The ambulance arrives, collects her, and departs. Lalita is denied the opportunity to ride in it, but he follows as fast as he can.

Isabella tests her breathing, finds it painless, says: "Where's - my husband? Was the shooter caught?"

"Your husband - tall, brown, curly hair, excellent bone structure? He's been asking for you, but considering you've just been shot and I only had his word the two of you are married, I decided to wait until you woke up before letting him in. I did tell him the surgery went just fine and you'll barely even scar. Be careful, though, the bone repairs are still a little weak. Stay lying flat as much as you can, don't rest anything on or against your chest, don't lift heavy objects. Yes, they caught the shooter, although I can't tell you much more than that." He smiles faintly. "Been busy."

"We're married," Isabella confirms. "Maybe I should wear a ring if I give another speech." She holds still as instructed.

"Surprisingly comfortable, but I haven't tried to move yet."

"I try," he says dryly.

"How long should I expect to be in the hospital?" Isabella inquires of the doctor.

"A week, minimum. I'd say more like two if you were mostly human, but Vulcans bounce back faster, so if you're very lucky it won't take any more than a week."

"I will hope that I am as resilient as is plausible."

"You do that." He looks between his patient and her husband and then adds, "If anybody gets on your case about visiting hours, send 'em to me. Just don't do anything to make me regret it."

Isabella squeezes Lalita's hand. "Thank you."

"Well, he's friendly," Lalita remarks. "Cute, too."

"And very good at his job." She tries gingerly moving her arm, finds that her collarbone doesn't like it. "Well, I'm going to be fantastically bored, it would seem."

"Want me to read to you?"

"I think I would like that."

"Okay. Vulcan poetry?" he suggests.

"Oooh, yes."

So he will read her Vulcan poetry. He has a good voice for reading out loud.

Eventually she does fall asleep.

Lalita contemplates going somewhere, but eventually decides that no, he's slept in worse places than a hospital chair and given the option he would rather stay.

Lalita is still there! She may be able to tell 'still' from 'again' by the fact that he is napping in his chair.

It's a room. There's not much to it; bed, chairs, assorted medical equipment, a couple of cabinets. Sleeping husband.

Hmm. Sleeping husband within reach? If she only moves her arm at the elbow and not the shoulder?

Yes, in fact! She can reach his hand that way.

Excellent. Dozy handholding.

"Morning," she yawns. "Are you planning to stay here literally all week?"

"Should I not?"

"Oh, I'm not going to object, especially if you nip out and get me non-hospital food now and then."

"Of course, darling."

"I am actually hungry," she observes archly. "But I also don't want to let go of your hand. What a dilemma."

"I think food is probably more important than handholding," he says. "Probably."

"Oh, you're probably right. Darn." Handsqueeze.

"Thank you, t'hy'la."

Current news is that the young lady with the phaser was an off-duty Starfleet enlistee on shore leave who felt the need to defend her organization's policies, and that she has been scheduled for court martial and claims to have acted alone.

Lalita reports this to Isabella when he returns with her non-hospital-sourced breakfast.

"Well, that's better than most of the possibilities, I suppose."

"I'm particularly happy about 'acting alone', if it's true."

"Even falsely claiming it means that I'm not being openly and violently hunted by the entirety of Starfleet, though of course truly claiming it is better still."

"Yes, I suppose that would be a bit of a problem."

Isabella manages to drink her beverage through its straw, but still can't move her shoulders enough to convey the solids. "You may have to feed me," she says.

Om nom nom. "Your selection is of course impeccable. Is it weird that I miss priv? I could barely choke it down when we first landed but I'd like a bowl of it now. Pity about the Unfriendliness."

"No, I miss it a little too. But I'm used to missing foods I liked once and can't get anymore."

"Surely there are recipes to be had in some old archive."

"Only if it was popular enough, and wasn't anybody's trade secret, and even then there are some things it's hard to make without infrastructure I don't usually have. Not to mention that making it myself still means I can't have it nearly as often as I could when it was sold in grocery stores. And sometimes I spend a while on the wrong planet to get anything familiar. Like Davlia."

"Fair enough. I was very glad to eat bread again. I didn't expect that would be the thing I'd miss most as a political refugee."

"What did you expect?"

"Oh, if you'd asked me ahead of time I probably would have expected to miss something like peanut butter or cheese, but instead it was bread."

Lalita smiles fondly.

