#sicktember day twenty

[fanfictasia]

Sicktember Day 20

Cramping Pain

Spoiler: This is an excerpt from The Mushroom Strikes Back

Cody smiles at him – something Anakin’s pretty sure he’d never do in his right mind, until they actually know each other better – something oddly warm in his dark eyes.

He falls asleep for a little while, but wakes up to a sharp, cutting pain in his right arm. Sometimes, it just burns, much the way it did when he lost it, and he shifts slightly, reaching up to press his left hand over the area where the metal meets the what’s left of his arm, willing the pain to fade.

He’s… had worse before, but it’s too severe to sleep right now, despite how worn out he is. Maybe it’s also worse because he’s sick right now.

“What happened to your arm?” Cody asks, and Anakin blinks, twists sideways to look at him.

His Force presence doesn’t feel quite as muddled as earlier, but the pain medication is definitely still affecting him. That’s probably the only reason he asked so bluntly, anyway.

“I fought Dooku on Geonosis. I… lost it when I was fighting him there,” he explains. He’ll never be able to forget that moment, or the pain of the lightning that took him down right before.

He… should have been more careful, and it feels like sometimes whoever sees his arm is ceaselessly remembering how much he failed there. He can feel the stares, wherever he goes in the Temple, like they see him as something lesser. (To be fair, they always have.) Jedi don’t commonly lose a part of themselves.

[monaisme]

Sicktember: Day 21

This is chapter 2 of the Sicktember fic posted yesterday. You can find it here (along with this once I get this posted over on ao3! 🤭):

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58933525

#21- Anaphylactic Response

It couldn’t have been timed better if they had planned it.

Granted, they’d lost a minute or two trying to convince the uber driver that Peter’s cough was NOT a result of covid, so maybe they hadn’t needed to cut it that close.

Bruce had first noticed that something was off a few minutes into the ride.

Peter began to bounce his leg...

No big deal. Bruce remembered Tony joking that he and Peter could start up a band called AD/HD so the stimming didn’t seem too out of place.

At least the coughing was starting to settle.

The breathing between those coughs, though, “Are you doing okay there, Peter?” Bruce had to ask. “You’re kind of quiet all of a sudden and your breathing seems a little...”

“’m still fine.” Peter forced out, then shifted his focus to the scenery as it passed by.

It was all Bruce could do to not call him out on the obvious lie. Peter was most definitely not fine. What he could do, though, was count down the minutes back to the hotel as Bruce recognized each landmark along the way. Bruce thought it might have helped, as they hit the two minute mark and Peter pulled out his phone, prepared to complete their uber transaction as hastily as possible.

The leg shaking grew more frantic.

 “Peter?” Bruce had to ask again as the vehicle finally pulled under the hotel’s porte-cochere.

Peter just shook his head.

The driver tapped on a screen as he thanked them for using Uber, Peter’s phone pinged, and in a flash, a tip had been given and Peter was bolting out of the vehicle and into the hotel without a word. 

Even struggling, the boy made sure to be kind.

Bruce offered an awkward ‘thank you’ as he fumbled to exit the car to follow Peter, and accidentally leaving their food behind.

“Peter!” Bruce called out as he watched the boy enter to the stairwell. A quick glance as he passed the lobby elevator showed the single elevator car biding its time on the sixth floor, with their room set on the third. Bruce had never been so thankful to Natasha and her insistence that Bruce focus on more than just yoga and meditation as he set off up the stairs behind him. Knowing the urgency, Bruce didn’t call out again, just rushed behind and hoped to catch up if Peter needed him before their destination.

Bruce was only steps behind Peter by the time he’d pushed the third floor stairwell door open with more strength than necessary. Planning ahead, Bruce pulled the room key card from his pocket as Peter patted down his own pocket for his. “I’m here, Peter. I’ve got it.” Bruce announced as he reached past him to the card reader on the door handle and tapped. The green light flashed and Peter was in the room and dashing past the vanity to the bathroom before Bruce could fully enter the room, the door slamming forcefully behind him.

And then the heaving started.

 Bruce had intended to follow, even tried to open the door to get to him, but Peter had managed to throw the lock before it all went to shit. All Bruce could do was lean against the counter outside of the door, silently supportive as he waited for Peter to come out, though the brief silence once he finally was did have Bruce nervous enough to contemplate breaking the door down. “Uh, Peter?” he finally had to call out. “Are you good?”

A weak, “Just a minute,” answered back.

Bruce took that as the cue to get to work, so he hurried into the hotel room proper and pulled back the blankets on Peter’s bed, which was conveniently located closest to the bathroom. Once that was done, he went back to the vanity, hastily lining the cheap plastic ice bucket with the provided plastic bag and filling two of the four disposable cups with tap water. He’d just placed them on the bedside table and brought the garbage can over as a reinforcement when the bathroom door creaked open.

“I am so sorry...” A concerningly pale Peter croaked as he shuffled to his bed and sat cautiously as he clutched his stomach. “I’d really hoped this wouldn’t happen...” Peter winced as he shifted to lie down.

Bruce stood by helpless, wishing that Tony could be here for Peter instead of him, but then Peter’s words sunk in, “Uh, hold on? What does that mean?” What had Bruce missed?

Peter sighed in frustration, “Since the whole, you know,” Peter waved a tired hand over his altered body, “It’s always a wild guess... ‘what is Peter’s body going to do with this new food exposure?’” Peter curled up a bit, “So this is totally my bad. I should’ve been more careful and ordered something I knew... especially when I was away from home. I should’ve...”

“Wait a minute...” Bruce cut him off as he processed that information, “Are you telling me this is an anaphylactic response?”

Peter shrugged, “I am neither confirming nor denying anything.”

“Hang on.” Bruce whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and pulled up his search engine. The look of horror that spread across Bruce’s face made it obvious exactly what he was scrolling through, “I sat beside you in the uber and you didn’t say anything while your symptoms were literally manifesting! You could have died? You could still die? Do you even have an epipen?”

Peter’s eyes drooped with exhaustion. “Nah, it hasn’t gotten that bad any other time. I think my spider DNA helps with that some. And you’re a doctor.” Peter coughed a little, “If something had happened, you’d have made sure I was okay.”

Bruce dropped down onto his own bed and dragged his hands through his hair. “I keep telling you guys—I’m not that kind of doctor” He exhaled loudly, “When are you guys going to believe me?”

Peter chuckled, “Mr. Stark says that you always say that, but he also says you always come through.”

Bruce blushed a little at the compliment, and meant to reply, but Peter kept talking.

“I’m just sorry that I messed up the rest of the weekend. I mean, I can try, but I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be out of commission for most of tomorrow, and you were talkin’ about that lecturer you wanted to go hear and the SI demonstration...” Peter’s voice cracked as he trailed off, then faux-rallied for Bruce’s benefit. “But it’s totally cool if you even want to go alone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Peter. Here,” Bruce was back up and offering one of the cups of water to Peter and picking up the garbage can. “Wanna give your mouth a rinse? And maybe, if you’re feeling safe, try to take a couple of sips?”

Peter nodded warily, then hesitated at the thought of either sitting back up, or more so, risking actually throwing up in front of a witness.

Bruce saw the hesitation, and understood. “Relax, Peter. As a future Avenger, it is a guarantee that you will have to do this in front of at least one- if not all of us at some point. You may as well get that first time out of the way now... especially if you still have anything in your stomach.” Bruce cringed at the idea. “In fact, I think I’d definitely feel better about it. Getting all of it out, that is...”

He sighed, “How is this my life?”

Bruce just shrugged, “Well, you wanted Dr. Bruce, so here we are.”

 “Ugh.”

“Hey,” Bruce crouched down to look him in the eye. “Let me tell you something that not too many people know—” Bruce made a show of looking over his shoulder for imaginary eavesdroppers. “The Avenger this is happening in front of is also the guy who always loses his pants at the end of the battle.”

“Oof. That sucks.” Peter clutched at his stomach as he laughed. “I thought losing my backpacks all the time was bad.”

“Oh, it sucks alright, but it just goes to show you that you’re not alone when it comes to the less than glamorous stuff. Now, my thought is that you want to drink as much as you can so that we can get this done and over with so you can start feeling better.” Bruce wiggled the water cup in front of him. “Throwing up something is better than throwing up nothing, and I’m right here. Is that okay?”

He eyed the cup like it had just insulted his Aunt May then Peter finally relented, propped himself up a little on one elbow and took the cup in his other hand. “I really am sorry about this. Really.”

“Nope. No apologies. Let’s just get this part done, then I’ll run down to the front desk and see if they have any overpriced painkillers to help take the edge off the stomach cramps, okay?”

Peter shook his head, “Don’t bother,” he took a first, tentative sip. “Painkillers don’t work on me anymore.”

“Wait—what?!” But he was too late.

Peter downed the rest of the water in a few of huge gulps, took a couple of deep breaths, then blanched. “Oh,” Peter slapped a hand over his mouth and belched. “That happened faster than expected.” He jackknifed upright and twisted just in time for Bruce to shove the garbage pail into his hands.

And so began round two.

Between heaves, Peter continued the litany of apologies.

Meanwhile, Bruce’s mind was in a tizzy. He awkwardly patted the kid’s shoulder while muttering soft comforts, “You’re okay, Peter,” or, “It’s almost over, Peter,” while implication after implication of Peter’s spider bite ran through his head. How many secrets did this kid have? There were so many questions—that Bruce would have to get to later on.

“I hate my life,” Peter panted out after a particularly violent sounding heave. “but think I’m—” he dry heaved again, then again, and then breathed for a minute. “Yeah,” he panted. “Done.” He sounded like he’d run a marathon.

“Good—good,” Bruce stood up, wincing as his own knees cracked. He grabbed the second cup of water from the nightstand, and offered Peter a trade, “If you’re sure, wanna give me the can and you can do that rinse now?”

“I’m one million percent sure that my stomach is empty now so...” All concern about appearances was out the window and with a little bit of passing and grabbing, Peter was feeling as refreshed as he was going to be. “Thanks.” Peter handed the cup back to Bruce and tried to get comfortable again.

“That’s enough with the apologies.” Bruce was already feeling bad for him, “I’m sorry that I don’t have anything to help you out with, but—can I—?” He’d just told Peter that he wasn’t a real doctor and now here he was... “Can I just do a quick evaluation?”

Peter stiffened, ready to refuse, but Bruce was figuring out the lay of the land.

 “It would make me feel better...”

Peter blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine.”

“Great!” Bruce jumped to work, “let me just get rid of these,” he placed the mostly full water cup back on the nightstand and then rushed to the hotel room door and placed the garbage can the hallway. A quick call to the front desk for housekeeping made its contents someone else’s problem, but Bruce made a note to leave a big tip when they left, so no guilt.

Peter simply watched from the bed.

Once everything was taken care of, Bruce sidestepped to the vanity and washed his hands before coming back into the room proper. He dragged the wheeled compute chair over to sit between the beds, and then pulled his phone out again. “Um,” Bruce needed to approach this delicately. “Before I do anything more, I do want to call your aunt, if that’s okay?”

Peter immediately opened his mouth to argue but Bruce cut him off before he could start.

“I ask only because you’re sixteen, Peter, and first and foremost, that technically makes you a minor who is in the midst of a medical situation, and believe it or not, I’m really not a doctor. Second, someone should really know what’s going on here in general what with the altered DNA and your aunt makes the most sense. If you think about it, it’s only dumb luck that nothing more catastrophic has happened.”

Peter didn’t seem to know what to do. He’d been through the wringer already tonight and it showed. “I get what you’re saying, but you don’t understand! I can’t tell my aunt,” Peter begged. “I already cause her so many problems, Dr. Banner, and I can’t add another one... I just can’t.”

He exhaled slowly, then caught the slip up. “It’s still Bruce, Peter. You’re fine. And if you don’t want me to call your aunt, then can I at least call Tony?”

Peter muttered, “Do you really have to?”

Bruce didn’t feel out of place grabbing Peter’s hand and giving a squeeze of support. “Yeah, I think it is.”

And so he did.

Bruce put the phone on speaker to put Peter at ease.

