Page 28 of Dark Shaman: Love Found
She checked his pupils, lifting each eyelid carefully. Still dilated, but they contracted slightly at the penlight's beam. Another good sign. He was responding to stimuli.
"You've been out for over two weeks." She sat on her chair and took his hand. His fingers were longer now, elegant in a way they hadn't been before. "Your body's been doing some serious renovation. You're going to be shocked when you see yourself."
His fingers curled slightly around hers. Definitely voluntary movement.
"That's it," she encouraged. "Take your time. There's no rush."
Yes, there was, for her, but he needed to do this at his own pace.
The monitors showed another spike in brain activity. REM sleep, maybe? Or the precursor to actual consciousness? She'd seen other Dormants wake from their transitions, but each one was different. Some came up slowly, likeswimmers rising from deep water. Others snapped awake as if they'd only been napping.
"Did you enjoy the stories I've been reading to you?" she asked. "I finished that entire series about Marcus the Magnificent Bastard. In book three, he totally should have let the villain win. Would have been a better ending."
She was babbling, but the sound of her voice seemed to be helping. His breathing had changed, becoming more natural.
"Andrew has been by every day, and even Roni came to visit. The two of you should have been great friends. The kid shares your sarcastic sense of humor."
More finger movement. His whole hand flexed this time, a real grip rather than just twitches. The monitors were going crazy now, displaying patterns she'd been waiting over two weeks to see.
"Your vitals are looking good," she reported, falling back on medical facts when emotion threatened to overwhelm her. "Heart rate steady, blood pressure normal, oxygen levels perfect. Your body's ready for you to come back."
She reached for the call button, then hesitated. According to protocol, she should notify the attending physician immediately when a patient showed signs of emerging from transition coma, but a part of her, a selfish, unprofessional part, wanted these moments to herself. She'd kept vigil for sixteen days. Didn't she deserve to be the first person that Tim saw when he opened his eyes?
"I should probably call Bridget," she said, not moving to do so. "She'll want to run tests, make sure everything's functioning properly. But between you and me, I think we can wait a bit before the medical circus begins."
Tim's head moved slightly, the first non-reflexive movement above his neck. His lips parted as if he were trying to speak, though no sound emerged. The effort seemed to exhaust him, and his features relaxed back into stillness.
"Easy," Hildegard murmured. "Your vocal cords haven't been used in two weeks. Everything's going to feel strange at first."
Strange was an understatement. When he did wake fully, he'd be dealing with a body that was four inches taller, probably thirty pounds lighter, and proportioned completely differently than what his brain remembered. The disorientation would be monumental.
"You're setting new records. I'm sure you will be delighted by that. No one else has grown as much during their transition."
His breathing hitched, then steadied. Beneath closed lids, his eyes were moving rapidly. Definitely REM sleep now or something close to it. She wondered what he was dreaming about.
"I know you're probably comfortable in there." She squeezed his hand gently. "No responsibilities, no one asking you to draw anything, no social interactions to navigate. But it's time to come back. The world's been suspiciously peaceful without your particular brand of venom."
She chuckled. "Wait until you start growing fangs and venom. That's going to hurt like a bitch. Bridget will give you some pain-numbing medication, but it only goes so far."
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. Could he actually hear her? Was he processing what she was saying in the dream world he was still submerged in?
"Plus, you can't properly appreciate how much I've improved in your absence if you're unconscious," she added, playing to what she suspected would motivate him most. "I've been practicing my sarcasm on your comatose form. We can have a friendly competition, or not so friendly. It's up to you."
She really should call the doctor. Protocol existed for good reasons, and patient care came before personal desires, but she still didn't reach for the button.
"You know what the hardest part has been?" she said instead. "Waiting for your running commentary. It's been downright peaceful and incredibly boring around here."
His fingers twitched in what she chose to interpret as indignation.
"Oh, don't worry. I'm sure you'll make up for lost time. You'll probably wake up with a list of grievances about your care. The linens being too abrasive, the hospital gown not allowing for optimal ventilation, etcetera.”
Hildegard was talking just to talk now, filling the space with words to keep him engaged.
He was finally waking up, and she had no idea what she would do with him once this stage was over.
Their dynamic had been established during the first moments of their interaction—his outrageous flirting and the unexpected chemistry that sparked between them.
She'd finally met someone who enjoyed her particular brand of wit and dished out as good as he got, and that was before she'd spent over two weeks memorizing every change in his features. Before she'd read him five novels and discussed the plots with his unconscious form. Before she'd started doing yoga in his room because leaving him there alone felt wrong. Before she'd gotten attached to her patient in ways that crossed professional boundaries.
