0840 HOURS, APRIL 23, 2530, (MILITARY CALENDAR) /
ABOARD UNSC PROWLER ALDRIN, IN SLIPSTREAM SPACE
She'd been pacing for hours, back and forth in front of the closed door. She felt almost naked, stripped of her armor as she was. It was determined necessary by the amount of damage her armor had taken. Her armor, though, was the least of her concerns. Her focus was centered entirely on the person on the other side of that door.
It was a miracle that the Aldrin had an operating room. Even more, it was a miracle that they made it to the vessel at all. He left so much blood behind.
A nervous-looking corpsman told her he was awake. She didn't bother waiting to hear the rest of what they had to say.
She would have ripped the door off its hinges if it opened any more slowly. Rushing into the room, she took stock of the situation. The only other occupant was sitting on what passed for a bed in the small ship's even smaller OR. He had his back to the door, his head hanging low in what was most likely a drug-induced exhaustion. The end of a wide red gash was visible where it wrapped around the side of his head, nearly reaching his occipital knob.
As he turned to see who had all but kicked down his door, she took in his injuries.
The fresh opening she had seen from behind ran the length of his head, ending above the center of his left eyebrow. It was just below the natural part in his hair – or rather, where his hair would part were it not maintained in a crew cut. The angry gash was held together by what looked like a tenuous mismatch of stitches and staples. In stark contrast to the rest of him the cut looked almost delicate, like it might burst if not treated gingerly.
Her eyes continued to roam down his face. In the midst of surgery, the side of his head had been shaved even shorter than it was usually kept. It was so short that she couldn't even see the silver streaks through his otherwise black hair. His scalp was pockmarked with the evidence of more cuts, though only a few of those were large enough to require a bandage. Unlike the bloody line running like a border between the top of his head and the side, these cuts weren't likely to leave any permanent marks.
The skin around his eye – in a full circle from his brow to his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose, was marked by holes where the skin had been perforated by his inward-shattering faceplate. His periorbital hollow was marked in a dark purple – the signature of some internal bleeding. His nose showed signs of having been broken and reset.
In his left eye the iris shined its familiar bright hazel, but the sclera was painted a dark red by several broken blood vessels. He was lucky to have the eye at all, really. The damage done to his brow ridge could have easily damaged his eye permanently, but by some miracle he had retained both possession and function of the organ.
His mouth hung open slightly, jaw pulled down by his awkward attempt to look at her over his shoulder. Though he was making direct eye contact with her it took him nearly five seconds to focus on and recognize her face. The corner of his open mouth curled upward in a smile that was almost . . . dopey. The grin reached his eyes, pulling at them until they crinkled at the corners. For a moment he looked young, and it reminded her with a shock that he wasn't yet twenty years old. None of them were.
"Hey there," Fred said, voice hoarse and words coming slower than usual. "I was hoping you'd come see me." That silly smile didn't waver.
She didn't say anything. Instead, she silently walked to the foot of his bed and picked up the datapad left there by the operating surgeons. It documented the procedures they had undergone to save the young man's life – plates infused to the skull where the bone had given way, clearing of internal bleeding and the consideration of flash-cloning a replacement eye, the re-breaking and setting of his nose to ensure that it healed correctly . . . it was a much shorter list than she had expected, honestly. He definitely shouldn't have been sitting up yet. Even Spartans needed time to heal properly before they could start exerting themselves.
When she looked up from the datapad he was staring at her with that same smile. She was in a position now to see his whole face. The contrast between the right and left sides of his face was dramatic. The new cuts, waiting to join the host of scars that already adorned his visage, and bloodred eye were enough to make him look like some sort of monster. The large stitches that held together the gash above his eyelid evoked the image of the monster from Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.
Considering the chemically enhanced bone and muscle hidden beneath his scarred skin, perhaps the comparison wasn't too far off. Perhaps they were all some version of Frankenstein's monster – with or without the stitches.
"What?" he drawled slowly, the right side of his mouth pulling higher than his left in the way that it did whenever he thought he had a funny joke. "Is there something on my face?"