Tony answered on the second ring, “Brucie! How are you and my young protégé doing this fine evening? Is the spider-baby all tuckered out from getting his geek on? And what did he think of the SI demo? I had him in mind when I was coordinating with our tech guys. ”

Bruce waited patiently for Tony to come to the end of his greeting. “The convention has been amazing so far, but we, uh, we missed the demo... Yeah. That’s actually why we’re calling,” he cast a quick glance over to Peter, who was looking devastated. Bruce squeezed his hand tight again. “You’re on speaker, Tony. We have a bit of a situation here and I think you need to be in the loop.”

The shift in Tony’s tone was immediate, “Tell me what’s going on, Bruce, and how can I help?”

[revelationschapter6]

cinnamon and myrrh

Events: Sicktember, Whumptember, Bad Things Happen Bingo

Prompts:

Desperate measures

Head lolling

Coughing fit

Preventative Measures (Not taken)

Side effects/Adverse reaction

Uncooperative Patient

Confused

Disoriented

Hurts to Breathe

Warnings:

implications of depression

This fill is written as a one-shot of my original story, Saudade. You can find my info page for Saudade here.

What context you need to read this is:

In Saudade, the Archangel Raphael Fell during the Rebellion. It was a misunderstanding that spiraled out of control, and he was thrown out by four angels while his partner, the Power Camael, tried to help him.

The angels who didn't Fall were made to forget those who did. They don't remember they ever knew them. As far as they know, all the Fallen were on the fringes of Heaven's society. If they asked around, they might go, "Wait, no one knew a Fallen?" But they Don't Ask Questions.

Raphael worked to gain Camael's trust again, and eventually won it. Camael learned he did, in fact, know Raphael before the Fall by regaining a memory, and convinced Raphael's siblings to hear him out. Now they're trying to figure out WTF to do.

Who, in their right mind, burns myrrh for funsies? Humans, apparently. And in the middle of the holiday season no less, so the smell of it is covered up by the reek of all that damn cinnamon. Raphael really should have learned by now. Whumptember: Desperate measures, head lolling Sicktember: Coughing fit, Preventative Measures (Not Taken), Side Effects/Adverse Reaction, Uncooperative Patient, Confused, Disoriented Bad Things Happen Bingo: hurts to breathe

can be read on AO3 or below the cut

Raphael watched the little blurs that were the light-up battery-powered fish in his fish tank.

When he’d moved into this apartment, he’d thought about getting a cat. But they had such short lifespans compared to his. It just wasn’t worth getting attached. Dogs were the same. Rodents were even worse. It felt like they barely took a breath before dying. It was nearly impossible to find an apartment that would allow a bird, though even they didn’t live terribly long in the span of his life, and he hated turtles.

A hellish animal might have been an option, but he didn’t like any of them. Hellcats, with their too many tails, disturbed him greatly and brought to mind Kitsune, who he didn’t want to think of as he cleaned a litter box. (Their litter boxes had a nasty habit of bursting into flames, besides.) Hellhounds came in every shape and breed of dog, but being around Lilith’s was enough. He didn’t have nearly enough water to keep an ahuizotl, and he already had plenty of nightmares without inviting in a Pesanta.

So, finally, he’d bought a fish tank and some light-up, battery-powered fake fish and been quite happy with them.

Through the poorly insulated walls of his apartment, he could make out general merriment. Carolers on the street, the buzz of countless lights, cheerful voices. Could smell pine from pine trees, burning gingerbread from a few doors down, and tried not to cough at the thickness of cinnamon in the air. It had been strong for days, no matter where he went. Cinnamon brooms lingered on his neighbors’ doorsteps, and it seemed every shop he passed was cluttered with them.

He’d never liked Christmas, not really. Though the Giant Lantern Festival was beautiful, he’d admit that, and he always had fun trying to burn the Gävle Goat. Any Fallen loved Krampusnacht, none more so than Krampus himself. But Christmas was a time for those with friends and family. He might have called Maalik a friend once, but he was long dead. Lilith and Lethe, perhaps, but they were busy doing their own things, and they saw each other only every few decades, besides. He still wasn’t sure if he could call Samyaza a friend.

And he certainly had no family.

He had Camael back, somewhat. But Camael, though he knew now, didn’t remember, surely wasn’t willing to spend a holiday with him. And Gabriel and Michael still looked half-ready to run him through if he sneezed wrong, though they knew too.

So he hadn’t even bothered to ask.

Raphael sighed, trying to tune out the music his neighbors were listening to: the one above him was listening to some caterwauling cover of All I Want for Christmas is You, the one below him Last Christmas, to the right a pop cover of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas (why?), and to the left Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer (again, why?). He could make out the neighbors further down the hall, but it all clashed together into raucous noise.

He rolled over, stretching out on his bed. It smelled far better than the cloying cinnamon. Though lingering sulfur and rain-dampened dirt weren’t exactly appealing either.

It wasn’t Christmas Day or Eve. At least, he didn’t think so.

He couldn’t hear wrapping paper tearing—well, that was a lie. The gender-optional tenant three doors down was wrapping gifts it sounded like—or smell ham or turkey or baking cookies.

Then again, he’d slept for quite a while, so he couldn’t be certain. He’d only gotten up long enough to duck into the corner store and wolf down the taquitos whose wrappers lay crumpled on his nightstand.

Raphael clutched his pillow, curling up. Hell, but he was tired. He’d slept the better part of the last two days, and still, he was exhausted.

So what was the harm in sleeping? It wasn’t as if he’d miss anything.

His phone rang, and he grumbled. Blearily, he thought that he needed to take it into the store to get it looked at because the voice announcing the caller was so muffled that he couldn’t make out what it said. Raphael reached for it, fumbling, but it was out of his reach, and he was still so tired.

If it was important, whoever it was could leave a voicemail.

Someone banged on his door, and he groaned. Did they have to be so loud? He could hear the door rattling in the frame. It was probably someone looking for the man down the hall. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had someone knock on his door by mistake, so he didn’t feel sorry that he didn’t even open his eyes.

There were voices, and he felt he should wake up. Because sleeping while someone was near him was never a good thing, barring a few people. And those weren’t Lethe or Lilith’s voices. He could tell. But his bed was so warm, the blankets so soft and comfortable, so surely he could sleep a few minutes more?

Besides, those voices felt safe. What was the harm?

Hands—cold hands, familiar, rough hands, though who they belonged to escaped him at the moment—grabbed and shook him. He wanted to tell them to let him sleep—even with their hands on him, he felt leaden—but his voice wilted and died in his throat before he could make a sound.

The voice called his name again, and two more hands, rougher and larger, joined the first.

His name was called again, this time by a voice deeper than the one before, and the hands became so rough that his head rolled on his pillow. It was irritating, and he tried again to tell them to leave him be. But his voice died, and his eyelids were so heavy that he couldn’t even glare at them to go away. His breath hitched, as sluggish as the rest of him, and struggled in his throat.

Raphael felt that should have worried him, but he was too comfortable and tired to care.

The hands went away, and he was grateful. Now, surely they’d leave him alone? Whatever they needed couldn’t be that important. It could wait.

Surely, they’d finally let him sleep.

A pair of hands slid under him, separating his head from his pillow and awkwardly gripping the underside of his knees. He shivered as he was torn away from the warmth of his blankets, the cold biting into him worse than the blizzards of Cocytus. A complaint started, then died, in his throat. His head lolled back, his neck arched painfully, and while one arm had been scooped up so it rested on his stomach, the other dangled uncomfortably.

The person carrying him moved jerkily, jolting him violently, even as they rubbed their thumbs along his skin as if to try to warm him. They came to an abrupt stop, and he tried to open his eyes. Some part of him was alarmed when he couldn’t get them to respond, but he was too tired to get anxious.

One hand came up to cradle the back of his head as he was made to stand. Well, stand by the faintest gasp of the word. If it wasn’t for the hand, or the body he was propped against, he surely would have collapsed. His feet tingled differently than usual, more numb than throbbing or sensitive. Even when he tried to make them, his knees wouldn’t support his weight. The person behind him, a sturdy wall, held him carefully upright. Raphael felt he should recognize them, if not from everything else than from their height, his head coming up to their chest from the feel of it as it lolled on his irritatingly unresponsive neck.

The first, smaller pair of hands, fingers slimmer than the ones holding him, tugged off his sweats, boxers, and nightshirt. Some part of him felt he should cover himself, like there was something he needed to hide, that he despised, tried to never let anyone see, and was forgetting.

But that would mean moving, which he didn’t think he could do even if he tried. His arms were so heavy, and was it really so bad if they saw it?

He lost time.

And then he was scalding, dragged beneath a spray of water. He gasped through a barely open mouth, his breath rasping loudly in his throat, then started to cough violently.

Were they trying to drown him?

A heave ran through him as he coughed, desperate for breath he didn’t actually need, feeling as though he were fighting to breathe through wet cloth. One of the hands, the one with the thicker fingers, caught his chin and squeezed the joints of his jaw. He tried to jerk back and felt like he was back in Boston, struggling to wade through molasses. His body wouldn’t listen to him, every moment slow and faltering, a twitch of a movement if he managed to move at all.

"Shit, he’s covered in it."

Raphael retched as a wet finger pressed down on his tongue, sweeping along his throat. It was a horrible feeling, but when the finger drew out, he could finally breathe. He coughed harshly, gulping air down greedily.

His fingers twitched, and the hand on the back of his head tightened in his hair to keep him from doubling over. He could taste rotten sulfur, his throat stinging as he struggled to get his coughing under control. There wasn’t an inch of his skin that hadn’t begun to tingle unpleasantly, bordering on a faint burn.

The smaller set of hands left his skin, replaced a moment later by a washcloth. The tingling quickly built to a burn, and as energy began to return to his limbs, he struggled weakly. Being pinned had never resulted in anything good, and slowly awareness was filtering to him; he shouldn’t be so confused and so tired; he should have been wide awake long before they’d made it into his apartment. He’d never known the touch of holy water, but having water flow over his body just before he began to burn did not bode well.

The arms tightened around him, and a familiar voice grunted as he managed to brace one foot on the slippery tile and drive the heel of the other into the shin of the person behind him.

"Stop fighting us, dammit!"

Wait—he did know that voice. Now that it didn’t sound so far away, so muffled, he did know that voice. And those hands felt familiar, as did the body behind him. And now, with the insulated walls of the shower between him and that awful, seeping cinnamon scent, he could make out the strong bite of petrichor.

He forced his eyes open, though they were very reluctant. His vision swam, eyes stinging, and they’d only open a slit. But even through a film of silver tears, he’d know that angel anywhere. She was too close for him to make out her features, but even darkened and flattened to her scalp by water, that red hair was unmistakeable.

"M’ch’l?" His tongue was slow, heavy, and unresponsive in his mouth. Just that word, if you could call it a word, made him cough again, tearing at his throat. He whimpered, and the angel behind him held him up when the force of it tried to bend him over. Ichor sprayed, foul and thick, across his tongue. Before he could do anything, Camael reached up and swiped his fingers across his tongue and throat. Raphael retched, but strangely, his throat hurt far less.

"Shut up," she snapped as he panted, stooping and running the washcloth down his legs.

"You’re a real idiot, you know," she said as she straightened.

"Wh-?" He cleared his throat, trying to get his voice to obey him. His voice sounded ridiculous, slurring and rough. "Why?"

Finally, he got his legs to support him, though they shook violently. Still, when Camael pushed him forward and Michael pulled him towards her, he went easily. He slumped, head resting on her shoulder, letting her take most of his weight. Behind him, Camael wiped him down with quick, rough movements. His skin burned, too sensitive, under the touch of the rag, and he whined as his hands and feet began to sting. He hadn’t even realized how numb they’d gone, but now that they felt as if they were being lanced with needles, he wished they’d go back to being numb.

Camael knelt, pushing him so he put more of his weight on Michael, and pulled up his foot. He did cry out, then. They were always either sensitive or numb, but the feel of the rag was agony. Then he began to cough again, struggling against the burn in his chest. Each small gasp of breath he managed to get only fueled the burn, and he sobbed.

"Sorry, sorry," Camael muttered, hurrying to finish. The other foot hurt just as badly, if not more, and it was only because Michael braced herself that they weren’t both taken to the ground when his leg gave out.

