Scraps: "Need"--nuTrek, Chapel and McCoy...ish

[ramblinprose]

So I was over at the Kink Meme today, readin' Sil's prompt responses (she has three of them up there! one with more than one part! WOO-HOO!) and feeling grand, when it came to me that there seemed to be a running theme of McCoy taking care of Chapel. Wouldn't it be fun, I thought, to turn it around?

And then this thing crawled out of my head, going "Wriiite me, wriiite me." It turned out...a little different than I'd expected.

Let me be clear here: this is a finished thing. It is also unbetaed and rather rubbishy. But since I spent the whole damn afternoon and evening wrestling with it, I am just going to post it and let it go at that.


Christine Chapel has had a--well, it's hard to call it a crush, and she'd like not to call it an obsession--on Doctor McCoy ever since a friend dragged her to his seminar on aviophobia. She had gone into that seminar bitching and grousing about its nonsense, and had come out with a head full of McCoy. Luck of the draw meant they'd worked together incidentally after that, and she had done her best to be as cool and professional as possible given that his voice tended to turn her insides to jelly. Apparently she'd done it pretty well, given that she ends up working on the Enterprise with him. Christine has friends who've told her how those assignments work, which means she knows that while she got on board because of Doctor Puri, she stays on board because of McCoy.

Maybe it's just best to call it a thing. She has an unfortunate predisposition to them, it seems, and it's dragged her into some weird relationships. Her last thing had been with a space archaeologist of all things, and it'd left scars so deep on her heart that she sometimes wonders why she doesn't have signs of scar tissue on her chest. That had been the final straw: no more pursuing her things. That way would only lead to more scars. Best stop dreaming of wedding rings and, like a nun, marry the job instead.

She'd tried her best, and for the first seven months of the Enterprise's voyage, she does all right. She turns the thing feelings into silent attention and attentiveness, hones her attraction into a near telepathic ability to read her boss. He calls it "spooky" the first few times she does it, but comes to rely on it, and to rely on her. She takes it firmly for what it is, and if her fellow nurses sometimes tease her by calling her "Nurse McCoy," well, that's just one more thing to ignore.

It helps when she realizes that McCoy has his own thing in his love for the Captain. Try as she might she can't read what sort of affection it is; sometimes it's brotherly, sometimes it's just best friends, but a few times, the air charges around and between them, and it puts pictures in her mind her Grandmam would surely disapprove of. Kirk always seems to blithely ignore such things, and McCoy falls in line with him, though he seems to her to do it with more frustration. In her private thoughts, she wonders freely at their relationship, how it started and how it came to be what it is. In public, though, she does not speculate with her crew, and she certainly does not ask McCoy, even when they have the rare moment where it might be acceptable. She never asks for what he tells her, just listens; she's afraid that if she asked, he might ask her questions back, ones that go beyond the surface information she is willing to give. He's not the kind to not dig back, and that way just leads to pain in the end.

But she understands, oh she does, what it's like to be in the grip of a thing, and so she gives him the support he needs and doesn't ask repaying.

It figures that it would be Jim Kirk who ultimately pushes her beyond her careful walls.

It's supposed to be a standard diplomatic mission: they go down, they make with the drinks and chit-chat, they bring back the goods for the Federation. No worries, no problems, no excitement, no adventure. McCoy grouses for days beforehand about why they're bringing him along for such a simple errand when there's a Sickbay he has to look after.

But James Kirk is an honest-to-goodness agent of chaos, and so things aren't routine. And this time, it's Kirk that gets hurt.

Stabbed, actually, McCoy informs her in a rush as they haul him in. Commander Spock trails behind, holding the dagger. She goes to take it, and he stops her. "It may be poisoned," he says in his usual calm tones.

"Then I definitely need to see it, Commander," she replies.

He looks like he's about to resist, but then McCoy yells across Sickbay, "Give it to her, Spock, I need those tox reports!"

Spock follows her into the lab and--hovers, for lack of a better word, while she runs her analysis. As it turns out, it is poisoned, but it's one they have an antitoxin for. She puts together a hypo with hands steadier than she feels, and when she presents it to McCoy his face has naked relief on it. He has nurses in with him already, scrubbed up to start putting the Captain back together, but she stays in Sickbay and waits anyways. When he finally comes out of surgery he's bloodied and weary looking, and there's something like grief in the way he says, "It's all up to Jim now."

