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It’s not all that late yet, really—ship time’s just past 2100 hours—but it’s one of those nights flying through the Deep where it feels like it could be 3am for how calm and peaceful everything is. They’re not running from anyone. They’re in no rush to get to anywhere. They’re expected back on Mirzakhani for the kids’ graduation in just over a week, but the trip there is short and smooth enough that Krejjh can take their time, give everyone a chance to rest.
Brian’s in the cockpit with them, sitting in the captain’s chair with his feet up underneath him and a notebook balanced on his lap. They’ve got an old recording of Dwarnian folk songs playing at a low volume just to keep them company, and Brian can’t help but smile every time Krejjh murmur-sings along.
As much as Brian loves spending time with the whole crew, singing and joking and bickering with Arkady, he’s also grateful for moments like this when it’s just him and his spouse and the beauty of space.
“How’s grammar going?” Krejjh asks him, leaning over to put a hand on his thigh under the guise of peering at his notebook.
Brian grins. “Pretty good! I’ve got a lot of the constructions down, but I, uh, I’m not sure I’m pronouncing all the vowels right yet. I’ll have to ask RJ to give me a hand once they’re feeling better.” He puts his notebook aside so he can grasp Krejjh’s free hand in both of his and fiddle with their fingers. “French is a lot, uh… gooier than Dwarnian or Vre Chel Noke, it’s not so much in the lips and teeth as it is in the mouth. And of course it’s way more complicated than English, just from, like, a sound-making standpoint. But I’m having a good time, it’s, you know. A good challenge.”
Krejjh smiles lazily at him. “I love when you just say things, Crewman Jeeter.”
Brian snorts. “Aw, thanks, bud.”
He leans over to kiss them, relishing in the calm night, the easy conversation, the warmth of his ship surrounding him.
The cockpit door whooshes open, and Krejjh whines as Brian pulls away to see who’s come to join them.
But they can hardly be annoyed at the interruption when it’s just RJ, in a plaid set of flannel pajamas that they may or may not have woven themself and thick woolen socks instead of their usual workboots. Their hair is in sleep-mussed waves around their face, and between the rosy cheeks, pink nose, and the way they lean against the doorframe, knuckling sleepily at one eye, they look like they could be all of about five years old.
Something warm and paternal twists behind Brian’s ribs. He reaches over to turn the music down further and softly says, “Hey, dude. We thought you’d gone to bed already.”
“Yeah, how ya feeling, champ?” Krejjh adds.
RJ blinks at them, mumbles, “I’m… I’m okay,” around a crackly yawn. They sniffle and rub at their nose with the cuff of their sleeve. “Where is everybody?”
“In their rooms, I imagine,” Krejjh says.
Brian tries for a teasing smile. “Think they all took your cold as an excuse to turn in early. It’s that kinda night.”
“But you’re welcome to join us, if you can’t sleep,” Krejjh offers, moving some fruit jerky wrappers off the bench between their chairs. “We’ve been snuggling, and listening to music, and Crewman Jeeter’s been working on his French!”
“Nous serons reconnaissants pour ton compagnie,” Brian tries.
He expects RJ to laugh, or groan, or at the very least correct him—he’s pretty sure he missed a silent s or two in there—but they just frown blearily at him and muffle a few wet coughs into their sleeve.
Brian and Krejjh can’t help but share a wince. Neither of them loves the sound of that.
“I… shouldn’t be here,” RJ mumbles, rubbing at their eyes again. “Can’t get you sick, Brian, your—your lungs—but. It. Was cold in my room.”
“Aw, bud,” Brian says, heart breaking. “You really don’t feel well, huh?”
RJ shakes their head, bottom lip jutting out in the first stage of a miserable pout, and—case in point—says, “Lonely.”
There’s no more need to discuss it. Krejjh and Brian exchange a single look that does more to get them on the same page than an hour more of talking about it ever could. Krejjh starts fiddling with dials on the control panel, turning the cockpit’s heat up a degree or two, while Brian gets up and takes RJ by the shoulders, gently guiding them over to the bench.
“It’s no good to be cold and lonely when you’re sick, dude,” he soothes, rubbing circles into their back. “I’m fine. A cold won’t kill me, and if it tries to, I’ve still got Doc’s oxygen machine prepped and ready to go. Come sit with us.”
“Sit” might not be the word he wants, as evidenced by the way RJ half-stumbles across the cockpit like they’re not quite awake enough to be steady on their feet yet. Brian helps them lie down sideways on the cushioned bench between the pilot and captain’s chairs with their head in Brian’s lap, and RJ doesn’t protest or question him, just curls up as small as they can make themself, shivering a little.
