Maybe it'd been the lack of sleep, or stress, or shitty coffee. Hours typing in front of several large monitors with her tablet always close at hand. Maybe it'd been hauling around luggage twenty kilos heavier than she should be lifting, or the wine - several bottles over the past couple weeks. Knocking her head off the rock hard shoulder of a literal god among men - oh and going on to dismally fail at being just the right amount of friendly to said god, who'd unwittingly fathered a child with her he knew nothing about. Because that wasn't anxiety inducing at all, right?
Whatever the cause, Lyra laid on her too-small bed in her shitty barracks room and suffered. What had begun as a headache at the start of the day had progressed by 3:00 PM into a full blown migraine complete with light sensitivity, nausea, and what felt like a hot knife digging into her left eye socket. Even Swinton had thought she'd looked pitiful enough to help steer her back to her quarters and leave her with a bottle of water and the pain relief meds she'd so kindly rifled through Lyra's luggage to locate.
Now there was clothes strewn about the floor which she'd trampled over no less than three times so far when she'd stumbled across the hall to the lav to puke, she still felt like death, and had no concept of what time of day or night it was. The curtain - a fucking curtain, not auto-tint glass - covering the window was serving its purpose mostly. Not that she'd dare to open her eyes. Even trips to the lav were made by blindly feeling her way with much stubbing of toes and whacking of shins. And the pain meds were doing precisely nothing.
She'd been so close to getting out of there, to hopping that shuttle and returning to her cozy, spacious, tidy condo and her equally cozy, spacious, tidy office. Fuck Swinton and fuck Naples and fuck the Gen 3.
"Still kicking, Ashton?" one of the objects of her indignation spoke from the hall a moment before the door slid open.
Lyra drew her pillow over her head in defense of any light which might spill into the room and sear the backs of her eyeballs through her closed lids. "You don't knock now?"
"I didn't think you'd appreciate the noise."
"I don't."
"I told you she'd be contrary," Swinton remarked. Wait, had she brought one of the guys with her?
"I might be dying slowly, but you assholes still have work to do."
"We do get a few hours downtime every day, fortunately," a voice far too deep to belong to Gomez or Baker carried into the room.
God, she was going to be sick again. Why, Swinton? Why?
"I wouldn't take that shit if I was you, Sir."
Fred cleared his throat - jesus, was he trying not to laugh or appalled by Swinton's insolence? "Noted, Crewman. How long have you been like this, Ms. Ashton?"
"A few hours."
"A few in civilian tongue is twenty-one," Swinton supplied helpfully.
Had it really been that long? "Wow, dying takes a long time." All this talking was not improving her symptoms.
"Need more painkillers?"
"No, just quiet." She wasn't convinced more pills would stay down. Her stomach seemed to rebel enough being fed just water, nevermind anything else.
"Maybe you should get treated in the infirmary?" Fred suggested. Why couldn't he not be there? If it'd been twenty-one hours, that meant she was still wearing the previous day's clothes. There were probably underwear on the floor and bras and shirts and every other article of clothing she owned.
"For a migraine?" If she weren't dying, she might have laughed at that. In her limited experience, if you didn't have a limb hanging on by a thread, infirmary personnel weren't interested.
"It seems like you're in some discomfort." He sounded closer. He was standing on her thongs, wasn't he? As though this experience wasn't mortifying enough.
"I'll walk it off."
"You need to be able to stand to walk." Damn his logic.
"I'll sleep it off."
"How's that been working out for you?" Swinton pointed out.
"If I die, Baker gets my chair."
"I think it'd be advisable for you to be seen," Fred said.
"Look, it's like this - either I can drag you over there by your ankles, or the nice Lieutenant can carry you."
Lyra clutched the pillow closer. "No. Just, no." Just the thought of daylight made her guts churn.
"I really think you should let me bring you over to be assessed."
"I can't think of anything I want less than that."
"But you're willing to stop being such a pain in the ass and do it anyway. Throw her over your shoulder, Sir, some of us got ones and zeroes to type." The distinct sound of a hand swatting something followed Swinton's conclusion and Lyra's horrified mind supplied a picture of the crewman affably slapping Fred's ass - no, even she wouldn't do anything so impudent.
"Feel free to report her for being disrespectful."
"Feel free to knock her head off the wall on your way out."
Poor Fred. He had to be regretting coming here. If Lyra had had an ounce of pity to spare for anyone but herself, she might have used it on him.
Something touched her calf and she recoiled, imagining Swinton ruthlessly hauling her from the bed.
"Easy, I don't want to hurt you," Fred's lowered voice soothed as his hand slid beneath her.
