Infirmary Interlude

Rowan drifted awake to the soft hum of machinery and the sterile scent of antiseptic. No pain—not really. Just a distant ache, like someone had scooped out his side and replaced it with warm jelly.

His eyes adjusted slowly.

The lights were dimmed to a low amber glow, and the clock on the wall read 03:28. Quiet reigned. Not the uneasy silence of battle readiness—but the deep hush of a ship at peace.

He shifted his head—and there she was.

Lightning.

Curled on her side beside him, only half-manifested. Her form flickered faintly in the dark, translucent and blue, the edges of her hair trailing like mist over his pillow. She looked like she was sleeping.

It took Rowan a second to realize: she was faking but not in the being tricksy sort of way. She was in rest mode but still showing herself to him. Her strange ghostly form of comfort. 'I'm still here' it said. 'I want to be the first thing you see when you wake up.'

He smirked and reached over to poke her shoulder. His hand passed straight through.

But it was enough.

Lightning's eyes snapped open, glowing blue and blazing with betrayal. In a blink, her form solidified just enough for her mouth to take shape—and she chomped down on his hand.

"OW—what the hell?!" Rowan squawked, shaking his hand in irritation. It hadn't really hurt but it startled the bejesus out of him! He winced as the soreness above his hip pulled at him.

"You reckless dummy!" Lightning hissed, voice wobbling. "You scared me to death! Don't ever do something like that again! You're lucky my nanites are awesome! A kidney shot like that would've killed anyone besides a Captain!"

Rowan massaged his fingers, scowling. "You didn't have to bite me!"

"Could've stabbed you instead," she grumbled, eyes darting over him like a scanner. "Better appreciation for irony."

Before Rowan could reply, a small sound drew his attention—a soft noise, high-pitched and almost feline.

He turned. In the chair beside his bed, Bismarck slept.

Curled up awkwardly, her silver hair a soft tangle over her shoulders, boots kicked off, one gloved hand still resting on the edge of the mattress like she'd fallen asleep trying to hold it.

Rowan stared at her.

Lightning followed his gaze, then sighed, suddenly quieter. "She hasn't left since they brought you in."

Rowan swallowed as his gaze lingered on the German girl.

Bismarck, sleeping in that chair like she'd never meant to—arms crossed loosely, head tilted just slightly, the ghost of exhaustion tugging at the corners of her eyes. Her silver hair spilled like mercury across her shoulder, catching the dim light.

There was a quiet grace to her like this. No fire. No armor. No pride braced for impact. Just… stillness.

"She's beautiful," Rowan whispered.

Lightning gave a skeptical snort from beside him. "Wow. Took a near-death experience for you to notice?"

He elbowed her—gently, his arm passing through her misty form. "No, I mean… really beautiful. Like, capital B. Almost not real."

Lightning arched a brow. "You realize she didn't stab you, right?"

"I know," he said, still watching Bismarck sleep. "She didn't have to stay."

"She didn't want to stay," Lightning muttered. "Gave this whole overwrought monologue to the nurse about how your survival was her solemn burden or something. Like you were an anchor she was nobly dragging through the seafloor."

Rowan smiled at that. "Sounds about right." Then Lightning quieted. And Rowan felt it. Something in the way her light dimmed. He didn't like it. "What? What's up?"

Lightning was studying Bismarck intensely. "She carried you, Cap. Well... Not at first. At first I tried. I let both of those bitches know what I thought and tried to drag you to the infirmary myself. But..." Her digital chest hitched. "I couldn't do it."

Rowan winced. And it wasn't from the pain in his side. No, it came from seeing his little blue buddy deflated like that. "Hey, Lightning... Don't do that. Ok? It's not your fault."

Lightning shook her head and wiped glittery iridescent blue tears from her cheeks. "Shut up. You're my Captain. I am supposed to take care of you. But I couldn't. And then, there she was all silver and stoic and yelling at me in German. 'Get under his other shoulder! I vill take zis side!'" Lightning laughed and Rowan reached up to pat her back.

He phased right through but Lightning appreciated the gesture anyway and gave him a small smile before continuing. "We didn't get very far. 7 seconds, ya know? We got a couple steps then my timer ran out and I just poofed away. And then, Cap, she turned and yelled at Hood who was just standing there in shock." Lightning shook her head. "That lit a fire under the Duchess' butt and together they dragged you down four flights of stairs and across the campus. Arguing like fish wives the whole time."

Rowan blinked. Bismarck and Hood had carried him that far? The shame crawled up his spine as he looked at Bismarck again. No wonder she was exhausted. He looked around, "Where is Lady Hood?"

Lightning shook her head again. "Soon as they got you in here Hood went to rat herself out to Ark Royal. Never even hesitated just heaved you up onto this bed and then told Bismarck, 'I shall take full responsibility for this. Watch over him, Bismarck.' Then she left."

