Aftermath: 32 - Untangle This (2030)

Newton takes a pointed bite of his graham cracker.

Chapter warnings: Realistic depictions of neurological, physical, and bureaucratic trauma. War. Grief. Death. Mental illness. Regular illness.

Text iteration: Witching hour.

Additional notes: None.

2030 (Thirty-two – Untangle This)

“Well,” Hermann says, smoothing Newton’s hair. “That could have gone better, I think.” 

Newton has lost his battle with pharmacology and surrendered to sleep. Hermann manhandles him into lying on his side; a safer position, should Dr. McClure’s cocktail be ineffective.

“But then, it could have gone worse,” Hermann says, philosophically. He pulls out his phone and texts Dr. McClure, informing her of his success. She texts him back immediately, a row of nothing but exclamation points. Hermann smiles faintly. 

::How did it hit him?::

::Perhaps too hard:: Hermann replies. ::He was asleep in less than five minutes despite an heroic effort on his part::

::That’s okay:: Dr. McClure replies. ::We just need to make sure he’s awake enough to eat, drink, pee, and take his Tylenol and antibiotics. Dehydration/hypoglycemia is probably the biggest risk to this plan. Try waking him around noon and don’t let him go back to sleep until he’s had a liter of Gatorade, a snack, and some Tylenol::

::Will do:: Hermann confirms. 

::There are very few patients I’d trust with this kind of regimen…he isn’t one. But you are::

::I’ll monitor him carefully::

::I know it. Call for anything. What’s his temp now?::

::With the Tylenol it’s come down to 99.0 F::

::Good good::

A slight vibration alerts him to an email. It’s from Mako. Eyebrows lifted, he opens it.

Dear Hermann,

I hope you are well. Newt tells me he’s sick, and that you could use another set (or two) of hands and eyes around the apartment. Shall we come?

Love, 

Mako

He looks at Newton and lifts an eyebrow to tamp the onslaught of intense affection.

Hermann spends the morning cleaning. He can’t help himself. It’s distracting, and he hates the idea of Mako arriving to find an unkempt apartment. She would certainly clean it for him, and Hermann can’t imagine living that down. Again.

All the same, he’s never far from Newton, his gaze shifting constantly back to the man.

At the appointed time, he retrieves a box of graham crackers, opens a bottle of Gatorade, takes a seat on their coffee table, and begins the process of rousing the man. It’s not easy. Hermann wastes five minutes trying to do it gently and gets nowhere. Eventually, he employs a cold washcloth, which does the trick. Newton makes a pathetic little noise in the back of his throat and opens his eyes. He pushes Hermann’s hand away from his forehead. 

“Why?” Newton says, confused, giving Hermann a look of pained and wounded betrayal that is all the more effective because of its total unselfconsciousness.

Hermann makes a sympathetic sound. “Sit.”

Obediently, Newton tries. Hermann assists him, pulling his legs over the edge of the couch so he cannot collapse back into a horizontal position. Newton looks at him, confused as to why he’s being tortured in this manner, if his expression is anything by which to judge. Hermann sighs, opens the Gatorade, tells him to start drinking it, which Newton does.

“How do you feel?” Hermann asks.

“Tot’lly fine,” Newton replies. “I took a nap.”

“Yes,” Hermann says, managing not to smile. “You recall your current situation?”

“What’s happening now? Yah. Hypothetical Rain is like—she made me those strips. Which I took one of.”

“Perfect,” Hermann says, mildly surprised. 

“Well.” Newton shrugs with ironically false modesty. “Y’know.”

“Yes I do,” Hermann replies. After a few moments, he says, “I’m surprised you wrote Ms. Mori.”

“Mako?” Newt repeats, the hand holding the Gatorade listing its way toward disaster before Hermann grabs his wrist and the bottle. 

“Yes,” Hermann says. “Mako. Keep drinking please.”

“I’m being good,” Newton informs him.

“You are,” Hermann agrees. “I’m incredibly touched by the gesture, Newton. I know you’re sensitive to how you are perceived, and I can understand wanting to minimize contact with others under these circumstances.”

“Say ‘gain?” Newton slurs.

“Drink,” Hermann insists. “What I meant to say is thank you for inviting Mako.”

“You can’t do all this.” Newton makes a vague hand gesture. 

“I can,” Hermann replies, exchanging the Gatorade bottle for a quarter of a graham cracker. “But I appreciate that I don’t need to. So. Thank you.”

“Welcome,” Newton says. “How long until—” he traces a curve with a downward trajectory using his graham cracker. 

“If you mean how long does Dr. McClure want you on this regimen, then I believe the answer is approximately three days, contingent upon how well you recover from your current infection.”

“Tell my lab please.” Newton takes a pointed bite of his graham cracker.

“I’ve done so already,” Hermann replies, pressing the Gatorade into his hand. 

Newton nods, drinking more Gatorade. “You think Mako will be able to tell about my IQ? Like a 60-point drop, I think. Becket likes me more, I’ll bet.”

Hermann snorts, amused in spite of himself. He breaks another piece of graham cracker and hands it to Newton. “Stop abusing the concept of the intelligence quotient. It is, at best, of extremely limited utility. I won’t indulge you by arguing for argument’s sake. Consider that you’re making an investment in your future cognitive capacity by preventing a seizure that could result in anoxic brain injury.”

“Not sure I followed that. Too many conditionals,” Newton says, miserable.

“IQ tests are meaningless. All educated people agree. Drink the rest of this.” Hermann hands him the electrolytes. “I’ll be back shortly.”

He retrieves Newton’s Tylenol and albuterol from the bathroom. When returns, he finds Newton finishing the Gatorade. He sits and hands him another graham cracker, which Newton eats without complaint. Hermann finds he still has to screw up his courage to say aloud what should come easily, but he’s determined to make amends for years of saying things to this man he didn’t mean.