"Close your eyes," Camael said, and then Michael guided him to stand upright and bend over. He wheezed, beginning to cough again, wrinkling his nose at the foul taste of sulfur. When the stream of water was aimed at his hair, he flinched, so Michael brought one hand up to cover his eyes. Hands ran roughly through his hair, tugging at tangles, Camael murmuring apologies every time he tugged roughly at his scalp.

"Is that all of it?" Camael asked, helping him to stand upright. He wavered, blinking blearily at Michael as he struggled to catch his breath.

The burning was starting up again in his throat, and he managed to say "All of-" before it irritated his throat so badly that he started to cough again. When the force of it, pain shooting through his upper back, threatened to take him to the ground, Camael held him upright. Heat filled his mouth, and he tasted sulfur as the water shut off.

"Don’t let him get any on his skin," Camael said as Michael pressed the cloth to his mouth.

"I know," she scowled. "Next time he can catch his breath, hold his head up and his mouth open."

It felt like ages as he coughed. His throat and chest burned, and tears trickled down his face. Camael slid one hand up to rest over his racing heart, Michael replacing his grip on Raphael’s arm with her own.

Finally, he was able to take a breath. It wasn’t much, but for a moment, he could stop coughing. His breath whistled in his throat, an awful sound that set his teeth on edge. Camael grabbed his jaw, making him tilt his head back, then, as gently as he could, squeezed the joints of his jaw.

Raphael coughed, jerking awkwardly at the angle his throat was forced to. He didn’t struggle as Camael lowered him, and Michael stood on the tips of her toes. She raised her hand, and Raphael’s instincts screamed as divinity spiked strongly in the air. Gold-tinged smoke trickled from his mouth as Michael pinched the air, then pulled back. There was an awful tugging feeling in his chest before the burning flared. He struggled against Camael’s pinning grip, but as the agonizing burn rose through his throat, his chest stopped hurting.

With a gasp, he began to gulp down air. Each breath came easier than the last, the burn moving to his tongue, then gone completely. Camael loosened his grip, letting him slump against him as he gasped for breath. Camael was saying something. He could tell by the vibrations of his chest against his back, and maybe Michael was, too. But his heart raced loudly in his ears, and he couldn’t hear anything else. He twisted, spitting ichor into the drain.

Michael stepped out of the shower, and scooping Raphael up, Camael followed.

Please tell me I’m not naked.

Michael looked away as she grabbed a towel. "Can you stand?"

He cleared his throat, basking in being able to breathe. "Y-yeah," he said, though he wasn’t really sure. Camael carefully set him down, making sure he could take his own weight before releasing him.

Raphael hadn’t known this Camael could be so gentle or kind. He wished he’d been aware enough to enjoy it.

Hands shaking, he took the towel she offered. His head was still a bit foggy, the world moving slowly around him, but now he could feel the alarm he should have felt before creeping up on him.

"How dumb are you?" Michael asked as he toweled himself dry before he could ask what the hell had happened. It was only as he carefully picked up a foot to towel it dry, leaning into Camael’s supporting hand, seeing the discolored flesh that went up nearly to his knee, that his heart dropped into his stomach.

His glamors.

He wasn’t wearing his glamors.

They’d have seen the discolorations for sure, and they certainly would have felt them. It was a miracle he hadn’t, in his daze, brought out his spines.

The thought made him feel ill.

And–his eyes. His eyes didn’t have the reassuring, faint warmth of his glamor, the one he applied without thought the moment he woke. That glamor—they'd have seen his eyes; they’d have seen those monstrous eyes. How had Michael stomached seeing them?

He took deep breaths, reveling in them, and answered her. "I don’t know... I don’t even know what happened." Frantically, he tried to call up the glamor. It was child’s play—something he could do when bleeding and half-dead. But his power, usually burning and riotous, was barely more than a smolder in his chest. His eyes remained unchanged.

"Myrrh," she said as she walked out of the bathroom, speaking over her shoulder as he tied the towel around his waist. Camael helped him follow on shaky legs. "You got yourself covered from head to toe in myrrh." When he walked into the rest of the apartment, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The entire place smelled like ozone, divinity sparking along his skin.

Michael rummaged through his dresser, pulling out a shirt and tossing it to him once he’d sat on the edge (well, his bed was round, so it didn’t have edges) of his bed. It had been stripped down to the mattress, and the rough mattress itched his sensitive skin.

"And inhaled it," Camael added as he pulled the shirt on. He sounded pissed, and Raphael cringed. "How the hell did you manage that?"

"I didn’t mean to," Raphael protested as he wriggled awkwardly into a pair of shorts that landed in his lap. He mourned his boxers but would rather that Michael didn’t go into his underwear drawer. Remembering the days of robes and little else, then the days of kaunakes, which covered even less, he wondered when he’d become so prudish. What Fallen would mean to inhale myrrh? "Who burns myrrh anymore?"

Michael wasn’t far enough away for him to make out her expression, but he was fairly certain she was looking to Heaven for strength.

He didn’t need to look to know that Camael was rolling his eyes. "I’m serious," Raphael said. "I haven’t been able to smell anything but cinnamon for weeks. You think I’d’ve stuck around if I smelled myrrh?"

Of all the things hellish beings were weak to—blessed objects, certain sacred symbols and objects, holy water, purified salt, consecrated ground, certain sigils and runes, among other things—Raphael found myrrh the most insidious. Sacred symbols and objects you could avoid; you had to touch them, usually, to be harmed by them. Pick them up or have them thrown at you. They were only dangerous if they touched bare skin. Any hellish being knew well what those tended to be. Blessed objects were more dangerous; anything could be blessed. Sacred symbols and objects counted among blessed objects, like crosses, ushabti, and holy books. But it was entirely possible to rummage through a pile of clothing and find a blessed shirt. Sigils and runes had to be carved or painted, and were far less reliable. They were so finicky that a shaky hand or a shed eyelash in the wrong spot could ruin the entire thing. They were usually best at keeping hellish beings out, or he’d have considered them much worse. But if someone knew what they were doing, they could make the barrier far more dangerous, even lethal. The ones he’d painted around his cave served as an electric fence, although he’d seen an imp fried to ash when it insisted on continuing to try to come in. Once, though, he’d seen a demon walk over an intricate rune set, unaware, and be instantly and mercilessly erased from existence.

Consecrated ground, well. Raphael, personally, hated consecrated ground after spending years recovering from a run-in with it. But provided you weren’t him and weren’t foolish with it, it wasn’t too much of a danger. Consecrated ground was almost always a holy building, religious or spiritual retreat, sacred grove, or sacred site. So long as you avoided those, you were just fine. That wasn’t a hard rule—he was still deeply confused by a six-inch-by-six-inch patch he’d found deep in Baikunthapur Forest—but it was a safe one to live by. And, if you were unlucky enough to find some random patch, you just had to step off of it.

It was only when you stayed standing on it that it started to eat away at your being.

Purified salt, unless consumed, was only really useful for making a salt circle. If it touched the skin, it acted as a bit of an irritant, but when consumed in large amounts, it became an anticoagulant. ‘Large amounts’ being the key word; it diluted in drinks, and any amounts that would be dangerous to a hellish being made food noticeably salty. And holy water—well, any self-respecting hellish being feared holy water, especially with people carrying it around now. You never knew how pure it would be, whether it was just tap water with a prayer said over it by some human or water properly blessed by an angel. The former, a Fallen or demon would have to be dunked in or guzzle to be killed by, and it would be a long, drawn-out, preventable death. Otherwise, it hurt like hot oil.

Not pleasant, but better than the latter. The latter was like acid; a few drops would eat away at your skin, but any significant amount was liable to outright dissolve you away.

Myrrh, though. In its natural state, it was harmless. He could hold it with his bare hands if he wanted to. But when burned, which humans had taken to doing, it became smoke. And it was the smoke that was so dangerous. That it had such a strong, distinct scent meant it was one of the easier dangers to avoid. Still, if, somehow, you breathed it—perhaps being a new demon, or a Fallen with little experience of Creation—it settled in your lungs, clinging to your throat. Often, it coated your skin as well, if you were unlucky enough to be too close. It ate away at you slowly, siphoning away your power. This made you tired, too dazed to register that something was wrong. If you fell asleep, you never woke up again.

Raphael remembered how groggy he’d felt, how tired and listless, so certain that it would be no harm at all just to go back to sleep. How he hadn’t cared though there’d been hands on him, strangers (or so they’d seemed at the time) crowded around him while he was vulnerable. If that had happened in Hell...

He shivered.

Michael had been talking, and he quickly scrubbed his hair dry, trying to pretend he’d been listening.

"–lucky we found you when we did!"

"I know," he said. There were so many ways he was lucky, as much as he sometimes thought himself otherwise. When it mattered, he was damn lucky.

"Really," Camael said behind him, his voice soft. "You were almost dead, Raphael. If we had waited a few hours–"

Raphael was startled when Camael’s voice hitched. And, he realized, Michael’s had sounded decidedly rattled. They cared. He barely managed to keep from smiling, as inappropriate as that would be. They still didn’t remember him. Camael hadn’t told him what he’d seen, but he’d seen a memory, or more than one. Enough to know he had known him once. That, for all these years, Raphael hadn’t been lying. He didn’t know the depth of their relationship, but that was fine. Gabriel and Michael, through Camael, had come to accept that they’d known him as well.

It was hard to deny, especially once he showed them their feathers on his necklace and that his were on their jewelry. He couldn’t fake the feathers on his necklace. They shed feathers, sure. But the feathers on his necklace sparked with their divinity—the remnants of when they’d shrunk them, solidifying them so they wouldn’t be ruined in his day-to-day. There wasn’t any of his foul power on them.

Right, his power. It was a bit of a struggle, but after a moment, he managed to pull a glamor over his eyes. He’d done his best not to look them in the eye, but they’d certainly noticed something was off, even if they’d been distracted when they’d seen it.

How they hadn’t realized they had his feathers—well, he had his suspicions. They’d worn them since before Creation, and that was a very long time not to question the seemingly random feathers they shared. Then again, there were so many things that didn’t make sense that no one in Heaven, it seemed, had questioned.

His necklace-! He reached for his throat, fumbling where the cold chain always was. He’d only taken it off once since they’d given it to him, when he’d handed it to Michael to prove he really did have their feathers. But his neck was bare, and, to his horror, so was his wrist. Camael’s bracelet was gone, too.

"Here." Michael’s voice was undeniably strangled. When he looked at her, he sighed in relief. A little smear of gold and what looked to be a miniscule streak of the same with three white blobs dangling from it hung from her hand. They reeked of ozone, and divinity brushed against his skin when he took them.

"We-"

"We?"

"Michael banished your bedding. It had myrrh all over it." Raphael had liked that bedding. "Your clothes too. She cleaned everything. We didn’t want to risk missing some."

"When did you manage to do that?" He gaped at Michael. Everything between falling asleep and Camael washing his hair was blurry, with massive blank spots. Still, he was fairly certain there hadn’t been a moment when she wasn’t there.

Camael took the clasp he’d been struggling with, ignoring his startled flinch, and fastened his necklace for him. Feeling was still coming back to his extremities, and he felt rather fumbly.

"Right after I took off your clothes," she said plainly. Raphael was sure he turned an impressive silver as he remembered her stripping him under the water, Camael holding up his dead weight. She was his sister, but still. He’d have been just as embarrassed if it were Gabriel. Hell, Camael being there was almost as embarrassing.

…wow, he really had become a prude.

"I did it all at the same time. It’s not that hard if you’re doing all the room at once. Though, uh," she sounded sheepish. He remembered the way she’d avert her eyes when embarrassed, dark skin taking on a twinkling gold glint. "I might have been a bit overzealous. Some of those lights went out… and I might have vanished some of your towels."

That did not surprise him. You didn’t have to put much thought into using power—or divinity, as the case might be—but the less you focused, the more mistakes it might make or the more liberties it might take. If she’d thought ‘bedding and clothing’ it might have included ‘fabrics’ in that, and he should feel lucky he had any clothing or towels left at all. Hell, if she’d been rushing and had intentions such as ‘purify everything’, he was lucky he had anything left; such broad intentions could easily have ‘purified’ his apartment by emptying it.