Rowan felt disgusted with himself. He had just wanted them to stop fighting. He should have been more careful or created a shield or something. But instead he'd jumped between them. "I'm sorry, Lightning. I didn't mean to make a fuss for you guys."

Lightning just looked at him, holographic eyes blinking slowly. Then she tittered then started full on hysterically laughing. "I love you, Cap." She said and hugged him fiercely.

Rowan hugged her back and for just a moment there was resistance... then as always his arms slipped through Lightning's form. "I love you too... But why?"

"Because only you could get stabbed in a cat fight and be more worried about upsetting me than getting hurt." She said softly before popping out of existence.

"Well, you take great care of me. Least I could do is try to make it easier on you." He said and gave a little grin to the air. Reduced to a voice in his head for the moment, Rowan could still feel Lightning's desire to wrap her arms around him.

Then he looked over at Bismarck again. Her head had lolled into what had to be an uncomfortable angle. She would get a crick in her neck if she stayed like that too long. So, without thinking, he reached out—still a little sore, moving slowly—and gently tapped her knee.

"Hey. Kapitänin. Wake up."

Bismarck bolted upright like she'd been hit by a live wire. A hardlight dagger flared to life in her hand before her eyes had even opened.

"Was ist das?! Wer ist da?!" she shouted, half standing, voice sharp enough to shatter glass.

Rowan screamed, and scooted backwards on instinct nearly falling out of the bed. "GAH!"

That startled Bismarck again. "AAAH?!" She brandished the knife.

Lightning, ever helpful, screamed just for fun.

Rowan clutched his blanket. "WHY DO YOU HAVE A KNIFE?!"

"YOU TOUCHED ME—WHY DID YOU TOUCH ME—" Bismarck yelled, eyes wild and heart monitor spiking wildly in protest.

"YOU WERE SLEEPING ALL CROOKED! WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?!" Rowan yelled, the heart monitor screaming with his panic.

"SCHIEZE! YOU SCARED ME!" Bismarck screamed, clutching her chest.

"I'M SORRY!" Rowan yelled back. "I DIDN'T MEAN TO!"

Lightning reappeared and collapsed sideways off the pillow, shrieking with laughter now. "Oh my god, this is better than live television!"

Bismarck was still clutching the dagger, hair wild and cheeks pink, breathing hard. Rowan stared at her like she was a wild animal he'd just startled awake in the woods.

They locked eyes in a long moment of silence.

Then Rowan broke. A laugh bubbled out of him, breathless and helpless.

Bismarck blinked. Then, reluctantly… reluctantly, she smiled too.

"Idiot," she muttered under her breath, letting the knife flicker away into particulates.

Rowan exhaled, flopping back against the pillows. "You're terrifying."

Lightning gave a little snort and curled up between them like a smug blue cat. "God, I missed this show."

FWUMP.

The curtain exploded inward like a bulkhead blown loose by pressure. No knock. No warning. Just arrival.

And then—

Her.

Doctor Mercy Vega filled the room like an incoming broadside.

She wasn't just curvy—she was sculpted like temptation and tempered like steel. Her white medical blouse strained dutifully against the impossible curve of her chest, the nameplate simply reading DOC over a golden insignia that shimmered with rank and authority. Her black skirt was perfectly pressed and offensively well-fitted. Her brown hair was long, thick, and perfectly in place despite how fast she must've been walking—and those square black glasses perched on her nose looked like they'd been designed for maximum intimidation.

She strode in on low, confident heels—click, click, click, like a countdown to judgment.

And her voice?

It was thick with Boston smoke and lounge room purr.

"If youse ain't fawkin' dyin', you better have a good gawd damn reason for screamin' like a buncha banshees in my infirmary!"

Rowan nearly keeled over. Right then and there.

Bismarck, unflinching in battle, actually sat up straighter—caught between a salute and a guilty wince. Lightning vanished. Instantly. Tactical retreat.

Rowan's mouth opened to respond but nothing came out. He was too busy staring.

Not just because of her figure—though, that too—but because of the command that radiated off her. She was everything at once: doctor, dominator, disaster relief, and dangerous woman who definitely knew how to wield a scalpel and a wineglass.

She didn't flinch. Didn't pause. Didn't apologize for a damn thing. And in that moment, Rowan understood:

Mercy wasn't just her name.

It was what you begged for if you pissed her off.

Doc's eyes swept the room like targeting radar.

She zeroed in on Bismarck.

"The fuck is goin' on in here?" she snapped, striding forward with her tablet tucked under one arm like a judge with a gavel. "You nearly kill the little bastard, then you think you just gonna come back and finish the job? Witcha voice?"

Bismarck looked like she'd been caught red-handed trying to assassinate the Pope. She stiffened, lips parting—but no sound came out.

