I

He wakes to the same litany of whispering pain that he's used to. He shifts slightly to roll his shoulders, easing the drowsy stiffness of his neck and the faint tingle of sleep from his hands, and then carefully eases himself up into a sitting position. The aching sharpens, briefly, and for a moment his breath lurches from his mouth before he can catch the lapse in control and bury it again.

Dawn is barely breaking outside, but even the indigo geometry of light cast from the paneled window to the wall opposite his bed has been enough lately to draw him out of sleep. His morning routine starts in the quiet dark, eyes closed, back resting against the cool wood of the headboard, right hand resting over his left collarbone. He presses down enough to feel resistance from the uneven rise of his tired lungs and traces the bone to the muscle of his shoulder. He begins the same ritual of every gentle daybreak, a repetition of tolls;

The joint and the bone that remains in his upper arm: shattered practically to dust. He swears he can feel the seams when the spring rains arrive, a melancholy ache that doesn't leave until fall. He doesn't dwell on it.

The irregular curve of his shoulder blade: a whole repaired from thirds that wasn't set right at the time and never will be, now. It scrapes over the muscle and catches painfully under his touch, and he has to linger on the pain until he's recognized it enough to swallow it down.

The skin over it: misshapen, craggy instead of the uniform smoothness that some deep part of him still wants to expect, and he trails his fingers more gently over the familiar streaks of warped scale with the intimacy of a lost traveler seeing the skyline of the city they used to call home. The thick, ridged spiral of scar tissue is peppered with burned craters and the narrower, invisible trails of gashes that healed clean. It's papery, rough where the odd patches of tiny beaded scale didn't grow in, and he sighs more for the tedious process of softening it than for the severity.

He continues, even gentler now over skin that's gone brittle, and the scars tangle into one writhing mass. There's a brief dip inward, imperceptible to the eye but revealed by cautious touch, and then -

And then it's smooth, and uniform, and unmarked, and he withstands a roil of disgust.

He flexes his perfect fingers as though reminding himself that they're a part of him, and repeats the mantra as he draws the pressure of his right hand over forearm, wrist, knuckles, claws; locking his fingers together to feel the weight of them still makes him think of prayer, though he's sure he's the only one listening.

He goes to repeat the process with his leg and his fingers touch a warm, clammy damp. He lifts his fingers to the dim light, though he knows he'll find them dark; too many days since he last treated the scars there, and the skin has torn from it. It's a long, slow effort to extract himself from the bed, but he allows it this early, this alone. Shuffling so slowly to the bathroom is a humiliation he bears for himself, trying to move gently to not rip the skin of his thighs further where it already gently weeps blood.

He'd like to use the bathroom properly, but the bleeding takes priority. He takes the jar from the shelf beside the sink, an action almost as familiar as the pain, and leans back carefully against the counter. The salve inside still smells bitter underneath the vaguely floral attempts to mask it, so he scoops a generous amount onto his fingers and begins carefully massaging it into the hard-edged scars. He's thankful, as bitterly as it smells, that it's so effective; the dry skin of his legs - stomach, chest, shoulder - softens and numbs under his fingers, and his fingers themselves follow suit, but as it dries it seals the bleeding tears.

He moves easier as he returns the jar to its place, and ignores the memory of the physician telling him to apply it daily. He knows how difficult it is to make, the expense needed to supply it; to use it so abundantly would be a waste. He rinses the residue from his hands to feel sensation shiver back into them, and frets over the familiar guilt of washing the remnants away.

The rest of his morning is as close to routine as he can manage. Showering is faster than it usually is, even with having to scrub the blood from his leg, ending abruptly once he feels his balance wavering. Getting dressed is slower, even though - thankfully - his standard uniform isn't the one that was destroyed. His hands feel too heavy to hold the fabric, his joints too stiff to bend properly into sleeves and pant legs.

He looks at himself in the mirror, lifts his right hand halfway up to the too-sharp lines of his jaw, and lets it drop with a sigh. He wishes his reflection looked less familiar. The exhaustion drains years from him, as naturally as breathing.

He takes his cane from the hall as he passes. He considers the kitchen for a moment as he crosses the main room, but food preparation - even something simple - is something that makes his muscles ache just from thinking about it. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, takes a steadying breath, and pulls the door open.

And looks down in surprise as Avex falls in.

He almost kicks at him out of reflexive surprise, and in the moment of hesitation it takes to check the impulse Avex shouts a noise that isn't really a word but was definitely intended to be a curse as he lands heavily on his elbows.