He laughed. It felt good to laugh, to enjoy being able to breathe without that awful burn. "Don’t, don’t worry about it. Those were shit towels."

Forgetting himself, used to only letting Lilith and Lethe at his back, he reclined back against Camael. Camael stiffened against him, and he went rigid. Then, slowly, Camael relaxed.

Michael moved to sit next to him, sighing loudly.

"You have to be more careful," she said, sounding her age. Not the one her physical body appeared, but how old she truly was.

"I usually am." Sometimes. With some things. He was still alive, wasn’t he? And in (mostly) one piece.

Camael snorted.

"I avoid myrrh, I promise. We all do." He winced. Usually, he did all he could to keep from mentioning Hell, demons, or other Fallen. "If I have to get close to it, I layer up and wear masks. I avoid anywhere that burns incense or anything." This did, however, make it very hard to source materials for runes and sigils. Oh. The fucking corner store! The person who ran it was always burning candles. He’d been going there for years. "And if I even think I’m exposed to it, I shower. I just couldn’t smell anything through that damn cinnamon. It’s been strong the last few years, but never this bad."

...then again, he forced himself not to grimace; he hadn’t even worn his mask. Some dumbass had yelled at him the last time he had, and he hadn’t had it in him to get into an argument if he ran into someone else who took issue with him. Of course, that would be the one time Georgie burned fucking myrrh instead of their ‘field of fresh-mown grass’ candles.

In fact, he had sneezed. But their candles usually made him sneeze, and the cinnamon brooms irritated his nose, so he hadn’t thought anything of it.

Damn, he was stupid.

"Well, it is. What are you going to do now?"

Camael asked a good question. Raphael pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought. "I’ll have to be more careful. Cover up as much as I can, stay away from any shops if I can, wear a mask. Definitely will shower as soon as I get home no matter what... that was dumb of me."

"Very."

It was funny when Michael and Gabriel did it. When Michael and Camael spoke together, it was just disconcerting.

"Burn any cinnamon brooms I find," he added, sotto voce.

"Why are they even a thing?" Michael shook her head. "Makes you feel like you shoved a bar of cinnamon up your nose."

He laughed, enjoying the rumble of Camael’s chest behind him as he did the same.

God, he’d missed this.

"What were you doing here, anyway?" He'd been sure he’d be spending Christmas alone. But here were Michael and Camael in his apartment, having saved his life. "Not that I’m not grateful!" He was quick to add.

Camael didn’t laugh again, but Raphael could feel the rumble of his chuckle against his back. The warmth that spread through his chest, then, was anything but painful.

"Well, it’s Christmas, isn’t it?" Camael said, and now that he paid attention, Raphael realized he was right. Even through the cinnamon, he could smell turkeys and hams baking; his gender-optional neighbor had, it seemed, procrastinated and was only now baking an over-sweetened apple pie. Children were shrieking (he grimaced. Michael snickered.), and adults and older children were laughing. Awful Christmas music was playing, muffling the tearing of wrapping paper and the high-pitched noises of children trying out their new toys.

"You really thought we were going to let you spend it alone? Our own brother?"

Yes.

"I didn’t think you celebrated, honestly."

He knew they celebrated. He’d seen them more than once, participating in so many holidays over the centuries. So many New Year's celebrations, sometimes more than one in the same year. Why humans couldn’t pick a calendar and stick with it, he’d never know. Sometimes it was just Michael and Gabriel. Others, it was Michael, Gabriel, and Camael, and he was glad about it. It was nice to know they were still close. Rarely, it was just one of them. Often, it was Michael and Raguel, Camael, and, bafflingly, Gabriel and Kushiel. He’d seen them giving gifts of protection during Handsel Monday centuries ago, helping with the harvest and blessing the loaves of Lammas, preventing injuries during Gŵyl Mabsant, betting on who’d fail to carry the burning barrels during Up Helly Aa, throwing tomatoes at each other (from what he could tell through watching from afar, they lost points if they hit humans) each La Tomatina he’d seen, and, on one memorable occasion, Gabriel, Kushiel, and Raguel, glamored to appear as a man, competing in a heated discus throwing competition at one of the last Ancient Olympic games while Michael and Camael egged them on. This had ended very quickly when Gabriel, scowling at Kushiel, had flung his discus an impossible distance and lodged it into the wall of the stadium. There had been a very brief chaos as the angels rushed to make the humans forget what they saw.

Raphael would have helped, honestly, but he’d been too busy laughing until he cried at the horror on their faces.

And, in recent years, Gabriel seemed to have found it great fun to participate in Blasphemy Day. Michael always followed him, telling him he shouldn’t, but if Raphael got close enough that he could make out her face, she was always grinning.

But why should he think they’d want to celebrate with him?

"Of course we do," Michael frowned. "Actually, Camael, can you text Gabriel? He’s probably wondering where we are."

"Wait, Gabriel–?"

"He’s at Camael’s apartment. We’ve got a tree up and everything. If you’re feeling up to it, of course?"

Of course, he was up to it. He’d drag himself across shards of blessed glass if only to have a moment with any of them. His skin was a bit too sensitive, but otherwise? He’d have had no idea that he’d almost died in such a stupid way.

"Yeah, of course." Michael stared him down, but she’d raised him, insofar as any of them had been raised, so he didn’t squirm or look away.

"Tell Gabriel we’re about to head over," she finally said, apparently satisfied. Then she leaned forward, grabbing something out of his sightline that crinkled loudly. When she leaned back, she held a lumpy package in her hands, covered in gaudy, multi-colored stripes. At least, he assumed so. They smeared, hurting his eyes. She dropped it in his lap.

"What’s this?" He picked it up, wrinkling his brow when it gave under his touch.

"You have to look the part." Even still, she sounded tired, and he felt horrible for scaring her so badly.

Look the part?

Finally, he really looked at her. And then he had to laugh. He’d been a bit distracted, but now it was impossible to miss the garish red sweater she wore. It clashed horribly with her hair, and he wished more than anything that he could make out what those twinkling, white blobs were.

"Camael’s is worse," she grumped. That he had to see. He twisted, then laughed harder. Raphael hadn’t known blue could be that bright, and the fuzziness of it explained the coarseness he’d felt against his exposed skin. Lights of various colors twinkled, and he snorted, then laughed at that.

"Oh God," he rubbed at his eyes as they teared up, "that’s bad."

"Wait until you see yours." Camael patted his shoulder.

"Mine?" The word came out far louder than he’d intended it to.

They really did want him, didn’t they? A gift, a Christmas tree, and now an ugly Christmas sweater. His grin, he was sure, was wobbly. Raphael had gifts for them too, of course. But he’d had no delusions of being able to give them to them. He had intended to give them to Camael the next time he saw him, Oh, I saw these, thought of you guys. Mind giving those to Michael and Gabriel next you see them? Thanks!

He’d never dreamed of being able to see them open them.

"Now, get dressed. Put that on, get some pants. Sister or not, I’m not going through your underwear drawer."

"Thank you for that."

He had so much to thank her for. Raphael didn’t think he’d ever be able to say them all.

[woso-fan13]

Sicktember 2023: 11

Beginner’s Guide To Faking Sick

In an effort to assess the team’s fitness and any improvement in performance, someone thought it would be a good idea to have fitness testing twice- once on the first day and once on the last. You would really like to talk to the person who made this decision, because they need to know that they just made twenty-some new enemies. 

Everyone had been complaining about it since it was announced, and you had been very vocal about how much you were not looking forward to the beep test specifically. 

Andi had the pleasure of being your roommate, which meant she also had the pleasure of being the person who had to drag you out of bed in the mornings. She’s lucky you’re relatively easy to get out of bed, she could have been stuck with a lot worse. 

—-

“Y/N, come on. You need to get up, the bus leaves in 20 minutes,” Andi’s voice woke you. 

You groan, “Ands, my head really hurts. Can I please go back to sleep?”

You hear footsteps before you feel a hand pressing against your forehead. 

“You don’t have a fever, you’re fine.”

“Andi, please. It really hurts,” your voice is quiet. 

“Y/N, I’m not stupid, I know you’re trying to get out of fitness testing. Next time, commit fully to faking sick if you want to skip. It’s a little embarrassing, I was better at faking sick when I was in elementary school.”

“‘m not lying, I promise. My head feels like it’s going to explode.”

“I’m leaving,” Andi sighs, “be downstairs and ready to go in 15 minutes. Take some Tylenol if your head hurts that bad, and get up. If you really want to stay in your bed, you’ll have plenty of time when you’re dropped from the team for skipping.”

With that, you hear the door open and shut as Andi leaves. The girl really was all about tough love, which was usually good. She could always push you to reach a new best, never accepting any excuses.  

Just this once, you wished she would. But you knew she was right, Coach had dropped people for less than missing fitness testing. So you pulled yourself out of bed, got yourself together, and headed to the lobby. 

Your steps were slow and somewhat wobbly. Which made sense, because your head was spinning and felt like it was being split in half. But you made it to the elevator and stumbled into the lobby, joining the group of players. 

Andi, noticing your presence, walks over and slings her arm around your shoulder. Leaning down, she whispers to you. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t need to be so harsh this morning. I was just frustrated and I really couldn’t put up with your antics. We’re fine, right?”

You force a smile onto your face, “of course, Ands. Sorry for being so stubborn.”

If Andi hadn’t believed you earlier, you knew she wouldn’t believe you now. So you decided that you would mind-over-matter your way through the situation. If you pretended you felt normal, you eventually would feel normal, right?

—-

You didn’t even make it through the warm up. You managed through stretches, but you only made it about halfway around the field when your body decided to prove to Andi that you weren’t a liar. 

With a thud, you dropped to the ground. Everyone froze for a moment looking towards you, as if waiting for you to stand up. Instead, you began seizing. 

Everyone took off running, the vets crouching around you and shooing the younger players away. Andi, who had crouched by your head, watched in horror as you began throwing up, your seizure still not breaking. 

As the medics arrived, they quickly pushed everyone back. Andi begged to stay, and she was finally allowed to if she promised not to get in the way. She was directed to your feet, and she grabbed your ankle tightly. 

She watched as they shine a flashlight in your eyes, speaking rapidly. She catches words such as “dilated” and “uneven” and she knows enough to know that those aren’t good. 

But she doesn’t know what could have happened. A headache wouldn’t cause this, and you were fine yesterday. You had played the full 90 and scored two goals against the Canadian team. You had been totally fin- oh. 

Andi’s thoughts screech to a halt. In the 91st minute, you had gone in for a header and had been instead met with the goalie’s fist. You had landed on your feet though, and you seemed okay. There had only been a few minutes of injury time left, and the ref had waved off the medics and resumed play. 

By the time that the final whistle blew, it seemed that everyone had forgotten about your injury. The medics didn’t come or pull you aside in the locker room, Coach had been too busy doing whatever he does to check in on you. And your teammates had been distracted with celebrating the win to remember that you had taken a serious knock. The only person who seemed to remember was the goalie, who had asked mainly out of guilt if you were fine. 

(of course, the fans remembered. when you were finally cleared to use screens, you would see edits of you being hit and then swaying on the pitch as everyone forgot about you. not how you wanted to go viral.)

No one had noticed that you had skipped out on the celebrations to go to bed once you had returned to the hotel. The only person who had any clue that something was wrong had told you off for lying. No one even knew until you hit the ground. 

[sickficideas]

if time is a healer || atsushi sickfic w/ dazai

ao3! 6.8k + trade for @thankshermin <3 - please refer to the tags in the link for content + warnings! sicktember 2024, day 12: "you're not fine, you're throwing up/coughing up a lung"

Dazai wasn't expecting to see Akutagawa drenched in sea water, too.

“Decided to go for a swim?”

Akutagawa has never thought that Dazai's jokes were very funny, and recently, he's started to ignore them entirely. He doesn't even roll his eyes, he just stares, waiting for him to acknowledge the unconscious form that he's protectively knelt in front of.

The breeze at the Port always feels nice. Dazai often forgets to take advantage of the nice parts of Yokohama. He always ends up down here when he actually needs to do something. Right now, he doesn't actually have any time to sit around and take any sights - Atsushi is unconscious and soaking wet in front of Akutagawa, who is visibly confused by Dazai's lack of urgency.

