"Amatus," he sighs, and closes his eyes again. It's a struggle to keep them open. "You're too good to me."

He doesn't sleep. He drifts on the edge, but remains frustratingly conscious. Still, Bull's hands on him are nice--cathartic, even--and it's a comfort to feel clean for the first time in days, as well as have food in his belly. He's pliant, malleable, eating and drinking and moving as directed without complaint. His eyes slide open as Bull works his fingers through his hair, and he tips his head back to look up at him. It's all so overwhelming that merely the sight of Bull's face, warm and attentive and so very dear, nearly brings tears back to his eyes. Bull is so patient with him, and so gentle. What would he do without him?

"We should get a bigger bath back home," he says, voice thin. "I want to do this every day."