Tarn's snappy retort is drowned by a futile bought of dry heaving. He has no choice by to rely on York right now. He hates this. He hates how weak he appears in front of what he perceives as the enemy; reduced to a feeble, feverish entity, strapped to a bed and unable to leave. Any and all power has been viciously stripped from him leaving Tarn feeling raw.

This is a nightmare and he wants to wake up. He can't even push York away and hold the tin himself when his finally expels the last dregs of his stomach contents.

"I'm fine, I don't need an IV." whatever that is. Regardless he's going to be a toddler about it.