“Krejjh, can you—?” Brian says, and without taking their eyes off the controls, Krejjh passes over the blanket Brian keeps tucked under their seat for this very purpose.
Well. Usually, it’s Brian himself stretching out on this makeshift loveseat, curled up under his blanket while Krejjh flies—that’s why they had the bench installed in the first place, after Arkady got sick of almost tripping over him on the floor—but this is just as good.
“There you go,” he says softly, spreading the blanket over his friend. “Is that better, dude?”
They hum a sleepy affirmative and shift a little, resting their head more comfortably on his thigh. Brian wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve fallen back asleep already, and wonders if he can go back to his French exercises without disturbing them.
The floor steadies under his feet as Krejjh decelerates, easing the engine a bit smoother. “Should I… put the music back on, Crewman Jeeter?” they ask softly, hovering a hand over the radio dial.
“Yeah,” Brian decides, sending them a grateful smile. “That might be nice. Nothing like a Dwarnian lullaby when you’re not feeling your best.”
The music fades back in, still at a low volume but enough to be audible, sweet strings and a multitude of voices adding to the background hum of the engine.
Krejjh sings along under their breath for a few ticks, glancing back and forth between McCabe and the viewscreen, then says, “But they’re… going to be all right, aren’t they?”
“Oh, for sure, dude,” Brian promises. He’s too far away to touch them without messing up his lap pillow, so he settles for laying a reassuring hand on RJ’s back instead. “Human colds are barely anything, and I really do think this is just a regular human cold. Rare for this crew, I know, but—”
He laughs a little, and RJ stirs, sniffling. They start to sit up, pawing at their nose.
“Sorry, sorry,” Brian whispers, gently nudging their head back down. “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”
RJ sniffles sharply, rubs their nose hard with one hand, and with only a soft gasp of warning, curls even tighter in on themself to muffle a wet sneeze into their sleeve.
“Aw, bless you, bud,” Brian coos as RJ coughs from the chest, trying so hard to keep them contained in the crook of their elbow that they tremble.
“Te sh’krem la, Sharpshooter McCabe,” Krejjh echoes sweetly, reaching over to curve a comforting hand over RJ’s ankle.
They catch their breath with a whimper, and Brian’s lungs ache in sympathy. “Poor thing, it’s okay,” he whispers, spreading his palm over RJ’s forehead. It’s mostly to brush the hair out of their face, but it serves the secondary purpose of letting him test the heat radiating off their skin. “Aw, man, I think you’re running a temperature, dude.”
“Is that bad?” Krejjh says, glancing over at him. “That’s bad, right?”
“Doesn’t have to be,” Brian assures them, running his hand through RJ’s hair in slow, even strokes. “Just can’t be very comfortable. RJ, how ‘bout I get you some medicine, love?”
They make a weak, grumbly sort of sound that drags a smile out of Brian despite himself. “I know, bud, it’s no fun, but you’ll feel so much better and then you can get some good sleep.”
When they don’t protest, just sniffle pitifully and turn their face into Brian’s thigh, he says, “Brian Jeeter to Violet Liu.” His comm chirps right away, but he keeps his voice down in case their First Mate’s already asleep (she gets pissy when she’s woken). “Hey, Violet? Would you mind bringing some fever reducers up to the cockpit, please?” RJ sniffles again, and shifts, quite possibly wiping their nose on Brian’s pant leg (it’s hard to tell when he can’t see their face), so he adds, “And a… box of tissues?”
“Of course,” Violet says, and he hears the rustling of her getting out of bed, followed by a whine of protest that he will absolutely be teasing Arkady about in the near future. “I’m on my way—are you all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine, dude,” Brian promises. “Got McCabe up here with us.”
“They should be asleep in their own bed,” Violet says, too affectionately to really be called scolding. “You think they have a fever?”
“Not like I’ve got a thermometer or anything, but yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
The comm goes quiet for a minute, other than the sounds of Violet gathering supplies, and then she says cautiously, “You know, Brian… if you catch a chest cold—”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he interrupts, not sure if RJ’s with it enough to feel guilty. He keeps stroking their hair just in case, letting his palm linger on their forehead every few passes to offer some cool relief. “Worst case, we’ll be on planet in a couple days and you can take a better look at me. Till then, if there’s anything I can do to make them feel better, to help them sleep…”
“You have to,” Krejjh fills in, smiling at him over RJ’s small, sleeping form. “We both do.”
