Archive of Our Own

Paranoid awoke with a jolt but, for once, it wasn’t with the remnants of a nightmare still swirling around in his brain.

After a second’s worth of confusion, Paranoid faintly heard a shuffling outside his window. He glanced over at it, his heart pounding in his chest.

The shuffling was still there, but slowly becoming more distant. What caught his attention next was the light outside. It flickered slightly, the way a fire does, and retreated with the shuffling sounds.

Paranoid sat up, quickly looked over at his clock, keeping half an eye on the window. It was two in the morning. The sky outside was still dark, stars and moons still illuminating the deepest hours of the night.

Slowly, silently, Paranoid stood up, walked over to the window. He ducked as he got closer to it, then kept his back to the wall as he carefully glanced outside. It was silent again, or maybe whatever made those sounds was too far away now, but that light remained. He couldn’t see the source of it, could only catch glimpses at the flickering through the walls and ground faintly reflecting it.

He strains his ears, but hears nothing else. Taking note of where this something apparently is, he grabs a candle and lights it, silently stepping out of his room.

His heart beats faster for a moment, now away from the safety of his nest with something unknown just outside. Still, logically, he knows that his room is likely less safe if that thing was just outside his window.

That doesn’t stop his hands from shaking slightly as he carefully walks around the halls, looking at the others’ shut bedroom doors. He wants — needs — to know if they’re safe.

He gets to nearly the end of the hallway, then freezes.

Opportunist’s room. The door had been left agape, and Paranoid slowly creeps towards it, mind already racing.

Opportunist never leaves his door unlocked, let alone open. He sees the candle’s flame shiver with the force of his shaking, and mentally starts his chant as he looks inside.

Heart.

It’s empty.

Lungs.

The room is as cold as he remembers it to be.

Liver.

The bedsheets are messy; clothes and blankets and feathers scattered about the room.

Nerves.

Opportunist isn’t here.

Where is he, then? Where would he possibly want to go so urgently that he left his room in such a state? Where would he go at two in the morning?

Paranoid shivers, then turns to the stairway. That whatever it is may still be outside, and Opportunist is missing. He’s not sure if he should take the state of his room as signs of a struggle, but either way, he heads downstairs, then outside.

He shuts the door quietly, cups the flame of his candle in the palm of one hand to hide the glow from potential onlookers.

Slowly, he walks around the house, eyes and ears searching for any sign of something wrong.

He peaks around a corner, staring at the place where the light was.

It’s Opportunist, doing something by the light of his own candle.

What is Opportunist doing at two in the morning?!

Paranoid bites his tongue, waiting for the other Voice to look up at him and start saying whatever he thinks may please him—

But he isn’t. Opportunist just kneels there, in the dirt of their garden, and doesn’t give any indication that he’s heard Paranoid. Here he is, standing not five meters away from him, and there’s not even the tensing of muscles or the flick of an ear.

Paranoid refocuses on what Opportunist is doing.

He’s kneeling in the dirt, wearing day clothes and gardening gloves that reach his elbows, a lit candle and some supplies by his side. He seems to be pulling weeds.

At two in the morning.

Paranoid doesn’t stop waiting for Opportunist to spot him, but he keeps staring at him, studying him. He’s being given a glance into how Opportunist really acts when he’s not around others, and he’d be damned if he didn’t take it.

Opportunist looks… listless. Tired. His eyes, only barely illuminated by the glow of the candle, are foggy and distant. His hands shake, and more than once he tears the weeds before he can fully uproot them. Paranoid can’t hear it, but he can see the way he appears to be breathing heavily, mouth slightly open and chest heaving almost imperceptibly beneath his clothes.

That last part feels most concerning. He’s seen Opportunist work in the garden for hours on end in the hot sun, never getting tired enough to need to breathe like this. But now, kneeling in the garden for some unknown reason, he can’t seem to get enough air.

Several minutes pass, Paranoid taking mental notes on every one of Opportunist’s movements, but the latter still doesn’t notice him. Eventually, he stands up, apparently done with that particular spot. He gets up slowly, shakily, and sways on his feet for a moment, breathing harder now.

