Unfixable

Diagnosis

"Nines! Nines! Wake up! Phck, wake up!" Nines rolled, holding himself over the edge of the bed as he threw up. "Phck! It's okay-it's okay..." His throat burned as he sobbed and choked bile down his chin. He wasn't kneeling in the mud of the trenches anymore. The putrid smell of rot had lifted. He couldn't see. The room was still dark, and his eyes were wet with tears, but he was pretty sure he was inside somewhere. It was warm, and the surface beneath his body was firm, but giving, far more comfortable than his small cot in the resting camp. His skin felt sticky with sweat, and his legs were trapped. He panicked a little before realising the thick material coiled around his legs was a cotton sheet. "Hey, it's okay, I'm here..." Gavin drew back as Nines flinched at the light touch on his shoulder.

"Y-your leg...I-is it..." Nines didn't finish the question, so Gavin wasn't sure which answer he wanted to hear. He could say his leg was fine, but that wasn't necessarily true in the grand scheme of things. He had no idea what Nines had just seen or how awake he was. Was he awake enough to remember that he'd lost a leg? Is that what he'd dreamed about? He hesitated as he formed an answer, holding back from touching him lest he flinch again.

"Um...I mean, it's still gone, but it's alright. The stitches have healed and everything, see? Here, you can feel it." Nines shuddered in relief at the news. He allowed it as Gavin shuffled closer beneath the duvet and worked on untangling the sheets. Once they were free, he tossed them back and hooked his leg over Nines' thigh. Nines was hesitant to look at first, reaching down blindly and letting Gavin take his wrist to guide his fingers to the smooth skin at the base of his stump. He caressed it slowly, laying his palm flat and stroking over the scarred surface. He pulled his hand up and sighed in relief. It was clean. There was no blood. His skin was dry besides the lingering clamminess of his own sweat. "You had a bad dream?" He didn't even have to ask to know the answer. Nines nodded as he flopped down on his front, still hanging over the edge as his stomach churned. "You don't have to talk about it." Relief flooded Nines' chest at the reassurance.

He blinked as Gavin's bedside light turned on. It wasn't too bright, but it was a sudden change. He sighed softly, feeling much calmer with the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Unfortunately, the light also alerted him to the mess he'd made. He whined mournfully as he looked at the puddle of vomit spreading on the carpet. Some of it had gotten on the bedsheet, though it didn't seem enough to have tainted the mattress beneath.

"Hey-hey! It's okay...I got it..." Nines felt even worse as he heard Gavin shuffling around. There was the telltale thud of his prosthetic on the floor as he pulled it on and tied the laces. Nines felt his lips quiver as Gavin got to his feet with a tired groan and limped his way around the bed, using the mattress for support. "Don't worry about it, alright?" he soothed as he leaned down to run a hand through Nines' damp locks. He was soaked with sweat. Must have been one phcked up dream he was having..."You want to take a bath?" Nines sniffled quietly, almost feeling sick again as the taste of vomit lingered in his throat.

Gavin supported his arm as he sat up looking like a chastised child. He didn't apologise, but Gavin didn't give him room to. He murmured gentle assurances all the way to the bathroom, where he plugged and started the bath before grabbing a small towel to clean the floor. Nines climbed over the edge of the tub and sat in the bath trembling. He wasn't cold, but he couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't stop thinking about Connor and Sixty. Holding Connor as he bled out in his arms. Catching Sixty's body as he fell. The blood from Connor's back. The hole in Sixty's forehead.

Gavin quietly came and went a couple of times to rinse the cloth in the sink. Nines shut the water off and sat quietly, listening to the thuds and shuffles coming from the bedroom. He guessed Gavin was stripping the bed. It would make sense. There was vomit on the bottom sheet, and the duvet was probably damp with sweat. Nines couldn't help feeling bad. Gavin shouldn't have to do those things. He was still in recovery. Nines was the one who'd made the mess. He should be the one cleaning it up. He looked up as the door opened and Gavin walked in, using his cane for balance.