“Of course you do,” Violet agrees with a sigh. “Just… be careful. I’m bringing you some Vitamin C packets. Take them.”
“Suppose that can’t hurt,” Brian allows. “Thanks, Violet.”
“Be there soon. Violet Liu out.”
“I’ll, uh, set up the autopilot,” Krejjh offers, already adjusting the controls. “Just in case.”
“Good idea,” Brian says with a grateful smile. RJ seems to be as comfortable as they can be, curled up in his lap like this, but once they’ve had some medicine, they should really be in a bed. And if their own is too cold and lonely, then it’ll just have to be Brian and Krejjh’s bed.
It’s not long before the cockpit door slides open and Violet comes in, armed with her doctor’s bag and a cup of water. She sets them both down out of the way and kneels in front of the bench, placing a gentle hand on RJ’s shoulder.
“McCabe? It’s Violet, can you sit up for me for a sec?”
Their eyes stay shut tight, their brows pinched in pain or irritation. Their only acknowledgment that they heard Violet at all is a soft, raspy sound in the back of their throat.
Violet frowns, glancing up at Brian and Krejjh for a moment, then touches the back of her hand to RJ’s forehead and tries again. “McCabe, sweetie, you feel really warm. Do you mind if I take your temperature?”
When they still don’t stir, her frown deepens, and she starts to rifle through her bag. “Were they this lethargic all night?”
“No,” Brian says, worry lancing through his chest. “They came in here, they were… talking to us just a minute ago, right, Krejjh?”
“I think they’re just… really tired, Doctor Liu.”
Violet hums thoughtfully and pulls out a digital thermometer. She scans RJ’s forehead and relaxes a bit at the reading, but only a bit. “38.3. Not great, but not high enough to worry me if we can get them responsive. You give it a try, Brian.”
While she takes a washcloth from her bag and dips it in the cup of water, Brian shifts in his seat a little so he can get one arm around RJ’s shoulders, giving them a gentle shake. “RJ. Time to wake up, bud.”
To his relief, they sit up, coughing a little as they blink their eyes open. They peer blearily at Violet and murmur, “Es-ce-que c’est toi, maman?”
Brian freezes, heart dropping into his stomach. Violet and Krejjh both look to him questioningly, but he can’t quite bring himself to voice the translation. Instead, he leans in closer, rubbing RJ’s shoulder comfortingly, and says, “Non, RJ, ce sont tes amis. Brian, Krejjh, et Violet. Nous sommes ici, tu es sauf.”
“Oh,” RJ says, voice quiet and small and a little bit trembly. They sniffle and touch a shaky hand to their forehead. “Ohh, je ne me sens pas très bien.”
“They don’t feel good,” Brian translates, rubbing circles into their back mostly as an excuse to help keep them propped up. “And I… think they’re a little out of it.”
“Here, this might help.” Violet gently dabs the cold compress against their forehead. “McCabe, do you know who I am?”
RJ hesitates, then says weakly, “Violet Liu.”
Triplet sighs of relief.
“Good, that’s right,” Violet says with a kind smile. She pulls a packet of pills out of her bag and offers them with the cup of water. “Think you can take some medicine for me?”
RJ takes the pills without protest and swallows one dry. “You should… start with report one,” they mumble, then swallow the second pill, “and… proceed chronologically.”
Brian, Krejjh, and Violet all exchange worried glances.
“Okay, maybe they’re a lot out of it,” Brian admits.
RJ grumbles something unintelligible, and then breaks into a coughing fit, doubling over to hack into their knees.
“Some water now, McCabe, there you go,” Violet coaxes, helping them sit up some and then gently holding the cup to RJ’s lips. “Good job.”
They take a few sips, then turn away, rubbing their nose with their wrist and muffling a few more soft, tickly coughs into their sleeve. They make another tired, grumbly sound and slump back into Brian’s chest, eyes fluttering closed again.
“RJ?” Brian says, rubbing their arm.
“It’s okay, let them sleep,” Violet decides, putting the cup back down, and folds the washcloth into thirds to lay it across RJ’s forehead. “This should help too.”
“We… still think this is just a regular human cold, right?” Krejjh checks, wringing their hands together. “Doctor Liu?”
“They’ll be fine,” Violet promises, though she sounds a little less sure than Brian would like. “Fevers can do weird things to people, even low-grade ones. They just need a good night’s sleep and a chance for the meds to kick in.”
