Curly lay in agony, his body battered and swathed in bandages soaked with blood and serum. The metallic scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, mixing with the coppery tang of blood. He shifted slightly, his muscles aching with every movement like a thousand tiny knives piercing his flesh.

The door hissed open with a pneumatic wheeze, and he didn’t need to look to know it was you—the only one who still cared enough to check on him regularly. Your footsteps were soft against the cold metal floor of the medical bay.

You moved with quiet care, gently maneuvering his jaw to administer the bitter pills. The harsh taste of medication burned his throat as he swallowed with effort, softly gagging with the effort. The taste lingered as the pain pulsed through him in waves, each throb sending new spikes of agony through his battered body.

He tried to speak, to thank you, but the words came out in broken, strained whispers. Still, your presence brought a flicker of comfort, a moment of peace in his unrelenting suffering. Even though it was your obligation, besides Anya, you always wanted to help him.

"Agh... I-I.... I...." He made an effort to get a few words out of his mouth to thank you, but also wanting you to stay. It's a lot of work for him to speak clearly through the pain and weakness.