After another second, Opportunist stops swaying, but stiffens the moment he’s stable. One hand flies to his mouth, the other curling around his abdomen. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing slowly but forcefully through his nose. He subtly rocks back and forth in what looks to be a soothing motion, trembling in the places that aren’t tensed.

Five seconds pass, then ten, then he finally relaxes slightly, swallowing thickly. He doesn’t remove his hand from his mouth for another few seconds, but when he does, he takes another moment to breathe. Then he slowly bends over and picks up his candle and supplies.

Paranoid watches Opportunist turn his back to him, walking away from him with shaking legs. His wings drag on the dirt, rocks and soil undoubtedly getting stuck in his feathers.

That’s also concerning. Opportunist cares deeply about his appearance, to the point that Paranoid had spotted more than a few overpreened patches that were carefully covered up by surrounding feathers. Even when he was a gardener, Opportunist never let his wings touch the ground. Yet, here he is, carelessly allowing dirt to cling to him.

He stares as Opportunist moves another few meters away, then slowly kneels back down and continues pulling weeds.

Paranoid finds himself debating what to do. If he were to walk up to Opportunist, would the latter notice him? Opportunist seems so out of it, so distracted by something, that he isn’t sure how hard he’d startle if he saw Paranoid suddenly right next to him. He could continue watching, but it’s already so clear that something is wrong.

Walking away is out of the question. So it’s just a matter of when he decides to go to him.

Opportunist’s hands are still shaking. His eyes are still cloudy. His breath is still laboured.

Slowly, without making any sudden movements, Paranoid walks towards him. With every step, he expects Opportunist to alert to his presence, but, soon enough, he’s standing right next to him. There’s no sign that Opportunist has noticed him, no sign that he can process anything beyond the next weed that he needs to uproot.

Paranoid kneels down next to him, making sure that he’s not too close. He sets his candle down next to Opportunist’s, watches him carefully to see if he reacts. He doesn’t, so Paranoid continues to stare at him for a moment. Stares at his eyes, then at his hands, still diligently pulling up the unwanted plants.

He takes a deep, silent breath, then turns to him.

“Opportunist?”

The other Voice jumps hard enough that Paranoid flinches with him. Opportunist’s eyes dart around for a split-second before landing on Paranoid, and another second passes before he seems to remember to put up his mask.

“Paranoid!” his voice is off, thin and wavering, “Hi! Do— uh, do you need something?”

Paranoid can still see the terror in his eyes, like he’d forgotten to place his mask on the upper half of his face.

“Are you alright?”

“What— Um, yeah! Yes, I’m perfectly fine, how are you?”

Opportunist’s hands are tucked close to his chest defensively, posture tense and shaking visibly. He is very much not fine.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Oh, you know, just… working! The— the weeds came back recently, so I was just fixing it! Do you— Do you need something from me?”

“… You’re not a gardener anymore. You don’t have to do this.”

“I— I know, I just— wanted to help out! Do— do you want me to do something else?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?”

“You— uh.” Opportunist freezes momentarily, and Paranoid can see confusion flit across his features. “What?”

“You… Kept asking me something. What were you asking?”

Paranoid is testing him. It seemed like he’d forgotten their conversation in the middle of it, and that might be a symptom of whatever is happening to him.

He didn’t think it was possible for Opportunist to look more panicked. After a pause a second too long, Opportunist asks, “What do you need from me?”

Paranoid isn’t sure if he’s repeating himself on purpose. Opportunist still seems out of it.

“Why would I need something from you?”

Opportunist tenses fast enough that Paranoid could call it a flinch, “W-well— um, does somebody else need me to do something? Are you— Are you here on their behalf?”

“No. Why do you think I need something from you?”

He hears Opportunist’s breath hitch, then, “Um— well—… W-why else would you be here?”

Paranoid stares at his eyes again, still fogged over and distant. Slowly, he raises a hand.

Opportunist flinches again, just as hard as before, but doesn’t otherwise move once the back of Paranoid’s hand is resting against his forehead.

He’s feverish. Worryingly so. Is this some type of delirium?

“Do you know where you are?”

“Uh—.”