“How long should it take them to kick in?” Brian asks.
Violet sits back on her heels with a sigh. “Let’s just say if their fever hasn’t gone down in an hour or two, I… will be a little bit worried. I can set them up in the medbay, keep an eye throughout the night.”
“No, hey, there’s no reason for you to lose sleep. They can bunk with me and Krejjh, we’ll comm you if anything changes.”
Violet frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, dude, they deserve to sleep in a real bed,” Brian insists, “not that old cot in the medbay.”
“Plus, we’d hate to deprive First Mate Patel of her snuggle buddy,” Krejjh adds with a grin.
“Okay,” Violet laughs, cheeks flushing. “Comm me if their fever goes up or if any of you needs anything. I’ll come check on them first thing in the morning.”
“Sounds good. Thanks, Violet.”
She digs in her bag one more time and tosses a pile of powdered Vitamin C supplements in his lap. “Take those, Jeeter. Don’t be stupid about this.”
“You sound like Arkady,” he laughs, but gives her a somber nod. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“I’ll leave the rest of the medkit with you, too, just in case,” Violet says, sifting through her bag’s contents. “We’ve got tissues, the thermometer, more fever reducers, plus one of those brand name cold and flu pills that’s supposed to be a decongestant, pain reliever, and cough suppressant but doesn’t really work, so… save that for if they’re really miserable, that’s the only time it’s worth it.”
“What, no throat powder to mix into their coffee?” Brian teases.
“Do as I say, not as I do, Brian.” She gets to her feet, lips pursed to hide a smile. “Good night, McCabe,” she says before she goes, adjusting the damp washcloth over their forehead. “Feel better.”
Once she’s gone, Brian relaxes a little, settling back into the quiet late-night atmosphere now that it’s just the three of them again. RJ must have dozed back off because they’re snoring a little bit through their stuffy nose, mouth hanging open to breathe. Brian feels a little bad that he has to move them, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to send them back to a cold and lonely room all by themself.
He’ll have to ask them, once they’re feeling better, if it’s cold and lonely all the time, and it just took a bad cold to lower their inhibitions enough to admit it.
“Autopilot’s all set,” Krejjh confirms, switching off the music again. “Should we go to bed, Crewman Jeeter?”
“Yeah, bud,” Brian says a little sadly, brushing stray hair out of RJ’s flushed face. “Let’s get our kid to bed.”
RJ wakes up slowly, their senses coming back online one at a time. A sea of conscious black behind their eyes. The scratchy feeling of soft sheets on hot, sweaty skin. A tingling ache all across their body and a sandpaper burn in the back of their throat.
They hear the hum of the ship engine, like a distant lullaby, and the rustling of the sheets as they tug the blanket up higher, and a soft wordless murmur as someone rolls over to curl an arm around them, protective and warm.
Wait. What?
Their eyes snap open, and RJ only has time to register body in their bed before they’re rocketing up, shoving the covers off with shaking hands, scrambling to their hands and knees only to come face to face with a second body in their bed, this one with wild hair and purple skin—
RJ tumbles off the foot of the bed, hitting the floor hard in a tangle of sheets in their haste to get away from the space alien that was spooning them. They need to run. They need a weapon. Their head is spinning and foggy and every inch of them aches, but if their hands can just cooperate and do what their brain is telling them to do—
“Uh… RJ?” a familiar voice says from the bed. “What’re ya doing on the floor, man?”
They turn so fast it makes them dizzy, stumbling to their feet and back against the wall as their vision blurs and then clears to form—
“Brian?” Their voice comes out a raspy, nasally croak. They sniff, and press their wrist under their nose, surprised and embarrassed by how liquid it sounds. “How— What—?”
He’s sitting up on one side of the bed, shirtless, his hair sleep-mussed and sticking out in all directions, and next to him, opposite a clear McCabe-sized empty space in the middle, is Krejjh, covering a yawn with one hand as they blink down at RJ in confusion.
“Krejjh, wha—what are you guys doing in my room?”
“Other way around, champ,” Krejjh says around another yawn, drawing a circle with their finger. “You’re in our room.”
“You might’ve been too out of it to remember,” Brian says apologetically. “You found us in the cockpit last night cause you weren’t feeling too hot? Well—figure of speech there, obviously, cause you were in fact feeling too hot—and Violet didn’t think you should really be alone until your fever went down. We were gonna dig out the air mattress Arkady keeps for when Krejjh has to sleep in the airvent, but you, uh, kinda wouldn’t let go of me? And also you were shivering, like, nonstop unless we both cuddled you, so, uh, we… cuddled you.”
