The recovery suite had been turned into a fortress with softer furniture.
The curtains were drawn against the palace's curiosity. The lights were low and warm, after Chris had threatened, very calmly, to strangle whoever turned on something fluorescent near him again. The room smelled like antiseptic and linen and that faint, unmistakable newborn scent that didn't belong to anything else.
Chris was on the bed, propped up with enough pillows to qualify as architecture. The sheets were tucked around him like the nurses were trying to trick his body into believing it was safe. His skin was still a little too pale, his hair messy, and his mouth had the tight set of a man who had survived something he refused to admit had scared him.
Dax stood just shy of the bed with their son.
