“Shush and go back to bed.”
Despite all the progress in technology made over the decades, no one’s quite figured out how to reduce the trials of growing into new prosthetics.
He’d heard Breach’s groans of pain after having gotten up to fetch Red something to drink. It’s odd, he thinks, because Breach had been silent all day, putting on a tough face even through the strain his new limbs were putting on his body. It’s not like they’re at work; the façade does no one any favors, especially when some simple help would make Breach’s recovery a little easier.
So he brings Red her ice-water and says, “I’m gonna check on Breach. Sounds like he’s having some trouble.”
She nods, thanks him for the errand. “Don’t remember if he took his medication at dinner. You’d better check.”
He heads back to the kitchen to get another glass, just for Breach, and wets a few small towels with cold water. Inventory in hand, he heads down the hall, past his and Red’s room, to nudge Breach’s door open with his foot.
“Breach?”
The newly minted cyborg jolts when he hears his name, turning his head over his shoulder to look at Boxer. His expression turns dark, unwelcoming.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“No, I…” He pauses. Considering the efforts he’d been putting on to look like he was fine, Boxer decides not to mention that he’d heard the other whining. “…Thought I should check on you.”
“Oh, buzz off,” Breach grumbles, seeing right through his weak excuse. “I’m fine.”
“Your joints look swollen,” he returns. There’s no reason to take the cold attitude personally; he knows what it feels like to be in pain, with all of your patience reserves on empty.
There’s no response. Boxer enters the room and puts the glass and towels on the bedside table, picking up the hand-sized medicine dispenser and checking the remaining charges for today. Sure enough, Breach hasn’t taken his night pills, so he triggers the machine to drop three pills of varying sizes and shapes into his palm. He holds them and the glass out for Breach, who has to turn over onto his back to take them from him wordlessly.
“Where does it hurt the worst?” Boxer asks quietly. There’s some quiet deliberation before Breach finally says, “The front.”
“Ah, right. From those exercises…” Boxer lays out the cool towels over the sections where sore, reddened flesh meets metal; Breach lets out a sigh of relief at each one.
“Feel better?” Boxer asks, with a small, pleased smirk.
“Enough to get to sleep. Just wish you’d brought ice…”
Boxer lightly bats at Breach’s good shoulder. “And do more harm than good? You know making the metal cold will–”
“Yeah, yeah,” Breach interrupts, his face relaxing into a contented smile. “Just shut up and go back to bed.”