She reassures him then that, given the Captain's will, everything will be fine.

But everything is not fine. His body heals, but Jim Kirk doesn't wake up.

Over the next few days, as what feels like the entire Command crew comes to pay their respects, she watches Doctor McCoy slowly fall apart.

She still does her best to help him. She brings him the reams of literature he asks for on the poison and its side effects, and then the additional reams on boosting immune system response. When he seems to stop eating, she leaves him food in his office, and clears the remains away when he ignores them for too long. When he's on his third night of living in his office, unshaven and unslept, she brings him a stim pack. She toys with calling Commander Spock to get his permission to knock the Doctor out, but ultimately can't go through with it. She has an inkling of what McCoy is going through, and she knows about the need to keep going because stopping means breaking into pieces. So she does her own research instead as she works double shifts, taking over as many of his duties as she can because pulling McCoy away from Kirk right now is inadviseable and unlikely.

On the fourth night, when she comes in with food, she brings a hypospray with her. He doesn't look up until he hears it clunk on his desk, and then his face turns ugly. "What the hell is that?" he snarls.

"Sewhdra," she says.

Fury rolls in his eyes. "I don't need no damn sleeping pills!" he shouts.

She stays still, calm, even though her insides are vibrating. "No," she says. "But you do need to sleep, Doctor. The longer you go without it, the worse it will get." She lets the unspoken words reverberate between them: lack of sleep deprives the mind of its higher functions. What are you missing already?

His lips press together. "How the hell," he grits out, "am I supposed to sleep now?" There is nothing but naked emotion on his face, in his eyes: anger and frustration and, under it all, a worry so deep it tears at her heart. She is used to Doctor McCoy being open with his emotions, but not at this level, and it tells her how much of him is already gone.

She touches the hypo. "I know how hard it would be," she says. "But this is six hours of deep sleep, Doctor. Dreamless sleep. I double checked the reports and dosage myself. The world will be clear when you wake up." She lets a hint of emotion show then: we all need you to be at your best.

His mouth hardens even more, and he snaps out, "I know what the damn drug does!" But he looks away, down at his PADD, and she can see the emotions fight within him. So she stays there, still and ready.

Finally he says, "Call M'Benga, then."

She fights down the urge to exhale in relief, to smile her joy. "Yes sir," she says, and because she can't resist everything, adds, "Thank you, sir."

He "hmphs" at that, a grousing noise that sounds almost normal from him. He stands up and picks up the hypo, toys with it. "Chapel," he says, voice suddenly quiet, "you'll be here, won't you?"

She's halfway through her second shift. Her feet are tired, her spine aches, and she's damn sure anything orderly and in place about her has long since fallen by the wayside. But there's no other response for that then, "Of course, sir."

He lets the hypo fall normally into his hand. "Good," he says.

She follows him out of his office. She's tempted to follow him to his quarters, but that would be, she's sure, a hair too far to go. Even so, she stands in the doorway of Sickbay a second too long, watching him until he disappears around the curve of the hallway leading to the Turbolift.

Then she lets out a sigh, relaxes, and goes to call Doctor M'Benga. When he comes up and tries to dismiss her, she politely tells him that Doctor McCoy requested she stay on shift, and leaves it at that.

When Doctor McCoy comes back on shift six hours and fifteen minutes later, he immediately yells for her to "get her ass up there." She unwinds herself from the dispensary where she's been checking on some of their stock and only stops to pick up a report from Technician Piro. She hands it to him as she presents herself, saying, "The latest on Captain Kirk's vitals, sir." She looks him over as he reads it; he's clean and cleanshaven again, and while he doesn't look exactly like his old self, he looks more like it than he has since they brought Kirk in.

He looks up from the PADD and gives her a cursory glance. "You look like shit, Chapel," he says. "Dismissed."

She has to fight the urge to grin at that. Oddly, it looks like he's fighting a similar expression. "Glady sir," she says, and nearly skips over to sign herself out. It has to be the sleep deprivation that's making her so damn giddy, she thinks. Can't be anything else.

"And I don't want to see you here on the next shift, either!" he adds to her back.

"Of course, sir," she says. Mentally, she pencils in a few extra hours of sleep, a longer shower, and to make sure she gets back within a shift and a half. He may grumble about it, but he won't send her off-duty, and they both know it.

