Helping Harry usually meant pain, blood, gore, and explosions. Never in that order, but Thomas had learned over the years that his little brother's luck was worst than cursed. And even though he more often not ended up paying for it in one way or another, not helping never occurred to Thomas.

Harry was family, the only family he never had to worry about stabbing him in the back and who always helped him, even if he was already busy.

So what if his pale skin now looked like a bad finger paint mural? Harry had it worse. And no luscious nurse to take care of him.

"I could think of a million things, honestly," he teased. "But they'd all require moving. Not wise just yet."