camp nano 2018 drabbles 6

"I'm fucking tired, McLaine," she said, her voice craggy with sleep, and Bhaltair was inclined to agree with her. "The hell d'you want here, huh? Unless you're plannin' to make me some coffee you can bug off."

He watched his co-operative pour something into a tube and scribble something into the notepad next to it. She cursed under her breath when the pen tore through the paper. Schommag was as temperamental as he was, he was beginning to learn, and she hid it about as well. He sighed and glanced around the too-sterile room with its white walls and white lights and muted dark-gray tables. "Wasn't planning on it, no," he said, trying to hide the irritation in his own voice, "but less so if you're gonna be so fuckin' ornery about it. Are you always like this, or have you just gone one too many nights holding your eyes open with clothespins?"

Schommag jerked her head to one side to glare at him over her shoulder. "You're one to talk," she scoffed. "I think the only time I've seen you passed out's been that time you didn't make it to your room before you flopped on the sofa." She smirked. "Shoulda seen all that drool."

The corner of Bhaltair's mouth twitched downward. She was right, and he'd set himself up for that one. He didn't at all like the thought of her having seen him sleeping, he thought with nearly as much embarrassment as unease. "Maybe so," he said curtly. "Difference is, I deal with it like a grown man instead of a wee one who didn't get their naptime."

Her glare was outright venomous this time. "What do you /want?"/ she enunciated, slow and biting. "I'm not going to ask you the fuck again, McLaine. I have work to do and if I have to make somethin' look like an accident I will."

Bhaltair paused, glancing around again to give himself time to think. Why /was/ he in here? It had been for a reason, he knew that, but then Schommag had bitten his head off the moment he'd said good morning, and his goal had fled his head like an angry raven being shooed from its perch. He wasn't sure what to say, really, and he cursed himself for getting distracted. "...Was thinkin' I might make some coffee, actually."

Schommag stared. She stood perfectly still, not a muscle moving save for the slow narrowing of her eyes. She could tell he was bullshitting, he knew, but if he told her the truth at this point she looked like she might flip the row of glass tubes at his head. That would be no good morning for anybody, he decided, and turned to leave. "I'll do that, then. I'll just be a moment."

---

When he came back, mugs in one hand and pot in the other, she was no longer standing at the table. Instead she'd collapsed in one of the hard chairs next to another workbench, holding her face in her hands. Maybe out of frustration, or maybe just to rest her eyes in them a moment. When he'd left he'd thought about just not coming back, but in the end he'd gone through the routine of making the coffee, thinking as he did, and returned. Maybe some part of him couldn't help but feel a little pity for that raw, bitter, exhausted expression that said /My day has been thirty-six hours long, and it just keeps getting longer./

She did look awful, he thought, even more than he'd noticed a few minutes ago. Now that she wasn't animated by sheer belligerent, sleep-deprived rage, she looked a lot smaller, pale and shrunk in on herself in a way that belied her huge frame. Her hair was dulled and frazzled; she'd kept it pulled back tight as usual, but it was a mess anyway.

She didn't look determined now. She looked like she wanted to curl up and sleep.

For a moment, he briefly considered just walking away and not giving it to her. Maybe at this rate she would pass out in the chair and at least get a little sleep that way; he was pretty sure if he suggested any such thing himself she'd fistfight him right there in the lab. She'd get a crick in her neck, sure, but she would deserve it if she did.

After a moment, though, he held one of the mugs out and cleared his throat, careful not to put his hand too close just in case. "Wakey wakey," he singsonged, "no eggs or bakey. Just some good ol' poison from the breakroom."

She lifted her face blearily from her hands, looking at him with baggy, unfocused eyes a raccoon would have winced at. God damn, she did look awful. "Oh," she croaked. "You actually made it."

"S'what I said I would do, didn't I?" He wiggled the cup a little, raising his eyebrows. "C'mon, I made it for the both of us. You gonna do your part to help me finish it or aren't ya?"

Schommag stared at him through her exhausted stupor, tried to blink it away. It didn't seem to do all that much for her, but apparently it was enough. She reached for the mug, and reached for the mug again, and the charmed third time she actually managed to put her hand on it. She had to take another moment to maneuver her fingers through the handle and grasp it properly, even with Bhaltair being merciful enough to hold it for her, and instead of pouring it directly he guided her to set it down on the table. It thudded when she touched down.

"Take it easy, now," he said, and poured the coffee as thick steam swirled up from the mug. When he tapered off the stream and glanced sideways at her, she was watching the steam with a blank face. Jesus, she really did need some sleep. "How long've you been awake, Schommag?"

She didn't look away as she mumbled, "I don't know. Started this experiment on the 21st. Haven't had time to take breaks."

The 21st, he thought. This was the 24th. /Jesus./

"You know what," he said, and carefully started to move the mug to one side. She didn't let go of it. "I think maybe you shouldnae have this right now, hm? I'll just wrap things up for you here, and you can go take a good long nap, alright?"

She stared at the mug, frowning faintly. She looked like she was trying to pull together an argument, but the part of her brain that put one word in front of the other had clearly sprung a cog or two.

Dislike or no, he felt a pang. God, she looked so tired.

"Come on, now, Isabel," he tried, making his voice gentle. "Can't do research if you can't see straight."

She was silent for so long that he wondered if she'd gone into a microsleep. Finally she nodded, passing a hand over her eyes, and let him disentangle her slack fingers from the handle of the coffee mug. "Alright," she slurred. "Help me up."

Getting her back to her room turned out to be a little harder than he'd thought; he was big, yes, but so was she, and more or less dead weight. Getting her back to the couch, he decided halfway down the hall, would be a lot more manageable. Sorry, Schommag, he thought, you're just going to have to make do.

After a minute or two of straining and gritting his teeth, he managed to flop her onto the couch, where she lay flat on her face and did not move. There, she'd be fine now. Hopefully she'd be in a dead sleep for the next twelve hours, and wake up well-rested with a richly deserved headache.

He stood there for a moment, not sure why. Bit weird watching a woman sleep, said some part of his brain, which he ignored. Something was... missing. Something didn't seem right.

She looked cold.

Five minutes later he returned to the breakroom to tidy up the lab and drink his coffee in peace, and Schommag lay dead to the world with a blanket draped over her tall frame. Bhaltair had been pleased to note that she was drooling.