And he doesn't.

After that, McCoy does stop every once and awhile for a break, does make sure he checks in on the rest of his Sickbay. But as it crawls into the seventh day and Kirk's status remains unchanged, the tension crests again. This time it's not just from him, but from the whole of the crew. Their Captain has been injured before, but he's never been silently out of commission for this long. It's just not like Jim Kirk. Jim Kirk is energy and life, emotion and movement. He never goes down without a fight, never stops swinging even when he is down. He's come back from too much to be taken out by one poisoned knife in his side.

She feels it, too, but holds it off, shuts it down within her own crew. They have done everything any of them can think of to make sure he's healed. Like McCoy said that first night, it's all up to him. They make him comfortable, monitor his every reaction, and wait. It's all they can do: wait.

She comes in midday on that seventh day, and Doctor McCoy is nowhere in sight. She checks in with Nurse April first. "Any change?" she asks.

"None," she replies, but there's a pinched look to her mouth and a weariness to her eyes.

"What?" she asks.

"Commander Spock came in," she says, voice low and hesitant. "He talked to Doctor McCoy. Whatever he said, it upset him pretty badly. He's been in his office ever since." She looks down at the station, her fingers picking listlessly at the smooth top. "Nurse Chapel, I don't think--"

She puts her hand on April's shoulder, squeezes. "Don't think it," she says.

Her eyes come up again. "But--" she starts.

Chapel shakes her head, and April goes quiet. "Don't think it," she repeats, voice soft. "And I'll go talk to Doctor McCoy, all right?"

April's face relaxes. "All right," she says. "I'll go work in the Lab."

She nods. "And make sure you page Ensign Simmons if she doesn't show up to have her dressing looked as," she says. "She keeps trying to avoid the appointment."

"Yes ma'am," April says crisply. "I'll get Piro to haul her up her myself if I need to."

Chapel smiles a little at that and squeezes her shoulder again. "You may not need to," she says. "I don't know how long he'll let me stay in there."

April nods slowly, then touches her hand. For a moment, Chapel can feel April's affection for her, and it's startling strange. "If he'd let anyone in...it'd be you," she says, and the conviction in her voice makes something in Chapel's chest ache.

"I hope so," Chapel says softly. "And...thanks."

She pulls her hand back and turns away, takes a breath, and goes to Doctor McCoy's office. The door is shut, but she's had the key code to his office almost since she started as Head Nurse. She punches in all but the last number, takes another breath, then hits the last button.

The door slides open, and she's inside almost before McCoy raises his head. She hits the button to close it, and it does just as he yells, "I told them I didn't want to be disturbed for anything outside an actual emergency!"

The words hit her like jackhammer, and for a second she wants to grab onto the door just to keep herself standing. But she doesn't, and her knees don't buckle. She steps further into the room and says, "Nurse Chapel, reporting for duty, sir."

"Is there an emergency, Chapel?" he snaps.

"No, sir," she replies.

"Then why the hell are you in here!"

She wants to take another breath to steady herself, but she can't, she can't be anything more than a rock right now. "I heard Commander Spock came to speak to you, sir," she says.

His face darkens even more, and his jaw rocks with the tension. "Yeah, he did, the goddamn green-blooded menace," he says. "What of it?"

"I was wondering, sir, if you could report to me what he said," she says.

He glowers.

She sighs to herself and reaches back for her Starfleet code. "Starfleet regulation 12.4 of the Medical Code states that the Chief Medical Officer will--" she starts.

"Don't you dare start quoting at me," he snarls.

"--keep the Head Nurse informed of any and all events which may affect--"

He slams his hands on the desk as he stands, and she has to be forgiven for jumping at the noise. He stalks around the desk and gets up in her space, closer than he's ever been outside of medical incident, so close she can smell the sweat and soap on him. He sticks a finger in her face.

"Fine," he says, "you wanna know so badly? The Enterprise has changed course. We're headed for Starbase 12."

She blinks. "What--"

"It seems," he goes on, not even noticing her, "that our Commander Spock has been doing some reading, and thinks that it's possible that the poison Jim was infected with might have spread to his brain."

"But the brainwave patterns--" she starts.