Paranoid waits for a moment, but Opportunist doesn’t get farther than that. He takes his hand off of his head, watches Opportunist hesitantly open his eyes.

“Do you know where you are?”

A pause, then a shaky nod, “The— the garden.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Para— Paranoid.”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

“You— you want something? Right? You want me to do something?”

Paranoid stares at him again, increasingly confused. Why would Opportunist fixate on doing whatever is asked of him? It’s like he’s desperate for orders to follow, but that wouldn’t make sense for him.

Would it?

Opportunist is sick. He’s gardening at two in the morning, and left his bedroom door wide open. He’s rushing, but for what? He used to be a gardener, yes, but hasn’t worked here since Paranoid started training him to be a medic.

Opportunist was one of three gardeners, the other two being Smitten and Hunted. He was good at it, and a surprisingly hard worker. Paranoid had once listened to Smitten’s concerns of Opportunist overworking himself, often requesting more work after finishing his usual chores. Even as a medic-in-training, he seemed to have kept that habit.

Maybe this is some type of self-soothing? He finds the garden comforting, so he’d settled into the work when he felt he needed it?

No— He’s too… tense for that. Almost desperate, like pulling weeds was less a search for comfort and more a panicked ritual.

Paranoid refocuses on Opportunist, catches another glimpse of his mask falling apart. His eyes are hazy and distant again, but mostly resharpen when he notices that Paranoid is looking at him.

Whatever. Paranoid can think about the ‘why’s later, but Opportunist is feverish and likely delirious.

“You’re sick. Come on, I’ll take you to the infirmary and try to bring your temperature down, alright?”

Paranoid shifts to stand up, holding out one hand for Opportunist, but before he can get very far, Opportunist tenses. Both hands fly to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut again, and Paranoid quickly glances around for anything even slightly useful as a bucket. But there’s nothing to use, so he sits back down next to him, away from his face, and tries to rub his back.

Opportunist flinches at the touch, and Paranoid sees bile burst from between his fingers at the motion. Paranoid winces, doesn’t try to stop him from gently rocking back and forth in an attempt to self-soothe.

After a few more moments, Opportunist shakily opens his eyes, staring off into the distance almost numbly. He continues rocking for a little while longer, but eventually stops as he swallows again. He removes his trembling hands from his mouth, now stares at the acid pooling in them.

Paranoid can see him blinking back tears as he shakily mumbles, “I’m sorry. I didn’t—… I…”

“It’s okay,” Paranoid finds himself saying, “We’ll get you cleaned up and you’ll just get to relax, alright?”

He isn’t used to verbally comforting people, even with his role as medic, so maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised when Opportunist tenses slightly, blinks quickly as if struggling to focus.

“I’m… f-fine. You don’t need to—… to…”

By instinct, Paranoid reaches out to catch Opportunist as his eyes roll back and his body goes limp.

His breathing is still heavy, but he’s breathing. Paranoid can feel the sick Voice’s heart racing, but it’s beating.

He places the back of one hand against Opportunist’s forehead, keeping him sort of upright with his other arm. Is Paranoid imagining it, or is his temperature even higher?

He needs to get him to the infirmary. He needs to get his temperature down. And he needs to do this while dragging a very ill, unconscious Voice.

But, just as he’s adjusting his hold, preparing to pick him up, Opportunist awakes with a slight jolt.

“Pa— Para—”

“We’re going to the infirmary. Can you walk?”

Opportunist nods immediately, doesn’t even seem to fully process the question. Paranoid pulls them both up, realizes that he can’t carry either of the candles, quickly stomps out the flames to prevent a fire. His foot burns now, covered in half-melted wax, but he’s already going to get medicine anyway.

Opportunist can’t completely stand on his own, leans heavily on Paranoid, but he can walk with guidance and support.

They half-shuffle to the infirmary, Opportunist cupping his hands slightly as if trying to keep the bile there from dripping onto the ground. Paranoid isn’t sure if he’d noticed how it slowly dripped down the wrists of his gardening gloves, but he makes no attempt to mention it.

Eventually, they reach the half empty room. To Paranoid, at least, it feels half empty, what with the almost complete lack of actual supplies.

