“No,” Malachi shook his head, vehement. “No doctors. Nettie, don’t, please.”

He’d been mostly quiet while she tended to him, unable to muster up the strength to speak while she looked upon him in his current condition – but the mention of a doctor had his heart jump in an unpleasant fluttering way.

“It won’t get worse. I’m already feeling better than I was,” he lied. “I’ll keep an eye on all of it and I’ll come to you if I need help again, alright?”

She might reconsider? That was enough to pry his eyes off of the floor, but he had to look at the wall instead so as not to glare at her.

“It isn’t a matter of pride, Nettie,” Malachi insisted, doing his best to keep his voice even.

“Please promise me you won’t.”

Malachi knew that he had upset her, but he didn’t know what else to do. The only doctor he had ever seen had turned out to be… well, the reason for his injuries rather than the cure. He had no desire to ever see another one – he never had, and he’d made it this far, right? He’d dealt with injuries worse than these, without anyone’s help but his own.

Never injuries like these, but a wound was a wound. Blood was blood.

He was quiet too, after that. He lifted his arms and moved as necessary, but he was weak, and he was still so tired. Once Nettie had finished, Malachi moved to sit carefully at the edge of the bed, wincing as he did so.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I know this is hard for you. I haven’t ever… had anyone to help me before.”

Selfish? It was anything but selfish to worry and want him to stay alive. Malachi might have always bristled at being cared for in such fashion by someone that should have relied upon him instead, but it did not mean he thought her selfish, or was not grateful for her care.

“Nettie. I’m not going to die,” he promised. “And it isn’t selfish of you. I… appreciate that you care so much for me, and I’ve told you everything that I can. I just have to get through this for myself.”

Malachi accepted the glass of water when it was offered, but he did not drink it just yet, in spite of his perpetually dry throat.

“I won’t let them get infected,” came his quiet insistence. While she moved the bedsheets, he lifted the glass to his mouth and sipped at it slowly, before setting it aside.

Too much and he’d feel even sicker than he already did.

“Tomorrow,” he decided, glancing at her. “I’ll stay here until tomorrow. You can find me here then, if you still want to.”