there is somewhat of a routine that comes into play, between the regular adjustments of lara's body and his whispered affections that slowly become something other, something pleading and bleating. the twenty - four hours go past at first slowly, arduously, but then all at once, as if he had succumbed to a fugue state that consisted only of keeping watch, of spotting new freckles and mars on her skin and wondering why he had never noticed them before. this strange ritualistic observation is only interrupted by the announcement of time having passed — he has not eaten or drank but merely hovered, sat, stood, paced, sat again.
she hasn't responded, a fact that stands out sorely but he reminds himself is not cause for excess worry just yet, that in the grand scheme of things twenty - four hours isn't all that long despite how it had felt. things do not magically resolve themselves nor are they punctual, although with how stringent lara is with her timings, maybe he hadn't been so foolish as to hope this was no exception. the second surgery had been a blur, one he had stood as diligently to attention at as a soldier, might have rid his stomach of its contents again if there were any left to expel. it is somewhere in the second batch of twenty - four hours ( it feels wrong to think of them as days when he is merely going through the motions, the rest of the ship forgotten ) that he relents enough to get a coffee, watery and black and lacking in sugar, not strong enough to wave off fatigue. he can blame the caffeine for how his hands shake. he knows better.
ryland only knows how long has passed thanks to the monitors, his having lost track an inevitable conclusion when he has talked at nothing, at nobody, for half its duration and drifted in and out of consciousness for the other. he had considered logging this all on a recording, thought lara might have questions when she wakes up, but he can't bring himself to document something he wants to be rid of, wants to forget. instead he speaks to her as if she can hear it, process it, respond.
i tell her that it's funny that this is what it takes for her to get some rest in, i tell her stupid jokes like 'you should've seen the other guy' and warn her that she's going to get a stern scolding from rocky and adrian. i tell her she's hogging all the food but don't put too much focus on how i can't bring myself to eat, both from the nausea and the worry there might not be enough for her, that i don't know how long she might need it for. i'm sorely reminded of the trip back to erid, and i tell her i miss her. i tell her, tell myself, that it won't be much longer, that the hard part's over. i'm wrong.
we have been through long shots before, our whole existence an impossibility in what was already a hail mary, clue well and truly in the name. i remember stratt's insight, admire her faith and hope even now — god willing. i think it's selfish to ask for one more miracle, and i ask for it anyway. i think i've kissed her hand and forehead raw, murmured prayers into her knuckles and left tears on her skin in salty streaks which i then wipe off apologetically.
he only succumbs to water when his throat feels too dry to speak to her : every moment he leaves her feels eternally dangerous. every time he comes back she is the same as when he had left, but every time he goes he fears the worst, ends up bringing supplies inside with him so he can stay longer. he sleeps in here against his own volition, doesn't care to wash, relieves his bladder only when absolutely necessary and food is an absolute no - go, coffee its only substitute. he is half comatose himself when mary's voice shares new information, his weary double take rushing into a scramble, glasses thrust up the bridge of his nose to take in the text displayed as well as hear it narrated. the reports seem optimistic, her physical recovery coming along as expected, and relief is an imminent boon teased before being immediately snatched away, a hook on a line, worm still wriggling.
❛ wh— what . . . ❜ he knows what she's saying before it is spelled out, that three weeks would already be putting the ship under strain and by association his own probability of survival. she's saying it's not worth it. that lara's not worth it. he wonders, not for the first time, if she took this stance with yáo and ilyukhina too, if matters were taken into the programming's own hands to maximise the chances of the project succeeding. well, the project's over, and ryland decrees a new one. it seems an audacity to even suggest such a line of reasoning to him, the saliva in his mouth suddenly tasting acrid as vitriol.
he says it so quietly it might as well not have been spoken, something close to hatred and spite brewing inside of him despite it having no evident target. life isn't fair, their circumstances have never done anything but stacked the odds against them, and he looks at lara who looks so strangely sweet and peaceful and can't believe mary's suggesting they just pull the plug on her. the words string along once again as if he hadn't heard them the first time, their emphasis repeated and only stirring that whirling vortex faster, his eyes hot and wet, burning at the corners where they stream. ❛ no, no, i said— fucking, no ! ❜ the closest screen feels like an intrusion where it presses into his line of sight, urging him to take action, and take action he does, shoving it roughly out of his way and nearly ripping the damn thing off of its craning arm. the screen blinks momentarily, as if it too were startled by the outburst, and dr. grace's glare is a dagger gleaming with mourning. he speaks steadily after what feels like an age of catching his breath, teeth gritted.
❛ you've only been monitoring for seventy - two hours. ❜ he knows they are pressed for time, that their environment is not quite the unrushed scene of a medical show's hospital, but he doesn't care. ❛ we keep going— give her as much as she needs, give her time. she's still recovering. ❜ he is so adamant in his own assessment that he believes it innately, a quivering finger stroking her cheek, urging her back to him with silent and desperate supplications. ryland tears himself away to look at that damning screen again, red warning symbols sensibly erased in favour of observations once more. glad to see the message has been received loud and clear.
❛ and don't show me that crap again. ❜
