Page 11 of What We Break
He hums, staring at the ceiling and almost tipping backward. I tug his arm until he's back to sitting. "Is that his name? He understands about the transformation. He has a very yellow aura."
Yellow.Huh. I don't see auras — that particular skill was not covered in nursing school — but if I did, yellow seems right. Something bright and slightly ridiculous and hard to look away from.
I check his vitals while we talk. Blood pressure slightly elevated, heart rate fast but not dangerous. "What kind of transformation are you going through?"
"I'm becoming a butterfly. It started with my hands, but now I can feel it happening to my whole body." He holds up his hands and wiggles his fingers, eyes crossing as he stares at them. "See the feathers?"
His hands look completely normal. Also, butterflies don't have feathers. But I don't think telling him that will make anything about this situation better.
"They do look different," I agree. "How do you feel? Any pain or nausea?"
"No pain. Just... changing." He attempts another wing flap. "It's beautiful, but scary. I've never been a butterfly before."
"That's totally understandable. Becoming a butterfly is a pretty special experience."
Marcus hums and starts mumbling to himself.
"How's our Monarch doing?" Reid asks from the doorway.
I turn. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one ankle crossed over the other. He looks completely at home, like he's lounging on a porch rather than standing in a chaotic ER. I get the feeling this man could make himself comfortable anywhere — a foxhole, a funeral, a burning building. Just lean against the nearest surface and settle in.
"Just checking on his wings," I say.
"They're getting stronger," Marcus announces proudly. "But I still can't fly."
"These things take time," Reid says, walking into the room. He hops up to sit on the counter next to the sink, swinging his legs like a kid. Like a big, grown, uniformed kid. "You don't want to rush the chrysalis phase, buddy. That's how you get lopsided wings. Nobody wants to fly in circles."
My patient's eyes widen, and he shakes his head. I tuck my chin and fight to hold in the laugh, focusing on taking a blood pressure. The medic — Reid — is impossible to ignore. He takes up a lot of space, even when he's just sitting there. I'm not a small woman — I've got broad shoulders and hips that require strategic shopping — but next to his hard angles and height, I feel almost delicate.
Delicate. When's the last time you felt delicate? Never. The answer is never.
"Dr. Cervantes wants to run some blood work," I tell Marcus. "Just to make sure the transformation is going smoothly."
"Will it hurt the wings?"
"Not at all. We'll be very careful."
Reid hops off the counter as I move past him toward the supply cabinet. He smells like coffee and rain. Two of my favorite smells.
"You're good with him," he says quietly.
I grin at him as I rifle through the supplies. "Thanks. You were, too."
"It's easy to take care of patients like this. All they need is a little reassurance, and it doesn't cost anything to give that to them." He picks up a box of gloves, tosses it in the air, and catches it. Tosses it again. The man cannot be still. "Plus, who am I to crush a man's dream of flight?"
I casually check his left hand while he's distracted with the gloves. No ring. Which doesn't mean anything. Not really. Guys with this kind of energy — this walking, talking, sunshine-factory thing he's got going — they get snapped up fast. There's definitely a girlfriend. Probably a stunning one. Probably someone who runs marathons and has perfect skin and doesn't eat two-day-old pasta in her underwear while talking to fictional characters.
Stop it. You don't know him. You've known him for a few minutes.
They were darn memorable minutes, though.
His radio crackles. "Unit four, we've got another festival transport."
Reid sighs, dropping his head back dramatically. "Duty calls. The citizens need me. See you around, butterfly nurse."
He's gone before I can think of a response. I'm left standing there with a blood draw kit in one hand, smiling at an empty doorway like a complete idiot.
Get a grip, Mitchell.