He doesn't know what to say. Avex also seems to be processing, eyes half-closed against the morning light diffusing the hallway. He pushes himself upward into an actual sitting position, facing away from him, and absently checks to see if he chipped any scales. "Good... morning? Sir."

"It's morning, yes." He stares down at him. "Are you...?"

"Hm? Oh," Avex twists around to actually look at his arms. "Yeah, I'm fine. I've fallen further."

He isn't sure where he should start with that answer.

Avex seems to catch up on his own anyway. "I - This looks worse than it is, I promise. I wasn't... I wasn't trying to spy on you or surprise you or anything. I'd do a better job if I was. That statement does not help my explanation."

"Did you sleep out here? In the hallway?"

"Catnap expert, sir," Avex gives a lazy salute over his shoulder, head angled to look up at him from the floor. After a long stare, Avex relents. "I've been out here since... close to midnight, probably?"

"I'm sorry, I usually hear when people knock -"

"I didn't." Avex interrupts. "I didn't knock."

He isn't sure where he should start with that answer, either.

Avex tugs thoughtfully on the edge of one of the crests on his jaw. "Let me start over. I was... having trouble sleeping. So I thought, hey, might as well, I don't know, sort some papers until I felt better. Which isn't a big deal, I mean, you've - you've arrived in the morning to me sleeping there before, it happens, but then I - the office was empty, and I couldn't stop looking at your desk, and I -"

"Avex..."

"- started thinking about the - the diagnosis, and I was like, well, you have guards, but they don't know, and what if something. Happened. Overnight. And nobody was listening -"

"Avex."

"- and I didn't want to learn about it after it was too late if something went wrong." Avex finishes in a rush, eyes closed. "So I came here. And didn't want to disturb you. So I just stayed where I could be... helpful. If I was needed."

"Sitting on the floor of the hallway."

"I - yes!" Avex waves a hand for emphasis. "On the floor of the hallway! What am I going to do, waltz in at three in the morning and kick back on your couch? I'm pretty sure that goes far past any - recommended work environment behavior or something - or - or - you probably have an alarm for if people break in, and I don't think I have clearance -"

The past thirty or so seconds have been, in a word, bewildering. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, don't apologize, I don't mean..." Avex trails off, and then takes a noticeable, full-body pause before sighing and rubbing forcefully at his eyes. "I'm a long way away if something goes wrong. And if something does go wrong, I don't - I don't want to learn about it after."

All he has to say is that it's not Avex's responsibility, reassure him that there are people within a safe distance if there's an emergency. All it would take to send him away would be a few stern words about boundaries or presumptions and he's sure the lines he's blurred between then would be redrawn.

But, gods, Avex is still sitting on his doorstep, and he recognizes the weight settled on his secretary's shoulders with a bitter familiarity - despises it for being there. And he has no idea how to ease it.

He would kneel next to him if he didn't think his legs would complain about it for the rest of the day. "Avex. Do... do you need a day off?"

"Do I need a day off?" Avex echoes, voice hitching on the last words. He's worried Avex is going to start crying, but then he starts laughing, and despite it sounding like it teeters on manic, it's still closer to the Avex he's familiar with. "Sir, I fell asleep against your door because I couldn't stand being in the office because I couldn't sleep, and you're asking me if I need a day off? If I need a day off, I'm taking you with -" he cuts himself off, sobering. "No. No. It's fine. I'll be fine for work."

Avex still hasn't made any move to stand up, and he's still rubbing one elbow as though he can tell it'll bruise later. It all bears an unfathomable amount of weight when - he sighs, internally - Avex hasn't even made a joke about his ass being the first thing to enter the apartment.

"Alright." He sighs. "What's the schedule for today?"

Avex's head jerks up, putting his skull almost perpendicular to the floor so he can glower up at him without turning. "I am processing the rest of those meeting applications so I can book your schedule solid for the next five years, and reviewing the usual mail," he says sternly, "and you are sitting at your desk signing the papers I hand you."

"You haven't slept properly in three days -"

Avex's tone is thorn-sharp. "If you think it'll affect my work, sir, send me home."

He's impressed by the determination, though he's surprised to find impressed is the word he thinks of. Avex is still glaring at him around the sharp ridges of his eyebrow, but it's the tip of his tail tapping against the floor that gives away his worry before he speaks.

"Please let me stay," Avex whispers, voice faint despite how angry he looks. The desperation in it is fragile, drawn tight between immeasurable points. "I don't want to be that far away."

