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He coughs and coughs, until his vision fades to black at the edges and his broken nose starts oozing blood again. He doesn’t remember how he found himself in bed; Thomas’ last clear memory is of a man storming towards him and knocking Thomas to the ground and yelling about loans, and then his memory gets hazy. He assumes he passed out and Edith and Archie carried him back inside the house. They are too good for him, they really are.
He heaves for breath, ruined lungs refusing to work properly, and hacks up a mouthful of phlegm. Thomas grimaces at the foul but familiar taste, turning his head and searching for a place to spit it out, but moving his head makes the room spin.
“Here, Pa,” says Archie, appearing at his bedside. He holds a handkerchief to Thomas’ split, bruised lips, letting his father spit the disgusting stuff into the white cloth. He’s such a good boy; not all sons would be so close to their sick father, helping him do the most basic of things. And he does it all without a hint of disgust, genuinely assisting Thomas with all manner of humiliating things as his body slowly fails him.
“Th-Thank you,” Thomas says, voice hoarse and cracking. And before he realizes, he adds, “I don’t deserve you…”
Archie’s caring smile falters, his lip twitching, before swallowing hard. “Don’t talk like that, Pa. You don’t need to deserve me. We’re family. This is what families do for each other.” He takes another cloth, carefully wiping away the blood still dribbling from Thomas’ swollen nose. “I want to help you. ‘Cause I love you.”
Unshed tears burn his bloodshot eyes, and Thomas blinks rapidly. “L-Love you too, Arch,” he whispers, twisting his sore lips into a weak smile.