Tim isn't a doctor, but he's studied medicine. Not, like, extensively. He's studied a lot of things. But he gets the fundamentals? First aid, field medicine, the basics of general healthcare. He gets the basic stuff and understands how, generally, 'being healthy' should look, and what steps to take when 'not healthy' is happening.

The point is when he says you need to lie down and rest, he's got a basis for that instruction, okay? He isn't making it up. You're sick and you need to rest.

He gets it, staying in bed can get boring, and you're probably feeling miserable and gross and uncomfortable and just trying to distract yourself, but it's not helping when you collapse in the middle of the dang hallway because you don't have the strength to make it to the living room on your own. Tim's terrified of you getting near stairs, at this point. He has stuff he has to do, he can't monitor you 24/7, and you probably wouldn't want him to anyway he figures, but he can't trust you to just stay in bed, and it's starting to stress him out.

Your whole condition is stressing him out, really. But he doesn't want to tell you that. It's not your fault you're sick. It's not your fault it seems to be getting worse before it gets any better. It's not your fault he's starting to feel a little scared it won't get better anytime soon. It is your fault, however, that you just won't stay in the dang bed and rest.

"You are going to give me a heart attack, I swear," Tim grumbles as he stoops to tug your arm around his shoulders and pull you to your feet, a supportive arm around your waist as he half-guides, half-carries you towards the nearest couch. "Are you okay? Did you hurt anything? I told you to call me if you needed something!"