He blamed it on a bad ration. The headache crept in at his temples then escalated into a steady pulsing. His scalp felt tight, like someone was trying to tug on all his curls all at once. As his jaw began to ache, his throat gradually constricted, junky and congested. The nauseousness snuck up on him. He'd paid little attention throughout the evening to his increasingly uncomfortable stomach, now sloshy like the culminating end of his first trip into space. It was the sudden dizziness and acid burn up his esophagus that drove him to the refresher, ripping his helmet off before it was too late. The violence with which his half-digested meal escaped him surprised not only him but Grogu who ran in directly behind him. Din couldn't spare any thought to the concerned vocalizations emanating from his son until the heaving tapered off, the pounding in his ears died down, and his beathing was no longer ragged. Hunched over the rim, he waited for any further signs of more to come, drawing controlled inhales through his nose.
"Bah?" An unhappy coo followed.
Mostly sure the current episode had come to an end, he reached back blindly and grabbed the hand towel from its hook. The texture was rough as he dragged it across his mouth and down his chin.
Grogu crowded closer, trying to get a look at his father's face.
"Can you get me the mixing bowl from the kitchen? The big one."
Tiny feet pivoted and took off at speed.
It gave him the brief moment he needed to cautiously rise and flush everything away. He shifted to the sink and leaned for stability. The dizziness had receded to a ghost of an impression, present distinctly only when he turned too quickly. It promised to make itself known again if he abused the warning. He stripped off his gloves, dropped them on the counter, and rinsed the towel under a cold stream of water. Washing his face with the wet rag seemed to marginally help. He gargled, spit, and left it at that.
Grogu reappeared at the refresher door, his arms wrapped around the bowl.
"Can you put it on the nightstand?"
Again, he ran away, eager to help. The edge of the bowl banged into the doorframe as he rounded the corner. Grogu staggered, righted himself, and kept on going. Without being asked, Din's helmet was similarly transported to the bedroom.
Din trailed, reaching out a hand to skim the wall, a precaution for a possibly precarious trip. His chest and shoulder muscles were sore. His balance was unreliable. The upset stomach, which had briefly settled, threatened to rebel.
Grogu lifted up the buy'ce but not with any intention of returning it. It hung between his little hands, then floated up and away. It landed at the top of the armor stand.
"Thanks, buddy," he breathed out, hoping his voice didn't sound as miserable as he felt. "If I take off the rest, can you put it away for me?"
So began the process, one piece at a time. His leg armor proved the most challenging. Seating himself on the edge of the bed was a relief but provided hardly any assistance. Bending was hellish. Grogu waddled up to his calves, glanced up for permission, then went to work. Once his boots were off, he debated stripping the flight suit off as well. It needed to be washed. Persistence left him in nothing but his skivvies. He curled onto his side, the elevation and blood pressure change a necessary discomfort. He waited for Grogu to climb up and join him before pulling the sheet and comforter over both of them.
Din opened his eyes, not realizing they'd already closed of their own volition. "I'll be fine. Just don't wiggle, okay?"
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