A fresh wave of nausea rolled through him, sending Crosshair groaning into the thin pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the feeling to pass. The throbbing in his head seemed to intensify with the movement, a dull ache that radiated behind his eyes. Just as he felt the nausea recede slightly, a soft rustle beside the bed alerted him. He cracked one eye open, the harsh Pabu sunlight doing little to ease the headache.

There, perched precariously on the small stool they'd dragged in from somewhere, sat the bane of his current existence. Their face, usually alight with some irritatingly optimistic expression, was etched with concern. Honestly, the audacity of it all. Didn't they understand the concept of personal space? It wasn't like he was dying. A glorified headache and a stomach that felt like it was churning lava was hardly a cause for such melodramatic hovering. He'd dealt with far worse during the war, pushed through injuries that would make most clones flinch. But here they were, planted beside him like a particularly persistent tree. They were worse than Omega.

"Leave me alone," he rasped out, his voice rough and gravelly from disuse. He hated how weak he sounded- not at all like the usual clipped tones he took pride in. It wasn't a plea, more of an irritated command. If they didn't understand the dismissal this time, he might resort to throwing something.

He couldn't deny a sliver of warmth seeped through the irritation. The unwavering presence, the way they'd taken it upon themselves to take care of him. It would undoubtedly be a lot more difficult, a lot more painful, to deal with this annoyance alone. But Crosshair wouldn't admit that for anything. He refused to give them the satisfaction.