There was just a beat of tension, of hesitation when he reached for her. In moments where 'lucid' was completely out of her grasp, Elia could be dangerous, responsive only to a select few. Marcus could usually reach her, as well as her own handler. And Dean, if he handled her with less gruffness – kid gloves.
He did, and she softened a little under his hand, letting him guide her without snapping or snarling or putting up a fight. She was tired; she looked tired. Tousled curls and bare feet; like a little girl out of bed, except not little. In the elevator, she shifted to lean gently up against Dean's arm, her head tilted against his shoulder – not in any untoward way. A few days of hard training, a few nights without sleep, and he might have felt similarly cuddly.
Even when the elevator doors opened to the sickbay, Elia didn't argue. That was new; she hated the place. But she allowed herself to be led toward a bed and seated. She couldn't help glancing around with skepticism, though. "Here? Can't I go back to Dragon?" The medical floor had nothing to offer her, as far as rest went. No one to curl up against, none of her familiar things.