In some ways, this sort of thing doesn't really happen to you. You tend to meddle most often in the apocalyptic aftermath of situations, kept out of the loop until all of the terrible decisions have already been made and their consequences wrought.
In other ways, caring for a deeply unconscious friend feels like coming home. How many times is it now that you have brought home a Sollux alt like a sickly meowbeast living beneath a rotting back porch? At least three, maybe four times now?
You tidy her up thoroughly with water, hypoallergenic seadweller-safe medical soap, careful to avoid the wound, flush everything, then a saline soak. It's all textbook -- strict, methodical, no deviations. Check the debridement site and gills for irritation, finding none.
Despite all of the disasters that paved the way, the debridement seems to have been a success after all, and the sutures are done perfectly well. There's a massive cognitive disconnect between the skill on display in these stitches and the total incompetence in the files you found.
You size up a nightgown for her and set her up in a guest block, have Sefoni monitor her briefly while you scrub the guts out of your hair, claws like steel wool on your scalp. Then it's onto picking up where the hospital left off -- taking samples of that still-off blood to run your own tests on, administering intravenous fluids, exhaustedly tidying and wrapping Sol's hair so her scalp won't ache when she awakens.
Hours on and off of taking notes, running the centrifuge you've brought up, hunched over a microscope in a teddy and a dressing gown, like it's a completely reasonable sleepover activity. There's still something wrong, though the necrosis is gone -- still something happening in there, with tight breaths and oculars flitting behind closed lids.
Eventually, you finish out your set of notes and pull your desk chair over to her bedside, leaning over and allowing your forehead to rest on her hip.
Dozing doesn't come easily -- some sense of danger kicks up in the back of your head every now and then causing you to sit up like a shot, look around warily, recall where you are. Tyrian usually smells so nice, but there's a hint of rotting fruit lingering in the air -- lingering in your short dreams.
This time when you wake up, it's with fingers in your hair -- hesitant, a light touch. You turn your head slightly to blink, see Sol looking at you with a look of bleary confusion on her face.
Sitting up, you stretch your arms out over your head -- it feels and sounds like every single joint cracks, your body like a fresh glowstick as you light up from the soles of your feet to the tips of your ears.
Your hands close over hers and you lock eyes with her briefly before even that's too much and you glance back down at your hands, squeezing.
"Sollux, dear," you lecture, the serious tone muddied by the echoes of sleep in your voice. "As your friend, I strongly recommend finding a new GP."