Once the helmsman arrives at his own quarters, he wearily performs his nightly ritual, with ablutions completed and uniform discarded to the wash basket. A fresh set will of course adorn him come the morning. Late as the hour is, that time will soon approach him. As per his parting words to his comrade, his communicator is placed upon the table beside his bed. Should his friend choose to call him, he will of course attend her summons, no matter the hour. To lend her his ear. And his kindness.
ooo
With all that Uhura had witnessed a bane to her mind's eye, images of which repeat over and again, peace will indeed become hard to obtain. The visage, for her, is a rather unsettling one: the patient's halted heartrate; the pallidity of his hapless form; the attending medicos in a hasty scramble to tend to him; the stilled heart in the trained hand of the physician, the fingers of which spattered by blood in their attempt to stimulate the organ, to save the Vulcan...from death.
Will all of those efforts be in vain? Time – an element almost at its end for the patient – and perhaps hope, will soon tell.
Her mind soon traces back to the moments before her departure from the brig, and those words spoken by her captain. Although his parting words had been somewhat brief, still there was a weight in them, and still they meant so much. His speech had been an assurance for himself, yes, but also for her.
He's going to be okay...
A life not yet taken by the cold hands of death, but seemingly so close, and dreadfully so.
...somehow, deep down, I just know.
That oh so infamous "gut feeling", telling of the final clutching at hope.
Take care of yourself...
And the friendship, with its faltering beginnings, now bloomed into one of deep respect and kinship and...family. That final phrase could easily have been uttered to anyone, with some degree of concern indeed; yet, the manner with which he had used it carried a deeper sincerity.
With a quivering hand and the unveiling of her irises, the Communications Officer inhales an uneasy breath. And soon, in faltered motions, she slowly makes her way to the washroom. Her sole task being that of preparing herself for rest.
ooo
Within the sterile walls of the Medbay, minutes almost seem to drag on. For the medicos and their arresting patient, time is indeed rather crucial. The drone of the equipment signalling the victim's inactive heart only exemplifies the feeling of time's slow passing, the grimness of the situation and the staff's desperation. Air inside this space is indeed brimmed with a sense of urgency – the longer his heart remains dormant, the closer he becomes to inevitable death. Every one of the personnel here know this...implicitly.
ooo
Sleep does not arrive easily for the weary Communications Officer, with all that she just witnessed plaguing her mind. Thoughts run rampant in her subconscious, a mix of imagery from the Medbay's chaos and what may well be inevitable. There is a probability that the Vulcan might not be revived, and all the tireless efforts of the medicos would all have been in vain. Death, as the idiom goes, might just be around the corner.
Almost tempted to pay one final visit to the ward, she halts herself. There is not much at all that she can do, sans becoming an obstacle for the bustling medical staff. She knows, all too well, that the patient is in the best hands of the ship – the fleet, even – and that every ounce of training and skill and hope will be utilised to the utter maximum in order to save him. To bring him back to her.
With a lighting of incense and the unfurling of a rug, she employs the very ritual that he performs at night. A deep meditative state might just quell her thoughts and still her mind, so that she may achieve even a fraction of peaceful sleep. Her mind, and body in turn, must be rested enough to perform her duties come the morning; there may still be much to do, tasks to complete and an investigation to conduct. She cannot afford to endure a sluggish body and dulled mind. For him, she needs to be alert.
Apparently earlier than she had anticipated, the incense is completely extinguished. Perhaps, time had escaped her during her meditation. With one final inhale, she rises from her placement, to make for the bed. Just before she reaches it, however, a notion crosses her mind. Grasping at a cerulean-toned item, she finally positions herself beneath the covers. Held taut by her is a uniform tunic once worn by the Vulcan, and still carrying a tiny inkling of his residual scent. It may not be much, but perhaps enough to offer her comfort.
As those slivers of the aroma's remnants waft into her nostrils, the garment is brought closer, a cushion against her face. Soon, there is a meagre dampness upon the fabric, borne from quiet weeping. The meditation may have calmed her thoughts, but nothing may truly stop her feeling. With a mix of incense residue and her lover's scent, her weeping slowly begins to ease as drowsiness takes hold. One final squeeze of the tunic by her arms, and her mind makes a single phrase before slumber takes her.
Come back to me.
