Trying to keep himself still, Barrow lowers himself onto the bed and grips fistfuls of sheet and mattress below him. The pancakes look and smell appetizing, but being unable to keep anything down all day-- even water, fuck-- means he just regards them uneasily, vacillating between gratefulness that Mobius thought of him and a pure, unadulterated rage that Mobius is here at all.

"Not great," he manages to get out, in a clipped, anxious grunt, glancing from the pancakes to Mobius with an uncontrolled jerk of his shoulders. This isn't what he needs, it's not what he fucking needs, and Mobius of all people should know that, should have mercy,