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[radioromantic-moved]

i'll take care of you (it's rotten work) (yeah it sure fucking is)

this is so unbearably sweet by my usual standards for this ship...but also i'm kind of proud of it i'm afraid. if you'd rather read on google docs here is a link :) otherwise cytrex fluff (or what passes for fluff when it's them) under the cut

"Cyril, I am dying.”

“You’re not dying,” Cyril says patiently. “You just have a cold, and your immune system is still getting used to being off the station for the first time so it feels worse than it is. You’re going to be perfectly fine in four days or so.”

“If it’s not that bad, why are you sitting on the corner of the bed wearing a mask?”‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎Trexel‏‏‎ ‎asks, in a checkmate sort of tone. 

Cyril clears their throat self consciously. “I mean, just because it’s not that bad doesn’t mean I want to catch it.”

“Quisling,” mutters‏‏‎ ‎Trexel, before launching into a series of raspy coughs. “I’m writing you out of my will,” he wheezes.

“I was in your will?” asks Cyril, who is, embarrassingly, a little charmed by this.

“Maybe. Whatever.” He rolls over and smushes his face into his pillow. “It just figures that everyone is too preoccupied to say their final goodbyes,” he bemoans, muffled. “Sure, David, your first friend in your entire slimy little clone life is lying here on his deathbed but you’d rather suck face with your idiot grand duke than offer even a smidge of solidarity to me in this--this--ha-chmph!”

“Don’t sneeze into your pillow, you’ll get snot on it,” Cyril scolds him. “Look, you know I’m not Bathin’s biggest fan either, but David clearly adores him and the feeling is mutual as far as I can tell, so just let them have this. Also, we are living on his planet, so try to play nice.”

Trexel‏‏‎ ‎rolls over blearily. “Say something mean about Bathin,” he urges. “I miss when you would do that. It’s my dying wish, Cyril.”

Cyril sighs deeply. “Trexel,‏‏‎ ‎if you somehow take a drastic turn for the worse before the end of today, I will make up a new insult to call Bathin and get it put on your tombstone.”

“Promise?” he asks with shining eyes and a little congested snuffle for extra effect.

“Cross my heart.”

“Thank you, Cyril,”‏‏‎ ‎Trexel‏‏‎ ‎says sweetly. “I lo--um, I l-like you. Very much.”

“I like you very much too, Trex,” Cyril says, and stars and planets they do in fact actually mean it. “I’m gonna make you some soup.”

“You can’t cook,”‏‏‎ ‎Trexel‏‏‎ ‎says suspiciously.

“First of all, rude, and second of all soup is barely cooking, it’s just throwing a bunch of things in a big pot. I can put things in a big pot!”

“I do like a big pot,” he ponders aloud. “Don’t burn anything down.”

Cyril giggles, which turns into a laugh bordering on the hysterical. “You’re one to talk, buddy. Also, so much of this place is water I don’t think I could burn anything down if I tried. But I will be careful. Get some sleep.”

Trexel‏‏‎ ‎nestles under the blankets, looking rather peaceful, especially for him. Cyril’s heart does a thing that might at one time have been cause for panic, but has now become rather routine. 

And as just about anyone could tell you, Cyril Andromedus is a sucker for a routine.

--

The soup is salt, noodles, carrots, seaweed and meat. The seaweed is perhaps an unconventional addition, but‏‏‎ ‎Galactonium‏‏‎ ‎has bred this stuff for flavor, and there are over 50 unique‏‏‎ ‎Galactonian‏‏‎ ‎strains of edible seaweed (and just as many strains of…another kind). Even Cyril hasn’t memorized all of their names yet. Maybe next time they have a free day.

They bring the soup back into the bedroom and set it on‏‏‎ ‎Trexel’s nightstand. Their patient is still asleep. They go to wake him, but hesitate for a minute. Unconsciousness is perhaps the only state in which‏‏‎ ‎Trexel‏‏‎ ‎Geistman‏‏‎ ‎could be described as being calm, and it’s a pleasant novelty.