Rowan swallowed audibly.

A heavy silence fell, like a depth charge waiting to go off.

Doc raised both eyebrows and took one long, exaggerated breath through her nose.

"Christ take the fawkin' rudder."

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms under her frankly spectacular chest.

"Don't both a' youse start talkin' at once now. I can't make out a damn thing witchu talkin' all over each other like it's a goddamn fish market."

She planted her heels square, squared her shoulders even harder. "What the fuck are you yellin' for?"

No answer. She tilted her head like a mom about to tear a bedroom apart, her eyes flicking between Bismarck and Rowan. Lightning has the good sense to stay as a simple logic loop in Rowan's head. Still neither said anything.

Doc sighed and tapped her temple twice with two perfectly manicured fingers. "Is this a neural lag thing? Or are we just havin' a collective stupid attack today?"

She gave Bismarck a once-over, then cut her eyes to Rowan—still clutching his blanket like a man on trial.

"Let me guess," she drawled. "You poked the ice queen, she jumped like you goosed 'er, prolly swung at ya. You squealed like a kicked puppy, and now the heart monitor's got PTSD."

Rowan nodded. Slowly.

Doc clicked her tongue and pulled out a glove with one hand, already moving toward his bedside.

"Alright. We're gonna fix this."

She snapped the glove on with a sound like divine punishment. Bismarck shifted—just slightly—as if she was preparing to stand and make a quiet exit.

She didn't get far.

SNAP.

Doc's fingers cracked like a whip, sharp and loud.

She pointed at the chair without even looking. "No, you fuckin' don't, sugah tits. Sit your ass right back down."

Bismarck obeyed, easing her butt back into the seat like backing away from a wild animal.

Doc glanced at her. "Imma get to you in a minute."

Then she turned back to Rowan, who looked like he was trying to vanish into the mattress.

Doc raised a hand and gently but firmly pressed him back down with one palm on his shoulder.

"Relax," she said. "Not gonna bite ya. Less you ask real nice."

She pulled a glove from her coat pocket and snapped it on with a well-practiced flick.

Then she tilted her head and spoke to the air like someone halfway through a conversation no one else could hear.

"'Ey, Mercy, what's the result on that last blood panel?" Doc paused, clearly listening. Then she nodded once, apparently happy with whatever she heard. "Okay. Well at least it's functionin'."

She tossed Rowan's blanket aside with no ceremony or warning whatsoever and lifted his shirt to mid-rib.

And Rowan promptly forgot how lungs worked.

Her hands were warm and clinical, in spite of the gloves. Her fingers quick and practiced, but the moment her palm hit skin Rowan nearly choked on his own breath. The lights in the infirmary felt brighter. Her perfume—something warm, smoky, and just slightly sweet—hit him like a tsunami in professional attire.

Doc didn't notice. Or if she did, she didn't care.

She examined the injury site, eyes narrowing in sharp appraisal. Already, new pink scar tissue was blooming around the incision. The sutures looked like they'd be ready to come out by midnight, if not sooner!

Doc whistled low under her breath. "Fuck me runnin'." She looked up, one brow raised, voice full of admiration. "Jesus played by R. Lee Ermey," she muttered. "You're a monstah, kid."

Rowan blinked down at his side, then up toward Doc. Then immediately turned his eyes back toward the ceiling. Moses in the bullrushes! Her shirt did not have enough manpower to cover the entire mountain range contained within it and Rowan was desperately trying to fend off pervert allegations.

"Something… wrong, Doc?" He managed to wheeze out, with all the conviction of a kicked accordion.

Doc didn't answer right away. She looked up over the rim of her glasses, her brown eyes pinning him in place with all the subtlety of a tactical lock.

Rowan didn't dare risk meeting that gaze. Too close to things!

"Wrong?" she said, deadpan. "No, kid. There certainly ain't." She sat up and looked back down, scanning the readout on her tablet and then the surgical work—if you could still call it that. Rowan managed to sneak in a breath.

"You've regrown your entire fawkin' kidney in four hours," Doc said flatly, then gestured toward his side like it had personally offended her. "I ain't nevah seen nobody regen like that. Normally a destroyed organ takes a day. Sometimes two!"

She pulled back slightly, one gloved hand on her hip.

"What kinda hopped up medical specs is your Frame runnin'?"

Lightning, still cloaked and invisible, preened from her hiding place behind the vitals monitor. This Doctor Mercy, was rather impressive. But also still scary!

Doc narrowed her eyes, checking her chart again. "Lightning's not secretly a support ship, is she?"

Rowan, now a color somewhere between cherry blossom and nuclear warning, shook his head. "She's… uh… she's designed for interception and pursuit," he muttered, barely audible.

Doc gave him a long, low whistle, then muttered under her breath.

"Well shit. That's a new one."