After the Storm
"You can rest. It's okay."
Not that Entill knows if it's okay or not. He's a medic, sure, but he's never had to deal with the aftermath of... Something like this. The destructive rage of a saiyan, far beyond what he's ever seen before. The coldness of Pickal's skin, but the warmth of the bruising that bubbles just underneath. The red lines that already appear where musculature grew, too fast, tearing tendons and stretching ligaments to their limit.
Pickal mumbles something under his breath, resting his head on Entill's shoulder. Usually, being this close would have him flustered, his stubby little tail wagging... But Pickal is simply too exhausted for that.
"Go on. Close your eyes. I'm right here."
Ah. There's a tail wag. A slow, small one. Pickal buries his head into Entill's neck, too fucked up to think about how intimate the action is. He just wants to get comfortable, and right now everything hurts. The sun's too bright, too hot.
"...Move... Yer hand."
"Like this?"
Moving his right hand slowly, gently, so that it covers Pickal's face. Shields him from the wasteland sun. There's a soft, tired grunt of affirmation as Pickal closes his eyes.
It's only moments later that Pickal lets the exhaustion and pain win. His shoulders sag as his body relaxes, his arms going limp. He slumps over, leaning slightly to the left, and Entill has to wrap his other arm around Pickal's shoulders, keeping him upright.