Fics like Wounded

Carefully, carefully, they get Crichton lowered into his bed. On top of the covers for now, but anything else involves too much movement and coordination. D’Argo lets himself fall back (covering the exits, nevermind that they’re on Moya, safe) as Zhaan kneels at his side. “How are you feeling, John?” she asks, safe, gentle and soft and kind as always. D’Argo feels something in himself harden at the sound of it – at the need for it – even as he relaxes a little. John’s in good hands, now. They’ve got him here. He’s going to be alright. Then John tries to speak. Tries being the operative word. His eyes have fluttered open, head limply turned to the side so he can stare at Zhaan, and his mouth opens only to let out a horrid, hoarse croak. His voice cracks terribly, like shattered glass in his throat, and D’Argo winces at the sound of it, at the awful way John immediately proceeds to slam his eyes shut, to weakly curl his fingers into fist (the only parts of him he can really move). A groan leaves his throat instead, a groan than sounds more like a whine.

Fics like Wounded

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