It's finally looking at the figure on the bed that it hits him: Rodney, his friend.
It's not your friend and you know it, you know what It is, you know what It does to -
God he looks so tired.
His face is pasty white and strained red. Sweat drips from his entire body. He smells like sickness, like sweat and addiction. He starts to shudder. Small convulsions, tremors - he hates seeing anyone in so much pain, anyone, let alone someone he - He wants to take the restraints off and hold him close, hold him tight until the tremors subsided but he doesn't dare. He knows the effects of withdrawal on the human body, far better than he should.
He won't underestimate it or what its capable of. He won't even contemplate the extra effects of the alien enzyme Rodney made himself take. He doesn't want to know the monster it can create. He doesn't want to think it might be stronger than them both.
He hated being helpless. Just standing there being unable to do or say anything that would help him. He has no enzyme to wean him with, no substitute. He doesn't know what to give him to help calm him, too afraid that anything he gives him would react the wrong way.
No knowledge, no medicine, no damned enzyme or cure.
He just stood there. Helpless. Alone.