Sick Day

A/N: Brobot/Jake is wonderful. This was originally posted on AO3 under a different penname.

He’s dazedly screaming now, head flinging from side to side like a ship amid a tempest, body writhing uncomfortably against the quilt.

It’s too hot. Too scratchy. So cold. Everything is so so loud: the silence is deafening, shrill and piercing as it ruins him (from the inside.) He can’t focus, eyeglasses cast aside in the fervor, the fever. Panting, gasping for air and shrinking back in agony as his head ruthlessly punishes him for it.

He’s dying, so nauseous but nothing’s coming up.

A too cold hand slides up past his bangs, smoothing sweat stained hair back, rubbing gently. Cyclically. So cold. Just right. Dimmed orange light glows, barely visible before his blurry eyes. If the room wasn’t pitch black those phosphorescent eyes would have faded completely. It’s only the robot half cuddling, all tending to him, pinning him down and keeping him from tearing at himself.

The pain is just so everything Jake can’t think through it. Moaning hurts.

So sick.

So violently-

Jake finally retches something up, turned swiftly, just in time, and nearly fills the basin before he finishes.

He’s atop Brobot now, cold smoothness pressed firmly beneath as the pain begins to subside, as the everything dulls and smears into foggy negligibility.

He’s always here on this lonely island.

The only person Jake’s ever truly met.

The only person he’d need.

Who cares what he’s made of?

Who cares that its written code not random electrical impulses that make him him?

He’s real.

Always there.

Waiting.

Watching.

Cotton smothers Jake in the dark, blinding him, muffling the cacophony of emotions and leading him to slumber

Brobot’s all his, arms winding loosely around him, resting Jakes head in the crook of his neck, and Jake is all his, the barely audible whirring inside of him luring him down from hysteria and away from pain, back into the bittersweet dreams where he’s the machines everything and he’s the machines’.