When Derek had been left alone, he had stood there for a moment. Not thinking, just... Processing.
If... If he was truly not to be harmed here... Could he let himself recover? Could he let himself relax long enough to repair the damage?
And, if it was a lie, when would be the next time he'd be given such a luxury?
Piece by piece, he removes the armor that has, quite frankly, become too heavy for him to wear, what with the malnutrition and muscle atrophy as his body ate itself to stay alive, placing them all lovingly on the armor stand. It had kept him alive, had served him well. It would be respected, at least by him.
Then, he poked his head into the on-suite, and found it stocked with the fluffiest towels he'd ever seen, soaps of all scents, everything. Even some spare underthings that he not overthinking right now.
He covers the mirror with a towel before bathing, ignores that he can count his ribs by touch alone, tries and fails to un-matt his hair, but. He is clean now, for the first time in half a year.
His clothes, he tries to wash in the sink. Leaves them to dry in the bathroom, assuming they will be fine come morning. Throws on the clean clothing provided (boxers and a tank top, in the King's yellow), that is several sizes too big but better than nothing.
Makes some semblance of a nest in the bed he's been provided, and sleeps a dreamless sleep.
He doesn't wake when the King enters the room, nor does he stir when his blanket is fixed.
In his sleep, with the tension in his wing bases eased, he goes practically boneless, like a cat in a sunbeam. Not awake enough to properly nuzzle into It, but not asleep enough to not recognize the care he is receiving. A stuttering, half-there purr starts in his chest, like it can't decide if he's too asleep to purr, like he hasn't purred in years. A hand, in his sleep, makes its way to It's side. Not holding It, just resting there.
