Page 27 of Brotan

"Crow says you've been feeling sick for a while. Tell me what's going on?" I set my bag next to his chair and pull out my stethoscope.

"Crow?" Gus questions, his voice cracking with a strained chuckle. "Who the hell is Crow?"

Crow steps forward so he's standing square with Gus's chair. "Me, you old hardass."

Gus grunts and gives a small head shake. "Can't just have one damn name like the rest of us."

My exam confirms it: advancing flu, bordering on pneumonia. His lungs crackle like tearing paper. Temp's 101.3, pulse rapid and thready. He's already dehydrated—skin tents when pinched.

"You need fluids, antibiotics, and monitoring," I tell him, packing my stethoscope away. "Ideally, at my clinic, where I can keep an eye on you."

"Not happening." The declaration comes out between clenched teeth.

I look at Crow, who gives me a small headshake.

"Then someone needs to check on you every day," I counter, setting pill bottles on his side table with more force than necessary. "Make sure you're taking these, staying hydrated, and not drowning in your own fluid-filled lungs. I'll write a script for some antibiotics, and," I cut a glance to Crow, "Brotan can bring them out later."

Gus's gaze shifts to Crow, who's now standing arms crossed over his chest, expression closed. "I suppose this green menace has already volunteered?"

Crow's mouth quirks. "Someone has to make sure you don't die in your sleep, old man."

"Been trying to die in my sleep for a decade. Hasn't stuck yet."

I swallow a smile despite myself. "I'll come when I can, too. Between us, we'll keep you alive despite your best efforts."

Gus makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a harrumph, but I catch the flash of relief in his eyes—the involuntary reaction of a man who's been alone too long.

"You two know each other well?" I ask, checking Gus's blood pressure one final time.

"Better than we should," Gus mutters, the words triggering another coughing fit.

Crow shifts his weight, gaze fixed on the floorboards. "It’s not a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" Gus's eyebrows shoot up. "Girl ought to know what kind of monster she's riding with."

"Gus—" Crow's warning is clear, muscles tensing beneath his leather, but the old man waves it away with a gnarled hand.

"Few months back, Silas asked the club to check on some of us recluses out here in the sticks," Gus continues, rheumy eyes fixed on me. "This one drew the short straw." He jerks his chin toward Crow.

Crow's jaw clenches so tight I can almost hear his teeth grinding. The tension in the room thickens.

"Found me with my old service pistol," Gus says, his voice dropping to something raw and honest. "Had the barrel under my chin. Been sitting like that for hours, trying to work up the nerve."

The words punch through me. Suicide. I glance at Crow, whose expression has gone carefully blank, the same mask he wears whenever vulnerability threatens to crack his surface.

"This green bastard didn't say a word," Gus continues, ignoring the crackling tension. "Just sat down across from me. Waited me out." Gus's short sentences carry the weight of a memory too heavy for flourish. "When my hand started shaking too hard to hold the gun anymore, he took it. Emptied the bullets into his pocket like he was collecting loose change."

"You were having a bad day," Crow mutters, the words scraped raw. "Everybody has bad days."

"Says the man who came back the next day. And the day after that." Gus's eyes narrow on me. "Been showing up every few days since. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we just sit."

"I think that's enough reminiscing," Crow cuts in, voice tight with warning.

Gus ignores him. "First time he came back, I told him to get the hell off my property. Man didn't budge. Just sat there in my living room like a green statue. Finally asked him what his problem was."

Crow shifts his weight, muscles bunching beneath his leather.

"That's when he started talking. About the camps where they put his kind. About the fighting pits after. About what it's like to hate yourself so much you can't stand your own reflection." Gus's eyes, suddenly sharp despite his illness, lock on mine. "He's not what he pretends to be, Doc. Not a mindless weapon. Not an unfeeling beast."

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