Isabella gives a wave that involves only her hand, not her arm.

"Oh, sure," says Lalita, standing up to get out of the way. "Do you want me to...?" He reaches for the stationary handle on the side of the cabinet, provided for the purpose of moving it from place to place.

Dr. Hall shakes his head. "No thanks, I got it."

Isabella's feet are undamaged. She stretches one out playfully in her husband's direction.

He giggles and pats it on his way past.

His way now clear, Dr. Hall walks to the cabinet, grabs the handle, and pulls. The cabinet comes away from the wall easily, turning to face outward into the room.

Violence ensues. It's hard to make out the details, because both of them are moving at full speed and their full speed is very, very fast. They're against the wall opposite Isabella's bed - then they're on the floor - then they're up again - then they're against the wall next to the door - then Lalita is thrown clear across the room and into the other cabinet, and the doctor follows him a fraction of a second later. All of this without a word, or even an audible breath, just the various noises of things hitting other things.

Whatever it is, it doesn't include answering that question.

"Well that was interesting," Lalita remarks. He glances at Isabella and adds, "Sorry I didn't answer you before. Too busy."

"Yes, I figured that out. Is attempting to confirm what else I think I've figured out going to get me killed or held hostage, or have you sufficiently - communicated with each other?"

He raises his eyebrows at Dr. Hall.

Dr. Hall smiles slightly.

"Yeah, we're fine. Go ahead and ask."

"Augment or human-passing alien?" she inquires first.

"Augment. Mostly human. Some Vulcan, some Betazoid, and that's just what I've identified; there could be more I don't know about."

"So, a little psi, enough that you didn't have to spot Lalita ruminating before reacting, but not enough to catch on before now, or enough to figure out without assaulting my husband that we are unlikely to turn you in."

"I don't get thoughts, just feelings. And I have enemies. He could've been one of them. He isn't, but he could've been."

"Enemies who'd plausibly turn up as the spouse of a phasered political activist."

"Not looking for me. They don't know where I am. But there's nothing stopping someone who just happens to be with them from showing up here on other business."

"Recent enough. Why," he glances at Lalita, "how old are you?"

"2277 minus 1995 - two hundred and eighty-two," he says.

"Huh," says Dr. Hall, impressed.

"I'd call it May-December but he's liable to outlive me, assuming no generally applicable immortality is invented in time. I found out when he accidentally hacked into some of my files and then didn't think to cover his tracks."

"Accidentally?"

"I was daydreaming a little. It happens."

"And one of the things he found was a half-finished pseudonymous essay which contained my opinions on augmentation. In addition to enough information to tell him what the Prometheus was up to between surveys, if you've been paying attention to exactly what kind of political activist you had for a patient." She pauses, then says, "T'hy'la - come here a moment?" And she lifts one hand, by the elbow, not the shoulder.

He can guess what she wants him for. He goes and nestles his face into her hand.

"Well, yes and no. As long as out of bed doesn't mean out of this room, you can miraculously recover and then stick around until your week is up, and I can say my low estimate was right and send you home. I've already been keeping a close eye on you in case somebody tried to shoot you again; if I keep doing that, there'll be no reason for anybody else to wander in unannounced and see you acting suspiciously healthy."

"That would be lovely. I suppose it would be too much to ask that this... set of circumstances... also constitutes a safe way to figure out why his blood works that way for the advancement of medical science, wouldn't it."

"Could be. Can't promise anything. It might not be a question I can answer by myself, and I'm not about to draw attention by getting anyone else involved. But we'll see. You want to do that now? I'll go get you what you need."

"Now would be nice. I would like to be able to move again."

He nods, and smiles slightly, and leaves.

She is still holding Lalita's hand! What a convenient way to inquire if he is hurt after all the flinging-around. He doesn't look it, but perhaps it is not visually obvious.

Nah, he's just fine. Dr. Hall was only very briefly trying to kill him; after those first few moments, they were both holding back. He's a little sore but not significantly impaired.

Good. She would not want to siphon off his magic blood if he needed all of it.

Nope! She is welcome to as much of his magic blood as she needs. (He doesn't expect it'll take that much; Dr. Hall did good work.)

Well that would be convenient.

Dr. Hall returns with appropriate supplies, assists in transferring some of Lalita's blood to Isabella and some to vials for him to study, and leaves. Apparently his talkative mood was a strictly temporary condition.

Isabella holds her husband's hand and heals.