Chapter 4 #2
"I know you haven't taken a real day off since you joined medical two months ago.
I know you volunteer for every extra shift, every difficult case, every emergency that comes through.
I know you eat at your desk and sleep in the medical bay when you sleep at all.
" I held her gaze. "I know you're running from something. Using medicine as medication."
The silence that followed felt sharp enough to cut.
Bea looked away first, staring at the IV line in her arm like it was suddenly fascinating. "I'm dedicated to my work. That's not a character flaw."
"Dedication is admirable. Self-destruction isn't."
"I'm not destroying myself. I'm doing my job."
"You're surviving, not living. There's a difference."
Her breath hitched, just slightly, but I heard it. Saw the way her fingers tightened on the half-eaten nutrition bar, knuckles going white.
"Finish eating," I said, gentler now. "Then sleep. We can discuss this later."
"There's nothing to discuss."
"Bea—"
"I'm fine." The words came out harder, sharper. Defense mechanisms snapping into place. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't need therapy or intervention or whatever this is. I need to do my job."
"Your job doesn't require martyrdom."
"My job requires competence. Which I'm providing."
"At what cost?" I gestured to the IV, to her hollow eyes, to the trembling she couldn't quite hide. "You're burning out. And when you collapse, not if, when, people will die because you weren't there to save them."
The words were harsh, but necessary. I'd seen too many healers destroy themselves thinking sacrifice meant service. Thinking if they just worked harder, pushed further, gave more, they could save everyone.
It never worked. They just broke.
And I refused to watch Bea break.
She flinched like I'd hit her. "That's not fair."
"It's true. You can't save anyone if you're dead."
"I'm not—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "I'm being careful."
"No. You're being reckless. With yourself.
" I stood, checked the IV levels, and adjusted the drip rate.
Busywork, but it gave me something to do with my hands.
"You know what the worst part is? You tell your patients to rest, to take care of themselves, to prioritize healing.
But you don't apply the same standards to yourself. "
"That's different."
"How?"
"They're patients. I'm—" She stopped again, and I could practically see her searching for the right words. The justification that would make her self-destruction acceptable.
"You're what? Not worthy of care? Not allowed to need help? Too strong to break?" I turned back to her, held her gaze. "You're human, Bea. You're allowed to be tired."
Something cracked in her expression, just a hairline fracture in all that carefully maintained control. Her eyes went bright with unshed tears before she blinked them away, looking back at the IV line.
"When did you last sleep more than four hours?" I asked quietly.
She didn't answer.
"Bea."
"I don't remember." The admission came out barely above a whisper. "Before Veridian. Before the last emergency call. Maybe two weeks? Three?"
My chest tightened. "You can't function like that."
"I have been functioning. I've been treating patients, saving lives—"
"You've been incredible. Your work here was exemplary.
You're one of the finest physicians I've ever worked with.
" I sat back down, leaned forward so she had to look at me.
"But being good at your job doesn't mean you're taking care of yourself.
And if you don't stop, you will collapse.
Maybe not today, maybe not next week. But eventually, your body will force you to stop. And it won't ask permission."
She stared at me for a long moment, and I could see her fighting it. Fighting the exhaustion, the reality, the very human need to surrender.
Then her eyes went unfocused. Her head dipped forward. The nutrition bar slipped from her fingers.
I caught her before she could fall sideways, eased her back against the pillows. She was already unconscious, her body finally taking what she'd been denying it for days.
I adjusted the monitoring equipment, ensured the IV was secure, scanned her vitals one more time. Better now, blood sugar climbing, heart rate stabilizing, brain activity shifting into proper sleep cycles.
She looked different like this. Vulnerable. The harsh lines of her face softened, the permanent tension in her jaw released. She was beautiful in that stark, exhausted way—, ike a blade honed too sharp, used too long without maintenance.
I sat back in the chair, prepared to wait.
The door opened quietly behind me. Pel'vix entered, took one look at Bea unconscious on the bed, and nodded. "How bad?"
"Severe exhaustion. Dehydration. Hypoglycemia. She should wake in six to eight hours. Maybe longer if her body decides to make up for lost sleep."
"She'll be furious when she wakes."