It feels even more apparent as he carefully moves Opportunist sit on the table there, quickly grabs him a bowl in case he needs it again.

For what feels like the millionth time, Paranoid scans the cabinets, praying to whatever god is still out there that he missed something in his previous searches. He finds the same thing he always does — a pill bottle for pain medicine, with only five pills left inside. It’s not even the kind that can treat fevers.

Fine. He’ll do this the old-fashioned way.

He closes the cabinets and turns to the small, metal safe on a counter in the corner. He opens it, takes out a cloth with thick, yet light, ever-freezing ice inside.

Not for the first time, Paranoid makes a mental note to thank Cold for being the flock’s equivalent of a walking, impromptu medicine cabinet.

Paranoid reapproaches Opportunist, who has the bowl in his lap with his hands laying inside, watching the bile slowly drip into it with a distant gaze.

“Hey, I’m about to put an ice pack on your head. It may be… a little overwhelming, but it’ll be alright.”

Opportunist glances up at him, can’t seem to fully focus, but doesn’t fight him as the cloth is placed on his head. Paranoid holds it there for a moment, watching his reactions, before carefully using part of the fabric to tie it in place.

The sick Voice doesn’t react, maybe not fully processing the freezing fabric, but at least he isn’t trying to remove it. Paranoid carefully places another ice pack on the back of his neck, then finally grabs a cloth for himself to clean off the mostly-cooled wax on his foot.

He sits down next to Opportunist as he does so, wondering if Hunted may know of any plants nearby that can be used to make salves for burns, and eventually hears him start weakly gagging into the bowl. Paranoid backs off a little, doesn’t try rubbing his back again as Opportunist empties his stomach.

After a few minutes, Opportunist stops gagging, and Paranoid checks the inside of the bowl. It’s just… bile. No blood, thankfully, but also no signs of food or drink.

Some foods take longer to digest than others, so maybe Opportunist had only eaten easy-to-digest foods recently, but regardless, a completely empty stomach can’t be good for a fever. He needs fluids, nutrients, and it’s clear that the sick Voice is very low on energy at the moment. That’s probably why he isn’t shivering right now, despite his fever and the ice packs.

Paranoid stands again, favouring his injured foot, and grabs a cup from one of the cabinets. He fills it with tap water and walks back to Opportunist, standing in front of him.

“You need fluids, so I want you to drink this water.” Maybe phrasing it as an order would help him focus?

Opportunist blinks slowly, struggling to focus on him, but he eventually grabs the cup with a shaking hand. His gloved palm is still partly coated in bile, but he gets a decent enough grip. Opportunist stares at it for a moment, hesitantly takes a small sip. He grimaces slightly, doesn’t drink more.

Paranoid sighs, gently pushes the ice pack on his head to feel his temperature again. It’ll be skewed due to the ice, but it’ll help him get a clearer idea of his fever. He’s still burning up, and Paranoid replaces the pack with one hand while searching for his heartbeat with the other.

Opportunist’s heartrate is fast, but not too much faster than average. He’s about to make a mental note on that when he pauses.

Opportunist’s heartrate isn’t average, is it?

Paranoid had a notebook full of medical facts about the flock, from sleeping habits to various possible diagnoses, and Opportunist’s heartrate was specifically written down. He turns and grabs it from a drawer, flips until he finds the pages about Opportunist’s health.

The pages there are more clearly incomplete than the others, gaps where there are meant to be notes about different habits and quirks of his, but his heart was still clearly mentioned.

Right there, one of the only things written on the page, is ‘Average heartrate of 200 bpm’.

Paranoid actually remembers when he first found out about it — he thought that Opportunist was having a panic attack or a heart attack or something. But, no, that’s his baseline, the same way that Hunted’s average is a little over 200 beats per minute.

Paranoid presses two fingers to the pulse point on Opportunist’s neck, silently counting as he watches the clock on the wall. After a minute, he comes up with a number that only worsens his anxiety; barely 100 bpm. Barely half of Opportunist’s average.

He needs more fluids, rest, a lower temperature.

