“Thorn,” Fox slurs for the third time in as many minutes.
“What, Fox?”
Silence. Then, a wet, rattling cough. Fox’s too-warm breath fogs the duraplast barrier between them. “Thorn, you gotta get me out of here.”
Thorn sighs. “I can’t, Fox, remember? You’re quarantined. Caught some sort of death virus down on the lower levels and now you’ve got to sweat it out in there.”
It’s a miserable little setup, Thorn will admit that much. It’s the best they can do, though, seeing as their medbay was never intended to deal with infectious diseases. They’ve got Fox boxed in with clear duraplast sheets sealed off at the floors and joints and around the air exchange entrance. Hemlock has no record of this particular strain of GGV, but he’s doing the best he can to sanitize the air enough to prevent spreading.
In his little box of doom, Fox has a bed and some medical equipment and a tray of water and food and a thermos of tea (not that he’s touched anything besides the water) and not much else. Holly brought him an extra blanket but still, he’s shivering with painful cold chills. Thorn wishes he could help. All he can do is talk.
And watch.
Thorn can’t hear him sniffling through the plastoid, but he sees Fox wipe the back of his hand over his eyes and hears the tears in his voice when he says, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be in here anymore.”
“I know, ori’vod. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t feel well.”
“I know.” According to the monitor, Fox’s fever has spiked again, back up to 39.5. He’s got to be freezing. “I’ll stay with you until you’re out, I promise.” Unless you take more than ten hours to do that. I can’t miss that meeting tomorrow. “Hemlock’s already working on how to get you cleared.”
For a few minutes, there’s silence. Then, “Thorn?”
“What, Fox?”
“Please let me out of here.”
It’s not the pleading that does it. It’s not the tears, it’s not the coughing, it’s not the desperately confused look in Fox’s eyes when he goes to take Thorn’s hand and meets plastoid instead. It’s not even the panic attack that has Hemlock tearing his hair out trying to get Fox’s heart rate down that does it.
Thorn breaks when Fox starts asking for his batchmates.
“Are they on Coruscant?” Fox wonders. “Can you search up their leave schedules?”
“They’re not, Fox.” He’s not sure about that, actually, but he thinks the news that they’re close by might actually make things worse.
“I should call them. Can you—Do I have my comm?” Fox pats himself down clumsily, then starts searching the sheets. He nearly falls off the bed. In the corner of his eye, Thorn can see Hemlock slumped against the wall with his head in his hands. “I should call them. I want to see them. I miss them.”
“Any luck?”
“‘Course not. Come on, you think they want to hang out with me while they’re on leave? Not like they haven’t seen me in six months or anything.”
Fox can’t find his communicator, probably because Thorn is currently holding it. “I want to see them. I miss Cody. And Wolffe.”
“—Don’t want to deal with your shit anymore, alright? I’ve got actual problems to handle. Goodbye.”
“Cody, wait—”
Something in Fox’s face changes. “Oh. They don’t, they don’t, I haven’t seen them in a long time. Thorn, I don’t think they like me anymore. Have I apologized? I think I should apologize again.”
“I’m sorry, hang on, I’ll be up in a second.”
“Easy, Fox. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make him angry.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. Just stay right there, yeah? Medics are coming.”
“I’m sorry,” Fox sobs into his pillow. “I don’t know what I did. I don’t try to make them angry. I’m sorry.”
Thorn stands. Hemlock is already there waiting.
“Please,” Thorn says. “You said he might be safe now. Please.”
“Go.”
Thorn breaks the seal at the bottom of the closest curtain and ducks under. He’s already toeing his boots off by the time Fox realizes what’s happening.
“Thorn?” he croaks.
“Yeah, Fox, ‘m right here.” He clambers into bed, shoving Fox’s tangled sheets aside and opening his arms. Fox falls into them with a wrenching sob and a cough. “Hey, Commander. Easy. I’ve got you.”
Fox shoves his overwarm face into Thorn’s chest and nuzzles him like the grumpy tooka he is. Thorn lays them down, rearranging the pillows and blankets as best he can without dislodging Fox or disturbing his desperate contact-seeking. It’s uncomfortably warm and Fox is sticky with fever-sweat and hey, he might be contracting a mystery virus, but Fox has finally stopped crying, so Thorn really doesn’t care.