"I know about the damn brainwave patterns!" he yells. "And so does he! But there are enough little glitches that he wants to get him to a Starbase. To that Starbase. They've got themselves some sort of telepath for a doctor, someone who's trained specially for mental cases just like this. He says he's already gotten the request approved by Starfleet, and has relayed messages to the doctor in question." He pauses, then looks away. "They're prepared to take him," he says, voice quieter, though no less harsh.

Something about the way he says those last words sets off a thought in her mind. "But Kirk--the Captain. He'll be coming back, right?"

"No," McCoy says.

It's like being kicked in the gut, and she puts one hand on the desk to settle herself. Involuntarily her other hand covers her stomach, as if to squelch the pain. "But--"

"If the poison got to his brain, they'll have to clear it out first, then work on rebuilding both his mind and his personality. It takes time. Months, Spock said." He looks back at her, and the pain on his face is as clear as the one in her stomach. "They can't...they can't hold the Enterprise there that long. Spock'll be in command." He holds her eyes for a moment longer, then looks away. "And Doctor M'Benga'll be in charge here."

She can't help it then; she gasps. He gives her a look, and anger clouds over his eyes. "What else could I do?" he snarls. "I can't stay here as the Chief Medical Officer if I can't save one life! If I can't save Jim--" He stops, and his hands ball up at his sides. "I can't," he says. "Not when it's my damn fault--"

Her eyes go wide at his words, and the little things click into place. The way he'd driven himself so hard, it hadn't just been because his thing was in there. It went deeper in that. All that pain and worry, it went deeper than that.

And she can't let him think that. She can't, even if it means crossing that line she burned into the sand between them.

"No," she says. "No, it's not your fault." She says it with all the truth she can muster. She'd read the reports; no one had been near Kirk when he'd been stabbed. No one had been able to prevent the would-be assassin from self-destructing when Commander Spock had shot him down. There was no one to blame.

Which of course meant he blamed himself.

"If I'da been quicker," he growls, "if I'da gotten that knife out of him faster--"

"No," she interrupts, raising her voice. "You're not supposed to do that, you're--"

"--he wouldn't be like this," he says, and his eyes are blank, not looking at her. "He'd be--"

"STOP IT," she yells, grabbing at his uniform. "DOCTOR MCCOY, STOP THIS NOW."

He stops speaking and focuses on her, but his eyes still have that blank quality.

"You listen to me, Leonard McCoy," she says, tightening her grip on his uniform just in case he thinks about moving. "This is not your fault. You did it all right. You didn't fuck up, Doctor! You got him here and you got him treated and it's not your fault that Captain Kirk has decided to go on a goddamn vacation in his head!" She's tempted to shake him like he always threatens to do to them, tempted to knock this silly idea out of him. But this is already hard for her, and as much as she's always fantasized about being able to slap a superior officer silly, Doctor McCoy has never starred in that role.

She relaxes her hands and rolls them against him, pushing him back a little. "It's not your fault," she says, making her voice the slap she can't give. "And don't you dare say that again, Doctor. It is NOT your fault."

He wobbles a little on his feet, blinking down at her. She meets his eyes firmly and hopes he doesn't notice how hard she's pushing her nails into her palms.

"Be that as it may," he finally says, voice rusty, "he still hasn't come back. He just won't--" He hits his hand against the desk, once, twice. "Damn it, Jim, why--" He breaks off, head drooping, eyes scrunching closed.

The change in mood takes her aback for only a second, and then her mood shifts with it. Empathy is part of nursing, and this is a pain she can truly understand.

He hits the desk again, raises his hand as if for another strike. She catches it before he can, pulls it between them, makes him look at her. He looks like every barrier he has against the galaxy has crumbled, leaving him lost and in pieces.

She tugs on his hand and draws him to her, encircles him in her arms and holds him. He's stiff for a second, but only a second, and then he crushes her to him and buries his face in her hair. There's a sound like a sob, wracked and wretched, and she tightens her embrace. Her hands slide up and down his back as she whispers to him, telling him it's all right, it'll be all right, they're all here for him. Whatever he needs, they're here for him.

She's here for him.

His grip loosens a little, enough for her to breathe easier, and they rock together, the only sounds his harsh half-breaths against her soft words. He doesn't make that sound again, that terrible sound of grief, and she's almost glad for it; she isn't sure she could stand anymore of it. Her eyes are already wet just from the feel of his pain vibrating against her, body and mind. Empathy is blessing in a nurse, a necessity in a nurse, but it's a double edged sword at times like these. She wants to draw this pain off like infection from a wound, but it hurts to feel and it hurts to take it in. She cannot become the one to be comforted, she can't, and so she pushes back on her own reaction, walls it off. She'll deal with it when she can.

