I woke up remembering the infection and the drive. I had woken up a couple of times, and each time, there had been a syringe of black velvet and a gentle reminder to just go back to sleep. I remembered when Damon carried me here; I was still downstairs in the med bay, and apparently, I was still not well at all.
First, I was cold. And then, second, I had a cannula, and I was in the fucking med bay. I didn't want to be here now, so I got my arm working and yanked the cannula out of my neck. I knotted the tube very carefully.
Then, I noticed a new sensation again, which was also quite annoying. That's the sensation you get when you have stitches. You can feel your stomach pinching all the way through. Oh, there was a long line of stitches.
I took out a few stitches that were really annoying and sat up. It's difficult for a creature with supernatural healing abilities who grows back after being blown up by a bomb to put up with stitches in his skin.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed when I was still pretty dizzy. Then, I realized my bladder was full. Now, I should get up and go to the toilet. But I was dizzy when I got up, and my legs didn't feel terribly steady, so I sat down to think for a while. I don't mind the fucking dizziness. I piss so hard.
I stood up and started to walk to the toilet. My legs didn't feel very stable as they left from under me, which led to me flying to sit down. My stomach was hurting pretty damn bad, but my bladder wanted to empty, so I turned on all fours and crawled into the toilet.
I then grabbed the sink and got up; my nightie was a little bloodstained, but that's ok. I got on the toilet and was pissed; it made me feel so much better. I shat while I was doing it. Then I wiped myself, flushed the toilet, Wash my hands, and then again, my feet came out from under me.
Fine. I turned on all fours and started making my way to my bed. I had taken a few more stitches out when I had shat as it had been easier to push off then. It didn't hurt quite so much, and I was sure I would be better soon.
I was just crawling back towards the bed, on my knees and hands, when Damon's voice said, " Here we go again?"
I could just see his feet coming closer as I concentrated on making progress.
He came to me, crouched down, and said, "Naughty girl, not like this. You have a call bell next to your bed for a reason. I don't mind carrying you to the bathroom and helping you back, but you need to learn to ask for help."
I said, "Yeah, when I didn't think, I'm just used to doing things on my own."
I started shaking when the fever started to rise from all this stress.
Damon looked at me for a moment; he lifted me up and said, "You know those stitches are for a reason. See, you're bleeding when your skin won't even heal with my blood. You can't take those stitches out yet."
He picked me up in his arms and carried me to the bed. There, he then helped me onto my back.
Damon looked at his wife. Mimi was pale. Her lips were trembling, and she was shivering wildly. The fever was rising again, and it was burning away all the velvet that had kept her asleep for three days. But when she woke up, she tore her stitches and wounds open and couldn't understand how to ring the bell. Mimi was no good at asking for help then at all. Not at all.
Damon covered Mimi temporarily, looked at her, sighed, and said gently when he could have said firmly, "Miss, you'll have new stitches in your stomach in a minute, and leave them alone."
Mimi nodded and just kept on shaking. Damon stood up and went to the medicine cabinet to get supplies and medicine to clean Mimi's abdomen and then sew the new stitches into it. He gathered his supplies on a wheeled cart and table and dryly informed Samuel of the lady's doings. Samuel was amused.
Damon got up after tucking me into bed and scolding me gently. I watched as he went and gathered all sorts of supplies from various cupboards at any given time. When he had the cart full, he took a garbage bag and set it in the cart, ready.
He brought the cart next to my bed and, right before I could react, gave me a shot through the flank straight to my heart, and my head was blurred in an instant.
He stripped me naked even though I was freezing, but the sedative kept me paralyzed. He started by cleaning my stomach, long and hard, and plucked out a few stitches that were left, right then, and there. He poured some solution into my wounds and taped them up for a moment so that the solution stayed inside me. He had gloves on, and he worked deftly, nimbly, and calmly.
He then stitched new stitches in place after he had first cleaned my stomach. It was only a little bloody. He carefully anesthetized my skin first and then sewed as many stitches as before, always taking the tape off after he had finished sewing the area. Apparently, the solution was supposed to be inside me.