He weighs his options, but he already knows which one is going to win out. "...It's still early. Do you want to use my bathroom to freshen up before work?"

Avex starts to tilt his head as he considers it and immediately winces and rubs at his neck. He lets his gaze drop back to the other side of the hallway as he massages at the stiff muscle. "Is it... is that something you'd mind?"

"I trust you not to go through my belongings."

Avex shakes his head, even though he winces again. "Of course I wouldn't. I just mean... you're a more private person than I am. I don't know if this is something that would make you uncomfortable."

I think you keep more to yourself than you let on is a thought that remains unspoken. "I wouldn't make the offer if I minded."

Avex contemplates this for a long moment. "...I would appreciate it. Thank you."

He starts to put out a hand to help Avex up, but Avex is already getting to his feet, the gesture obscured as he looks forward. He tucks his hand back behind him before Avex turns around, and only moves to step aside so he can pass into the room.

And Avex does pass him, in his casual slouch and with a polite nod of acknowledgement, and he can see his gaze shift around the room in surprisingly alert thoroughness. Avex lingers briefly on the battered armor and tattered cloak hanging on one of the walls where the morning light inches towards highlighting them in the darkness, but doesn't comment. He scans the rest of the room a touch faster, pausing for a moment on the piano cupped by tall, curtained windows and the jutting corner of the room where the living room translates into the open kitchen, and then turns back to him.

"Which hallway should I be going down?"

"The right. The door is to the left once you're in the bedroom." He pauses. "I'm sorry that it's awkward. It wasn't designed for... guests."

Avex shrugs and smiles sympathetically. "Don't worry, sir, I'll cover my eyes while I'm in your quarters. Don't mind the noise if I walk into a wall."

"You don't have to do that."

Avex just laughs as he ducks, habitually through doorways more than tall enough to fit his full height, into the hallway and out of sight. He hears the door close, and after a few minutes the room thrums with the water running through the pipes, and with that change he's not sure what he's supposed to do in the meantime. It seems wrong, or at least impolite, to leave Avex alone in his home, just as strange as it feels to be assuming Avex needs supervision or company until he leaves. His prosthetic leg is complaining in faint, shooting spasms as he stands, and he shifts his weight between his feet to try and ease it.

The softer chairs in the living area are inviting, but he thinks if he got that comfortable now he wouldn't be getting back up. He sits on one of the stools at the kitchen island instead, studying the shelves across from him. He could be making a list of groceries, or cleaning out what food has expired. Things that need to be done, that should have been done the night before. Instead, he uses the time to try and suppress the overbearing awareness that someone is in his space, and that someone is Avex.

He'd rather it be him than almost anyone else. He knows Avex, and trusts him, and it's painfully obvious that his secretary cares about him. It's painful that Avex loves him, in the same way that it's painful to love the spring flowers, or sunrises. No matter how deeply it runs, it can only be fleeting. It's a love that ends.

The Captain-General is a solitary figure, even when placed amid the rest of the Council. He's survived this long because the people he cared about didn't; any other time, he'd be pushing Avex away to keep him alive.

Now, he knows he won't be the one surviving. He doesn't know how to work with that.

He doesn't know how to work with someone else knowing that. Someone who slept on the floor because he didn't want to be alone, or because he didn't want to leave someone else alone. He can recognize the parallel in waiting here now as he listens to the water running.

He massages his upper arm, where scarring solidifies into magical skin. If he was smart, he would do what was necessary and put an end to the uncertainty. Neither of them are going into this blind to begin with.

He corrects. Neither of them would be going into this blind.

He knows Avex isn't stupid. An ultimatum would have an obvious answer; Avex would leave. What would the alternative be? A reasonable person would stay apart, make the inevitable goodbye easier to bear. Avex seems to be choosing that answer without knowing the question, despite the physical closeness. There were more than enough quiet, private moments to bring it up, otherwise, and he can't think of a better reason to keep it unspoken than the hope that the loss will be easier. He can't blame him for wanting to make it a gentler goodbye.

He could ask the question, and know for sure. Despite all but knowing the answer... he doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to confirm the divide that's already present.

He doesn't want to contemplate how things might be if Avex isn't reasonable.

"You haven't had breakfast?" Avex asks from the corner of the kitchen.

He must have jumped, because when he turns to face Avex, the copper already has his hands up in front of his chest in mock surrender. He looks far more awake and the smallest amount shinier, and though his clothes are still slightly rumpled it's obvious he did what he could to straighten out the worst of it.

