（ she does not get ill, she does not get injured. 'bed rest' was a children's fantasy, the province of those raised far away and by far different people than her. to be injured is to be weak, and weak is just barely better than dead.
at least, that is how she was raised.
her view of the universe exists now in a tilt-shift perspective. the same, but different. logically, she has concluded: it is okay to be injured. it is all right to need help from one's friends. there is nothing wrong with you, in the moments your strength fails. because if you are a good person, and you have a family, that family will step into the space where fortitude has crumbled and they will be a pillar of it until you are — better. improved. correct.
healed.
logically, she is aware of these things. she has managed to curb darker thoughts, has managed to shape what used to be derision or scorn into something a little more like love. if not for family —
well. none of them would be here, would they?
but what is easy to accept in those you care for is not so easily accepted in the self.
she gets shot on astobahnyie. she has been shot before. that is not the issue. the issue is that, unlike before, her prevailing thought is not only about survival, but also about the feelings of her... friends. her family.
they will worry.
and somehow, that chafes worse than pain alone.
so she stuffs a medpack beneath her jacket and she ignores the way her vitals jackrabbit, and she and peter finish the job. she lets him do the negotiating. he has gotten quite good at it, and through the bloodloss — which is no greater in amount than what she has lost before — she finds herself doing one of those ridiculous, moon-eyed expressions at him that some people call love and she — well, doesn't not call love.
and then they are back on his ship, and strapped in, and she is wondering if perhaps she made a miscalculation on the amount of sterifoam in the kit, because she feels cold — and she is annoyed at herself for feeling cold, and then annoyed at herself for being annoyed. it is all very circular in a way that she recognizes as shock, right up until the moment peter notices the blood. tellingly, his first statement is: gross, what's all this green splooge— before he tracks the source of it directly to her.
everything gets a little hazy after that.
it has been three days, and she is sitting up in bed.
(she was laying. it became boring. now she is sitting. still boring, but at least a change)
peter has just come through the door with a bowl of some earth food that smells awful and turns her stomach, and she gives both it and him a wary look. ）
If you wanted me dead, you could've just withheld medical treatment. Now you try to poison me?
（ it's a joke. said stiffly, perhaps, and without quite the right inflection to indicate as much to a human — but it is not as though he is a normal human, after all. ）
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at least, that is how she was raised.
her view of the universe exists now in a tilt-shift perspective. the same, but different. logically, she has concluded: it is okay to be injured. it is all right to need help from one's friends. there is nothing wrong with you, in the moments your strength fails. because if you are a good person, and you have a family, that family will step into the space where fortitude has crumbled and they will be a pillar of it until you are — better. improved. correct.
healed.
logically, she is aware of these things. she has managed to curb darker thoughts, has managed to shape what used to be derision or scorn into something a little more like love. if not for family —
well. none of them would be here, would they?
but what is easy to accept in those you care for is not so easily accepted in the self.
she gets shot on astobahnyie. she has been shot before. that is not the issue. the issue is that, unlike before, her prevailing thought is not only about survival, but also about the feelings of her... friends. her family.
they will worry.
and somehow, that chafes worse than pain alone.
so she stuffs a medpack beneath her jacket and she ignores the way her vitals jackrabbit, and she and peter finish the job. she lets him do the negotiating. he has gotten quite good at it, and through the bloodloss — which is no greater in amount than what she has lost before — she finds herself doing one of those ridiculous, moon-eyed expressions at him that some people call love and she — well, doesn't not call love.
and then they are back on his ship, and strapped in, and she is wondering if perhaps she made a miscalculation on the amount of sterifoam in the kit, because she feels cold — and she is annoyed at herself for feeling cold, and then annoyed at herself for being annoyed. it is all very circular in a way that she recognizes as shock, right up until the moment peter notices the blood. tellingly, his first statement is: gross, what's all this green splooge— before he tracks the source of it directly to her.
everything gets a little hazy after that.
it has been three days, and she is sitting up in bed.
(she was laying. it became boring. now she is sitting. still boring, but at least a change)
peter has just come through the door with a bowl of some earth food that smells awful and turns her stomach, and she gives both it and him a wary look. ）
If you wanted me dead, you could've just withheld medical treatment. Now you try to poison me?
（ it's a joke. said stiffly, perhaps, and without quite the right inflection to indicate as much to a human — but it is not as though he is a normal human, after all. ）