Oh lord, this was actually happening - she was going to be toted to the infirmary like an invalid.
Refusing to relinquish the pillow, she otherwise gave up. Resisting would just make her sicker and she wasn't fool enough to believe she could fight the Spartan off anyway. The five minutes it took to be relocated from the barracks to the infirmary were spent clenching her teeth against the pain and queasiness. The last thing she was going to do was vomit all over him - the situation was bad enough as it stood. She heard Swinton explaining her condition to someone and they were directed into an examination room to wait.
Fred deposited her gently onto the crinkly paper of the table and she did her best to suck in measured breaths through the pillow still crushed to her face. "Still doing okay?"
"Mmmm," she managed for him, terrified to risk opening her mouth. The sterile scent of disinfectant reached her nostrils and she swallowed. It'd been seven years since she'd been in any medical facility and the smells and sounds brought those memories back in force. The disorientation and fog of the anesthesia wearing off, muffled voices, rising apprehension that something wasn't right. That something was, in fact, very wrong.
"Hey, are you alright?"
No, she was far from alright. She shouldn't be there. Rolling to the side, she desperately tried to get up, but a hand closed on her shoulder.
"What's going on - are you okay? You need to lie still, the nurse is on the way."
"I can't - I can't be here," she gasped into the pillow as he prevented her from rising.
"Calm down - you're breathing too fast. Tell me what's happening."
"I can't. I can't." She panted the words over and over again, unable to do anything more. She knew she needed to take deeper breaths, knew she was experiencing some kind of anxiety attack - they hadn't happened after the C-section, she'd been too numb for it then, but the hospital staff had been nice enough to send her home with pamphlets. Lots of pamphlets explaining a range of symptoms she could expect to experience. Anxiety attacks had been in there. But she hadn't had one before now.
There was a warm pressure on her shoulder. Was she really losing it in front of him? Was that worse than vomit?
"She should come around in a few hours, they figure."
Fred looked over to the red-haired crewman - Swinton - as she came back into the partitioned area. "That's good." His gaze travelled back to the prone form in the bed which took up three parts of the floor space available. The monitoring equipment read her heart and respiratory rates as normal again now - no surprise with the drugs they'd shot her full of. He'd been obliged, by virtue of simply being there, to hold her still for the injections. It'd been a troubling experience. He'd been present for plenty of wound treatment in the field, he'd held fellow soldiers down - his teammates included - and been restrained himself against inflicting further damage while being tended. But this - this wasn't a battleground, and Lyra wasn't a soldier.
"I'll stick around, Sir. You must have places to be, asses to kick, and all that." Squeezing by him, Swinton took up residence in the only other piece of furniture - a chair much too small for him.
"Training exercises," he corrected her mildly. She was right, though. He'd been away longer than he'd intended - Blue Team had almost certainly returned to their obligations by now, lunch break had only been allotted thirty minutes. He'd been surprised to overhear Dr. Naples complain of not receiving responses to two comms she'd sent Lyra and had taken it upon himself to ask after the software developer when he'd noticed the three crewmen he knew worked with her in the mess.
"S'what I said. Anyway, I'll tell her you hovered anxiously for an appropriate amount of time before you left, don't worry." She'd stretched her legs out before her and crossed her ankles, arms loosely crossed as she settled in to wait. Or for a nap. He wouldn't put it past her based on their brief interactions.
He didn't know how to respond, he realized. Both her casual irreverence and flippant demeanor led him to believe anything he said was liable to be regretted. Instead, he gave a short nod and left.
He understood aversions to medical facilities and didn't have a preference for them himself - though, neither was he bothered to be admitted when parts required stapling or the removal of embedded shrapnel. As a front line specialist, trips to the infirmary were inevitable. But for Lyra, it'd triggered a panic attack. He didn't know if the migraine and the symptoms she was experiencing because of it had been the source, or whether it'd been something else. But he'd felt useless, just the same, and partially responsible besides that. He'd insisted on bringing her. Even if it'd been the appropriate thing to do, which he believed to be the case, seeing her devolve into a state of hyperventilation and incoherence had been a kick in the gut.
Was she going to resent him when she woke up? It was probably best his duties would keep him tied up for the next seven hours and his wouldn't be the first face she saw. The infirmary personnel should explain that she'd been dehydrated and had needed to be treated. Or Swinton.
It'd be unreasonable for her to hold it against him. Even if she'd been sobbing uncontrollably before the sedative had kicked in.
Right?
I just wanna be on the record as saying IF FRED EVER SOOTHINGLY SAID THE WORD "EASY" TO ME, I WOULD BE ALL UP IN THAT SHIT SO FAST!
...so fast...