He continues as if there hadn't been an interruption. "It just doesn't look like you've touched anything since you got back. And it doesn't smell like coffee."

Avex knows, and being honest still tastes bitter. "I don't have the energy right now."

Avex walks around the island and stands in the middle of the kitchen, surveying the shelves as formally as a commander reviewing the lines of battle, and then takes a few quick steps back to turn on the light. "Did you go to Auburn's for dinner last night?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I was..."

Avex stalls him with a wave, which stings even while he knows Avex doesn't mean it harshly. "You don't need to explain. I - we both know. Can I help?"

"Can you help?" He repeats, confused.

"With food," Avex elaborates. "I'm no expert, but if you're too tired to cook, I can do that. Just have to double my recipes."

"I can't ask that of you."

"You aren't asking. Can I get rid of what's gone gross while we're talking, at least?"

He nods, hesitantly. Avex doesn't give him time to reconsider before he starts sorting through the shelves with practiced speed. It's strange to watch him look so natural, in a room he knows Avex has never seen. The implication that Avex's workflow is this fast and erratic in all areas of his life is slightly concerning.

It makes him feel strangely and unexpectedly out of place, as if he's a guest in his own home. He can't shake the feeling that Avex, for the few minutes he's been present, has had more of an impact on the space than he has in all of the years he's lived here; it's as if Avex is alive, and only by comparison has he realized he's been a ghost.

"I mean it, though," Avex unknowingly cuts through his thoughts as he sets aside bread that is blooming a cheerful teal. "I make meals for myself anyway. It wouldn't be a problem."

He looks away, the words caught in his throat as sharp and barbed as barricade wire.

"I know it's hard to accept help for something like this," Avex says quietly. "I wouldn't have to make the offer if it was easy. But I want to help while... when I can."

Neither of them move to face each other, and it stings. The distance is tangible and sour, and he won't force Avex to cross it.

Avex sighs, and looks down at the moldy bread, and it draws them back together like a pendulum reaching the end of its tether. "Okay, so, bread's shit. What do you usually make? I have a feeling it's not toast, because this looks like it's been going off for a while."

"Recently, I've just skipped... breakfast."

He can't bring himself to look towards him, but he can feel Avex frown, and can imagine he's mentally reviewing the past months for any time he's seen him take a meal break. "Forget everything I said earlier," Avex says, in the same tone he would use to remind him of an upcoming appointment. "I am going to show up in your house at 3am, and you're going to wake up to breakfast in bed and a packed lunch."

A smile almost tugs at the corner of his mouth, despite everything. "I wouldn't be so sure. You were right, earlier. There are alarm spells on this apartment."

Avex dismisses the roadblock with a dramatic huff. "Better give me security clearance, then, or the whole Bastion will get to know about our illicit early morning sandwich dates."

He can't keep from smiling this time. "I wasn't aware I'd given you permission to do that."

Avex slams a jar back into place on the shelf, and he looks over, expression going reflexively neutral despite his surprise. It had to be unintentional; Avex has gone almost entirely still, and the fins on his cheeks are folded back tighter than he's ever seen. He's not sure what the emotion is - surprise? Shame? - and Avex recomposes himself before he can truly read it.

"You haven't given me permission, sir." Avex pauses, and his fins twitch again as if he's actively fighting the tell. Whatever conclusion he brings his emotions to, his voice is firm. "But unless you outright refuse my help, I'm going to do everything in my power to - to.... I'm not letting you starve."

Having to give a direct answer to the ultimatum hurts almost as much as it would to ask it, though he's glad the burden of asking has been lifted from his shoulders. The relief feels cowardly from the second he feels it.

He doesn't give a true answer. "There should be eggs in the refrigerator that are still good."

Only one of Avex's fins quirks up, and this time he doesn't seem to care as much. When Avex looks over his shoulder, despite his narrowed eyes and concerned frown, communicating a very clear I told you so, it makes him look like he's awkwardly half-smiling. "I, um, I'm not sure what that is," he admits.

He nods towards the cupboards to Avex's left. "It's the metal door. Try not to keep it open for too long; it's keeping things cold."

Avex accepts the answer in silence and crosses the kitchen, throwing out the expired food and washing his hands on the way. He opens the cold storage and pauses briefly, giving it what he can only assume is a critical once-over, before he carefully picks out enough eggs for the two of them. He carefully sets them on the counter and frowns thoughtfully at the cupboards.

Avex glances back towards him. "Cups, plates, cutlery?"

He points out the right cabinets, and Avex follows his direction; he hopes the lack of use of his own kitchen isn't too obvious, though he fears it has to be.