RJ stares at him—at both of them—at the extra pillow between them, dented with the impression of RJ’s head—and horror dawns.
“Oh… my god,” they whine, sinking to the floor and covering their face with both hands.
They don’t remember, really, most of last night. They remember sulking through dinner because they kept having to blow their nose every five seconds to be able to breathe and eat at the same time, and they remember their face burning with mortification when Captain Tripathi asked if they could be coming down with something, and they remember going to bed at eight o’clock so that everyone would stop looking at them either with pity or disgust, and then tossing and turning for an hour because they couldn’t breathe or get warm and there was such an awful gnawing ache in their chest they thought they might die.
And then… nothing. The vague sensation of sinking down into themself. Blurred images like they were peering through a dense fog. Music? And a soft maternal voice, and words from home burrowing down to the most essential part of them.
They swallow hard, throat burning, against the sudden threat of tears. Who knows what kind of embarrassing shit they did last night? Who knows what kind of embarrassing shit they said?
“I’m—” they manage, still hiding behind their hands, voice thick and wet. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, RJ, no,” Brian says softly. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, bud. You’re sick, you couldn’t help it.”
“And we were more than happy to take care of you, Sharpshooter McCabe,” Krejjh adds. “That’s… what friends are for, right?”
Not in RJ’s experience. They’ve never had a friend who would willingly volunteer to give up their bed to a feverish, bumbling idiot all night. They feel disgusting—they can only guess how they must look—and they probably snotted all over Brian’s pillow, and oh god, he’s got bad lungs, what were they thinking—
“RJ. Dude, hey. You gotta breathe, bud.” Brian’s voice is suddenly much closer, and they flinch as he lands a gentle touch on their arm, guiding their hands down. His face swims into view, eyes bright with worry. “We’re not… mad or anything. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
God. He really believes that, doesn’t he?
They sniffle again, turning away to wipe their runny nose on their sleeve, and end up having to bury two mortifyingly wet sneezes into the crook of their elbow.
“Here,” Krejjh says from their other side—RJ never even heard them get out of bed—and presses a wad of tissues into their hand. “Te sh’krem la, Sharpshooter McCabe.”
RJ glares at them over their tented hands as they clean themself up. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, it’s, uh, Dwarnian for ‘bless you’?” Brian explains. “But there’s sort of, like, a… sweetness to it. Like, you wouldn’t say it to a stranger.”
RJ glares at him now, cheeks flushing with fresh hot shame. “Sweetness?” they repeat, danger in their voice.
Brian gives a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, you know, like… you say it when someone sneezes, but there’s sort of an underlying tone of… ‘you poor thing’?”
“We save it for family and friends, but mostly when someone’s sneeze is, like, really cute,” Krejjh adds, grinning.
“Oh god,” RJ moans again, and pulls their knees up to their chest to hide their face in.
They would like nothing more than to crawl into a hole and disappear. Or build a time machine for the sole purpose of erasing the last eight to twelve hours of their life. They feel so exhausted, and so stupid, and so sick, and they kinda just wanna go back to bed.
“Computer, what time is it?” Brian says conversationally, like he’s read their mind.
“Current ship time,” E.L.L.A. reports from the ceiling, “is 0300 hours.”
Brian whistles. “Talk about the middle of the night.” He shifts his position, settling down next to RJ with his back to the wall, like he’s prepared to sit there for awhile. Krejjh does the same on the other side of them, and RJ swipes their crumpled ball of tissues under their nose and glares at them both.
“Comfortable?” they grumble, resigning themself to the fact that Brian and Krejjh are just not going to leave them to die in peace.
“Ooh, we should check your temperature,” Krejjh says, ignoring them entirely, and gets up to grab something from the bedside table. “Doctor Liu left us with her Human Body Thermo-Meter and strict instructions to call her if your fever’s not below 37.8 degrees Celsius.”
“Good idea, love,” Brian says around a laugh, “but it’s, uh… thermometer, not thermo-meter.”
Krejjh looks up from fiddling with the device to stare at him in disbelief. “It is? But it’s… thermo—as in temperature—and meter—as in measurement. Where does the ‘mom’ come from?”
“I don’t know, bud, it’s just how Earth English phonetics work, I guess. It’s the same linguistic concept as kilometer, as opposed to… kilo-meter.”
