Work Text:
It’s not the blood that scares Jet. He’s seen more than enough of Spike’s blood for one lifetime, to the point that the sight of it somehow becomes part of his routine- buy groceries, change the oil on the Hammerhead, fix the busted water heater for the third time in a month, clean Spike’s blood off the floor, his clothes, his hands.
It’s not the fever that scares Jet either, though maybe it should. Spike’s had wounds that festered and spread sickness to the rest of his body before. Those long nights by his side are one of the few times Jet’s almost grateful for his metal arm, the coolness of it making Spike shudder in relief as he strokes the side of his face, soothing his burning skin.
It’s certainly not the ripped stitches; it’s honestly more of a nuisance than anything at this point. He’s sewn Spike back together more times than he can count after he ran out to chase after whatever crazy thing has caught his interest without giving himself time to fully heal, or training when he was supposed to be on bed rest, or the time he pickpocketed a cigarette off Jet when he was recovering from pneumonia and the ensuing coughing fit tore through the flimsy thread holding his skin together. Wouldn’t be such a problem if we had better medical supplies, Spike had said, as if they could afford it.
The thing that scares Jet the most after they scraped Spike off that staircase in the ruins of the Red Dragon headquarters is the quiet, viscerally unsettling obedience.
How he goes limp at his touch, like putty in his hands as he moves him bodily to clean his wounds and change his bandages, his face blank and sunken, no quips about buying him dinner first, no whining complaints about how cold Jet’s cybernetic hand is and next time could he at least try to warm it up before manhandling him?
How he doesn’t even try to peel himself off the couch and throw himself headlong into his next mistake in spite of everyone else’s protests.
How he listens when Jet tells him to rest, or not to smoke, or to try and eat something today.
Like all the stupid bravado, the defiance, the biting sarcasm, the devil may care attitude, everything that made Spike Spike had been drained out of his body, leaving behind a hollowed out shell of a man.
An empty husk. Boneless and pliable.
Utterly broken, spiritually just as much as physically.
That was what scared Jet. He knew how to staunch bleeding, stave off fevers, stitch and restitch wounds- but what could he do for a wound he couldn’t even see?