Thank fuck the Black Fever's got his tongue because he was about to croak back 'Rattray!' — a name that's neither factually correct nor welcome. Since that gives him an extra few moments to get his shit together, he shoos away Otto and Keller by insisting he won't drop and get a concussion between there and the field hospital proper, but really he just like. Is tired. And doesn't want an audience but does want to see Court, so.

Does he look like shit? Well, he's been on a rooftop for two days—with half the supplies they'd needed—tending Black Fever, a bite wound, and a withdrawal-ridden drunk with a broken femur—puking and bleeding his electrolytes out all over his stupid shirt. So, like, not his best, but he's trying his best, and that's what counts.

"Guess who–" okay, maybe he wasn't steady as he thought, but he can just lean on this table "–got his–" wheeled table "–zed bite–" wheeled table with no brakes "–merit badge–" that part's gasped out when his support whooshes out from under his hand and all however-many-hundreds-of-pounds-of-less-solid-man-than-he-was-three-days-ago-but-still-pretty-solid man tumbles to the floor into a dignified* and very handsome** heap.


* not verified by an objective source
** nor this