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Stick and Poke are both half-asleep when Killer slips in. Poke wraps an arm around the younger man’s waist, dragging him into the bed to lie between them, and his brow furrows as he feels the chill of Killer’s skin and the way he shivers. “Kil’ika?” he murmurs, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at him. While Poke can barely see in the dim light of the bedroom, he feels Stick’s weight shift as he does the same on Killer’s other side. “You alright?”
Killer nods, burying himself in the warmth between them, and they move together to wrap the heavy quilt around them, keeping him close. “Panic attack, cold,” he manages, and Stick sighs before wrapping him up in a tight hug, giving Poke a worried look over Killer’s shoulder. It’s one of the nastier effects of his panic attacks - his temperature drops, and he can’t warm up again for hours - and it means he had a particularly bad attack. They’re all familiar with it, and they know the best ways to pull him out of it: touch, and talking him through it.
“You’re okay now, cyar’ika, we’ve got you,” Stick says, his rough voice quiet as he rubs a hand over his arm, Poke taking both Killer’s hands in his to warm them a little. “You need anything? Water, something to eat?”
Killer shakes his head, the shivering that always feels to Poke like it comes from his very bones starting to ease up. “Please stay.”
Poke smiles and kisses his forehead as they hold Killer close. “Always.”