Wyatt hadn't gotten any sleep. He had laid in his room staring intermittently between the ceiling and his undead wife in the next cot. He should have been overjoyed at seeing Jessica lying there, across the room…alive…but all he could think about was Lucy. It was well before 5AM when Wyatt finally shuffled into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. Taking care not to wake a snoring Rufus, Wyatt stood silently by the sink and sipped on the stimulating brew. His mind was a fog, he was confused, conflicted…a complete mess.
As he held the warm mug in his calloused hands, he became vaguely aware of the rush of whispered voices coming from down the hall. With a sharp eye, he turned his attention to the shadows flitting along the darkened corridor. Stealthily moving past the table, he saw Jiya urgently running towards the bathroom door, a look of fear in her eyes.
Something was wrong.
Quickly, Wyatt made his way down the hall towards Lucy's room. Jiya had already exited the bathroom and was just steps ahead of him as she rushed towards the door. He wanted to call out, but the early hour made him think better of it. He didn't want to disturb anyone in the bunker, least of all…his wife. As he turned the corner, he saw Jiya rushing through the bedroom door with a washcloth in her hand, a look of fear on her face. If that wasn't enough to set his heart racing, the sight of Agent Christopher pacing outside the door of Lucy's room on her cell phone had him going from mildly concerned to full-blown panic.
"Yes, please come as soon as possible. We're doing everything we can, but we're not exactly equipped to deal with a medical emergency." Agent Christopher nodded as she listened to instructions from the other end of the line, finally returning with a shaky voice, "We'll be waiting."
Wyatt was fully alarmed now as he brushed past the Homeland Security Agent and looked inside the room. Lucy was where he left her hours before, but now she was pale, sweaty, and limp. Jiya was nervously applying wet washcloths all over her head and neck, her hands shaking as she did so. Dread threatened to overtake him as he rounded on Agent Christopher, "What's wrong, what's happened?"
Looking up at Wyatt with a face full of motherly concern, she frowned as she explained, "Lucy spiked a fever sometime in the middle of the night. Jiya got worried when it reached 104 and called me. The doctor is on his way now."
Wyatt crossed the room. He knew, from his time in the military, what sepsis looked like. Guys injured in the field with no access to immediate medical attention were at risk. He took Lucy's pulse, her skin was clammy and cold, her pulse was racing, her breathing was shallow. He took off the bandages on her arm and saw the angry red scar, the inflamed skin, the stitches oozing. Panic rose in his chest again, this time causing him to run his hands frantically through his hair as he paced her room. "She's got an infection, it's bad."
This couldn't be happening. Just two days ago they had woken up together, happy with the promise of a new beginning, a new life for both of them.
And then he left her.
Wyatt hated himself in that moment. He did this. He should have been there to protect her. This was all his fault. If he lost her, if she died, it was all on him…because he had been to damn reckless, to damn impatient. For one brief moment, he had a terrifying thought that if Jessica was the danger, as Agent Christopher had suggested, then he would have lost Lucy for nothing. He would've walked right into Rittenhouse's damn trap and failed to live up to what he had spat back at Emma Whitmore in 1918…that he could protect Lucy from her…from them.
And here she was…possibly dying.
He couldn't help but let out a derisive laugh at the irony of it all – he had beaten himself up over Jessica's death for years, wishing he could go back and change that night when he left her on the side of the road. Now, he had her back and she had no longer been murdered– he had gotten his wish, his chance, but it seemed to come at the expense of Lucy. A life for a life, it seemed. The universe was playing some kind of sick joke and it was all at Wyatt's expense. . He kicked out at the door to her room in self-reproach and anger.
"Wyatt!" Agent Christopher scolded him. "Maybe you should go and wait for the medical team. They should be here shortly." She gave him a warning glare, "Getting worked up like this isn't going to help anybody."
Reluctantly and with a face twisted in anguish, Wyatt left Lucy's room and ran down the main corridor to the bunker door. It felt like ages before the medical team arrived, but they did arrive, and Wyatt let out a sigh of relief as they came rushing though the door. Wyatt followed in their wake and stood outside Lucy's room watching helplessly as they called out "Temp is 104.8, blood pressure, low." He felt his knees give way slightly as they started an IV to pump Lucy full of antibiotics and fluids.
Jiya sat by Lucy's bedside, biting the nails on her left hand while holding Lucy's hand with her right. Agent Christopher turned and gave Wyatt a sympathetic frown as he stood leaning against her doorframe looking absolutely powerless to do more than watch the scene unfolding before him. She stepped away from Lucy's bedside and approached him with kindness, "Why don't you go and fix yourself something to eat. I'll keep you updated on any developments."
Wyatt stared back at her sardonically. Food was the last thing on his mind, but he knew as he studied her careworn face that she was just trying to keep him from working himself into a frenzy over Lucy's condition. Nodding slightly, he frowned as he backed away out of her room and made his way down the hall. There was nothing he could do. He knew that. Nothing he could do but wait.
