Having missed the brawl in the infirmary yesterday — truly, it had been the most inopportune time to step away for dinner and the restroom — Strange has been more attentive since. The Head Healer has stayed in the infirmary, half-drowsing in the other room rather than going back home, occasionally getting up to poke his head into the room and check on Barrow and his visitor. There’s wariness prickling the back of his neck, that finely-tuned physician’s instinct and history and experience telling him that they’re headed for a crisis point.
He had hoped, of course, that Barrow would pull through it. You know how it goes. The fever eventually breaks, the morning dawns, the patient is wrung-out and sweat-soaked and exhausted afterward but triumphant, his head clear.
But it keeps not happening and not happening and not happening. He gets worse.
And this time, Strange happens to be on his rounds and looking in at the door when it happens. Muscles tightening like the strings of a musical instrument, tendons standing out: the doctor doesn’t know drug detox all that well, but he does know tonic seizures, Barrow’s brain on fire, and recognises the signs immediately in that clenched jaw and back and shoulders.
“Jesus christ,” he mutters, and briskly moves past Lazar to rejoin him by the bedside, shoving the nightstand further out of the way so the templar won’t inadvertently slam into it. Barrow’s so goddamned heavy, and the grip strength in his hands isn’t good enough: “Help me get him onto his side. Mouth down. Nothing in the mouth. Has this happened earlier tonight?”
no subject
He had hoped, of course, that Barrow would pull through it. You know how it goes. The fever eventually breaks, the morning dawns, the patient is wrung-out and sweat-soaked and exhausted afterward but triumphant, his head clear.
But it keeps not happening and not happening and not happening. He gets worse.
And this time, Strange happens to be on his rounds and looking in at the door when it happens. Muscles tightening like the strings of a musical instrument, tendons standing out: the doctor doesn’t know drug detox all that well, but he does know tonic seizures, Barrow’s brain on fire, and recognises the signs immediately in that clenched jaw and back and shoulders.
“Jesus christ,” he mutters, and briskly moves past Lazar to rejoin him by the bedside, shoving the nightstand further out of the way so the templar won’t inadvertently slam into it. Barrow’s so goddamned heavy, and the grip strength in his hands isn’t good enough: “Help me get him onto his side. Mouth down. Nothing in the mouth. Has this happened earlier tonight?”