It /aches/, how utterly unable she is to offer any real aid. All Galahad can do is call for a doctor, hands slowly reaching forward, always reaching, moving herself onto bleached sheets. Forgets, for a moment, that the other's lower legs needn't be made room for. Not anymore. 'They will be here shortly to increase your dosage, Greer. I...' That rare /fidgeting/. Wants to help, but does not know how. 'What can I do?'
Slams against frame, as much as weakened limbs allow those that remain, others like phantoms of sharp pain, no, agony. Hisses become whimper against longer frame, curled weakly and broken and covered in gashes. Bare registers futile words. Mussed black hair and the rigor of a hospital gown, the indignity far belittled in the wake of the pain of nightmares, reliving the explosion without full recall.
She wakes up without remembering what happened. The realization devastates.
Breathing eventually evens, croaking softly against throat. Exhaustion compels relaxation, even as the pain rides her spine, throbbing in new amputations. Shakes her head.
❝ … Harry… ❞