She wonders, distantly, how easily he allows this. She thinks, perhaps, that Doctor McCoy doesn't have many friends. James Kirk, even if he's a thing, is also, above all else, a friend. One of the few he has. One so close that it overrides his normal barriers, and that thought makes her turn her face to his skin and press in close, as if trying to transmit the comfort skin to skin.

She isn't what he really wants. She isn't what he really needs. But for the moment, just this moment, she can do her damndest to be both of those things.

Just for this moment.

She feels him loosen his hands on her, and she pulls in a breath, preparing to separate from him. It's going to be a little awkward, she knows, a little strained, but that was to be expected. The only thing she hopes is that it helped.

She is in no way prepared when he pulls back just a little, whispers "Christine," then kisses her.

It's a light touch, a warm touch, but it could be dry ice for the way she goes shocked and still against him.

He pulls back, kisses her again. And again. Little warm touches that feel like brands against her mouth. "Christine," he whispers, a little more energy in the kiss, "please."

For one ugly, cold moment, she wants to pull back, pull away, walk away, leave him the fuck there. She wants to yell that no, he can't have this, he can't have this, the one thing she's wanted to give to him but has sworn she wouldn't. If she gives this, if she surrenders this, then what will be left of her?

"Christine," he says, mouth a hair from hers and soft, so soft, "please. Just this once, let me in...I need--"

And with that, the coldness is gone.

She pushes up and covers his mouth with hers before he can finish that sentence. If he does, she won't be able to do this.

He pauses for a second, then is kissing her back, mouth hungry against hers. She pours herself into the kiss, shifting position to better fit against him, slipping her hands up so she can curl them around his neck and stroke the short hair there. He hasn't shaved in a day or two, and the stubble burns across her skin and mouth. So be it, she thinks. It's a fitting mark.

Abruptly he pulls out of it, presses his forehead to hers, panting air. He catches a breath. "I must be outta my goddamned mind."

"Only a little," she replies, and he chokes off a laugh. He doesn't pull away though, just stays there, sharing air with her.

She should resist the urge, but she doesn't. She tilts her head a little and finds his mouth again, kisses him softly. He responds with a soft touch back, but breaks it a moment later. "You out of your goddamned mind too, Christine?" he whispers.

"Yes sir," she whispers, and that gets her kissed again. It lasts for longer this time, and again she pours herself into it. She reassures herself that it's easing something in him, pushing some of those little pieces back into place, and it's true, he does feel more--solid against her.

He also feels warm and smells good and his kisses are doing melty things to her body, and it's a living dream that's actually a living nightmare because this isn't how it's supposed to be and they both know it. They both know it.

He breaks the kiss and pulls her against him. "Jim does that," he says, stroking her hair. "Just drives people right out of their--"

He stops, and his body goes very tense under hers. She starts to push away from him, but his arms hold her there, steel beams pressing against her. She gives it a mental count of thirty, then says, "Doctor?"

He jerks her away from him, and for the first time in days there's light in his face. "Chapel, you're a goddamned genius!" he yells, then leans in and kisses her so hard it obliterates any thoughts in her brain. Next thing she knows she's standing there by herself, facing the wall of his office, and he's at the door, going through the door, leaving her there.

She lets out a hard, tense breath. Well. What else did she expect?

Then he sticks his head back in the office and calls, "Come on!"

"Coming, sir," she responds. She takes a second to smooth her hands over her uniform--pointless, given that they both look a mess--then turns and follows him out the door.

The plan is simple, once she can slow down McCoy enough to explain it. Jim's brainwave pattern is off, but it's not off enough to show that he has the brain damage associated with that poison. Instead, his brain has gone into a stand-by mode as his body heals.

"A coma, then," she says, watching him work the diagnostic board above Kirk's bed.

"Exactly," he replies, hitting a few buttons. A chip pops from the wall, and he pulls it down, heads away from the bed. She follows. "And normally, you can't pull anyone out of a coma, you just have to wait for them to wake up. But," and there's that light in his eyes again, "we have a telepath on board."

"Commander Spock," she says.

