Tim doesn't even know if he could pull himself out of bed at this point, feeling a little too weak to do much more than throw an arm over his face. If he could, though — if he could muster up the strength, there's a high chance that he'd try and go off and do something. Everything in him is telling him to fight the fever, fight the weakness, fight whoever gets in his way. But his body won't listen, and so he lays there, breathing, trying to fight off sleep as long as possible.

"Thank you." It's mumbled, barely audible at all, but it's there. Even if he might not remember it in the morning.