"These are going to be the plainest omelettes I've made in my life," Avex complains as he gathers dishes, "but I'm not liking the color the meat in there had, and poisoning the Captain-General won't go over well even if it gets me too."

"Plain is fine."

"Plain is necessary, but that doesn't make it any good." Avex gives him a lighthearted scoff as he cracks eggs into the cup, and eyes them cautiously as he does. "After not eating for this long, I'm surprised you're not crunching these raw."

"Raw eggs?" He grimaces. "That's... disgusting."

Avex rolls his eyes, as if somehow his reaction is the abnormal part of the idea, "Everyone's done it at least once. At least as a dare." Avex holds the last egg above the edge of the cup and looks over his shoulder at him. "Do you want to try?"

"I am forty-seven years old."

"That's not a no."

"No."

Avex shrugs. "Suit yourself"

He expects Avex to crack it like the others, like an adult, but Avex puts it into his own mouth instead. He smirks, showing it off between his teeth, crunches it, and then grimaces and spits it in the sink.

"Fuck, the slime is so much worse than I remembered."

He stares at Avex, bewildered. "Why would you - it'll make you sick."

Avex is too busy trying to work the texture out of his mouth to smile, but there's a hint of smugness in his voice. "Not dragonborn. Or aarakocra, for that matter. I used to make money on bets about eating them in college, until my sister found out and told everyone. If you don't mind the texture, they're fine." He pauses, and his tongue flicks out as he reflexively sneers in disgust. "You know, I'm not sure if it being cold made that better or worse."

Avex leaves him to stew on that thought as he starts whisking the eggs, taking the salt and pepper from where he must have noticed them earlier. He hums thoughtfully as he heats the pan and starts pouring the mixture in, though he keeps frowning at it as though complaining about the lack of ingredients will somehow make them appear.

It's not unusual, really. Avex loudly moping about being low on ink does tend to speed up the process of ordering replacements.

"Gods, it's literally just eggs. Who lives like this?" Avex makes a face down at the stove, and his voice swings into a joking lilt with a casualness that isn't familiar but, at the same time, is something that feels right. "I think I'll have to postpone dinner to get groceries tonight, if you want something home-cooked after work. Unless you wanted to let me off early?"

He laughs, a quiet sound that doesn't really leave his throat. "You have all of those forms to go through, I don't think we can spare you so soon."

Avex folds the omelette over, more out of habit than necessity given that there's nothing to cover. "I could send Fotia. I get the feeling he likes running errands for me."

"Do you?"

"Oh, he was practically falling over himself begging to run my mail around." Avex glanced back to see if he was watching and then flipped the omelette with a flourish and slid it off onto a plate. "I'm sorry, I really can't get over the - it's just eggs. I promise you I know how to cook real food."

"I believe you." He accepts the plate as Avex slides it across the counter. It doesn't look appealing, and he doesn't really feel hungry, but some part of him that's still paying attention to basic needs gets him eating anyway.

"I could do groceries over my lunch break, I suppose," Avex muses as he pushes the second round of eggs around the pan. "I could probably grab a few basics along with lunch if I put the legwork in."

"I'm sure there would be someone around who could be sent on errands..." he trails off, considering.

Avex turns to half-face him and points his fork accusingly. "You don't want anyone to know you need help."

He frowns, but doesn't argue the point.

"It's fine, anyway. I don't keep in such fine shape just for show." He leans his hips to one side and laughs. "Just get me a grocery list by noon, and I can manage by dinner."

"I will. Thank you."

Avex's self-assured posture falters briefly, with that same brief fold of his cheek fins. "I - it's nothing. You know I'm happy to help."

He wants to say something more, but Avex straightens up and glances at the window behind him with a grimace.

"Not happy to be late, though, and that is what we're on track for. The amount of stairs -" Avex stops mid sentence, and his grimace flattens into a displeased line. "You walked all of them to get up here yesterday, didn't you?"

He looks away.

Avex sighs, and it sounds more resigned than it does hurt. "You start walking, then. I'll eat this, clean up and catch you on the stairs."

It makes sense, but rising from the chair is, absurdly, among the most difficult things he's ever done. He stifles the long-silenced part of him that wants - it doesn't matter what it wants. This is fleeting, temporary. He can't linger on it. His leg resuming its familiar ache when he puts weight on it is a welcome distraction.