“He passed out after he coughed out the water. And he's been unresponsive since,” Akutagawa tells him. This must have happened after he first called Dazai about twenty minutes ago. All Dazai knows is that a confrontation with their enemy landed them in the water, and Akutagawa requested Dazai come get Atsushi, who was underwater for much longer than what was safe. The unconscious bit is new. “I'm sure there's water in his lungs.”

“Hm. And you jumped after him?” Dazai observes, arms crossed over his chest as he looks over Atsushi. He's not too terribly off. His color looks okay and his expression is relaxed, at least right now, but he'll certainly take him to Yosano to get looked at.

“I'm fine. Take your subordinate home,” Akutagawa huffs as he stands up, a little unsteady on his feet.

Akutagawa's clothes and hair are still visibly damp. He's not entirely sure he can take his word for it. He's never demonstrated great swimming skills either, and he would definitely do much worse in Atsushi's situation than Atsushi himself.

Dazai kneels down and lays the back of his hand on Atsushi's cheek. His eyes twitch and flutter open, glazed over and not even remotely with him. He's warm. Dazai isn't sure, but he almost thinks he may have been running a fever before this happened.

“Did he hit his head?” Dazai asks. This reaction doesn't quite match what he already knows about the situation. He shouldn't be this out.

“I don't know,” Akutagawa mumbles. He sounds nervous. “There was too much going on in the last few minutes.”

“I'm sure I taught you better than to get overwhelmed,” Dazai says, nonchalant, taking note of the tiny bit of subconscious guilt in Akutagawa's tone.

“Don't talk to me like that,” Akutagawa growls, turning his body away, towards the ocean before he coughs a few times into his hand. Dazai cringes at the way his chest rattles with each cough. He knows he generally doesn't do well breathing in the air down here at the port, between the sea air and the various port-related fumes, but rescuing another drowning person certainly didn't help. “I'm leaving. Don't let him die, I need his life to end by my hands.”

“Right, right,” Dazai says, scoping Atsushi up into his arms. Atsushi whines curling up against Dazai's chest like he's shaking some warmth. “Take care of yourself.”

Akutagawa scoffs, only briefly turning to get a look at Atsushi's unconscious form one last time before walking off, fairly quickly disappearing from Dazai's view.

“I don't need you to ruin your lungs too, so hang in there for me, Atsushi,” Dazai tells him gently, heading off to the edge of the park, where Kunikida is waiting for him to take Atsushi back to the Agency. It's not a long walk at all, but they had no idea of Atsushi's conditions and decided not to waste any time.

As Dazai approaches Kunikida's illegally parked car, half on the park's outer sidewalk, Kunikida rounds the car and opens the passenger door for Dazai to lay Atsushi on. He thinks he's going to make a comment on Atsushi's saltwater-soaked clothes getting into his cloth seats, but there's deep concern written all over his face.

“Shit,” Kunikida says, teeth grit as Dazai carefully lays him down. “He doesn't look good.”

Atsushi whines when Dazai lays the buckle across his lap. Hopefully he's not injured, but anything physical would be taken care of soon enough by his ability.

“He'll be alright. Let's just get him back,” Dazai says as he shuts the door and climbs in the backseat.

Kunikida gets them there within minutes with a shoddy parking job, telling Dazai just how worried about his coworker he is. They waste no time getting Atsushi out of the car and through the building's front doors, Kunikida going ahead to open the elevator doors.

“You with me, Atsushi?” Dazai asks him, concerned with how he's still half-unconscious, and Atsushi gives him no indication that he can hear him. He's just huffing out hot and uncomfortable breaths.

“Dammit,” Kunikida mumbles, opening the Agency's office door and then subsequently the infirmary door, where Yosano eagerly waits with her hands crossed over her chest, concerned eyes scanning over Atsushi as soon as he's in her line of sight.

“Let me get some things together for him,” Yosano says, heels clicking as she makes her way over to a cabinet. Kunikida signals Dazai over to a cot he's prepared for Atsushi, covered in a few towels.

“Go fix your parking job,” Dazai tells Kunikida after gently laying Atsushi on the cot, brushing some of his damp hair from his face.

“I can't believe the ex-Mafia is telling me to adjust my parking,” Kunikida huffs, taking his keys from his pocket. He bites his lip, looking over Atsushi, clearly hesitant to leave him.

“I'm a law-abiding citizen, mister detective,” Dazai teases, before meeting Kunikida's concerned gaze. “I'll take care of him.”

“I know you will,” Kunikida says, slowly making his way toward the infirmary door, “let me know if either of you need anything.”

“Thank you, mom,” Yosano says from where she's shifting some things around on a tray near her desk.

“Not you too,” Kunikida groans, “one Dazai is enough.”

Yosano giggles as Kunikida leaves, and she makes her way over to Atsushi's cot. She lays a tray over on the stand beside her chair, effortlessly preparing her stethoscope to examine Atsushi. Dazai doesn't need to be told, he unbuttons Atsushi's damp shirt and sits him up the best he can. Yosano gives a silent thank you before she presses the ice-cold stethoscope to Atsushi's chest, and sliding it under his shirt to listen through his back, too.

“Has he coughed up any water?” Yosano says, clicking her tongue, evidently not happy about what she's hearing.

“That's what I was told,” Dazai answers as she pulls her stethoscope away and swings it back over her neck. Dazai slowly lowers Atsushi back down. Atsushi groans quietly, a pained noise, his eyes screwing shut in tandem.

“I'll need to ultrasound his lungs. I can't remember where I put the damn thing,” Yosano says with a sigh, “it doesn't sound like he's cleared it. I'm worried about -”

“Pulmonary edema,” Dazai says just as she does, agreeing before she can even finish the thought.

“Right,” she says, “good guess.”

“Not my first rodeo, doctor,” Dazai teases. He's suffered from the same thing more than once, and she's well aware of that.

“Next time, I'll give you my license,” Yosamo teases back as she stands up, “I have some gowns we can dress him in, I really don't want him to be in those soaked clothes with the fever I suspect he's running.”

Dazai thought the same thing. He lays the back of his hand against Atsushi's cheek, still as warm as before. He remembers oral thermometers being in the drawer beside the bed. He takes one out and takes Atsushi's jaw to gently part his lips and slide the thermometer under his tongue. He whines quietly, weakly coughing before Dazai slides it back out for the reading.

“One hundred even,” Dazai says as Yosano makes it back.

“He must've already been running a temperature,” Yosano says. She lays the gowns at the edge of the bed, and Dazai starts to peel off his shirt, tie, dropping it off to the side of the cot, much more wet than he was expecting. Atsushi is vocally against all of this even half-concious, whining and whimpering, but quiets down a little as Yosano dabs at his damp skin with a fresh towel before covering him with a gown, and quickly, he's fully undressed and wearing her clinic's gowns.

Atsushi seems a little more awake now with the movement, eyes fluttering but now, evidently focused on worsening nausea. He grunts and wraps an arm around his stomach, barely managing to prop himself up before he gags and chokes up a watery mixture of salt water and bile. Dazai lays a hand between his shoulder blades and rubs circles as Atsushi coughs and sputters, only throwing up a mouthful or so more of what's in his stomach before his arms give out on him and he collapses back onto the bed.

“Looks like you swallowed quite a bit of water, huh,” Dazai says, brushing over the hair that's stuck to his face from the sweat. He's too delirious to answer, he just groans and lays a hand back over his stomach. Dazai decides to carefully lift him and move him to the neighboring cot, being that the other is now soaked with vomit and salt water-dampened towels.

Atsushi's eyes fall just again with no energy to do much else, his eyes twitching from discomfort. Dazai rubs his arm with a sigh.

“It's good that he's getting it up,” Yosano says, “but this confirms my concerns about his lungs.”

“Go find your ultrasound machine. I'll get the rest of his vitals,” Dazai tells her. She looks surprised that he's offering, but shrugs and heads off to her supply closet.

Dazai takes a sheet of note paper from the drawer and writes down Atsushi's temperature, taking note of the frequency of his respirations, rolling over the blood pressure monitor and wrapping it around Atsushi's too-warm upper arm to get a reading. All slightly concerning measurements, but nothing that would currently land him in a hospital. He takes a stethoscope off of the hook to read his heart rate too. Atsushi whines at the cold touch as Dazai slides it under his gown.

Steady. A little fast, but within normal range. He writes it down.

He jumps a little at the sound of what sounds like several books and miscellaneous other objects falling in Yosano’s office. He thinks Atsushi’s okay by himself for long enough for him to at least make sure Yosano hasn’t buried herself.

He peers into her office where she frustratingly gathers a stack of medical journal collections and sets them on the shelf with a huff. There’s several others strewn across the already-overcrowded floor. Yosano has never had incredible organization skills, but it seems to work out for her, at least.

He feels a shiver run down his spine, remembering a similar state of chaos from Mori’s medical office, before he became the Port Mafia’s boss.

“Use that height of yours to get that down for me, before the whole cabinet falls,” she groans, gesturing to the ultrasound machine tucked into a high shelf, evidently previously surrounded by books. He puts the pieces together and gathers she must have tried to get on her adjacent desk to reach it.

Unfortunately for her, Dazai very easily slides the equipment out of the shelf and sets it down on her desk. She shoots him a very annoyed, definitely jealous look before she opens it, slides open a drawer on her desk to look for a password, he’s guessing.

“Seems like you should invest in a ladder,” he teases, and she just huffs again.

“I don’t need two Kunikidas, thank you,” she groans, typing in the password to open the software. Dazai hears a pained whimper from the infirmary room, and he’s quick to head back to the cot, not wanting Atsushi alone for too long when he’s so out of it.

Atsushi whines and twists his body without much strength behind his movement, clearly uncomfortable but not conscious enough to do much about it - Dazai sees saliva drip from the corner of his mouth. He must still be nauseous, but he has a feeling Yosano won’t be able to provide him any medication for that, since they’ll want him to cough up any water in his system. The nausea will help him do that.

Dazai sits on the stool beside him and pushes his hair out of his face, which has plastered to his forehead and stuck up in all sorts of directions from the dampness.

“Dazai…?” Atsushi mumbles, his voice wobbly, eyes having so much trouble focusing on the figure in front of him. It’s becoming painfully clear that he has a head injury, his fever isn't nearly high enough right now to be causing this kind of confusion. He thinks his healing abilities will take care of that soon enough, but they’ve learned in the last that it takes him much, much longer for him to heal from anything illness-related.

“You alright there, Atsushi?” Dazai asks, observing how he’s become much more visibly nauseous, and before Dazai can move fast enough to get the trash bin under his chin, Atsushi has already propped himself up and gagged unproductively over the floor. Nothing more than the clear saliva pooling in his mouth comes up.

Dazai takes the opportunity to pick up the trash bin from behind him and hold it up to Atsushi, whose arm wobbles under the pressure of holding his head over the edge of the bed. He breathes heavy, the bag rustling with the movement.

“Throw up if you need to, alright? Coughing’s good too,” Dazai tells him, sneaking his free hand onto Atsushi’s shoulder to give him some comfort. Atsushi has a lot of anxiety around being sick, and vomiting especially - Dazai’s hoping that he’s a little too out of it to realize how sick he’s feeling, but he’s holding onto some of it, subconsciously. Dazai watches his eyes screw shut even tighter. “Don’t hold it in, Atsushi. You’ll make it worse.”

Dazai rubs his shoulder with a little sigh, thinking for a second it’s going to be a lot harder to get him to stop fighting the nausea than he realized, but just a few seconds after the thought crossed his mind, he hears the water hit the bag rather forcefully, followed by a round of several wet coughs that bring up quite a bit of saltwater as well.

Atsushi’s breaths start to pick up pace before he gags again, just spitting up a thin stream of water that time. He doesn’t have much control over the coughs and gags that follow, but it seems like he’s brought up all he can for right now.

“That’s good. You did good,” he tells him gently, gently guiding him to lay back against the pillows as Dazai lowers the trash bin. Atsushi groans quietly, wrapping his arms around his middle. He’s sure that Atsushi is still wildly uncomfortable.

