Chapter 12 Em #2
Stepping closer, I adjust the blanket up to Jonathan’s shoulders. He’s alive. He’s been hurt, but he’s alive. I let out another slow breath, knowing there’s a chance we can catch the culprit now.
Behind me, the MedBay doors slide open.
Stan’s voice reaches me before the rest of him does. “Doc, tell me nobody else woke up missing a vital organ ‘cause my anxiety can’t handle that before lunch.”
He marches in with Nil following behind. “Hi, Em.”
I rise from the stool. My hand moves to the curtain cord. I tug it across the railing, closing it around Jonathan before I step out to greet Nil and Stan with a nod of acknowledgement.
Stan watches me draw the curtain. “Right, yep, hide the gruesome stuff.”
Nil regards him with a raised brow. “You didn’t see shit.”
“Well, I meant Jon’s face,” Stan says. “That ugly mug he’s got.”
Nil lets out a sigh. His brow faintly twitches. I observe the exchange with the same attention I’d use on a neural scan that interests me.
“How did you hear about Jonathan?” I ask.
Stan smirks. “We heard through the grapevine.” He walks up to me and lowers his voice. “And people talk loud and lots when they’re scared, Em.”
I consider his words, finding them personally unrelatable. When I check on Nil, he’s frowning slightly, but his gaze is on mine.
“Doc, don’t look at Nil, expecting a normal reaction, or your stats will get skewed,” Stan supplies. “Nil’s been through hell. I don’t think this hottie gets scared.”
Nil tilts his head at Stan. “I get scared.”
Stan looks amused. “Oh, is that so? Even a sexy monk like you gets scared, huh?”
Nil frowns. “Not a monk.”
Stan’s grin widens. “Oh, I know. Believe me, babe. I absolutely know.”
I watch them for a moment as a blush spreads slowly across my face. The warmth is welcome. So are they. They’re a much-needed distraction to what I’ve been feeling lately.
“Hey, Em.” Stan studies my posture. “Anyone ever told ya you’re holding your shoulders like they’re trying to strangle you?”
Nil’s blue eyes return to mine. “You look tired, Em.”
I try to straighten myself. “I’m fine.”
“Lies! Lies detected.” Stan taps his temple. “This is my empath radar. Very advanced equipment.”
Nil crosses his arms. “He means he’s being nosy, Em.”
“That too,” Stan says. “But my point stands, doc. You could use some relief. A nap. A meal. A hug. A tranquilizer dart.”
Huffing through my nose, I catch myself nearly smiling. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m managing.”
Stan leans one hip against a counter. “You’re allowed to not manage, y’know. Genius doctor or not, we’re all in the same spooky ship right now.”
Nil nods. “We came to check on you, Em. Not just Jon.”
My arm relaxes against my tablet.
Behind us, there’s the faint rustle of sheets and a heavy sigh. That must mean that Jonathan is waking.
Stan’s eyes widen, as well as his grin. “Oh, shit. Tongue Guy’s up.”
Nil sighs once more. “Don’t call him that.”
“Why? It’s catchy.” Stan reaches for the curtain.
“Stan,” I warn.
He ignores me and drags the curtain open in one dramatic sweep.
Jonathan is sitting halfway upright, bleary-eyed and frowning. When he sees Stan, his brows slam together so hard the expression looks painful.
Stan beams. “Morning, sunshine! Heard you had a rough night. Cat got your tongue?”
Jonathan snatches the notepad from his bedside and scribbles so violently the paper tears. He flips it around with a deeper frown.
The ink bleeds on the sheet of paper: Shut the fuck up, Stan!
It’s underlined four times.
Stan clutches his chest. “Wow, how hurtful! And here I am offering laughter. It’s the best medicine, y’know.”
Nil mutters, “No one’s laughing.”
Stan ignores him too. “Maybe charades could be fun!” He crouches beside the bed. “Okay, what is it, boy? Use your hands to describe—”
Jonathan throws the notepad at him. It bounces off Stan’s shoulder.
Stan picks it up, offended. “Really, Jon? Violence? Against a man grieving over your tongue? I mean, it’s sad. How else are you gonna lick balls now?”
Jonathan points sharply at the doorway, then at Stan, then repeats it. Even without speech, the meaning is clear. But Stan ignores it, talking over Jonathan’s garbled sounds.
I walk over, but Nil steps in the way, lowering his voice until it’s only a whisper. “Hey, Em, thought we could talk.”
This close to him, I study Nil’s face. Something about his symmetry eases me. I mirror his posture, relaxing my shoulders, but I see his eyes aren’t as soothed. They dart over to Jonathan, then to Stan, then to me, tracking everything.
“Are you alright?” I ask him.
“I’ve seen worse.” Nil hovers over me. “How about you, Em?”
My heart rate ticks slightly upward at how much closer he moves toward me. It’s so different from him sitting in front of me. He’s the one looking down at me now. “I’m…adjusting,” I manage to say.
