She writhes beneath the bedcovers, ensnared by the off-white sheets that have long been soaked through by her cold sweats. The sheets are barely adequate and there's been some kind of trouble with the ship's internal temperature fluctuating wildly, enough for you to enquire about updates from the engine-room and tuck your own bedcovers over her after a few hours of calculating what the effects might've otherwise been to her health. Her physical health is good but still you worry over her. There are signs of muscle enhancements among other things, invasive procedures that nauseate you not because they are particularly barbaric but because they were done to her. Your skin crawls when this line of thought brings you to other nauseating, invasive, disgusting happenings you suspect she's gone through. Her hand smacks against the wall, quietly, but it gets your attention back to the here and the now and her. You think to wake her; it isn't right to let her suffer like this, you mute the unkind voice in the back of your mind that says she could withstand a few minutes longer because you need the rest, it isn't right.
Tiny, heartbreaking sounds are now coming from the back of her throat. Vulnerable whimpers that make her lips quiver; make your very soul ache for her. She continues writhing, you wonder if she's reliving her time at the Academy, if she's struggling away from someone or trying to reach someone, if she might choose tonight to tell you about what she sees when she has these nightmares. You turn away, take a few deep breaths, and tell yourself that you came to her rescue and you did so as soon as you could, you tell yourself that she will get better, that you will adapt and recover like she is. You have a sudden urge, a need, to tell her for the nth time that you love her, that you're so sorry, that you wish it had been you instead of her or better that it had been neither one of you. You breathe deeper and slower in an effort to keep some semblance of control over yourself, her legs start kicking harder, you move from your position against the wall, it starts to sound more and more like she's sobbing. Leaning over her, you try to make sure you won't appear threatening before you gently start rousing her. This is another way you rescue her, continue to rescue her, often several times a night every night until you're certain it's the ship's equivalent of the dead of night and she's curled up so close and small and you forget where you end and she begins in the flush warmth that envelopes you in the bunk.
A small scream escapes her as she violently jerks awake, provoking a feeling of shame to rise within you. Her eyes are wide and full of something you can't put a name to as she frantically searches your face as if there's something written on it that will bring her home, ground her, you suppose your eyes might be it before realizing that she might be inside your head, searching for some precious thing somewhere in your mind. You do your best to hold her gaze, keeping a feather light grip on her upper-arms, and can see the moment when everything clicks and makes some sense to her. You can name what you see in her eyes now, it's relief and it's love and you can't help but think that maybe it's your love that helps her connect the dots of the waking world, even if she connects the dots in her own special way. She's making those little noises again, unable to contain the whimpering, you bundle her against your chest just as she whispers your name in such a broken voice that you shiver with suppressed tears.
If it takes you any longer than two minutes to manoeuvre her from her bed into your own and arrange the bedding comfortably it's only because fatigue and hurt plague at you both – she's shivering in the middle of your bed and you're stumbling through the darkness. It doesn't help whenever the ship seems to sway in a way that unsettles both your stomach and your sense of balance. Finally you're able to climb into bed, you know that if you were planetside it would be some ungodly hour. Lifting the sheets, you haul yourself into the bed and don't even bother lying on your back – she calms quicker and sleeps sounder when she's nestled into your side, she feels safer and you can almost relax. This is almost a routine with how often it comes full circle like this, it comforts you but only because you know it helps her, because it means you might get some rest before the next day and the next job and the next gunshot wound. Her hands make cold, clammy fists as she clenches them at your shoulders, against your chest, your back, the tension in her obvious. You can hear her crying, her hair hiding her face and her eyelashes tickling your skin, the tears wetting your chest and the bedcovers as she is taken over by emotion. River bursting her banks, water racing over the edge and into a waterfall, something uncontrollable for her, something natural you know is tinged with something so very unnatural, something dark. Her nails dig briefly into your skin as she drags herself so tightly against you, as if she's making you her shelter, begging for the millionth time to have the demons chased away. You can only wrap your own arms around her and repeat your mantra: it's okay, it'll be okay, we're safe, I'm here, I'm here, you're safe, I'm here, it's okay.
You're consumed now, you know it. By her pain and your sorrow, and enough fear and guilt and exhaustion to risk losing yourself to her. But you can't, she needs you and wants you and you're the big brother. You're meant to protect her from the world not offer up the both of you to it. You can't become like her, even if the thought sometimes becomes so very seductive, you never stray from the right path and always silence that voice in the back of your head though sometimes just sometimes that's so difficult. She isn't free or brilliant or gaining anything from this. She's insane and her light has been dimmed and she's been caged inside the darkest recesses of herself. You can't stop the tear that falls down your cheek as you think this but you can stay strong for her, for you, for her. She is everything you have, everything that ever mattered, and as she slowly succumbs to what you can only hope is a dreamless slumber you press a kiss to her forehead. Because even after the horrors that have been forced onto her, into her, she's still beautiful, she's still brilliant in her way, still your little sister. You don't know how much time passes before sleep claims you, but you're sure that tonight at the least, you fell asleep smiling, and for another night she fell asleep safe.
When you wake up you find that the two of you are cuddling, in a similar position to the one which you feel asleep in. She's wound around you and thankfully breathing easy, you don't have to open your eyes to be aware that she's awake. It's her, so you just know, like when you were much younger and you'd both know when the other woke early for Christmas or a birthday or just to annoy each other. You loose the grip you have of her and rub lazy circles on her back to further soothe her, unsure as to whether she's lucid or not. Opening your eyes you're greeted with the sight of her mussed hair and groggy eyes, the bedcovers knotted around both of you and her nightclothes gratefully not drenched in sweat once more. Her lips twitch upwards and her eyes seem to lighten at the sight of you first thing in the morning. You pray to whoever's listening for today to be a good day, not for yourself, or for the crew's sake, but for her. You brush some hair out of her face and smile. "Mei-Mei."