not laughing."

"You might be internally."

"I'll control myself."

"... You're getting more punchable by the hour." When the scanner swept from shoulder to ribs, I tensed involuntarily. David apparently noticed, because he held out the hot drink he'd been carrying.

"Want some?" I eyed it.

"What is it?"

"Medical bay nutritional supplement. Hot."

"Sounds disgusting."

"I tried it. It is."

"Then why are you offering it?"

"Because you look like you need something warm right now, even if it tastes like industrial runoff."... Fair enough. At least he was honest about it. I took it and drank. Nearly crushed the cup immediately.

"What the hell is this." David remained calm.

"I did warn you."

"Do actual humans consume this voluntarily?"

"You just did."

"That was a tactical error." He smiled again. Small, but his eyes were noticeably softer. I was about to continue complaining when the terminal beside the scanner bed suddenly displayed triage color classifications. Black. Red. Yellow. Green. My row was blinking yellow. I stared at that color for two seconds and felt something like wanting to laugh.

"What?" David asked. I tilted my chin toward the screen.

"Not black this time." He followed my gaze and went quiet for a moment. I said it in my most casual tone: "Pretty rare, right? Someone like me actually getting pulled back from the black list." The moment the words left my mouth, something shifted in the air. Not awkwardness—more like accidentally stepping on something that wasn't meant to be stepped on lightly. I genuinely hadn't thought much about it. It was just a joke. It had always been a joke, at least the way I used it.

What else was I supposed to do—solemnly acknowledge that from school to prison to battlefield to medical triage, I'd consistently been categorized as probably expendable? Too exhausting. Easier to make it a punchline. But David didn't laugh. He just looked at the yellow indicator, paused, and said quietly:"That's not rare." I frowned.

"What?" He turned to look at me.

"That's just the system finally getting it right for once."... Fuck. That was completely unfair. Not dramatic, not overwrought—just matter-of-fact and plain. Which made it worse. Like someone pressing a fingertip against the part of you wrapped in the most layers, not hard, just enough to remind you that something was actually still there underneath. My throat went dry.

"You're..." I cleared my throat and looked away.

"Very articulate today." David paused.

"Probably the near-death experience."

"Then get it under control. Keep this up and I'll start suspecting you didn't major in Applied Foreign Languages—you majored in being insufferable."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's a warning." The medic chose that moment to finish reviewing the scan results, saving my life.

"Minor rib fracture. Soft tissue contusion in the shoulder. No internal bleeding. Prescribing repair patches, analgesic gel, and a forty-eight-hour restricted activity order. No heavy training, close combat, or overload operations." I looked up immediately.

"Forty-eight hours?"

"Problem?"

"A significant one."

"Such as?"

"I'm on the front line." The medic didn't even blink.

"All the more reason."

"I can't—I have something this afternoon—" I stopped myself mid-sentence. The medic looked at me. David looked at me. Fuck. Almost slipped. I held still for half a second, trying to recover.

"... I have commitments."

"Cancel them," the medic said flatly. I put on my most pained expression.

"They're non-refundable."

"Why not?" Two seconds of silence. David asked very quietly: "Non-refundable cancellation?" I snapped around and glared at him.

"Shut up." There was obvious amusement in his eyes. The medic's expression shifted to something uncomfortably like I understand now—the kind that said: So this unhinged woman rammed a warship and is still tracking her personal appointments.... Damn. Completely seen through.

"Regardless," the medic said, dropping a supply packet on my lap, "no doing anything stupid for two days." I clutched the packet and muttered, "I already exceeded today's quota." Someone nearby laughed, offering zero face-saving assistance. I didn't need to look to know who. I turned anyway.

"Funny?" David raised a hand in mock innocence.

"A little."

"Then find your own way back later."

"But you just told me not to leave."

"I changed my mind."

"Did you." He stepped forward and casually picked one of the repair patches from the pile on my lap, checked the instructions, then held it out.

"So you'll handle this one yourself?" I looked at the placement diagram. Posterior shoulder blade.... Right. This was the Federation medical system's greatest joke—always prescribing patches for locations physically impossible to reach yourself, then calling it "self-care." I went silent. David watched me quietly. After a few seconds, he asked very gently: "Need help?" I wanted to be stubborn about it. I genuinely did.

But lifting my shoulder hurt, twisting my arm back hurt, and pushing through would just make me look like a sore loser with poor judgment. So I shoved the patch back into his hand with maximum reluctance.

"... If your hands wander, I'm sending you back to the battlefield." David took the patch, tone completely level.

"I'd prefer to graduate alive, if it's all the same."

"You'd better." When he moved behind me, my spine tensed without permission. Not from fear. Probably not. Mostly because the medical bay had gone very quiet—quiet enough that I could clearly hear him opening the patch packaging, and catch the faint scent when he leaned close. Not cologne—more like clean fabric and medical antiseptic, what remained after the blood had been washed away. Unreasonable. This proximity. This quiet. Both very conducive to overthinking.

"Hoshino." He said it suddenly. Just my surname, short and plain. My shoulders tightened another fraction.

"What."

"Relax."

"I am relaxed." A pause. Then, very quietly: "Even your cowlick is standing straight up."... Motherfucker. I immediately wanted to turn around and throw the supply packet at him. Unfortunately, turning hurt, so I had to endure it.

"One more word and I'm filing a genuine harassment complaint."

"I'm stating objective fact."

"You're very bold today, David Rosen." The name slipped out before I'd thought about it. The medical bay went briefly still. He didn't respond immediately from behind me. Then I heard a very soft laugh.

"So you did remember." Heat rushed to my ears and my tone sharpened immediately.

"The terminal announced it loud enough—who wouldn't remember?"

"Fair point." When he carefully applied the patch to my shoulder blade, his fingertips inevitably brushed the edge of my skin. Just once. Very brief. My whole body locked up anyway. Fuck. Whether the sudden spike in my pulse was from the injury, the medication, or something else entirely—genuinely impossible to determine. Very impossible. And I'd always hated questions without clear answers.

"Done." He stepped back half a pace.

"That should hold." I slowly pulled my shirt back into place, affecting calm, and made a noncommittal sound. Then added one more line so I didn't look like I'd lost something.

"Not bad." David was perfectly cooperative.

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I'll take it as one anyway." I looked at him. He looked at me. Then we both, with remarkable coordination, looked somewhere else.... Fine. At least there was still some hope for us.