“Did he throw up?” Yosano asks, sliding the ultrasound machine over on the opposite side of the cot on a wheeled cart.

Dazai nods. “He coughed up quite a bit of water too.”

Yosano begins the process of the ultrasound. She slides up Atsushi’s gown, which he resists to some degree, but Dazai lays a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him in place. He’s pretty out of the loop on what’s going on, sure, but they did to do this.

The lubricant gel she has to use for the probe makes Atsushi shiver rather violently. Dazai watches the hairs on his arms stand. He imagines he’s more sensitive to the cold gel than normal because of this fever he’s running. 

She finds out exactly what she needs too - there’s already inflammation in his lungs, which makes it very possible that he’s developing pneumonia. But with Atsushi, it’s impossible to tell what his ability will assist him in healing, and what he’s on his own for - so unfortunately for him, all they can really do is wait and find out.

Dazai opts to stay with Atsushi, realizing this may be a several-hour long ordeal, and he’s not sure he wants to task Yosano with dealing with this by herself, with the mountain of other things she has to do - but, really, he just doesn’t want Atsushi unattended while he’s like this.

The hours pass, slowly, quietly and without much incident. Dazai sneaks out briefly to take a book from his locker that he’s been meaning to read, but never finds himself with time to actually crack it open. Atsushi’s fast asleep for a while, and Yosano stays tucked away in her office as Atsushi sleeps to get her work done.

It’s just about an hour before the Agency closes when Yosano comes by to check Atsushi over herself, this time. She sits on a stool on the other side of the cot, pressing her stethoscope up to his chest. She pauses for a second, still listening, but reaches over to hand Dazai the thermometer, silently asking him to check Atsushi’s temperature.

He miscalculates how far it is, and just gently grasps the space right in front of her hand before he realizes that she’s holding it a bit further back than he can tell, and he slides it from her hand.

Dazai’s been blind in his right eye for several years now, but the depth perception is something he’ll never really get over, no matter how long it’s been, and especially when he’s caught off guard like this. Yosano gives him a suspicious look as she lifts her head, and she’s making Dazai nervous enough that he’s just staring back at her with an awkward smile, still holding the thermometer.

“Sorry, sorry. Terrible depth perception,” Dazai says with a nervous laugh, but he realizes too late that he's already said too much. He started to reach over to put the thermometer under Atsushi’s tongue, but Yosano interjects.

“Is it because of your right eye?” Yosano asks suddenly, tilting her head. “I've noticed you have trouble seeing out of it.”

Dazai has never said anything about that eye to her before. He thought he was pretty okay at hiding his vision problems - he's never had to address it before, but Yosano makes him so nervous that he slipped up and said something he shouldn’t have.

It’s not a problem, really, if anyone finds out. He can get by perfectly fine, it’s nothing more than an inconvenience at this point in his life, and he can certainly lie his way around what happened, just like he does with everything else.

“Has it always been that way? Or is it an old injury?”

But for some reason, he can’t open his mouth to spit out the lie he was going to tell Yosano. The moment she asks that, he feels a shiver shoot up his spine, suddenly overcome with nausea. What happened to his right eye is something he still hasn’t quite attempted to work through, mentally, and he can’t do it in front of Yosano.

Even though he knows that she knows Mori just as well as he does.

Whatever face he makes is enough to get her to ease up.

“I'm sorry,” is all she says. She lowers her head, busying herself with checking the rest of his vitals as Dazai slides the thermometer under Atsushi’s tongue, and they’re in silence again.

Dazai silently shows her the thermometer reading once it beeps without even checking it himself, because there’s a throbbing pain behind his blind eye that he can’t ignore. He’s trying not to think about it, but the more he tries to trick himself into thinking of something else, the more he feels it.

Mori’s new favorite tool, digging around his eye socket when he was just fourteen, with no anesthesia or even any mild sedating medication, under the promise that it would lead to a very quick and painless suicide. That was one of many in a series of promises by Mori to assist him in ending his life, only to leave him suffering more than he was the day before.

Yosano disappears from view. He hears her ask a question that he doesn’t understand but nods to anyway, and suddenly, the lights come off.

He holds a palm up to his eye, pressing against it in some hope that this strange phantom pain he’s feeling will disappear. He hasn’t felt this in such a long time. He thinks Chuuya would scold him for not using the opportunity to talk about things like he always says he should, he just can’t bring himself to do it.

It’s worse, for some reason, because he knows Yosano suffered under him to. It’s not comforting to know that. He doesn’t want to put images of him in her mind, because he wouldn’t want that from her, either.

He feels awfully dizzy. He’s considering lying down on the empty cot, at least until the feeling subsides, but Atsushi shifts, and Dazai realizes he’s been too distracted to notice that Atsushi is trying to get up. He’s not sure where Yosano went - it’s still dark and the orange light coming in through the windows from the sunset is starting to dim.

“Stay down, Atsushi,” Dazai tells him gently. He almost reaches a hand out to lay on his chest and make sure he doesn't get up, but he doesn't need to. Atsushi hardly has the strength to hold his head up, and he collapses back onto the pillows with a shaky sigh from the exertion.

“Where's…Akutagawa?” Atsushi murmurs all feverishly, eyes darting around the room. He doesn't seem to recognize entirely where he is.

Dazai almost wants to laugh. A few months ago that question would've been asked out of fear, but Atsushi sounds concerned, despite how terribly he's feeling himself. 

“He's fine. Don't worry about him,” Dazai assures him with a half smile. Sure, he can’t confirm that, but he hopes that at this point in his life, Akutagawa would speak up and take care of himself.

The irony is lost on him, though.

“Dazai,” Atsushi breathes out, for some reason, not at all comforted by those words. He takes in a few deeper breaths, like it’s hard for him to get the air that he’s looking for. His eyes are locked on Dazai. “He…he jumped in after me. I'm just…his lungs, I'm…”

“I'll call and check on him. Worry about yourself right now,” Dazai tells him, trying to ignore how his stomach sinks with that information. He hadn't considered that. Akutagawa seemed perfectly fine when he saw him with Atsushi - soaking wet, sure, but he was conscious and communicative. Dazai doesn’t have to worry about Atsushi, most of the time, with his healing abilities and all - but Akutagawa has none of that.

Surely that’s why Atsushi is concerned, too.

He takes his phone out, and decides he’ll step over to the counter to make the call, not wanting to bother Atsushi with the static of a phone call or any voices raised above a whisper or quiet tone. His eyes follow him, but not long enough for Dazai to pull up his contacts list. Atsushi’s eyes fall shut, screwed shut tight like he’s in pain, but then relax.

“Akutagawa's that Port Mafia kid?” Yosano chimes in, scaring Dazai, not enough to make him flinch but enough to lift his head. She’s in the doorway of her office, backlit by the honey-colored light, evidently listening to his conversation with Atsushi.

“That's him,” Dazai says, leaning against the counter. “They were working together this morning.”

Yosano nods, remembering the briefing she was given before Atsushi arrived in the infirmary.

“You knew him, didn't you? Before you joined us,” she asks. Quietly.

“He was my subordinate,” Dazai answers, turning to face her just a bit more. Yosano's come into contact with him once before, he’s sure. Most of the Armed Detective Agency members were familiar enough with Akutagawa to know him by name, by the time Dazai joined.

Just as Dazai finds Akutagawa’s contact to call him, Yosano’s brow furrows and opens her mouth to say something, but Dazai turns away when the line clicks.

Akutagawa always answers a little too quickly.

“Bite the dust yet?” he says. Maybe a bit of an insensitive joke, considering Akutagawa’s condition. He’s distracted for a moment, peering out the window. The sky’s starting to look rather dark, even for the evening. The orange meets with black clouds overhead.

“What do you want?” he answers with an annoyed huff.

“Your boyfriend wanted me to make sure you're okay,” Dazai taunts, deciding that's probably a joke that Akutagawa can't ignore.

“Dazai -”

“I think he has every right to be concerned with how terrible your lungs are. And he's bordering on pneumonia over here,” Dazai tells him with an exasperated sigh. He’s sure Akutagawa doesn’t care about any of that, but Akutagawa doesn't say anything for long enough for Dazai to realize he's not sure how to react to that information.

“Is he - ” he pauses. “Surely he’ll be fine.”

Hm. Interesting.

“He'll be fine,” Dazai says. Despite Atsushi’s current condition, he certainly will be fine - those Tiger healing abilities will always pull him through. “Go see your doctor. The last thing your useless lungs need is another bout of pneumonia.”

“I don't answer to you,” Akutagawa grumbles, but a few coughs that he didn’t seem to expect betray his biting tone.

“Want me to tell Chuuya? ‘Cause you know exactly that he'll hound you to your grave about it.”

Akutagawa groans. “I’m hanging up. Your voice is giving me a headache.”

Dazai wants to make a joke in return, but Akutagawa truly does hang up the phone. Dazai’s a little more than surprised. But he’s certainly more surprised that little Akutagawa has the capacity to worry about someone other than his sister. And his enemy, no less.

He smiles to himself, but suddenly, the sharp pain in his eye returns.

“Dazai,” Yosano says with a huff, still standing in the doorway with her brow knotted together, “does that happen often?”

Dazai blinks. He’s not sure how she could possibly know that his eye is causing him any pain, so he wonders if maybe she’s asking about something else. Yosano is a detective, but she’s not a mind-reader by any means. “Calling my former subordinate? Well, unfortunately -”

“No, Dazai. Your eye,” she clarifies, her eyes fixed on that eye specifically. It does feel wet, now that he’s thinking about it. But he doesn’t think a tear has slipped out. The tips of his fingers graze over it, the motion causing a sharp pain there, but when he pulls his hand back, he sees blood.

“Oh,” Dazai says,  “well…it used to. Happen often.”

“I don’t mean to stop on your toes. But I’d prefer if you let me have a look at it,” Yosano says, but she doesn’t move from her spot in the doorway. Dazai squints trying to look at her, the bright light proving to be far too much for his sensitive eye at the moment. He’s nauseous at the idea of another doctor proding around at his eye.

Dazai wants to tell her no. He wants to say it’s fine, he’s been dealing with chronic paina nd random bouts of bleeding there for years, it’s just slowed down a lot since joining the Agency. He’s not worried about it.

But he thinks that she’s concerned because she knew Mori just as well as he did.

“If you have to,” he says as casually as he can muster, smiling awkwardly to break the tension. “But no needles or anything.”

“I don’t need needles to examine your eye. Go sit down in my office chair and I’ll find my ophthalmoscope,” she says, heading for some drawers on the opposite side of him.

Dazai awkwardly shifts around beside trudging into her office, sitting down in a chair that probably needs replacing. At least that way he doesn’t feel like he’s in a sterile doctor’s office. He’s just in Yosano’s work office. Her desk is littered with piles of unfinished paperwork, little trinkets and broken tools she’s working on fixing.

She walks in, adjusting the head of the opthalmoscope before looking at Dazai. She turns back to take some gauze from the counter and reaches to carefully dab at Dazai’s eye, to wipe off some of the blood.

“Is it painful?” Yosano asks.

Dazai was hoping she wouldn’t ask, but at this point, there’s no reason to lie to her. “Very.”

She peers through the opthalmascope after reaching back to turn off the office light. He knows the drill, he just stares forward, tries not to move, and at this point, he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t throw up. Yosano is nothing like Mori, but at the same time, she’s exactly like him.

“Hey,” she says, lowering the scope and looking at him with a very concerned gaze. “Breathe, okay? I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just looking.”

Dazai didn’t realize he was being that see-through just now.

He doesn’t say anything, he just does what she’s asked - breathes, something he forgot to do moments ago. He takes in a long, deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. He has to force himself to breathe out each time, or else he just ends up holding his breath and feeling worse.

It’s over, soon enough.

“You really can’t see from that eye,” she says, like she’s surprised to be able to confirm her theory, lowering the scope. “I’m not sure why it’s bleeding though. It might be a good idea for you to have it checked by an eye doctor.”

He smiles back awkwardly, with absolutely zero intention of following through on that. Yosano turns back to switch the lights back on, but all of it at once it too much. He shrinks away, his eyes forcing themselves shut, just the one throbbing through an intense stabbing pain.

