(Prompt request- the way you said "I love you: 2- With a hoarse voice, under the blankets)

in sickness and in health

When he wakes, curled awkwardly in the chair beside the bed with his legs half-asleep and a ferocious crick in his neck, Nine's sitting up and reaching out in his direction.

(Her sight's almost back to normal, Lokin and Oggurobb had said, after the last round of treatments and another night spent in the kolto tank; the first time she opened her eyes, still in their makeshift medical facility on Iokath, she'd lifted one hand to her face, fingertips brushing her eyelashes. Take this mask off, she'd rasped as he and Lana looked at each other with dawning horror, I can't see-)

He's up before she can try to rise, stumbling as blood flow returns to his tingling feet- he ought to know better, he's not a kid any more and he can't sleep like he used to, curled up in the gaps between shipping crates or tucked up against the warmth of an exhaust vent- and meets her outstretched hands with both of his. "I'm here," he says, "I'm here. What do you need?"

"Need the 'fresher," she mumbles, "again. 'm sorry." She doesn't have her voice back yet either, words chosen carefully to spare her still-swollen vocal cords; she'd screamed and screamed when the throne overloaded on her- when he watched the footage from the room's only camera afterward there was no sound to play back, only the video feed, but stars, it must have been so loud-

He was glad of the recording's silence.

He must have watched it a hundred times, magnifying every angle to try to catch a glimpse of the console in the far corner of the room, of the still-anonymous conspirator who'd set up the trap. Until Nine's comm went dead there was a part of him that hadn't believed that the threat was real- there'd been so many other warning letters, so many other nebulous plots against the Alliance that didn't bear out under investigation, that he'd thought this one no different; he'd filed the fragments of the intercept away, half-forgotten in the disaster that was their arrival on Iokath, hadn't told her, hadn't told Lana, even, to have her double-check.

She'd only worn the extra shielding because of what happened to Jace. If she hadn't, if the disperser hadn't borne the brunt of the current-

It would have killed her. It would have killed her and it would have been his fault.

Nine's arms, bandage-wrapped to protect her healing skin, wind carefully around his neck as he bends over to gather her up, pressing a kiss to her upturned forehead. "Don't be sorry. You know that's why I'm here- in sickness and in health, right?" He tries to keep his tone light as she nods, curling into his chest, her body a tight little knot of pain despite all the drugs. "You're sure you don't want the bedside one, though?"

"No. 'm not an invalid. Just-" she scowls. She was never any good at asking for help, even now, and he knows how much her weakness infuriates her- "need to stand up."

By the time she's at the edge of the bed she's sweating, her legs trembling as her bare feet brush the floor. He counts to three and she tenses, ready, hanging on tight around his neck as they stand up together; her breath's a hiss, sharply in and then out, ragged, her nails digging into his skin. But after a moment she's almost steady on her feet and her grip on him eases.

"Only took one try this time," he says by way of encouragement. "You'll be running laps around the base by the time we get back to Odessen."

She snorts, her first step tentative, sliding her grip down to his arm, and eyes him dubiously. "Liar."

"It's barely been three days." They cross the room together, step by step- six paces from bedside to the 'fresher door, a path he's walked a dozen times at least in that time with her in his arms, first, her head lolling on his shoulder, and now side by side. "Lokin told me not to expect you up for at least five, so you're already ahead of the curve."

(At least had been hedging their bets and they all knew it, carefully dancing around the damage the shock had done- her muscles swollen, skin marred by the thin lines forking like lightning up both arms, nerves dull and numb alternating with too finely keyed, every change of her bandages a torture she endured, pale and shaking and teeth clenched, without complaint.

Force, she's so fucking strong. She's so much stronger than he is and she always was, durasteel at her core, and she complained so rarely even when they asked so much of her.

Which was always.

Was it ever going to stop?)

One hand on the doorway, she eases herself carefully over the threshold. "Said no caf-" she coughs, every word an effort, but stays upright- "'til I could hold a cup.'s good motivation."

He smiles. "And here I thought it was all for me."

She makes a face at him as he lets the door mostly shut behind her; he leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest. For the next few minutes he waits, listening for anything beyond the usual sounds of running water or the cycling refresher until the door slides open again and Nine's leaning against the sink, trying to smooth the loose woven tunic back down around her thighs one-handed as she looks at herself in the mirror.

"I look-" she says, giving up on the tunic to rub irritably at her face, at eyelids left puffy by all the fluids forced into her body, at her hair tied up in a messy knot. He'd tried his best but he could never manage it the way she did, and Lana'd only pointed at her own short hair and shrugged, helpless- "like shit. Could've warned me."

He opens his mouth to tease her in reply but the look in her eyes makes him stop.

This is your fault. It echoes in his head again, the same drumbeat over and over for the last three days. If you hadn't blown it off, if you hadn't let her go alone, this wouldn't have happened.

"No, you don't."

(She doesn't; she could have crawled straight out of a Tarisian bog and she'd still look beautiful, even if on better days she'd argue that he was biased- which, yeah, of course he is, she's his wife-)

"Liar," Nine mutters again, glancing at him to orient herself before she takes a step away from the basin, though there's the smallest gleam of amusement in her eyes; she looks like herself, if only for a moment. "Always say-"

She overbalances, then, legs unsteady, and he lunges forward to catch her before she hits the ground.

"I've got you." He doesn't need to say it- he knows that she knows- but it's more for his own reassurance, probably, as he crouches down beside her. "Do you want to try to walk back, or-?"

An open-ended question, giving her an out. She's been so stubborn today, tired of being confined to bed, and she's wanted to get up every time, to move, to walk on her own- but this time she's still shaking and she casts her gaze down, disgusted, to her own trembling body. "No," she whispers, so quiet he can barely hear. "Help?"

He lifts her, careful, and carries her back to the bed, sets her down among the pillows and gathers up the blankets around her and redoses her painkillers until she's cushioned and comfortable and warm, and when he's finished she looks up at him and finally smiles.

"Theron?"

"Hm?" He strokes her hair with one hand until the lines across her forehead ease.

"I love you." Her voice gives way, cracking on the last word. "I'm sorry about-"

He leans down to kiss her, cutting her off gently and she makes a happy little noise against his mouth and it's a knife right through his heart. "I love you, too. Don't be sorry."

"But-"

"Nothing that happened was your fault," he says, and kisses her again. "None of it. And when I find whoever did this to you, I will do whatever it takes to make sure they can't ever hurt you again."

She nods, half-asleep already; after a minute or so her eyes drift closed and her breathing steadies and he just sits beside her on the bed, not wanting to move.

He needs a plan.

He needs a plan.

Step one, he thinks. Find out who sent that message.