Nil’s gaze holds mine for a moment longer. “If you need a break,” he murmurs, “you should take one.”
Behind us, Stan’s now waving Jonathan’s notepad in front of his face. “Jon, buddy. Blink once if you want me to stay. Blink twice if you want me to leave. Blink three times if you want Nil to kiss me quiet.”
He receives two middle fingers instead.
Stan gasps. “That wasn’t an option, Jonathan.”
Nil presses a hand over his eyes. “Stan. Stop bothering him.”
“Bothering him? I’m helping him!”
“You’re not,” Nil says.
Jonathan snatches the notepad and writes something swiftly. He flips the pad toward us.
The note says: Get him out!
Stan squints at it. “Is that aimed at me or Nil? Be specific, man.”
Nil’s hand aims toward Stan’s collar, looking as if he intends to drag him away by force.
Stan holds up both hands as Nil closes the distance. “Okay, okay, truce!” He glances between Jonathan’s glare and Nil’s frown. “I will graciously remove myself from Tongue Tribunal, if Em agrees to eat a real meal. Like proper meals. With us.”
Nil’s eyes narrow on mine. “You haven’t eaten, Em.”
I hesitate, buying time by adjusting Jonathan’s blanket again. “Consider it done, after I administer his dose.”
They watch me as I prepare a pill for Jonathan, which I help him swallow by guiding his jaw, and gently massaging the muscles of his throat until his reflex takes over.
Stan whistles low. “Wow,” he says. “That was…hot. Do I need to lose my tongue to get that special treatment too, Em?”
Nil nudges him with his elbow. “Stop.”
A breath slips out of me before I can stop it. It’s almost a laugh.
Stan freezes. “Oh my god, I got a little laugh from Em. Did you hear that, Ocean Eyes?”
That earns an eye roll from Nil, while I make sure Jonathan is doing well right after taking Kys.
Behind me, Stan shouts, startling me. “Mills!”
A moment later, a head pops in from the hall. It’s the same staff from earlier. “Yes…?” Their eyes find Stan as they step back inside.
“Can you keep an eye on Tongue Guy over here?” Stan jerks a thumb toward Jonathan. “No dramatic escapes. Doctor Em’s orders.”
Mills moves closer to the bed and bows their head down to me. “I-I’ve got him from here, Doctor.”
“Sweet!” Stan yells, pulling me by the hand. Nil follows, silently nodding at Jonathan and Mills. “Let’s put our fully intact tongues to good use!”
“Fucking hell, Stan,” Nil mumbles.
Their conversation resumes as we leave the MedBay, their voices continuing on either side of me.
***
By evening, we’ve gathered no new leads, but what’s more important is watching over Jonathan. I’ve given him Kys to help him fare with his situation better. He’ll also be equipped with a sufficient supply of Kys once we reach Cairo, from where he’ll fly home. So will the rest of us.
At this moment, Idris is double-checking Jonathan’s vitals while I stand several steps away. Jonathan’s eyelids lower, his breaths deepening as additional medication pulls him into rest.
“He’ll be stable,” Idris tells me and Darius. “We’ll monitor him in shifts.”
Darius turns his head over to his brother. “I’ll take first watch. Idris, we’ll take turns every four hours.”
“I can stay too,” I say. “I don’t mind.”
Both of them turn to look at me. Darius with his measured stillness. And Idris with his concern palpable that it pushes down his browline.
Idris steps closer. “Em, you’ve been pale all morning. Are you still seasick? Or too stressed out?”
“No,” I say too quickly. “I’m alright.”
“You’re lying,” Darius says, blunt as always. “Your breathing’s off. Besides, you’re not medically trained the way me or Idris are.”
Taking a deep breath, I acknowledge in my tired mind that his statement is true. Idris was a renowned trauma surgeon—still licensed to practice—before he was on board for my experiment. And Darius is a vet who worked for the Marines as their combat medic.
But I’m still someone who holds a doctorate in how the brain functions, in how humans work. I can at the very least watch over a patient.
So I insist, “I can still help.”
“You can help by resting,” Idris says, voice soft but firm. “I’ll take you back.”
For a moment, I’m tempted to argue. Then my stomach twists, a low pull that feels rather close to nausea.
Idris takes the tablet from my hands. “Come on, Em. Please let me help you.”
Despite frowning, I allow it. That alone tells me I’m more exhausted than I’d like to admit.
He guides me out of the MedBay with one hand on my back. I don’t look over my shoulder, but I can feel Darius watching us as the doors close.
A while later, we reach my quarters. Idris opens the door with his palm on the reader and waits for me to step inside first.
“Em,” he speaks delicately, “lie down.”
As soon as I sit, my vision swims. Idris kneels in front of me. His hands rest on my knees, thumbs rubbing through the fabric of my pants.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he whispers.
“Nothing,” I answer.
He smiles a little. “You’re not very convincing, Em.”
My face feels warm. My throat feels tight. I try looking at the floor, but Idris lifts one hand to my chin, guiding my focus back to him.