Yosano shuts the light off as soon as she seems to register that his reaction is out of pain, and she disappears for a moment before coming back with something in her hand. The light coming off helped the pain subside rather quickly.

“Are you completely blind there? Or can you still see shapes, register lights?” Yosano asks.

“The second part,” Dazai answers, and Yosano presents him with a medical eyepatch.

“Put this on for a while. That way the light isn’t too much, and it might be a good idea to keep it covered while it’s bleeding like that,” Yosano suggests, and Dazai takes it. He’s certainly no stranger to these. The idea of putting it on isn’t something he;s thrilled about, but she’s right. It might help for a while.

So he puts it on.

He thanks her, quietly, before he wanders back to Atsushi’s cot, where the latter is thankfully fast asleep, but not looking much better.

Kunikida pokes his head in to ask how Atsushi’s holding up, to pass on the message to his very concerned colleagues. Dazai assures him that Atsushi will he just fine, he just needs someone to stay with him while he’s not feeling well, because he can’t handle it alone. Kunikida says that Kyoka offered to sit with him in place of Dazai, but Dazai insists that Kyoka getting sleep is more important.

The sun eventually sets completely as their coworkers file out of the building, leaving it eerily quiet. Yosano turns on the radio to fill the silence, just calming instrumental in her office, and she stays there, not coming out aside from peeking at Atsushi. The silence is long gone as wind starts to pick up around the building, whistling through the screened windows. He’s sure there’s a storm coming.

Eventually, Atsushi’s eyes flutter open.

Dazai doesn’t bother him with conversation right out of his sleep. He’s sure he’s confused and frazzled with that fever he’s been running, one that has Yosano concerned that he isn’t healing himself like they had hoped. She said she would give him until midnight before she would decide if he needed to be hospitalized.

Dazai hopes that’s not the outcome. Atsushi would handle that just as well as Dazai would.

“Dazai,” Atsushi murmurs feverishly with a pained groan, an arms over his middle, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, “I don't feel good.”

“I know, Atsushi,” Dazai tells him, reaching forward and patting his hair. “Wish we could make it go by faster for you.”

He's met with vague memories of himself being fever-riddled in the shipping container he used to call home, through the aftermath of some hurricaine that had not treated Yokohama kindly. He's sure he had pneumonia then too, but he was so sick he can hardly remember being treated after. He just remembers then fifteen-year-old Akutagawa showing up with Chuuya in tow, finding him drenched in sweat and coughing so much that it was making him vomit. He’s not sure how either of them ever found out he was so sick.

He remembers asking them to leave him. He felt so awful that he would have rather his body completed the process of killing him, which he was so certain would have been the outcome had no one found him. He begged both of them, over and over, to make it stop. To end it faster.

“I wish I could make it be over faster,” Chuuya has mumbled at some point. Then, Dazai had assumed Chuuya was making a remark to assist him with suicide, but he realizes now that Chuuya just wanted his suffering to end. He wanted him to feel better.

He’s not sure why Chuuya would have ever wanted that for him, but he feels that way about Atsushi. Atsushi at least deserves to feel better.

Dazai hears the thunder start to roll overhead, confirming his suspicions of a storm. Thankfully it’s not nearly as loud in the Armed Detective Agency’s building as it would be in their dorms, but they can still hear the thunder very well.

“I wanna go home…” Atsushi murmurs quietly, laying on his side, defeated with a quiet huff. He shifts uncomfortably, shivers.

“You can't yet, Atsushi. You've gotta stay here for a little longer,” Dazai tells him kindly, brushing his hair out of his glassy, fevered eyes. “We can’t let you go anywhere in this storm, anyway.”

He shivers at the sound of the thunder, curling up like a scared dog. Dazai half smiles, taking the end of the sheet and bringing it up to cover his shoulders, so he’s a little more secure.

“I didn't ever realize that you were scared of thunder,” Dazai says with a fond smile.

“I'm not scared,” Atsushi murmurs with a harsh shiver, “I just…I just don't like it…”

Dazai almost laughs. He’s heard those exact words from Akutagawa, years ago. He understands their negative associations. Akutagawa’s past living on the streets never gave him a good memory with a storm, and he’s sure Atsushi’s in the same boat, where he was trapped in the orphanage for most of the time, all by himself.

“You’re safe in here,” Dazai assures him, his tone that of a teacher trying to comfort a kindergarten student, making a little more teasing than he intended, but he hopes Atsushi knows that he means it. Dazai’s still trying to learn that too, but they are safe here, in the Agency.

Atsushi barely makes it over the side of the cot to vomit.

Dazai rubs his shoulder gently, telling him it’s fine and not to worry. It’s still just water, of course, there’s nothing else in his system. Yosano peeks out at the sound of the commotion, and gets to work with setting up IV fluids for him.

Atsushi breathes heavy over the side of the cot for a few minutes, visibly nauseous but without much energy to do anything other than gag miserably. Dazai doesn’t take his hand off of him. He must feel terrible right now, being so visibly sick isn’t something he shows willingly a lot of the time. Dazai tucks the longer pieces of his hair out of his face when he gags and coughs, bringing up nothing more than spit and water.

“Any better?” Dazai asks when Atsushi trunks himself onto his back, to which the latter shakes his head, closing his eyes. He looks terrible. Dazai reaches forward to adjust his hair, it’s stuck to his forehead in all sorts of directions.

“I wanna go home,” he says again through a quiet burp, visibly distressed, “’m fine…”

“You’re not fine, Atsushi. You’re still throwing up,” Dazai tells him, rubbing his shoulder. “Just let us take care of you for a little while longer.”

Yosano takes Atsushi’s hand and starts to place an IV as gently and quickly as she can. Dazai busies himself with distracting Atsushi, who is already starting to drift back into a sleep, unbothered what Yosano is doing for the most part - Dazai is more bothered than Atsushi is, up until the needle part is over. Dazai holds Atsushi’s free hand.

Yosano is gentle in the way that she finishes up the job, with adjusting everything, placing the tape. Her hands are quick and efficient, but not oblivious to the feelings of the person that she works on. Very unlike Mori, who never cared much if he was hurting a patient more than he should have been. That’s comforting, at least.

“Mori used to talk about you,” Dazai says.

She looks up. Dazai always has a hard time telling what she's thinking. She must have learned that from Mori, because Dazai has heard it’s very difficult to tell what he’s thinking, too.

“Never by name, but…I put the pieces together,” he says, rubbing circles into Atsushi’s hand with his thumb, thinking maybe it’s more soothing for him than it is for sleeping Atsushi. “The way you wrap bandages, give injections…”

“I've thought the same of the way you do things,” she says quietly. “I'm sorry you had to suffer with him for so long.”

“I'm here now,” Dazai shrugs. He has to be nonchalant about it, any other way makes him feel like he’s losing his mind, but he’s grateful to be here now. “And so are you.”

Yosano smiles back at him.

…

The next morning, Dazai feels himself wake up with the morning light spilling in through the windows. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he has his book in his lap, and he’s on the cot beside Atsushi.

And Atsushi’s still there, looking like he’s starting to wake up, too.

Dazai stretches his limbs out, surprised by the feeling that he’s gotten a fairly good rest. And Atsushi is still here - that means he’s improving, at least, and Yosano decided he didn’t need to be hospitalized. He moves to the chair where he was before beside Atsushi. His eyes are blinking open, slowly, carefully.

Dazai reaches forward to lay the back of his hand on Atsushi’s cheek, and he’s still feeling a little warm, but not nearly as hot as before. That’s good. He probably just needs a few more hours of rest and he’ll be good as new.

Atsushi groans, eyes screwing shut for a moment, wrapping his arms around his middle.

“Everything okay?” Dazai asks him.

“Nauseous,” Atsushi murmurs quietly.

“Hmm. The antibiotics,” Dazai says with a nod. He says Yosano adding quite a bit to his IV, and he’s sure it’s helped his condition, but the side effects are never fun to deal with. “I’m sure Yosano can add something for your nausea if you’re still feeling sick.”

“Did you ever call Akutagawa?”

Dazai’s surprised to hear him ask for a follow-up, when he’s clearly still not feeling well. He’s still out of it, too, he’s just saying what’s on his mind.

“I did. What he does is his own choice, though,” Dazai says with a half-smile. “He’s never listened to me.”

Not that I ever gave him good examples to follow.

“I wish…wish he’d ask for help,” Atsushi murmurs, fighting his own exhaustion as he stares at the ceiling and tries desperately to keep himself awake. “He doesn’t have to…to do everything alone…”

“You’re right. He doesn’t,” Dazai tells him. Advice Dazai could surely use himself. “Go back to sleep, Atsushi. You’ve got some more resting to do before you’re back to yourself.”

Atsushi doesn’t need to be told twice. Even if he wants to stay awake, his eyes betray him, and he starts to fall asleep again.

Dazai supposes he has some lessons to learn after all.

[vonpharma]

Fandom: 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Karuma Mei | Franziska von Karma & Mitsurugi Reiji | Miles Edgeworth Characters: Karuma Mei | Franziska von Karma, Mitsurugi Reiji | Miles Edgeworth Additional Tags: Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Sicktember, Sicktember 2024, Sick Franziska von Karma, Author Projecting onto Franziska von Karma, PART TWENTY NINE BACK IN THE SADDLE, i gave Fran my chronic sore throat thing because i know she'd hate it, Siblings, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love, Family Fluff, Family, allll the family tags. teehee, uhhh, Dairy Queen, and also my dependency on cherry ricola. anyways

Summary:

It’s not that Franziska… wanted people to see her ill. Even the thought of that made her gorge rise, eyes on her when she was so vulnerable and lowly and imperfect. But perhaps a house with people in it would be nice from a distance, still… the hum of voices on the other side of her door, the occasional bowl of soup left steaming on her nightstand. Anything was better than the solitude of those lonely college days spent sore and uncomfortable in the world’s softest bed.

Written for Sicktember 2024 Day 3: Campus Crud

Please read my closing author's notes on why I will no longer be supporting the Sicktember event, and withdrawing my fills from the collection in protest.

[READ ON AO3!]

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

Sicktember 23, 13. Anxious Stomach (TTD)

(Same Hero and Villain than here and here, but you'll be fine if you'll only read this one.)

Hero sighed, squared their holders, preparing themself to go into the training room where Superhero waited. It was the end of the day, and they hadn’t eaten a thing. At the morning, they’d stared at their breakfast as if they could have been fed by the simple vision of their cereal bowl. Former Villain had seen them and wrinkled their nose in disgust over their sixth cup of coffee.

“No wonder you can’t best me if you casually consume this,” they’d declared.

“I have bested you,” had grumbled Hero, looking at a spoonful of milk and crunchy bits without touching it. “You have reformed and we are roommates.”

“I don’t see your point. It proves that I was successful at invading your lair. Can you even best me at the killing of countless living organisms in your own flat ?”

“Cleaning. You mean cleaning.”

Villain had shrugged:

“You lack panache in the morning.”

Well, maybe they did. Unlike some smug jerk, they had a job and they knew exactly what was going to happen. After a whole day of patrolling, they were going to meet Superhero like every month. And they couldn’t eat.

Lunch was the same. They’d stared at a bar and at a bakery, but the simple idea of actually chewing something made them sick. The knot that was their stomach refused to untie, so they’d spent the day eating nothing but coffee. Which was, of course, a terrible idea. Training with Superhero was at best exhausting, even under normal conditions. They opened the door, looked at their mentor who looked so tall, so fierce, so unbeatable, and something in them snapped. They couldn’t. Not today.

“I’m sorry, Superhero,” they began nervously. “Can...can we postpone this ?”

“Why is that ?”

“I – I guess I’m a bit sick.”

Superhero stared at them with cold, unimpressed eyes:

“I see you have no trouble standing up, though. May I remind you, we at the agency are not your babysitters. We are your employers. Does crime rest, Hero ? Will villains let you have a nice break if you ask politely ?”

The one I have at home would, thought Hero, and they bit their tongue to stay silent about it.

“We are worried about you, Hero. Very worried. Face me.”

“Why ?” they asked, resignedly preparing themself.

Barely looking at them, Superhero threw a large energy beam in their direction. Hero rolled over and dodged dutifully.

