Intersections V: Watching
by elfin
Cautiously, Michael took a seat at John’s bedside.
Stephen had warned him that any change in John’s condition would warrant
Michael being thrown out on his ass.
No one was sure if this was a good idea, including Garibaldi. He
needed to explain to John, to tell him what had happened, what Bester had
done, what he now knew to be the truth.
But Sheridan was in no state to hear it, let alone understand or forgive.
No one knew what seeing Michael would do to him or what his reaction would
be.
Pulling the chair closer to the bed, trying to be as quiet as he could,
trying not to disturb the restlessly sleeping man, Michael reached out with
a trembling hand.
Nervously, he covered John’s with his own.
He touched the metal of the brace on one finger and the warm sterile bandage
holding the draining tube in John’s wrist in place.
Lying his fingers over John’s, he felt the clammy, cold hear of the infected
skin.
Stretching out his other hand, Michael touched the greying hair at John’s
temple, stroked it carefully.
“John….”
He couldn’t help but remember some of the things Bester had told him when
he’d released him from his mental prison.
He thought about ‘Banger’ – the one name he had – smashing John’s beautiful
face against the concrete floor of the cell. To Bester it had been
entertainment, amusement. The reality was a broken nose, skin bruised
to black over his cheek bones, lips split, tongue pierced by his eye tooth.
Watching John’s eyeballs moving fitfully behind the lids, Michael ghosted
his gaze and fingers over the white dressings hiding the butterfly stitches
in John’s face, head and neck.
The rest of the man was covered by a light comforter.
The fingers of John’s other hand were curled loosely in the soft, warm
material. There was a four-way IV port in the back of that hand, held
in place by snowy-white bandages. Tubes snaked from the port, to four
separate IV bags hanging from a stand next to the bed.
More counteragents had been added to the slowly draining concoction.
More toxins had been isolated in John’s bloodstream.
Under that comforter, Michael knew the unseen injuries were a lot worse.
“John… I am so sorry.”
A quiet whimper passed John’s Vaseline whetted lips. Michael froze,
hands hovering above John’s head and hand. He waited, breath held,
until the man settled again.
“His hand’s badly injured – internal bruising.” Michael started
at the sound of the low voice at his side. He glanced up at Stephen.
“We just… hold his thumb.”
Michael let his fingertips touch that single digit. John didn’t
stir. “How is he? Really?”
Stephen tilted his head to one side. “Physically, he’s very sick.
He had partial liver failure when he arrived. His stomach and intestines
are shot to hell – we’ve got more tubes going in and out of him than the
station’s main reactor. He has myriad broken bones. His wrist’s
been badly smashed, that’s going to need reconstruction when we think he can
cope with the surgery. There’s deep bruising over most of his body and
I lost count of the number of infected cuts and burns we treated.” Stephen
let his eyes caress Sheridan’s temporarily peaceful face.
“Mentally…. It’s bad, Michael. I think he’s accepted that
he’s safe. But… everything he’s been through isn’t going to fade in
a hurry.” He glanced at the readout on the monitor that was recording
every detail of John’s physical state. “They’ve made him President
of the new Alliance.”
Michael’s eyes widened. He looked from Stephen to John, lying small
and vulnerable under the comforter, the tubes and wires and dressings.
“You’re kidding?”
A shake of his head. “Nope.”
Stroking John’s thumb again, Michael remained while Stephen checked his
patient before wondering off again.
More of Bester’s words echoed in Garibaldi’s mind.
‘Three days ago, Mr Garibaldi, they added a new tactic.’
Michael closed his eyes against the terrible images that flooded back.
Images Bester had planted in his mind. He could see the bruises around
John’s neck, merged in with the burns caused by the collar. The metal
had cut deep into the sensitive, soft flesh where John’s rapists had forced
it into his throat as they held him down.
It was little wonder John didn’t want to talk to them. He obviously
settled with Maynard, but even his ‘Stinky’ hadn’t elicited speech.
Just thinking must be so very painful, fraught with dangers, a minefield
of his own agonising memories.
Memories he'd been the cause of. How could John ever forgive him
for that?
*
fin
part v
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