"You got it," he says as they head into the lab. He slots the chip into one of the scanners, sets it whirring. "He didn't want to try it before because, and I quote, 'it is an intensely personal thing requiring great skill' and all that. However, maybe we don't need him to do a mind-meld." He looks up from the scanner. "Maybe we just need him to send a signal."

"A wake-up signal," she says slowly. "Something to tell his conscious mind everything's in the clear."

"Something," he says, "to tell his brain to come back from vacation."

She dips her head to hide the sudden flush to her face, then nods. "Shall I summon Commander Spock, then?" she asks.

"No, I'll go get the green-blooded bastard," he says. "You stay here and keep an eye on things. If there's any change--"

"I'll let you know," she says.

He gives her a quick nod, then stops. "Chapel," he starts, expression softening.

She gives a quick wave of her hand; if he tries to thank her now, she's not going to be able to keep the conflicted mass inside her from bubbling over. "Go, Doctor," she says. "Go."

His expression takes on an unhappy shade, but he nods again, and goes.

The moment he's gone she ducks into the scrub room and splashes water on her face, puts herself into some semblance of order. Her colleagues can and will ignore her appearance; she doesn't expect Commander Spock will. And that is not a face she wants the Commander to see.

McCoy returns in ten minutes with Commander Spock in tow. She is over helping April with another patient, and so only has a moment to exchange glances with McCoy before they sequester themselves around Kirk's bed. She forces herself to focus on the patient, though if you asked her later what care she'd provided, she wouldn't be able to tell you.

Seven and a half minutes later, Spock leaves. It's some time after that before she can grab a moment to sidle up to Doctor McCoy. "Well?" she asks.

He's quiet for a moment, and she wonders if he's going to answer her at all. Then he says, "It's all up to Jim now."

She wants to touch him then, offer comfort again. But the time for that is passed. So she thanks him quietly, and goes back to her work. They don't speak to each other for the rest of her shift.

On the ninth day after his accident, Jim Kirk wakes up.

He just so happens to do so while Christine is checking his vitals. When his finger brushes her wrist, she jumps and nearly screams. When she looks down to see his eyes open, bleary and half-dull but OPEN, she nearly gives another scream for different reasons.

"Hey," he says, his voice dry and cracked. "What happened?"

She leans in close to keep her voice down. "You were attacked on the planet, sir. How much do you remember?"

He shakes his head. "Not much," he says. "We were just talking, and then there was this--pain. It really hurt." His brow furrows. "Did I get stabbed?"

She nods.

"Hell," he says. "Bones is gonna be so pissed."

She lets out a half-laugh at that. If he only knew-- "Let me get him," she says.

"Right now?" he asks, a hint of whine to his voice.

"Right now," she says firmly, then quickly crosses to the Doctor's office. It's open, so she sticks her head and says, "Doctor McCoy."

"What is it?" he snaps. He's been grumpy for the last two days, but in a way that isn't driven by some great emotional pressure. It's been nice to see him surly for surly's sake again, a thought she was once sure she'd never think.

"The Captain's awake," she says.

He looks up from his desk at her with owlish eyes, wide and emotional. "Why the hell didn't you say so?!" he cries, then nearly jumps his desk to get out of the office. She stands aside at the doorway so he can barrel through, then watches as he slows, takes on a more dignified manner. She walks behind him sedately over to the Captain's bed.

"How you're feeling, Jim?" he asks. The words are warm and lively, and it makes her smile a little to hear them.

"Like hell, Bones," comes the reply. "What happened? How long have I been out?"

"You ran into a knife coated with Arcturian rotgut," he says. Though he should be looking at the Captain's read-outs, or doing a second scan, his eyes are fixed on the Captain. "Got yourself cut up good, too. You've been out for about--" Now he looks up, to check the built in chronometer. "--nine days."

"NINE DAYS?" Kirk's voice is harsh, but the shout is plain.

"Keep it down, Jim," McCoy replies. "And don't you even think about getting up." He leans in a little, but she can still make out, "You scared a lot of people there."

"You?" It's a much quieter rasp now.

McCoy nods.

The Captain reaches out with his hand, still wired for the diagnostic read-outs. McCoy takes it, and for a long moment, they hold firm.

She turns away at that, the little smile still firmly on her face. Everything, it feels, is back to normal.

And she hopes it stays that way.
(5544)