Chapter 62: The Sickness
Roy woke to cold. The cot beside him was empty, the blanket still folded at the foot, the indent of Rosa's body already fading from the thin mattress. He blinked at the ceiling, the kitchen's familiar dark beams swimming into focus. Then he heard it. A retching sound, wet and violent, echoing off tile from down the hall.
He was on his feet before his brain caught up. His bare soles slapped the linoleum as he moved, past the long table, past the cold stove, toward the bathroom door that hung ajar. The fluorescent light inside flickered, casting a low nervous hum.
Rosa was on her knees in front of the toilet, her good arm braced on the porcelain rim, her body shaking with the effort of another dry heave. Her braid had come loose, dark hair spilling wild around her shoulders, sticking to the sweat on her neck. She hadn't heard him. Or she didn't care.
"Rosa." His voice came out rougher than he meant.
She flinched, then turned her head just enough to see him. Her green eyes were glassy, the pupil too large, too slow to focus. A bruise was blooming along her temple, purple and angry, half hidden by her hair.
"Roy," she said, and her voice scraped. "You're up."
He knelt behind her, not asking permission. His hands found her hair, gathering the loose strands away from her face, holding them back from the mess. Her skin was hot under his fingers. Fever hot. His heart slammed against his ribs.
"You should have woken me." He kept his voice low, even, the way he did when he was terrified and trying not to show it. "Rosa, why didn't you wake me?"
She spat into the bowl, then sagged, her forehead resting against the crook of her arm. "You needed the sleep. You've been up for, what, two days? Watching me."
"Because you almost died."
"I didn't almost die." She coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made his stomach clench. "I got knocked around. That last bugger, he got me good. Headfirst into the wall, or the floor, I don't remember." She let out a breath. "Concussion. That last bugger knocked me down hard."
Roy stared at the back of her head. The sick feeling in his gut had a name now, and it was fear. He'd buried it hours ago, when she'd finally drifted off with her hand on his arm. He'd told himself she was okay, that Sandy had checked her, that the wound was clean and the bone was set.
He'd told himself a lot of things.
"How long have you been in here?"
"Maybe an hour." Her voice was thinner now, hollowed out. "I woke up, and the room was spinning. Made it to the door. Crawled the rest of the way." She laughed, a small broken sound. "Sorry about the floor. I couldn't quite make it."
He looked down. There was a smear of bile on the tile near her knee, pale and thin. She'd been alone in here, throwing up in the dark, and he'd been sleeping.
"Why didn't you call for me?"
She was quiet for a long moment. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, and the toilet bowl gurgled, settling.
"Because I knew you'd look at me like that," she said finally.
"Like what?"
She didn't answer. She just shook her head, a small motion that made her sway. He tightened his grip on her hair, steadying her.
"Rosa."
"I know that look," she whispered. "I've seen it before. On your face, in the med room. Back at the sewer. Every time I do something stupid and you have to scrape me off the floor." She swallowed, hard. "I didn't want to see it again."
The words hit him like a physical blow. The sob came out of him before he could stop it, raw and ugly, tearing up his throat. He crumbled forward, his face burying into the nape of her neck, her damp hair tickling his cheek. His whole body shook with it, years of held-back terror finally breaking loose.
"You idiot," he choked. "Why do you keep doing this? Keep acting like you're not important."
She went very still under his hands. Then her breath hitched, a sound that wasn't quite a laugh.
"Roy—"
"You almost died." His voice cracked. "You were on the floor with your arm broken and your blood everywhere, and I had to carry you up three flights of stairs because I couldn't—" He stopped, swallowed. "I couldn't let you go. I can't let you go. And you keep putting yourself in the way like you're nothing."
Her good hand found his wrist, her fingers trembling. "I'm not trying to be nothing."
"You act like it." He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face wet, his eyes burning. The fluorescent light above them flickered, catching the bruise on her temple. "You ran at fifteen walkers alone. You didn't wake me when you were sick. You crawl in here by yourself in the dark—" His voice broke again. "Why won't you let me help you?"
Her eyes were glassy, but they held his. Something in her face cracked open.
"Because if I let you help me," she said slowly, "then I have to admit I can't do it alone."
"You can't. That's the point." He laughed, a wet broken sound. "I can't either. You think I could've made it through this without you? Without you carrying me in your braid, sleeping with me on your collarbone? I was three inches tall and you never once made me feel small."
She closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek, cutting a path through the grime.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I do this. It's just—it's been me for so long. Me and nobody else. Even with everyone in that building, I still—" She broke off, shaking her head.
"Still what?"
"Still expect to be the one who bleeds." She met his eyes again. "Still expect to be the one who doesn't come home."
The words hung in the damp air between them. The toilet gurgled. The light buzzed.
"Not anymore," he said. His voice was rough, but steady now. "You don't get to be the one who doesn't come home. Not while I'm here. Not while any of us are here."
She stared at him. Then her chin wobbled, and she looked away.
"Okay," she said, so quiet he almost missed it. "Okay."
They knelt there for another hour. The toilet bowl became a steady rhythm: Rosa heaving, Roy holding her hair, the fluorescent light stuttering overhead. Her body jerked with each dry spasm, her good hand white-knuckled on the porcelain rim. Roy's knees went numb against the tile, but he didn't move.
"I'll get you water," he said when a lull came.
She didn't argue. She just nodded, her forehead still pressed to her arm.
He found a clean cup in the kitchen, filled it from the tap, brought it back. She took it with shaking fingers, sipped once. The water stayed down for maybe three seconds before she pitched forward and vomited it back into the bowl, thin and clear.
"Shit," she breathed.
"Try again in a minute."
She shook her head. "It's not staying."