"Undoubtedly."
Pel'vix moved closer, checked the IV line with professional efficiency. "You care for her. As more than a patient."
It wasn't a question. The Zandovians were too perceptive for subtlety to work.
"She's under my supervision," I said carefully. "Her health is my responsibility."
"Zorn." Pel'vix's vertical pupils fixed on me with uncomfortable focus. "I've worked with you for four years. I know what professional concern looks like. This isn't that."
I didn't answer. Couldn't, really. Because she was right, and acknowledging it felt like crossing a line I hadn't realized existed until I was already on the other side.
I'd watched Bea for two months. Watched her throw herself into work with single-minded intensity.
Watched her save lives with brutal competence and zero concern for recognition.
Watched her push away every attempt at friendship, every offer of support, every gesture that might require her to be anything other than perfectly controlled.
And somewhere in all that watching, professional concern had shifted into something more complicated.
"She's brilliant," I said finally. "And she's destroying herself. I can't just watch that happen."
"So you'll save her whether she wants it or not."
"If necessary."
Pel'vix made a sound that might have been amusement. "Careful. Forcing care on someone who doesn't want it rarely ends well."
"Better angry than dead."
"Is it?"
I looked at Bea's sleeping face, at the dark circles under her eyes that wouldn't fade after one night's rest, at the way her body curled slightly inward even unconscious, protective, defensive.
"I have to believe it is," I said.
Because the alternative, watching her work herself to death, letting her drown in whatever she was running from, that wasn't acceptable. Not to me as CMO. Not to me as... whatever the hell I was becoming.
Pel'vix left quietly, taking the implicit dismissal for what it was.
I stayed in the chair beside Bea's bed, monitoring her vitals on my wrist display, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Her sleep wasn't peaceful. She moved restlessly, made small sounds of distress, frowned like even unconscious she was fighting something.
Nightmares. Elena had mentioned them during the outbreak response, a casual comment that had sent alarm bells through my medical instincts. Bea wakes screaming sometimes. Thought you should know, in case it's medical.
Trauma. Unprocessed, buried deep, manifesting in the only ways trauma could when ignored, nightmares, hypervigilance, using work as dissociation.
I'd reviewed her medical file extensively after that conversation.
Her physical records were straightforward, exemplary health, no chronic conditions, minor injuries from the Liberty crash that had healed well.
But her psychological profile was almost blank.
No counseling sessions. No mental health evaluations beyond the mandatory screening after rescue.
She'd refused follow-up care. Signed waivers stating she didn't require support services. Claimed she was managing fine.
Classic avoidance. Classic trauma response. Classic healer mentality. Take care of everyone else, ignore your own wounds until they became infected.
I'd seen it before. Lost colleagues to it. Brilliant physicians who believed their value came from service, who measured their worth in lives saved, who couldn't reconcile needing help with being helpers.
It killed them. Slowly, usually. Burnout that progressed to depression that progressed to substance dependence or worse. The statistics on medical professional suicide were grim across every species I'd studied.
And Bea was heading down that path with determined precision.
She jerked in her sleep, made a sound like a gasp cut short. Her hands clenched on the thin blanket, body going rigid with whatever nightmare was playing behind her closed eyes.
I reached out without thinking, placed my hand gently over hers. The size difference was dramatic, my palm covering both her hands easily, my green skin stark against her pale complexion.
"You're safe," I said quietly, even though she couldn't hear me. "Nothing's hurting you right now."
Her body slowly relaxed, tension draining away. The nightmare passed, or at least receded. Her breathing evened out again, deeper now, more restful.
I kept my hand there, monitoring her pulse through the contact. Steady. Strong. Her body was resilient even if her mind was fractured.
The door opened again. I looked up, expecting Pel'vix returning, but it was Er'dox who entered. My friend took in the scene, Bea unconscious, me sitting vigil, my hand covering hers—and his expression shifted to something knowing.
"She finally collapsed," he observed, keeping his voice low.
"I confiscated her datapad. Her body handled the rest."
Er'dox moved to the other side of the bed, scanned Bea's vitals with professional interest. "Severe exhaustion. She's been running on fumes for days."