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He's icky. The cramps started late in the middle of the night. Simon thought it would be okay to sleep. A mistake on his part, a big mistake.
Simon's seen blood before, cleaned it off of weapons and patched up too many wounds to count, but pulling himself from blood-soaked sheets always had the same, deep-seated sickness coursing through his veins. There's no possible way to miss the way blood drips down his leg, soaking through his shorts.
Another thing he ruined by his own negligence. He didn't think ahead, all he had been concerned about was being comfy in bed once his pain medication kicked in. He should have thought ahead. Now, it was either the walk of shame, or trying to clean up his mess here. Shame was already in the front of his mind, mocking and mean. He thought he'd get used to feeling like he wasn't a real man, but it burns deep. There's not even water to put out the fire. He has to simply shake it off and hope the fire doesn't scar him again.
Icky. The sheets would have to be tossed, along with the stained shorts, does he even have any pads in his room? He seemed to remember running out of the ones in his bathroom weeks ago. All of it felt too heavy on his mind, painful and too much.
He doesn't make it to the door before he's curling up on the floor. The smallest whimpers rumbling in his chest the longer he's sat there. It hurts. It hurts and he's so icky. Simon doesn't hear his own cries when they bounce off the walls, only the ringing in his ears and the sounds of gasping breaths.
Any surrounding sound falls on deaf ears. The knocking, or the buzzing of his phone; he doesn't hear it. Much to focused on the pain, the fear, the blood cooling on the tile. Everything blurs together, feelings blending until it's all just miserable. His legs pulled up to his chest, head tucked between his knees in such a way that burns his back—he doesn't move from that position. Too much.
Even as gentle hands settle on his shoulders, he doesn't move. Just the slightest shake of his shoulders.
"Riley..?" His mind screams that it's warm and safe. "Si, can ye look at me?" A warm hand settles on the back of his neck, smoothing out the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck. The voice soft, with that gravelly twinge that was perfectly unique to Mactavish. To the man he knew as comfort and protection.
It feels like such a big task, just something as simple as looking up at him. But he can feel the eyes watching him. So gentle, never with the overwhelming expectations when he's like this. Small, scared and hurting. He struggles far more than he should, but eventually his tear-stained face meets John's. Breaths coming in quick and strained.
"My love…" Mactavish hums, moving the hand on his neck to gently cup Simon's tear-dampened cheek. "We gotta clean ye up, huh?" He says it like it's the easiest thing in the world, like he's happy to do the rotten work.
Simon sniffles. He can't find it in himself to do anything but agree. Getting out of what felt like a puddle of blood underneath him would have to at least help a little.
All of the work he had to do was quickly diminished to a whole ton of absolutely nothing. Strong arms picking him up without missing a beat, no hesitation to get blood on his clothes. Ratty and old or clean, Simon saw the same thing, clothes he was ruining by just being offered help.
"Lay on me, aye? Gonna get ye in the shower and I'll get you fresh, warm clothes."
Simon didn't quite expect that Tav would be the one holding him up gently to wash away the blood. There wasn't any hesitation, just a gentle 'can I?' before washing off the delicate spots. He even took care of Simon's sweaty hair. Taking the time to dry him off and blow-dry his hair too.
Saying he was just small after would be an understatement.
'Teeny tiny Simon Riley.' He heard once or twice.
Simon certainly feels it now. Any sudden cramp, or heavy pain making him whimper and look up at John as if it would suddenly make it any better; depending on his caregiver for anything he could possibly do.
And Mactavish tries to fix it. He takes the work load off his little's shoulders and focuses on making him feel at least a little better. It's not like he doesn't see the way Simon shies away from looking at himself, the way his hand sleepily traces the scars on his chest. Whatever John can do, he'll do it for his boy.
"Almost done." He smiles at Simon while he unfolds the pad for him and gets quite literally everything else done for him. Redressing, then the sheets, then making sure Simon takes his medicine… For the longest time, Simon didn't understand that when Mactavish meant he'd help with everything, he would genuinely help with everything.
Simon nearly falls asleep on his shoulder when he's lifted back up. Steady, gentle steps to not upset his already hurting tummy. The second he goes to chew his lip, a pacifier is placed at his lips. Everything he needed was there for him before he could even ask. He loses track of how long they've walked, and before he knows it, the room smells different—warmer—and they're slowing to a stop. For a moment, Simon thinks he'll be laid down and left alone.
"All clean, dove, all done." John coos as he sits down, his little one in his lap. Again, Simon's head rests on his shoulder, soft eyes blinking with the effort to stay fully aware. Despite how small he is, despite everything feeling so big around him.
"'ubba…" He mumbles behind the pacifier shield. The aches dull just enough for him to wiggle into a much more comfortable position. His eyes briefly scan the room, different, but not unwelcome. John's room, safe and sound. Away from the icky mess.
"Bubba's here." Tav says it like a promise; he won't let go, he won't leave. He's here, holding his love so very gently. Simon takes it for what he understands it to be—he's not leaving this time.
After all the tears and unrelenting pain, he can't help but close his eyes. Sleep doesn't come, he doesn't expect it to, but he can simply rest. That's what he needs. Focusing on his bubba's gentle hums and just breathing.