Avex is rinsing his plate in the sink when he pauses at the door, leaning on his cane. "The alarm will reset when I close the door. You're fine staying here, since I invited you, but... don't open the door after you leave. I don't want to deal with the incident report because you forgot your jacket."

"Don't worry, sir," Avex says cheerfully, giving him a mock salute with his dishrag. "I'm a tidy guest."

He's pretty sure no matter what he says, he's going to get an answer that makes him wish he didn't reply. He shakes his head good-humoredly and leaves, closing the door behind him. If he was being honest, he's not sure if the alarm going off would summon anyone after what happened at the theater. No, someone would come; at least one person would want to know which bastard finally managed to do him in.

And yet, fate will cheat them of their satisfaction. It's a dark thought to find humor in.

The memory of the theater and the sudden lack of Avex's chatter makes the hallway feel bizarrely quiet and empty, despite this being the same as it is every morning. He nods to the guards that salute as he passes, even though he passes slowly and sorely, and after a meandering network of hallways past old storage rooms he begins his tedious climb down the stairs. Each step lances a new arc of pain up from the pads of his feet to the tense lean of his hip, and he grimly forces through it.

He knows it's a mistake halfway to the next floor, where the stairwell levels out briefly so it can change direction. His good leg aches in searing, bearable pulses, but the prosthetic is an incomprehensible white-hot blur in his senses, a fray of metaphysical nerve endings that aren't connecting right.

He sags against the railing, trying to ease more weight off of the prosthetic, and the magic screams through his muscles. His mind is blank with it. There's something he should be doing, but he can't get a grip on it the way he usually can.

That strikes clear and true through the agony: this time he can't think. It's getting worse.

Avex's hand is on his shoulder.

It can't have been more than a few minutes, but he's not sure how long it's been, or what Avex is saying. He feels the hesitation in Avex's grip for a moment, and then he's being lifted, awkwardly, though there's an old familiarity to it. He registers the cause as Avex leans back against the wall to balance their ungainly weight; one arm under the back, one arm under the knees, battlefield casualties unable to walk.

The pain recedes in pops and flashes, the prosthetic correcting itself into a strained ache like a dislocated joint being set in place. He opens his mouth to draw in a deeper breath and tastes blood where he's bitten his tongue, a flavor he thought had simply come with the memory.

"Clear-headed enough to listen yet, sir?" Avex says, voice thrumming against his cheek.

He shifts to try and move from Avex's arms and hisses as his right leg spasms in protest.

"I'll take that as a yes," Avex says drily. "Stay still. You're hard to hold, and I don't want to drop you."

He stills.

"I'm going to talk until you get your breath back, because - sir - fuck." He feels Avex's breath abruptly shaking as he draws it in. "You looked like you were dying. I don't even know if you could tell I was there. I just guessed - I hoped that it was the leg and that taking the weight off would help - you can't - we can't," he shakes his head and then slowly, carefully, lowers into a crouch and then drops the last few inches to the ground onto his hip. Avex holds him as steady as he can manage; the few inches of height that Avex has on him isn't enough to make this easy. "Would you let me take you back to the apartment?"

He shakes his head and finds his breath. "Just a bad flare up. They aren't frequent."

Avex's hand tightens on his arm.

"It'll pass," he insists.

"I believe you," Avex mutters. "I don't like it. But I believe you. I'm - sorry for picking you up. Arms carry - It was all I could think of." He laughs, though it's fragile. "I'll try not to make a habit of it."

"It helped," he replied softly. "Thank you."

Avex shrugs off the gratitude. "Let me know when you're ready to stand, and I'll get your cane. And if it flares up again, I'm walking you to the cargo lift every morning so this doesn't happen a second time." Avex pauses, giving him a chance to reply, but he doesn't. "Have you thought about getting a wheelchair?"

"No," he replies, and then reconsiders who he's talking to. "I've thought about it. But I... it's not safe. I have to be the Captain-General."

"Right. Of course." Avex sighs and, almost as an afterthought, sets him down in his lap. His joints protest, but softly. "Stupid system."

He doesn't have anything to argue that with.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Avex doesn't comment - only grabs his cane from where it fell next to the railing - when he unsteadily gets to his feet. Putting weight on the prosthetic still makes the skin of it feel raw, but it's a pain he can swallow. He knows Avex is watching him anxiously, but he can't spend the energy on reassuring him now that he's started moving.

Avex stays within arm's reach the whole way down the stairs, which remain isolated and empty the same way they usually are. He lets himself rest at the bottom, briefly, and if Avex is still standing a little closer than he normally does, neither of them mention it. He's sure they both know.