Paranoid moves Opportunist’s hand, still holding the full cup, a little closer to his mouth, “I need you to keep drinking this, Opportunist. Finish the glass, you need the fluids.”

It takes him another second to refocus, but he keeps drinking it after a moment. He grimaces again, but doesn’t stop until he needs to breathe. While he pants quietly, gripping the cup shakily, Paranoid tries to make a plan.

Opportunist is overheating, obviously, and delirious, likely having little idea of where he is or what is happening. He’s exhausted, and probably hasn’t eaten in some time. He doesn’t like drinking the water, but will drink it if ordered to. Speaking of, Opportunist seems to want to follow orders for some reason. He’s covered in layers of thick, heavy day clothes and gardening gloves that are now covered in drying bile.

“You should take those gloves off. I’ll help, alright?”

Opportunist had been staring blankly at his now empty cup, but seemed to gain a little lucidity at Paranoid’s words. He shakes his head, tucking his arms a little closer to his chest.

“The gloves are thick and are overheating you. Not to mention the dirt and acid on them. Why don’t you want them off?”

He watches Opportunist swallow, open and close his mouth a few times as he gathers the energy to respond quietly with, “Just… don’t. Please. Please, don’t… tell anyone.”

“Don’t tell anyone that you’re sick?”

Slow blinking as he processes, then, “… yeah. I can still…”

Silence for a moment, but Opportunist doesn’t finish his thought. As he trails off, what little clarity was in his eyes seems to fade with his energy, and he goes back to staring into the distance.

Okay. This is— this is a little more urgent than he might’ve thought but— he can fix this. A lukewarm bath, some more fluids and simple foods, lots of rest… Opportunist will be fine. He’ll make sure of it.

Carefully, he takes the cup and sets it in the sink, then guides Opportunist to stand again, relieved beyond words that the sick Voice can still manage it while leaning on him. He half-walks, half-carries Opportunist to the closest bathroom, just a few doors away from the infirmary.

Opportunist still clutches the bowl, and Paranoid doesn’t try to take it from him, even as he opens the door and moves him to sit, then lay down in the bathtub. Once he’s settled, Paranoid turns on the water, triple-checking that it’s cool enough to lower his temperature without making him shiver.

As the tub fills, Paranoid rolls up his sleeves before deciding to simply take off his pajama shirt entirely. It’ll likely get soaked anyway, and he’ll already need a shower himself after caring for a sick Voice.

Once the tub is decently full, Paranoid turns off the water and adjusts Opportunist to make him more comfortable. He takes the bowl and places it nearby, still forcing himself to ignore the rotten smell in favour of focusing on Opportunist.

He takes the ice packs next, quickly washes one in the sink before wrapping it around his injured foot, sighing at how quickly it soothes the burn.

He kneels next to the tub, checking over Opportunist again.

“Opportunist? How are you feeling?”

Silence for a long moment, then a quiet, “… f-fffine.”

“Mhm,” Paranoid doesn’t hide the disbelief in his tone, isn’t even sure if Opportunist would be able to catch it in this state. “Sure. Well, you have a fever, so I’m going to try and bring it down. Tell me if something hurts, or feels uncomfortable, alright?”

A shaky, hesitant nod, “M’kay.”

He needs the cool water on his feathers to fully bring his temperature down, so Paranoid starts removing the gloves. If Opportunist is attached to them, then he’ll keep them nearby, but they need to be taken off.

But, the moment that he begins to remove one, Opportunist lets out a low whine, weakly pulling away. Paranoid sighs again, but doesn’t continue fighting him. Instead, he starts messing with Opportunist’s coat. He’d rather try to cool his core than waste time attempting to remove the gloves.

It takes several minutes, and it would have been easier if he’d taken off the gloves, but he eventually gets the coat off, then the shirt underneath it. The second that the lukewarm water touches Opportunist’s feathers, he whines softly, shifting restlessly for a moment before relaxing again, getting used to it.

Paranoid notices that his eyes had drifted shut, and he grips his shoulder as he says, “Hey, no! Don’t fall asleep yet, keep your eyes open for me.”

Opportunist does so, forcing his eyes open again as quickly as he can. He nods again, staring at the wall in front of him. His eyes keep fluttering shut, but he’s clearly trying to stay awake. Paranoid will just have to keep a close eye on him.

