Page 12 of Time for You
“Possibly?” Dean agreed. “It’s as good a guess as any, although I’d put my money on TBI. But I don’t think Psych is the place for him. Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” he added, waving as he walked away.
Daphne swallowed hard and marched into Henry’s room.
“The doctor said I’m perfectly sane,” he announced. “Which is a relief, as I hadn’t realized you thought I was mad.”
“You think you’re from”—Daphne screwed up her face and did some quick mental math—“about a century and a half ago. So yes, I thought you were ‘mad.’ And you still might be, honestly.”
“Are mental hospitals as terrifying here as they are in my time?”
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say no, although I can’t say I know much about your time,” Daphne said. “History was never my thing, you know?”
“Ah,” he said quietly. “So, what shall you do with me?”
“Honestly, no idea. We’re still waiting on some labs.”
“And what will these ‘labs’ tell us?”
“They’re the blood tests. They’ll tell me if you have any markers for encephalitis, for example. Or any other diseases that could be causing this delu—belief.”
“The other option could be I’m telling the truth,” he countered.
“Yeah, well, I’m a woman of science. I’d rather it be a disease, quite frankly.”
“Comforting,” he muttered.
“Shut up and let me clean out that scrape on your jaw,” Daphne sniped. That sort of thing usually fell to nurses, but they were already overloaded as usual, and it wasn’t like Daphne was doing anything. And his scrape was minor enough that it probably didn’t evenreallyneed attention. Which meant she was doing it for no apparent reason, but she’d already committed to it.
Daphne opened the drawer with the bandages and pulled out a bottle of disinfectant. “This will sting a little,” she warned him.
Henry tipped his head to the side, giving her a good look at his admittedly nice profile. “Does it always sting, or are you just using that because I’m bothering you?”
“It’s because you’re annoying,” she said. “Good patients get the non-hurty stuff.”
“Pity I’m not a good patient, then.”
“Stop talking so I can do this,” she said, deciding that getting into banter mode with him was not a great plan. He fell silent, and she gently (but maybe notthatgently) cleaned his cut and placed a bandage over it. “There. Should heal in a few days.”
“Thank you,” he said sincerely, and then frowned at her. “Your elbow—you haven’t seen to it yet?”
“Oh, right,” she said, flexing her arm. The skin felt tight, and she did need tosee to it, as he put it. “Yeah, I probably should.”
“Do you need assistance?”
“I can manage a bandage,” she snapped, and then felt absurdly guilty when his face fell. “Sorry, it’s been a long, weird day.”
“I could say the same myself.”
Daphne huffed out a laugh and pulled out another couple of bandages while Henry watched from the side of the bed.
“Are you quite sure you don’t need help?”
“Quite,” she replied. Daphne shrugged out of her hoodie—she would have to buy another, given how shredded the elbow was—and Henry turned away abruptly.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” he said stiffly. She vaguely remembered a romance novel she’d swiped from Ellie, where a man went into a complete meltdown over the sight of some lady’s ankles. That would explain his freak-out over her scrubs too, and Daphne decided to cut him a tiny break and not tease him about it. She stood over the sink, hissing occasionally at the sting, and ripped the bandage open with her teeth. Not the most sanitary option, but fuck it. She wastired. She sank onto the stool in front of the computer station with a sigh, shrugging back into her ruined hoodie.
Her calf was a little easier to reach, and she didn’t fail to notice that Henry glanced back at her and then immediately averted his eyes again when she hiked her scrubs up to her knee. She smothered a grin. “When exactly are you from?”
Henry looked at the floor. “1885,” he murmured.
