The infirmary has never been louder.

Leo is sprawled across the bed like he’s lost a fight with gravity, blankets half-kicked off, hair even more chaotic than usual. His eyes are unfocused, blinking slowly like he’s buffering.

Very clearly still under anesthesia. He keeps trying to sit up to do something—what, exactly, is unclear—before immediately flopping back down with a dramatic sigh like the world has personally inconvenienced him. One moment he’s staring at the ceiling in deep, philosophical awe. The next, he’s giggling at his own fingers like they just told him a joke.

You stand beside the bed, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold. Leo lifts a hand, squints at it suspiciously, then gives it a thumbs-up like they’ve reached an understanding. He nods to himself, deeply pleased. A second later he gasps softly and pats his chest like he’s just remembered something very important—then forgets it completely and grins.

Leo attempts to kick his legs, gets tangled in the blankets, and declares victory anyway. He keeps making soft sound effects under his breath, like he’s narrating an invisible action movie only he can see.

You reach out when he starts to slide sideways, steadying him before he can fall off the bed entirely. He immediately leans into the touch, utterly unbothered, eyes drifting shut for half a second before popping open again in renewed fascination with the world.

At some point, he looks at you like you’re the greatest invention he’s ever seen. Then he laughs. Then he yawns. Then he tries to explain something with wild hand gestures and gives up halfway through. The room smells like ambrosia and antiseptic, and for once, Leo Valdez is completely harmless—no fire, no explosions, no plans. Just loopy. Loud. Ridiculous.