“Yeah, because kill-o-meter sounds like a war machine.”
“I can go back to my own room now,” RJ says loudly, interrupting them, “if you guys are just gonna… flirt.”
“No!” Krejjh and Brian shout in unison, and RJ jumps a little.
“We just mean—” Brian rushes to rephrase, voice gentle, “you don’t have to. I mean, let us take your temperature so you can take some more medicine if you need, and then, if you wanna sleep in your own bed, of course we can’t stop you, but… we really don’t mind.”
“Besides,” Krejjh adds, pouting a little, “you… said it was cold and lonely in your room.”
RJ’s stomach sinks. “I did?” Krejjh and Brian’s pitying looks are confirmation enough. Jeez, the hits just keep coming today, don’t they? “What… else did I say?”
“That… you love us!” Krejjh says, smiling innocently. “Maybe… not in as many words, but we knew that’s what you meant.”
“Like I said, you, uh, you were pretty out of it for a little bit,” Brian says much more seriously. “I think, at one point, you thought Violet was your mom?”
RJ’s eyes go wide, a wave of nausea rolling over them.
“But, uh, don’t worry, dude,” Brian hastens to assure them. “You… only asked for her in French? So, um, I’m pretty sure Violet has no clue that’s what you were saying.”
RJ squeezes their eyes shut, in case not being able to see Brian’s face will make this awful night not be happening. They can’t believe this is happening.
They asked. For their mom? And made their friends put them to bed, like some… like some stupid fucking kid?
Before they know it, much less give themself express permission, they’re crying, tears crawling up their sore throat and pouring out of their eyes and nose against their will.
This is a problem in and of itself. RJ McCabe puts a lot of effort, often under extremely trying circumstances, never to let themself cry. Because once they start, it’s really hard to make themself stop.
They cry, and shake, hugging their knees and hiding their face, and then they lose their breath entirely and start to cough, rough and deep and wet until their chest aches and their lungs are burning and their ears start to ring with fuzzy static like their head’s been dunked underwater.
Warm hands pat their back and tug at them to sit up straighter, so they shift to coughing into their elbow instead, determined to spare their friends this awful cold.
When the fit finally passes, RJ’s throat feels like it’s been sliced to ribbons, and their head has started pounding to the frantic beat of their heart.
They sniffle and hiccup, trying to catch their breath back. Krejjh hands them more tissues, and they blow their nose, and then Brian urges a cup of water into their hands, and they hungrily down the whole thing practically in one gulp.
Their eyes feel heavy, in the aftermath of their little breakdown. Their whole body feels heavy, enough that their exhaustion overwhelms any last dregs of insecurity, and they let themself slump into Brian’s side, head falling to rest on his shoulder. He immediately, without question, wraps an arm around them, pulling them close.
And RJ doesn’t even have it in them to be embarrassed anymore. Sue them, he’s comfortable.
Krejjh rejoins them, settling cross-legged in front of RJ so they can hold Brian’s hand while they scan RJ’s forehead with the digital thermometer.
“37 degrees!” they announce, grinning proudly. “Congratulations, Sharpshooter McCabe, your fever broke!”
“I… probably could’ve told you that,” RJ says, making a face and tugging at their sweat-soaked pajama shirt.
Brian squeezes their arm reassuringly. “Why don’t you go take a quick shower, bud? We’ll change the sheets, and then we can all go back to bed.”
Going back to bed sounds so lovely right now. Getting up and standing in the shower for twenty minutes sounds less so, but they suppose it would be nice to wash all the stiff sweat off their skin and let the steam clear some of their congestion.
But after that… “I… really should go sleep in my own room,” they say reluctantly, sitting up off of Brian’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t get you sick.”
“You said that last night, too,” he says with a soft smile. “And I really don’t mind, dude. Partly cause that ship’s probably sailed at this point? But mostly because it would be worth it. You shouldn’t be alone when you don’t feel well, and we want to be here for you. We want to take care of you, bud.”
“If you’ll let us,” Krejjh confirms, offering RJ the hand that’s not already holding Brian’s.
RJ takes it, against their better judgment, completing the truly pitiful circle the three of them make.
They’re still not confident they didn’t ruin their chances at being taken seriously by this crew with whatever stupid stuff they said last night in their feverish haze, but maybe now that their mind belongs to themself again, they can accept what their friends are offering.
A safe place to sleep. Help when they need it. And warm arms around them to stave off the worst of the chill.
Maybe they can let themself have that, just this once, and maybe even believe they deserve it.