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Their snap decision nearly kills them. They are trained for combat, not survival of the jungle.
Cassandra--Cassie--might not know what it is to feel the full fury of Zeus's wrath, but in all likelihood it feels like this: 400 volts from an electric eel. Her recovery is quick only because she is her father's daughter. She is glad that at least it struck her and not Tim. Not that Tim is in better condition, not at all. They had only spent an hour sleeping in the branches of a tree when he fell violently ill, losing his balance, falling into water where he was bitten--not by snake or shark--but by a damned fish. It is the Amazon. Fish have teeth. And eels have voltage.
She is a quaking, smoking mess holding a dying boy when the tiny boat pulls up to them. An old man who shares no language with them save for that of a hand to help pull Tim onto the prow, and a smile to celebrate that they are alive. It is the last thing Cassie would have expected, to have a stranger--a male stranger's--help. But Tim was right. The war has never reached this place. Perhaps the war knows better.
He's laid out on a simple, rickety cot. The old man forced--food? medicine?--something into his mouth, leaving him to break the fever, or fight the poison. Cassie knows nothing, only that she won't let go of his hand. He shakes and cries out, calling out for the Batman and his brother and once… Steph. Cassie grits her teeth, trying not to let it hurt. From the way he says her name, he knows even in dreams that she lied to him.
"Cassssnn… dr… auh."
She grips his hand like a vice, instantly loosening it so as not to break bone.
"I'm here!"
She shouldn't feel vanity at a moment like this. Shouldn't take pleasure that he's finally saying her name in the litany of ghosts. But she's made her decision, and he's all she's got now. And so she is torn between needing him to need her, and floundering that she's so badly needed when she hasn't the first clue what to do.
But if saying her name was part of his dreaming, it's become part of his waking now. She feels the faintest pressure returned around her palm, and his eyelashes flutter, like opening them to meet the day is equal parts inevitable and painful.
"How long…?"
"I…" Did the sun rise? Set? It must have, and yet… "I don't know. A day. Two. You… I think you were poisoned, but it's hard to be sure. We're with a local. You're…"
She can't say 'safe'. She can't lie to him.
"You're past the worst of it. I think."
"Feels like… poison not… venom. Maybe a plant. M'sure Ivy did something like this to me once before…"
He shivers again, but he meets her gaze to let know her that his strength is returning. Then he says something ridiculous.
"Sorry I worried you."
"You're sorr--?" Her words end on a gasp, so taken aback while trying to figure his meaning. "You…."
She really hadn't been paying any attention to what her other hand was doing. But now she realizes she has her hand on this throat, feeling his pulse pound under the webbing between thumb and forefinger. She could pull her hand back. Or even leave it precisely where it is.
Instead she brushes that forefinger against his jaw, runs her thumb beside his Adam's apple. She could say something sensible. That it isn't his fault. That they had no time to prepare. Or she could be harsh…
"Don't do it again." But her voice fails her, and it doesn't come out in any insistent way. It comes out with a sob, with a shaky breath on it's heels.
His eyes are wide as though opening them had been effortless, trained on her with an intensity that makes her want to look away, though her pride and curiosity will not allow it.
"Okay. I won't," he whispers.
There is no point in pretending. His fingers are laced through hers, and she is suddenly aware again that the reverse is also true: she is all he has now. Yet there is a soft set to his lips and brow that seems to say he is more than prepared to live with that fact. He doesn't shy away.
Cassie wonders briefly is there is a proper way to do things gently. She isn't sure, but she tries her best as she leans forward, placing a kiss on his sweat-soaked brow. He smells like muck and pain and the saltless river water she would never call fresh. She probably smells the same. So she chuckles, for the first time in months.
When she pulls back, his eyes are already closed.
Sleeping the sleep of recovery.