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When the body slides out of the rezzer, it’s a quiet thing. No screams, no gasps. Silent as winter, but you can see his chest rise and fall. The metal gate slams shut with a painful clang.
He doesn't stir when you call his name, your mouth twisting into a frown. You tap him lightly on the shoulder (nothing) and brush the pale, now-clean locks from his eyes. The light catches the other side of his face, and the sharp air whistles down your throat in a soft gasp.
You've never seen it take scars away. The rivers twisting over his lip and cheek have been erased, his right eye hale again, both sides of his mouth sitting symmetrical, like the molten shrapnel that caused it all meant nothing. Like the first time you fretted over him in the rezzer's rebirthing pits was worth half a dream and little else.
Your breath seems to echo in the indiscriminate stillness of the chamber, though it doesn't turn to little white puffs here, just... disappearing, with nothing to mark its presence—or absence. All around you, the others are waking up, some with friends to help them through the death fog, some alone and shambling towards the litany of the Crown. But he's silent.
The basket of uniform is cold as anything down here, but it's a hell of a lot better than laying on a metal sheet; no need for him to get sick.
"C'mon,"
You say, soft as the drizzle of the rain misting down outside, drawing his torso up against you with all the care your trench-roughened hands still have. You can feel his heartbeat through his ribcage, but it seems fainter than the steady thrum you've grown used to. You hold him right up against your ribs so you can bleed your body heat back into him, revive him the rest of the way, get his core off the cold ground the way they'd taught you. Underwear and trousers are easy enough to slip on him, but the thinner socks take a bit of work, catching twice before you figure out the rhythm. His arms are limp as you ease one through the undershirt (a holdover from the northern front, like dressing a friend who's yet to rise), then the other, then the button-up.
His breath hitches when your hand knocks against his collarbone, and you freeze, wondering with more hope than you knew you had left if he'll wake up right now with a tired smile.
But no, he flinches, and doesn't blink bleary eyes open in surprise. It's because your hands are always cold as the grave, unless someone has the patience to rub warmth back into them.
"Sorry,"
You whisper, knowing he can't hear you. Then tug the other sleeve over his freezing hands and do up the dull metal buttons. His pulse taps against your own as you reluctantly lay him back against the slab to tug his boots on, lacing them up with a dedication bordering on religious. Now he's back in your arms again, curled against you, knees folded, tunic a size too big. He's so cold, corpse-cold; Eriche always runs warm.
It made him shorter, oddly enough. He's going to hate that when he wakes up.
Said machine groans, and you know you can't stay anymore, because some poor sod's going to be spit out soon and you can't be crowding the receptacle.
You've never been the strongest, but he's smaller now, and he's lost some muscle. Even the rezzer needs to eat, that's the saying passed around in cases like this. You don't like the way you get chills whenever you hear it.
He doesn't even react when you sit him up, rest his head against your shoulder, face turned away. Slip your palms under his knees and slouch forward so he doesn't fall before standing with a grunt. You have to be careful to jostle him as little as possible while you follow the winding path out, away from the litany, away from the horde of recently-resurrected. Maybe he just needs more time. Maybe getting rezzed was different this time. Maybe something happened. You just need to wait for him to wake up, keep an eye out till then. How many times have you fallen asleep to his even breathing, both of you in the same bunk to keep warm, and woken to him softly calling your name?
The lights are spare—sleeping hours. Only one or two other soldiers pass you in the halls, only a nod from the second one indicating they acknowledged your existence at all, but you'd prefer it to conversation right now. You can't carry him forever, scanning the plates by the quarters' doors until you find the one they'd assigned you and somehow maneuvering so you don't drop him and open the door. A light, victorious chuckle bubbles from your throat.
You try to be quiet in closing the door, but there's an art to it here you haven't fully mastered; these ones swing more easily, opening smooth as butter even in the night. Hopefully it didn't startle the others. Eriche doesn't react.
The mattresses are the same as any, these ones perhaps a bit firmer than the others. He slides off your shoulders like water on a steel roof, gently lowered the rest of the way. You tuck the hair out of his eyes, let his hands rest over his ribs. The ladder to the higher bunk isn't rusty, but the rungs are closer-set than what you're used to. The wool blanket flutters as you pull it down, tuck it into a loose cushion for your upper body over the floor. Close enough for emergencies, if he takes a turn for the worse, if he wakes up, if... something happens. It's soft, like so little else in what has become your world. Keeps your ribs from grinding too hard against the ground.
You still can't sleep, despite the treasured pattern of inhales not even an arm's length from you. That was another thing—Munroe, you've got to rest. Worry about yourself for a few hours.
"Not yet,"
You murmur, and the one in the upper bunk hisses a sigh before rolling over. Here, in the muted gloom of the barracks, you can almost convince yourself things are mostly fine. That Eriche's a little sick, which is why you're on the floor and not right beside him, but in the morning he'll blink and yawn and make a remark about still not feeling rested. That as long as you're there with soft words and a familiar glowing gaze for when he returns to himself, it'll all shake out.
You catch the nightmare rolling in maybe even before Eriche knows, sitting up the moment you hear the wavering inhale. The little yelps are quiet, always quiet, but he's panting like he's been running with a lotus on, a few glistening tears slipping down his scarless cheeks. You dry them with the back of your hand, over and over. He no longer jerks away from the frost in it
"Shh, you're alright, yeah? You're alive, you're alright. Easy now. ...It's okay."
Eriche never wants to be woken from dreams like these, so instead, you give him something gentle, because whatever's happening in his head definitely isn't. And it takes a bit to soothe the cruel dreams, but you're no stranger to it. It's not a problem. You can be of some help, here.
When he calms, you brush the hair from his face, and murmur assurances until the tightness in his face smooths out. It's jarring, both sides of his face looking the same. The photos in your pocket seem to sit heavier against your heart.
"...I'll be right here if you need something,"
You offer softly. The silence absorbs your promise like a sponge.
You linger by his head a moment longer, hesitating, then turn to the blanket and bunch it under your head and ribs again with a sigh. It's almost comfortable, the wool against your cheek, padding against the worst of aches that tend to stem from resting on the floor. Almost, because you don't know when he'll wake up, and there's nothing more you can do. If he's not awake by the time you're done for the day or you get rezzed (whichever comes first), you'll ask one of the nurses about it, but you want to give him some time. You wonder how much sleep he got last night.
And then you just lay there, listening.
Waiting for Eriche to come back.