long legs stretched out into the bed, christine keeps watch over the patient with an old paperback. it was a bit silly. bringing a romance to a war zone. with its brittle pages and smudged ink, her copy of little dorrit resembles the young girl at the center of the novel. it’d gone through quite a journey: added and removed from her standard pack a dozen times, as she tried to fit in more supplies there, removing clothes and personal items for another pack of hyposprays. it always found its way back, fitting perfectly at the little leftover space.
eyes ran from the page to the patient, on a loop, each sentence marked by another examination. she did it a dozen, a hundred times, finishing a chapter while the pilot rested. it became automatic. so much so, that when the other's brown eyes flittered open, she glanced at it and returned to the page. it took her three words to realize there was something out of place.
❛ hello, ❜ she says, straightening up, legs folding back to the floor. dropping the book on a bedside table that was thankfully not covered in blood for a change, she grabs a tricorder and leans forward, examining erica with a quiet smile.
❛ can you tell me your name? ❜
@sadnessruns
