The platitudes stick like barbs into Jim's skin as the base rejection of pity tries to kick in but he's too weak to fight it right now. All he manages is a frustrated groan in the back of his throat. Right now the urge to just fall back onto the bed and drop off into another long untroubled sleep is strong.

They're on the ship. They're safe.

They'll be taken care of.

He's forgetting something. Felix's hand is warm against Jim's skin. They should eat soon. Not too much--Jim knows from hard experience what recovering from this will be like. He'll probably have to tell Isidor though. Warn the...rest...of..

There's cold prickling the back of Jim's neck that has nothing to do with the temperature controls in their quarters. An icy weight of a question he already knows the answer to lingering in his gut. The ship couldn't hold so many extra people and there's be no way to explain the circumstances. No one's beating down his door for answers.

"Where are the others...?"