"Then we wait."
They waited. The hour stretched, broken only by the sound of her retching and the hum of the light. Her shivering got worse. By the time the heaves finally stopped, she was trembling so hard her teeth chattered, her skin clammy under his fingers.
"Rosa."
"M'okay." The word came out slurred. She was a heap on the floor, her braid half-undone, her good arm limp.
"You're not." He reached under her shoulders, hooked his arm around her waist. "Come on. You need to get warm."
"Roy—"
"Shower. Now." He pulled her up, her weight dragging against him, her bare feet sliding on the wet tile. She was lighter than she should have been. He could feel her ribs through her shirt.
The shower stall was small, a cracked plastic curtain hanging from a bent rod. He propped her against the wall, turned the knob. The pipes groaned, then spat out a thin stream of warm water. Steam began to curl into the air.
"Sit," he said.
She looked at him, glassy-eyed, then sank down onto the floor of the stall. The water hit her shoulders, darkening her loose hair, plastering it to her neck. She let out a small sound, something between a gasp and a sigh.
"I'll be right back. Don't move."
She gave him a weak thumbs-up. He took the stairs two at a time.
His room smelled like him, dust and old paper. He grabbed the softest long-sleeve shirt he owned, a faded grey thing worn thin at the elbows, and a bar of soap from the shelf above his dresser. His hands shook as he turned to go back down.
The bathroom was warm and fogged when he returned. The shower hissed. He pushed the curtain aside just enough to step in.
She was sitting under the stream, her back against the tile, her knees drawn up. She was bare. The first time he'd ever seen her like this. He looked at her face instead, at the bruise on her temple, at the tears cutting through the grime on her cheeks.
"Roy." Her voice cracked. "You don't have to."
"I know." He set the soap and the shirt on the dry ledge outside the stall. Then he tugged his own shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt, and let his jeans fall to the floor. The water was warm against his chest as he knelt beside her, the spray soaking his hair.
"Turn around," he said gently. "Let me wash your hair."
She stared at him, her green eyes searching his face. Then she turned, presenting her back to him, her shoulders curved inward. The water ran down her spine in rivulets.
He worked the soap between his palms, then ran his fingers through her tangled hair. She flinched when he touched the bruise on her temple, so he worked around it, careful, patient. Her hair was thick and heavy in his hands, full of grit from the fight. He worked the soap through it, strand by strand, and felt the tension leave her shoulders.
"Feels good," she murmured.
"Good."
He rinsed her hair, watching the suds run clear. Then he lathered his hands again and washed her back, her good arm, the places he could reach without making her turn. She let out a breath that was almost a sob.
"You're okay," he said. "I've got you."
She didn't answer. But she leaned back against him, her head resting against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her under the warm spray. She was shaking. So was he.
"I don't want to be the one who doesn't come home," she whispered.
"Then don't be."
Neither of them moved for a long time. The water ran over their shoulders, warm and constant, filling the small stall with steam that clung to the walls. Roy's arms stayed locked around her, his chin resting on the crown of her head. Her heartbeat thudded against his ribs. It wasn't fast anymore. It was steady. That was the thing he clung to.
Rosa's shivering eased by degrees. He felt it leave her body like a tide going out, her muscles loosening one by one against him. She let out a long, slow breath, and her head settled heavier against his chest.
"You're warm," she said, her voice muffled.
"You're cold."
"That's not what I said."
He smiled against her hair. "I know."
Another few minutes passed. The water began to lose its heat, turning from warm to lukewarm to tepid. Roy felt it first on his shoulders, the spray cooling. He reached past her and twisted the knob. The pipes groaned, then fell silent.
"Shirt's on the ledge," she said, not moving. "You brought it."
"I know."
"Don't need it anymore."
"You do." He loosened his arms, then reached for the towel. It was one of the communal ones, coarse and grey, hanging from a hook beside the sink. He shook it open and wrapped it around her shoulders, his hands pressing the fabric against her skin with firm, deliberate strokes. Her arms. Her back. Her sides. Friction, warmth, blood moving back to the surface.
She made a small sound, something between a gasp and a sigh. "That's not gentle."
"You need it."
"Didn't say I didn't like it."
He kept going until her skin was pink under the towel, until the shivering had gone quiet. Then he tucked the edges over her shoulders, collected her wet hair from beneath the fabric, and laid the heavy strands over the towel so it would dry faster.
"There," he said.
She looked up at him. Her eyes were still glassy, but they were clearer now. Less lost.
"Your turn," she said.
He grabbed the second towel from the hook and dried himself in quick, rough passes, chest, arms, legs, his hair already dripping onto his shoulders. Rosa watched him without saying anything. When he was done, he draped the damp towel over the curtain rod and reached for his shirt.
"Put that on," he said, holding it out.
She took it. The grey fabric was soft and worn, falling past her thighs when she pulled it over her head. She looked small in it. Smaller than she should have.
"Better?" he asked.
She touched the bruise on her temple. "Still spinning. But warmer."
"Good enough for now." He knelt in front of her. "We're going back to the cot. I'll get Sandy. She needs to know about the head."
"She already checked it."
"She checked the cut and the arm. Not the head." He met her eyes. "The head's the thing that scares me."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded, a small concession.
"Fine. But I'm walking."
"You're crawling."
"Walking."
"You just puked for an hour."
She gave him a look, tired but stubborn. "Walking."
He sighed, reached for her good hand, and helped her to her feet. She swayed once, twice, her weight leaning against him. Her bare feet knew the way down the hall even if her eyes didn't quite track straight. He kept his arm around her waist, her shoulder under his, and they moved through the steamy bathroom and into the cool hallway together.