She realized she had been staring at him for too long. Even in this state – concussed, bloodied, and exhausted – he noticed. She didn't respond verbally, opting instead for a simple head shake. Confident that he had been cared for and unable to form words, she turned back to the door.
"Don't go," came the voice. "I don't want to be in here alone."
Finally, her calm demeanor broke. The floodgates burst. She whipped around to look at him, the warm embers of her discomfort suddenly flaring into a flame of anger. "You shouldn't be in here at all," she snapped. "You should be dead after that idiot stunt!"
His waning smile disappeared entirely as she berated him, but the slightly hurt expression crossing into his eyes didn't slow her down. The memory of what put him in this room in the first place burned to the surface with enough heat to boil her blood.
They were pinned down in a firefight. She had not idea how the Brute managed to creep up behind her. She didn't realize that she was compromised until the great beast's hammer was already mid-stroke in a blow that would have flattened her, armor and all, into the mud. But suddenly he stepped in the way, shoving her backward and taking the brunt of the blow right across his forehead.
Luckily for Fred, he was just inside the Brute's most effective range. Instead of having his head removed by the massive anvil on the chieftain's hammer, he was struck by the weapon's shaft. Still, the blow connected hard enough to send him flying four meters through the air. While the Brute tried to wheel around for a second strike, Kelly shoved the barrel of her M90 into the beast's mouth and separated the top of its head from its body.
When she made it to Fred's side, there was enough blood pouring from his shattered faceplate and caved-in helm that for several horrid moments she had been sure he was dead.
"You got in my way!" she shouted furiously. "If you hadn't done that, you wouldn't be here at all. You would be fine, not lucky to be alive!" She was breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling rapidly as she glared daggers at him.
He stayed quiet. His eyes remained glued to hers with an almost innocent calm. He didn't say a word, which did nothing but enrage her further.
"Say something!" she finally shouted.
His green eyes remained uncharacteristically tranquil. She had never seen him this calm before when openly confronted by one of his teammates, and she supposed the concussion was to thank – or curse – for that. Finally, he opened his mouth.
"It was either you or me," he said slowly. "Only one of those was an acceptable option."
Those words somehow deflated her. Until then she had been running on anger. Anger that the brute got behind her. Anger at her partner for getting hurt. Anger at herself, for failing to protect herself and her team.
Now he was telling her that the choice was deliberate. Intentional. That he had consciously decided and been willing to trade his life for hers. For some reason her anger suddenly didn't feel quite so righteous.
She crouched low to study his face more closely. Though concussed, his eyes held enough focus to convince her that he was being sincere. She exhaled loudly, running a hand through her longer-than-regulation hair. "You better get over that," she said warningly, though her voice had somehow lost its venom. "I won't always be there to drag your sorry butt out of the mud."
The smile slowly started to stretch its way back to his face. "That's not true," he almost slurred. "I know you've got my back, Rabbit. We can always count on each other."
Kelly had to duck her head to hide the beginnings of her own smile from him. She could get used to a concussed Fred. When he wasn't filling the air with bad jokes, he managed to say some things that were worth saying.
After a few more moments she rose to her feet. "Get some rest," she ordered as she turned for the door. "There's plenty of work left to do, and you're not much use to me if you can't focus."
His hand bumped against hers, fingers pressing against her palm. "Don't go," he said again. His eyebrows knitted together, his eyes growing wide. For the second time, he almost looked his age. "I want you to stay with me."
She sighed. She should leave. There were after-action reports to finish filing. She sat back down.
"Rest," she ordered more firmly than her actions could back up.
Fred nodded and began to lay down. As he twisted his upper body he moved his hand to keep a grip on hers. It was unfamiliar to her, but she allowed it. It was a one-time allowance because of his concussion, she told herself.
She glanced once more at the marks around his face, bound to litter it with even more scars. "I meant what I said," she said watching him shift as he fell closer to sleep. "If you ever try to get yourself killed like that again, I'll finish the job myself."
His eyes remained closed, but his mouth opened in a small, cocky grin. "That I do believe," he answered.
