So...things have basically been horrible lately. That's the only explanation I have. Hopefully they'll turn up and I'll write more frequently. This chapt is short and not good...but better than nothing, right? R&R, please.
Remy's POV:
"It gets chilly in here at night, so I pulled an extra comforter out of the closet," Wilson says, stopping in the doorway of his guest bedroom and picking a piece of fuzz off of the black and brown striped blanket in his arms. "Do you need anymore pillows?"
"I think we're good," you whisper, tucking the gray comforter already on the bed up around Cameron's shoulders. She shivers under the thin material and you're already eager to climb into bed with her and hug her against your warm body. Exhaling slowly through your mouth, you smooth the blanket down by her sides then tenderly brush her hair away from her face. Even though she's sleeping, anxiety and exhaustion are clearly written across her features in the form of an occasionally wrinkling forehead and screwed shut eyes. "Do you have a nightlight?" You turn to face Wilson, ignoring light-headedness that nearly overwhelms you.
"The light in here dims," Wilson answered. He turns the rounded knob until the room is only semi-lit. "You should get some sleep." He holds his arms out, offering the blanket to you.
Your limbs and brain barely seem to be working on the same level and you feel like a zombie as you walk over to him and lift the comforter out of his arms. "Yeah," you agree in a murmur. Never before have you been this exhausted coming down from Ecstasy, which is saying something. Come to think of it, you've never been this exhausted in your entire life from anything. You're starting to feel disconnected from reality and in a dreamy daze. Depersonalization would be the medical term. You roll your eyes at yourself for trying to diagnose your symptoms of obvious sleep deprivation and carry the blanket over to the bed.
Cameron stirs and murmurs in her sleep. She sniffles and rubs at her nose as she rolls onto her side, facing the center of her bed. "Remy?" she mumbles, stretching her arm out.
"I'm right here, Allie," you reply quietly, unfolding the comforter as you stand next to the side of the bed where you're going to sleep - or at least where you hope you're going to get some sleep. "It's okay. I'm just fixing the blankets." You spread the blanket out on the bed then glance over at Wilson as he leans against the doorway.
"Have you considered consulting psychology yet?" he asks, running his hand over his hair. "She's wearing you both down."
"I can take care of her," you answer firmly, pulling the blankets back enough that you can climb in bed and snuggle under them. Supporting yourself with your arm, you reach over Cameron and make sure the Pedialyte is within her reach in case she gets thirsty and the paper can is near the bed in case her stomach feels upset again like it had been all day. "I'm a doctor."
"You're not a psychologist," Wilson answers, shaking his head. "She needs someone specialized to help in this situation. You can still take care of her, but she needs-"
"Just-" you cut him off, about to snap. Cameron starting to stir again settles you down and you lower yourself to your side, gathering her frail body in your arms. "We need to sleep," you whisper, feeling awkward with him standing there staring at the two of you.
He nods slowly. "She needs to see someone who knows how to help her get through this," he whispers back then turns and slowly walked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
Exhaling, you close your eyes and nuzzle your face against Cameron's cheek. Protectively, you snake one of your legs over her legs. "I'll take care of you," you whisper, your voice feeling slightly caught in your throat. The idea Cameron may leave if she no longer needs you briefly crosses your mind, but you chock it off to exhaustion and stop thinking about it.
xxxxx
It's not one of Cameron's nightmares that wakes you up tonight. Instead of screaming, it's coughing. The coughing turns to gagging as you're still processing waking up. "Allie," you murmur, stretching your arm out toward her side of the bed. She's sitting up and you slide your hand up over her shirt, rubbing small circles on her back. "Take a drink."
She reaches behind her back and grabs your hand, squeezing it. "Re-" she manages before the gagging turns to retching.
"Shit," you hiss under your breath. Before you can sit up and help her, it's all down her front. Her cheeks flush a deep shade of crimson and the tears immediately begin rolling. "Shhh. Shhh. Shhh." You're immediately wide awake and gathering her in your arms, unfazed by the vomit. "Not a big deal, Sweetheart, not a big deal."
She tries to make words, but her breath is hitching in her throat and throwing off any attempt at talking.
"Allison?" You rest your hand against her cheek, propping her up straight with your injured arm. "Allison, if you had a bad dream, it wasn't real. You need to breathe before you hyperventilate. Allie?"
Your attempts are futile. "Okay," you murmur, shifting so you can cradle her. At one point in time, you would've flown into doctor mode, but now you're in comfort mode. It's beginning to not even feel awkward anymore. She slumps over in defeat, tucking her face against your chest and balling the fabric of your nightgown up in her fists. Sliding your fingers into her hair, you situate yourself against the backboard of the bed. "I'll fix it," you promise, even though at this point, you're not even sure what you're trying to fix. "I'll fix it." The only thing you know is, truthfully, you can't fix anything.