His eyebrows quirk at the display. Tired. That's all it is. She's just tired. More specifically, the instruments indicate she's in an advanced state of fatigue, four or five days without rest. Good. That's good—it hasn't been months, for her, only days. And bad, because she must have run herself ragged, looking for him. His fault. Good and bad, both, like everything in the past...it's been less than an hour. Has it really been less than an hour?

Time. He can barely understand it.

He runs his hands through his hair. Well. Fatigue. There's nothing he can do about that—only let her sleep and recover on her own. He'd rather it was something he could help with, do something about, make better right now, but it isn't, and all he can do is walk back to the examining table and look down at her. Sleeping.

They're so helpless, when they sleep, other races. Faces open and bodies loose and their eyes moving under their lids, and he always wonders what they're dreaming. How they can stand being so helpless, for so long.

Careful not to disturb her sleep, he sits beside her and overhears her murmuring. It bites into him, her last comment, and he knows when she wakes up, he'll offer to take her back, to him. He'll have to. Because this, what's happening now, between them, is going to be enough of a burden, for both of them, and she doesn't need the drums, too. Let this happen with him, his other; let it be even that little bit simpler, easier, for her.

He takes her hand, holds it in both of his, and can't find the words to say. No promises, no assurances. Only holding her hand in his, and waiting.