“A surprise party for me?” he murmurs. “Y’shouldn’t have. Eat the whole cake myself, don’t mind if I do…”

Upon seeing him beginning to drool on the pillow, Cyril snaps themself out of it and gently shakes him awake. “Soup delivery,” they announce.

Trexel‏‏‎ ‎emits an incomprehensible noise and slowly sits up.

“No cake?”  

“Even you would not want to eat a cake I baked.”

“You underestimate the amount of things I’ll eat,”‏‏‎ ‎Trexel‏‏‎ ‎counters. 

They hand him the bowl of soup, a spoon, and a tray (because they really do not want to wash these sheets until they absolutely have to). Trexel‏‏‎ ‎takes a small sip. “Hm. That’s…you know what, that’s okay,” he declares after a minute of deliberation. “Sorry for underestimating you.”

“Trexel‏‏‎ ‎Geistman‏‏‎ ‎apologizing for something?” Cyril gasps. “Never thought I’d see the day!”

“Shut up, I apologize all the time!” he protests. “Just only when I’m wrong, and that doesn’t happen very often, so there.” He coughs.

“I’m honored to have witnessed it.”

“You should be.” He slurps his soup aggressively.

Cyril leaves while he’s preoccupied to read for a while. They have about ten minutes before they hear a plaintive “Cyril…” coming from the bedroom.

Cyril closes the book and goes to check on‏‏‎ ‎Trexel. The soup bowl is discarded, empty, on his nightstand. 

“Do you need more soup?” they ask. “I didn’t make a lot of it, it was kind of a small pot, but if you want I guess I can--”

“No, it’s fine,” he interrupts them. “I’m full on soup for now. I just. Um.”

He avoids eye contact with them, sneezes and swipes at his nose.

“Trex, what is it? Are you actually dying?”

He mumbles something under his breath, too quiet for them to hear.

“C’mon,‏‏‎ ‎Trexel, I’ve heard worse from you on a regular basis, I’m sure of it.”

Trexel‏‏‎ ‎looks hesitant, sneezes again, then forces out, “I would just. Like it. If you stayed here for a little while. And kept me company or something.”

Cyril blinks, caught off guard, then smiles softly. “Okay. I can do that.”

They sit on the bed, still near the edge, but risk scooting in a little closer to where‏‏‎ ‎Trexel is bundled under the covers. “Do you just want me to sit here?”

“You can talk if you want,” he says. “I can’t contribute much. My throat hurts. I don’t like it. I’m used to talking much more than this. S’difficult.”

“I can imagine. Oh my goodness, if you want me to talk, let me tell you about the‏‏‎ ‎Galactonium‏‏‎ ‎library! There are these jade designs on the walls and a fountain and more real paper books than I’ve ever seen in my life, and books written on all sorts of things OTHER than paper, I didn’t even know you could DO that, and Bathin told me I could volunteer there! And at the museums, too, if I wanted, and--”

Trexel‏‏‎ ‎makes a growly noise.

“--and, you know, that’s fine or whatever but I would have found a way to volunteer there even if he didn’t give me permission. He doesn’t control me or anything. Anyway, there were even books in other languages, and oh my VOIDS there’s even an OLD EARTH ARCHIVE like, IN THE LIBRARY, not off in some corner or anything, there’s real actual books and letters and magazines from Earth! I checked out so much stuff and I can’t wait to learn about the cultural context of all of it. When you’re feeling better, we can go together.”

“That sounds awful,” mumbles‏‏‎ ‎Trexel‏‏‎ ‎sleepily. “But I’ll do it for you.”

They rub the back of his head. “How selfless of you. You’ve come a long way.”

“I guess I have,”‏‏‎ ‎Trexel‏‏‎ ‎says softly, in a voice that sounds like maybe he’s realizing it for the first time. “I guess I have.”