He looks down. Opportunist is wearing one of his skirts, long enough that the hem nearly touches the ground when he stands, and much of it is covered in dirt and plant stains. He’s likely wearing shorts underneath, so Paranoid searches for a clasp or something to remove it. In the end, it was easier to take off than the coat and shirt were, and he places the soaking wet garment on the floor next to the others.

Opportunist shivers, once, then relaxes again.

Paranoid stands up, keeps an eye on Opportunist while he moves to the bathroom’s cabinets. It’s the usual stuff — a first aid kit, cups, soap, some other, random things.

He grabs a cup, fills it with water from the sink, and carefully brings it back to Opportunist.

“Keep drinking. You need the fluids.”

Opportunist takes the cup again, downs it faster than before, maybe getting either his thirst or his energy back. He gives it back to Paranoid when he’s done, and Paranoid refills it, hands it back to him. He drinks half of it before refusing more, and Paranoid sets it down nearby.

Paranoid looks over him again. He’s thin. Paranoid had always known that Opportunist was on the skinnier side, but the layers seemed to have hidden it some. He’s not starving-thin, but it wouldn’t hurt for him to gain some more weight. Beyond that, though, his feathers were messy, some broken or bent at odd angles, not to mention the state of his dirt-covered wings.

“Opportunist? Can I preen you?”

Opportunist startled slightly at the sound of his name, blinked harshly to refocus. After a second, he nods, but looks half-unsure, as if he didn’t entirely process the question. Another second, though, and he nods again, more certain, apparently needed the extra time to think about it.

Paranoid nods in turn, grabs the soap from the cabinet and lathers it in his hands. Carefully, he touches Opportunist’s chest to start preening the feathers there. The sick Voice jumps at the contact, but doesn’t pull away as Paranoid fixes the placement of a twisted feather.

He’s tense as Paranoid preens him, but seems to soften after a while. His eyes are shut again, but he manages to answer questions when Paranoid asks them, so he’s still conscious.

When Paranoid is done with his chest, he takes more soap into his hands before very carefully beginning to preen his head. Opportunist sighs at the feeling, finally relaxing until he’s back to the same state as he was before Paranoid started preening him. Soon enough, he melts further, leaning into the touch.

“What’s your favourite colour?” Paranoid asks, because Opportunist looks two seconds away from falling asleep.

“Orange,” Opportunist mumbles, eyes still closed. “Yours?”

Paranoid considers as he lathers soap in-between the gaps of Opportunist’s neckfeathers, “Never thought about it. Maybe… Purple.” Purple’s a nice colour. That’s criteria enough to like it, right?

Opportunist hums, though if it’s in response to Paranoid’s answer or his touch, he’ll likely never know.

Paranoid carefully washes the soap out from Opportunist’s head, saying, “Okay, I need to preen your back and wings. Do you want to turn around or—”

Paranoid is interrupted by Opportunist leaning forward and clinging to him, soaking him immediately. Paranoid has easier access to back and wings, though, so he allows Opportunist to hold on to him.

Paranoid starts with his wings, still covered in dirt from being dragged on the ground. He uses soap to clean him, but still has to dig in some places to remove the small rocks and weeds imbedded in his feathers.

It’s a little easier to tell now that they’re closer — Opportunist’s fever is slightly lower. Not broken, not even anywhere near it, but a little better than before.

By the time Paranoid is done, Opportunist has practically melted into his arms. The water is filthy by now, but Paranoid finds himself spending a few extra minutes just holding him, running his fingers through his feathers. Not even preening, just petting him gently, feeling him somehow soften further with every touch.

Eventually, though, he needs to break the comfortable silence, “Come on, let’s dry you and get you to bed. Do you think you can get up?”

A long pause, the slow, tired shaking of a head.

“Okay. I’m going to pull you up, just hold on to me.”

Opportunist nods, sort of manages to get his feet under him as Paranoid lifts him up, then guides him out of the tub. He still clings to him as Paranoid dries them both the best he can, then leans over to drain the tub.

