Shepard jerks awake with a groan when the door hisses open, she hadn't meant to drift off, but the heat and comforting white noise of the medical machinery had acted as a powerful soporific."Oh, ow," she digs a knuckle into her lower back with a groan, stretching until she hears her spine pop. Absently she wonders why Cerberus couldn't have rebuilt her with a knot-proof spine. They had determinedly removed every slight flaw and defect, from the broken nose to the graft scar on her left knee; it wouldn't have been too much to ask.
"Shepard, would advise alternate sleeping arrangements, spinal discomfort possible risk in combat situations," Mordin patters into the room, brimming with his usual jittery energy."Patient stable? Yes. Good." Despite his advanced age, Dr. Solus is a constant dervish of motion and energy.
Shepard stands back as the salarian begins rapidly scanning through the data on the monitors, large, liquid eyes flicking between the screens and a projection above his omnitool. "Responding well to antibiotics, cybernetic integration satisfactory," Mordin nods rapidly to himself, "provided no extreme adverse reactions to immune-booster, prognosis is hopeful. Tentative, too early for full prognosis. But hopeful."
"What kind of 'extreme reactions' are we talking about here?" Shepard watches with trepidation as Mordin extracts two preloaded syringes from the pocket of his lab coat. "I'm not sure this is a great idea, Doctor, can this wait until he's stronger?"
"Tachycardia probable, also dypsnea and pyrexia. Possibility of seizure." Mordin deftly flips the valve on one of the IV lines, injecting the first syringe directly into the IV port, then releasing the valve and watching the clear serum flood through the line. "Not a time for caution Shepard," the salarian adds, seeing the distress on the commander's face, "no time for trials. Extended research. Drug trials."
"So we just wing it, hope for good luck then?"
"Luck?!" Mordin sounds shocked and borderline offended, mouthing the word like he was saying 'dung'. "Not luck Shepard! Research. Probability statistics. Science!" Still huffing crossly, he pushes the second dose into another line.
'Alright, sorry," Shepard raises her hands in defeat, watching Mordin hook an oddly shaped oxygen mask carefully over Garrus' face. For all his energetic medical jargon, the salarian is oddly gentle with his patient; even going so far as to give him an almost paternal pat on the head as he finishes setting the oxygen levels.
"Apologies unnecessary," Mordin graces her with a genuine smile, "concern understandable. Will continue to monitor remotely, goodnight Shepard."
"You're leaving?!" Shepard watches blankly as Mordin hurries to the doorway, still absently reading a display on his omnitool..
"Of course, still analyzing collector data. Lots of data. Very promising..." the door slides closed before he can even finish the sentence, and Shepard flops back down onto her stool, resolutely ignoring the twinge of protest from her back.
Its one of the longest nights Shepard can remember, every bleek of alarm from the monitoring equipment jolts her with adrenaline; and she stares at the erratic heart monitor until the numbers blur and her eyes fill with grit. Garrus tosses restlessly for hours, breath coming in sharp pants, huffing a cloud of condensation against the oxygen mask with every exhale. He murmurs in his drugged sleep, and Shepard thinks he's repeating names, but his voice is too slurred and muffled to tell.
Sometimes Garrus jerks and cries out like he's in pain, and Shepard wonders if it's the treatment, withdrawal from the drugs he's been subjected to during his captivity, or simply the product of his own horrific memories. The pain medications are enough to keep the purely physical agony of his post-surgery injuries at bay, but they can't touch the pain of the mind. She carefully untangles the snarled IV lines from his restless hands, crooning wordless nonsense in the hopes her voice will somehow sooth him.
During the early hours of the morning Garrus finally slips into a quiet, exhausted sleep. Shepard tiredly watches the red numbers across the monitors slowly turn to green as his heart rate slows and regulates, daring to feel the first surges of genuine hope. Straightening the rumpled sheets over Garrus' painfully thin form, Shepard rests a hand lightly on his shoulder, wishing she could will her own strength into his body. A harried looking Dr. Chakwas arrives shortly thereafter, and after assuring Shepard that yes, Garrus was stable, evicts her from the medbay. Shepard is loathe to leave, but she's exhausted in both mind and body.
Dragging her sweaty shirt over her head, Shepard kicks her boots off, for once not really caring about leaving them scattered across her cabin. She rolls her shoulders, enjoying the feel of blessed coolness against her overheated skin. Pausing by her personal terminal, she flicks it to recent messages. The usual array of requests and thanks scroll past, and Shepard flags them for later, about to turn away when one address catches her eye.
Blinking blearily at the address, Shepard wrinkles her brow in confusion, "who the hell is Nalah Butler?"