Actually, Damon's deft work was a pleasure to watch. Even though I was very sick, feverish, and weak, I could appreciate his skillful hands. He put a bandage on the stitches. He tried to tape my skin as well as he could.
Then he cut my fingernails very short and bit my neck, squeezing some substance, but I did not know what the substance did. He next cleaned up the supplies.
He took the cart away and put the supplies back in the cabinets and shelves, the garbage in the trash. He disinfected the cart casually, and I smelled the disinfectants and the painful stench reminded me of the hospital and the environment I was in.
Then he came over to my bedside and said, "No moving, no crawling on the floor, no pulling out stitches. Is that clear? I put your teeth down. You don't get any dental work done for a couple of weeks now, you don't spend your resources on that. And you're not spending it on unnecessary trips to the toilet."
I looked at my husband innocently like an angel and said, "But I needed to piss so hard."
Damon shook his head and said, " You're the impossible one. You can pee in your pants. You can always change them. Call for help. Don't go off on a rampage. I'll move you upstairs so you're not so far away. Easier to watch."
I said, "I can't help it. This damn fever makes me feel so damn restless."
Damon looked at me searchingly and said, "Well then, maybe we should do something about that fever, right, baby?"
I nodded and said, " I guess. I feel like I'm not warming up at all. No blankets will do. "
Damon got up and went to get some medicine.
Damon walked over to the medicine cabinet and got another big syringe of pink fever medicine to take by mouth.
I said, "Don't you have any more injections? That tastes awful."
Damon was unconditional and made me swallow the awful stuff.
"Baby, this is effective; it works, and you're not a little child who fusses about taking medicine, are you?"
I was then a good wife and swallowed the vinegar slurry of Satan. And that's not all. Damon brought out a liter bottle of a vaguely reddish brown thick broth and told me to drink concentrated visceral syrup. I had to wake up Mimosa to drink it. I let Mimosa stay in the lead while she drank it. I just couldn't drink it myself.
When I came back on the lead, Damon gave me a liter bottle of cola and coffee to drink for as long as I could stand it. After half an hour, my strength drained away, and sweat was now pouring off every part of me.
Damon was sitting next to me with the infrared thermometer, always taking a reading every couple of minutes, gazing at me. He was already preparing another bed, but first, he cannulated me, looking at me firmly as my hand moved toward the cannula.
I was pretty damn exhausted, and the fever was only going down. Damon waited until my temperature had dropped to normal. Then he lifted me naked again onto the towels.
I lay there all limp, unable to do anything, and felt the towels sucking the moisture from my skin. Damon took all the dirty bedclothes off the bed, disinfected the mattress, spread a clean sheet, and put the hospital corners on it.
I don't know where he learned to make the bed like they fold the sheets in the hospital. He took clean pillows, a blanket, and an extra blanket in case I got cold.
I just watched listlessly as Damon made my bed and then came to wash me. He got a washbasin, washcloths, and hot water. Even for washing my hair, he had his own dish. Although I was sick, he didn't cut my ridiculously long hair at all.
His hands were gentle but firm, and he got me clean. He washed me so efficiently that it was clean. And I enjoyed it. It was always so lovely. Somehow that fever drop causes such a sweat that you feel really dirty, and when Damon washed my hair and dried it and braided it, it really topped the entire experience.
I felt really powerless, but much more bearable. Somehow, when the mania of the fever was gone, I realized how weak I was even at a normal temperature. I didn't like being weak, not at all.
After he had washed me completely and got me right, he went to the medicine cabinet again. I watched as he took an empty drip bag. There was no liquid in it. He went to the red tank, plugged some kind of connector into it, and pale straw-yellow liquid flowed into the bag—bump centrifugal fluid.
Then he took another bright yellow antibiotic concentrate, put a dose in the bag, and he also grabbed a couple of pre-filled bags from one cabinet. Next, he hung them on the drip rack, put the tubes in place, and brought the rack behind my bed so I couldn't see it. He put the tubes into my cannula.
Then came to the bed next to me. I listened to his soothing, safe heartbeat, and it helped me immensely to tolerate the whole medbay. I felt him holding me and keeping me safe. I eventually fell asleep. Apparently, the drip bags had anesthetics or sedatives in them.