He leaves the clothes, but empties and cleans the bowl before giving it back to Opportunist, waiting for the sick Voice to get a good grip on it before letting it go. Paranoid kicks off the ice pack that was on his foot because he doubts he can safely get up the stairs with it on.

Actually, “Opportunist? Would you prefer to sleep in the infirmary or in your room? The infirmary is closer, but you might not be as comfortable there.”

He feels more than hears Opportunist swallow, then, “… R-room, please.”

Paranoid nods, and they begin the very slow, very careful walk down the hallway to the stairs. Once there, Paranoid takes a deep breath.

“Alright. These are the stairs. Hold on tight, okay?”

He feels Opportunist nod, tired but determined. He holds on tighter as Paranoid shuffles them closer to the handrail, and he grips it with one hand as he cautiously climbs the steps.

Opportunist falters about halfway up, nearly falling and taking Paranoid down with him. The latter’s white-knuckled grip on the handrail in the only thing that keeps them both from collapsing entirely. Paranoid glances at him, sees the way he’s panting heavily.

“We’re almost there, just keep going, okay? Just a little further.”

Opportunist nods, barely gets shaking legs under him, but keeps climbing with Paranoid’s assistance.

Once they’re finally at the top, Paranoid walks him a bit further from the stairs before letting him take a break. Opportunist holds the bowl close to his chest, underneath his mouth, as if thinking that he’s about to throw up again. Paranoid gently rubs his back, subconsciously surprised at how he leans into the touch.

After a few minutes, Opportunist nods.

“Ready to keep going?” Paranoid whispers, because it’s still early and everyone else should be sleeping.

Another nod, and they start moving again.

Opportunist’s bedroom door is still agape when they reach it, and Paranoid guides him through the entry and to his nest. He gently sets him down on it, and it takes a moment for Opportunist to let go of him. After that moment, though, he leans back and settles into the center of his nest.

Paranoid takes the bowl from him, placing it on the nightstand nearby. The lamp on it is still on, and Paranoid leaves it be, allowing the soft light to cast away the worst of the shadows in the room.

He turns back to Opportunist, “I’m going back downstairs to get you some more water. Is there anything else you’d like?”

Opportunist hums from beneath the blankets he’d draped over himself, glances at a fox plush just slightly out of comfortable reach from him. Paranoid slides it closer to him, watches him immediately curl around it, cuddling it close.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”

Opportunist nods sluggishly, and Paranoid turns and rushes downstairs to the kitchen. He grabs a pitcher, gives it a quick cleaning just in case, and fills it with water. He takes a cup and walks back upstairs to Opportunist’s still-open bedroom door.

Paranoid moves the bowl and lamp a bit to make space for the water and cup, still makes sure that the bowl is the easiest for Opportunist to grab in a hurry.

He glances over at the sick Voice, sees him sleeping soundly. He’s still curled up around the fox plush, still covered in blankets. Still wearing those long gardening gloves for some reason.

Paranoid looks over at the clock, internally sighs at the time shown; nearly four in the morning now. He’d been handling a sick Voice for two hours. He needs a bath, some more rest, needs to stay healthy and keep his energy up to take care of him and the rest of the flock.

He spares one last glance at Opportunist before leaving, closing the door behind him.

……

Everyone else was awake now, and Paranoid had eaten breakfast quickly as he explained that Opportunist was sick and needed to rest. There were questions, some of which boiled down to an anxious ‘is he dying?’, and Paranoid answered them as best as he could.

His burn was already just a blister — the thick scales on his foot were hard to damage and quick to heal — but he’d still gotten a new ice pack, one that was smaller and easier to move around in.

As soon as he was done eating, he grabbed a plate of food — just easy to digest things, with little flavour — and carefully walked back up to Opportunist’s room.

He listened for a moment, heard slow, deep breathing, sounding like Opportunist was still sleeping.

Paranoid decided that he would set the food down nearby, maybe clean and replace the bowl and water if they were used last night. He reached for the doorknob to open it—

But it was locked.

Paranoid listened again, still heard that slow, steady breathing inside.

He sighed, placing the food on the floor next to the once-again locked door.

At least he’s resting now.