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Anya couldn’t do it.
She just…couldn’t.
She needed to, but she couldn’t.
For Christ’s sake it was her fucking job and she still couldn’t do it.
Because she couldn’t do anything, apparently.
He was all the way across the ship, far away. She shouldn’t be this pathetic, shouldn’t be this useless- but it was still like he was hovering over her. The single dead pixel in the corner of her vision. Always there. Always waiting.
At least the medbay had a lock.
A gasp, something short of a wheeze came from below her. She finally forced herself to look back down.
Curly was lying on the cot, looking up at her (not like he had much choice), surrounded by his own blood because they couldn’t afford to keep changing the bed sheet. His breath coming in as painful sounding rasps, like they always did. His single blue eye staring up at her, unblinking.
She swallowed: she needed to give him his painkillers.
“Just…just try and tap me if you need me to stop, okay?” She whispered, like she didn’t know that it always hurt. No matter what.
Curly only gurgled in response, because he couldn’t do anything else to show that he understood her.
And that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it.
He couldn’t tell her to stop.
Her fingers tighten over the pill bottle, scratching at the cap with her uneven nails.
There’s a part of her that still hated him. Will forever hate him. For not doing anything. For letting the situation fester and rot just because he couldn’t accept it.
Maybe he had wanted to do something, but she’ll never know now, will she.
She forced herself to exhale, not remembering when she started holding her breath.
Her hands were shaking as she popped open the bottle.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” She muttered under her breath, over and over like a mantra, wrenching open Curly’s mouth and shoving the pills down his throat.
He choked on them. Because he always did.
She stifled a sob. She had a job to do. She had a job to do. It was her responsibility.
Her responsibility.