Page 23 of Monsters and Mocha

The captain was sitting on the floor with his back leaning against the side of the toppled-over armchair. The clothing rack was knocked to the ground as well, and her spare jackets and coveralls strewn across the floor. The expression on his face was stormy.

“What happened?” She crossed the room in just a few steps and knelt in front of him, pulling her stethoscope from her pocket in a fluid, practiced motion. Raven flew down and landed on her shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing? It’s mine.”

Darby, satisfied after a few moments of listening that Fitz’s heart was still in working order, sat back on her heels and tried for a bit of humor to clear the dark clouds away from Fitz’s brow. “It seems like Raven has claimed you—probably due to the number of pretty, shiny screws you have.”

His jaw worked back and forth, and his scowl only darkened.

Darby bit back a sigh.

I thought we made progress yesterday, though I suppose it is rather unreasonable of me to expect that one conversation could magically fix things. Recovery takes time.

“What happened?”

“I tried to walk.”

“Without me?” She rose and gathered the garments from the floor, depositing them on the cot in an unceremonious heap.

“I am a grown man,” Fitz drawled sarcastically. “I was walking years before you were even born. I didn’t think I needed your permission.”

“No, but you might need my help.” Darby extended her hand. “I haven’t had a chance to double check the calibrations on your leg yet.”

He pushed her hand away and tried to stand himself, pulling his good leg underneath him and using the chair behind him to rise awkwardly to his feet. “Right, because now I’m some kind of creature you’re responsible for. I wouldn’t need your help walking if you had just left me alone.”

She pushed the sting of his refusal and cutting words away, hiding her emotions in straightening the clothing rack and the chair. She nudged Raven from her shoulder, shrugged out of her jacket, and threw it over the rack. “You would need even more help, because you would be dead. Rigor mortis is much harder to work with than tight screws.”

“Oh? Do you have a lot of experience?”

“I’m a doctor; I see death almost as much as I see life.” She quickly located the turnscrew and other tools she needed to work on his leg and shoved them into the pocket of her skirt. While it would be easier to work in her coveralls, leaving Fitz at the moment felt wrong. “But since my training is to protect and prolong life as much as possible, I do my best to avoid it. I know this is a change for you, and it’s understandable that you’re upset, but you need to know that now that you are alive, I’m going to do everything I can to keep you that way.” She met his eyes, unwilling to back down. “And that includes making sure you don’t fall over when you walk. You don’t have to like it—you don’t even have to like me—but you will have to deal with it.”

He grunted, but said nothing.

Darby positioned herself in front of him, hovering her hands just above his forearms. “Can you try taking a step forward with your left leg?”

Fitz complied. The movement was stiff and unnatural, as if his leg were made of a stiff board. She dropped to a knee and made some adjustments to the screws in the knee joint before jumping up again. “Try it now?”

He shifted his weight and then suddenly fell forward. She caught him, wrapping her arms around his middle, and holding him up as he regained his balance. His right hand rested on her waist, and she almost imagined she could hear the thum-tick of his heart beating faster inside his chest. She waited until she was sure he was stable again, then backed up a step, an apologetic smile on her face. “That might have been too much.”

He swallowed, and his voice was tight and strained when he answered. “It’s alright.”

She knelt down and began fiddling with the screws again.

“Are you always this intense?”

Fitz’s gruff question caught her by surprise, and she looked up to find him watching her with a thoughtful frown. “What do you mean?”

“I thought doctors were supposed to have a pleasant bedside manner. You’re more like…a drill sergeant.”

A smile quirked at the corner of her lips. “You didn’t strike me as the type to want to be coddled.” She straightened and motioned for him to step again. They went through the dance several more times as they spoke, with her adjusting and checking and adjusting again.

“So this is all an act?”

The hint of a smile died away. “No. But I try to adjust my approach to whatever the patient needs. Some do need a little extra hand-holding and gentle encouragement.” She considered her words for a moment, then went for it. “You needed a kick in the pants.”

“Such a ladylike sentiment.”

The return of dry sarcasm in his voice had her spirits rising again.