“We’re looking at your monthly results and they are not satisfying. In fact, if you keep on like this, you’re going to find yourself at the bottom of the list.”

“I don’t understand. I thought I was improving ! I made very little property damage this month.”

“You’ve been called for twenty-six incidents. I only see one arrest.”

“Ah yes, I couldn’t prevent it.”

“The incidents ?”

“The arrest. That guy had to be stopped.”

“What about the others ?”

“I could manage. I’m working with Social Service people, so I’ve learned one thing or two about deescalation.”

“You mean you’ve let the culprits go free.”

A larger energy beam invaded the room; this time they had to jump very high to avoid it. Once back on both their feet, they felt their heart beating way too fast. They had to rest their back against the wall for a moment. Their stomach had hurt all day, but it was dangerously grumbling now. How calm and nonchalant Superhero looked next to them, how cool his voice was when he softly said:

“Sloppy. Slow. Lazy.”

“I’ve brought down Villain !” they protested. “Forgive me but it seems like a big victory.”

“If you’d done that, yes. But are you sure of it ? Maybe they’re just biding their time. Maybe they just wait for you to reveal the agency’s secrets. Are you strong enough to beat them ?”

Hero had no time to move. In a flash, their mentor was right in front of them, a hand wrapped around their throat. He didn't squeeze. He didn't need to.

“We doubt it,” he gently said. “We doubt it very much. To be clear, we won’t be sure about Villain’s status until they are still breathing. Am I clear ?”

“Crystal,” answered Hero, their voice weak.

They collapsed.

Hero gently pushed the door of their flat, with a hand that had no strength left. His return wasn’t unnoticed; darkness seemed to surround the spot they were in. At the same time, a long, thin silhouette loomed over them, with cold eyes and no smile.

“ So you’ve come to my lair, Hero,” declared Villain. “You shall be spared if you’re ready to pay the price.”

Hero sighed and put their shopping bag on a chair nearby.

“ Yeah, yeah, I’ve got your batteries.”

They shook their head while Villain rummaged through the bag and found their prey. Once they retrieved the small package, they threw back their head and gave their usual booming, evil laugh:

“The power is mine ! Miiine !”

Hero gently rubbed their forehead and tiredly asked:

“It’s for your Gameboy, right ?”

“Yeah. Old-fashioned you might say, but I am a person of refined taste.”

“ Uh-uh. Sure.”

They had no energy left for a more biting retort. All they thought about was collapsing into their bed. Villain called them back, though:

“Wait, o my nemesis ! One last ordeal for you.”

Hero stopped. Hero rolled their eyes. Hero turned back and stared at them. They watched them trotting toward the fridge, pulling out a blender container full of a white, smooth, thick liquid. Hero eyed at it suspiciously.

“What is that thing ?”

“To my knowledge, it is called a smoothie. Soy milk, coconut, pineapple and lemon.”

They opened the lid. It smelled...good. More than that, actually. Hero’s stomach grumbled.

“Can I have a sip if I do the dishes ?”

They expected to be soundly rebuffed, but Villain rolled their eyes and put a large glass before them.

“It’s your ordeal, isn’t it ? Drink it up, idiot. I’ve made it for you.”

“...Oh.”

Hero tried it. Their stomach begrudgingly accepted it.

“Again, my dastardly plan was successful,” said Villain, watching their nemesis emptying the blender glass by glass with satisfaction. “And now, since you’ve foolishly proposed, you shall do the dishes and – what ?”

The last word was squeaked in surprise. Hero had stood up, their face emotionless, and had thrown their arms around them. Villain froze and frowned in their confusion.

“I’m uh – not sure what is happening here,” they said.

“To my knowledge, it is called a hug.”

“That I’ve figured. What I lack is...context ?”

“Yep,” sighed Hero. “We need to talk.”

*

Back to These Two Dorks masterlist.

Or to Hero x Villain Masterlist.

[aswallowssong]

Sicktember 2024 #4: "Great. I got a cold for my birthday."

So @fragolinaa and I have been working on a Critical Role AU for... well over a year. The whole thing is called "Twinkling Lights," (all 3 campaign's characters) but each campaign gets their own little name, because that's not confusing at all. Campaign 2 has always been my baby, and the thought was "What if the Mighty Nein were all absolutely chaotic, burned out high school teachers?" So I give you "Twenty Somethings."

Fjord was done with the day before he’d even opened his eyes. There was a steady pounding in his skull, and his throat hurt. Not to mention the fact that his sinuses felt like someone had shoved handfuls of paper towels up his nose. 

Great. I got a cold for my birthday.

Not that he cared much for his birthday anyway. He didn’t actually know what his birthday was, since his parents had left him at the doorstep of the orphanage when he was a baby. They’d picked a date five months before, since that’s how old the doctor said he probably was, and Cuersaar 6th it was.

And Cuersaar 6th it was, and he was sick, and he needed to get up for work before his second alarm went off and he was super behind for the morning.

Thankfully, Caduceus wasn’t into grand gestures of affection in general, but instead small, intimate gestures. So, when he sat down to shove some toast in his mouth, which scraped his already irritated and painful throat going down, and sniffled pitifully, all that met him was a warm cup of tea, and an affectionate hand on his forehead.

“Good morning, Fjord,” Caduceus said, giving him a knowing smile. “Happy birthday. Are you sick?”

“S’ a cold,” Fjord rasped. “Probably got it off Luc.”

Veth’s son loved Fjord, much to her dismay and his delight, but he’d parked himself in Fjord’s lap for all of movie night while his nose ran and he coughed quietly into the elbow of his sweatshirt. Veth and Yeza had said they’d just stay home with him, but no one in their friend group cared about a little cold.

Now, Fjord almost wished he had.

Caduceus hummed knowingly. “Ah, he was real snotty on Friday. Probably. Sorry, friend. I’ll put some tea I think will help in a travel mug for you to take with us.”

Fjord didn’t go a day without feeling like he was so desperately lucky to have a friend like Caduceus. “Thanks, Cad.”

���Mhm. I think there’s some soup left from a few nights ago. I can put that in a thermos for you, if you’d like? For lunch?”

It would have been easy to brush Cad off and tell him that it was fine. He probably wasn’t going to be hungry, anyway. He didn’t even want the toast he was currently choking down, but he knew that he needed something to get him through his classes. 

“I–”

“Let me? Since it’s a day about you?”

That stopped him from declining, and Fjord nodded slowly after a second. Cad knew the mixed emotions that came with his birthday; he had for years. 

“Okay,” he rasped, wincing and taking another sip of tea. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Sure,” Cad said, smiling widely at Fjord, and making him feel a little warmer inside. “I think there’s some cold medicine under the sink. Why don’t you go get some before we leave while I pack this up?”

Fjord nodded, obeying like a child. Regardless of the fact that he was a thirty-one, no, thirty-two year old man, he wished the same thing he’d wished every time he felt poorly since he could remember. He wanted to be comforted, and taken care of, not because it was someone’s job, but because they wanted to. Because they loved him.

And Cad did. He really did. Fjord knew that. But like a friend, or even a brother, and that was different.

He rustled through their bin of medicine that Cad kept stocked with natural and chemical remedies, and found a few blister packs of bright orange cold and flu medicine. He swallowed one pack, and stored the others in his pocket, wishing that he was staying home in a sweatshirt and joggers instead of the khakis and polo he had on for his job. The fact that Cad got to wear whatever he wanted only frustrated him until he remembered that Cad wasn’t going to be teaching Biology, but Culinary and Agriculture. He’d spend half the day outside in the crisp, early Cuersaar wind.

The thought of it made him shiver, or maybe that was the fact that he was decently sure he was sporting a mild fever, but he didn’t let himself dwell too long. He needed to drive to school.

“Cad?” He called, wincing and sniffling quietly as he pulled a jacket over his polo and pulled his keys off the hook.

Gods, he felt awful.

“Coming!” Caduceus rounded the corner with his school bag, already in a coat, and with both their lunch boxes in his hand. He smiled widely, giving Fjord an encouraging nod, and holding out his other hand, which held the travel mug of tea. “Oh, and don’t forget this.”

Fjord managed a small smile, taking the cup from Cad with a nod. “Thanks.”

“Oh sure. It’s a chilly morning, and by the sound of your voice, I’d say your throat needs it.”

It did, and when it was gone before his first period prep was over, he wished it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t strep – he’d had that enough times in his life to know the feeling – but it was enough that he wished he had a days supply of the warm tea to keep him from rasping so badly while he taught his first two blocks of AP Bio. Several students looked at him with worry, ones that he knew were prone to anxious thinking, and he tried to give them a reassuring look as he explained the circulatory system.

By the end of his third period the cough had started, and the sniffling was getting annoying enough that Fjord had just grabbed a box of tissues from his cabinet and parked it on his desk. He’d already figured he was going to have to restructure his afternoon classes plans to be independent work, as opposed to teacher-led, but he knew his AP students were already worrying about Thunsheer’s test, and he owed it to them to give them everything they needed.

Even if it was at his own destruction.

When the bell for his lunch period rang, he audibly sighed, and when he turned to make sure his kids hadn’t left anything behind, he nearly jumped.

“Shoot! Oh, Orym. You startled me.”

The senior was looking at him with drawn eyebrows. “Sorry. Coach, are you okay?”

Orym had a heart of gold. Fjord noticed too, now, that Dorian was hanging in the doorway. It was unusual to see one without the other, and Fjord sighed, running a hand through his hair that desperately needed a trim.

“I’m fine,” Fjord said, like a liar. He didn’t want to worry Orym more than he already was, especially with the heaviness he already bore. “Just a cold. Annoying, but bearable.”

Orym nodded, and so did Dorian from his sentinel’s post. “Okay. You should see if Nurse Jester has anything that can help. She showed up in Herr Widogast’s room earlier with cough drops.” He smirked a little. “Someone might have narked.”

Ah, Caleb. Caleb’s immune system was made of tissue paper, and as Luc’s uncle, he tended to pick up anything on the kindergartener immediately. 

“Herr too, huh? Good to know. Thanks, Orym.”

“Are we still having practice?”

Crap. Fjord did not want to have practice out in the crisp wind. He forgot they even had soccer that day. Why would he schedule a practice the day after a game? They didn’t have another one until the next week.

“Right, um. Let me get back to you, okay? Come see me after lunch. This is your lunch period, right?”

Orym nodded. “Okay. And then I’ll let the team know in the groupchat?”

“Perfect. I’ll write you a note to show up to fifth period a little late so we can figure it out. Now, go eat.”

Orym smiled, looking back at Dorian and nodding so the other boy would open the door, and they scrambled out to go find Imogen, no doubt. The three of them were a motley crew, but a favorite among his friend group of teachers. He could help but chuckle watching them go, and then sigh when the door closed and his headache reminded him that he was, indeed, sick.

The only good thing was that none of their friends knew when his birthday was. They didn’t know that it was, supposedly and legally, that day, and wouldn’t fret at him about being ill on a day that was supposed to be happy.

It wasn’t particularly happy, anyway.

The first one in his room was Beau, rage in her eyes, and he knew that the peaceful lunch he’d hoped for to let himself feel like crap was not happening.

“Do you know how ridiculous Kaylie can be?!”

Fjord sighed, sitting down at his desk and pulling out his hidden box of crackers, his water, and another blister pack of cold medicine.

Caleb had filtered in after that, looking pale and sucking on what Fjord assumed was a cough drop. He took a look at Fjord, and under Beau’s rant quietly said in a voice that matched his own rasp, “You as well then?”

Fjord gave a tired smile and nodded. “Yup.”

“Isn’t anyone listening to me?!”

“Kaylie is being a menace today because she spent the weekend with her mother, and then yesterday back with her father, so she is having the emotional whiplash,” Caleb said easily, and raspily, but Beau didn’t seem to notice.

“She still doesn’t have to be a monster–”

“Calm down, Beau. She’s seventeen and her home life is a wreck. Well, her mom’s home is a wreck. Let it roll.”

Beau looked at Fjord silently after he was finished, and then sighed, flopping down at her desk and basically throwing her lunchbox down.

The rest of their group filtered in, Cad bringing Fjord his lunchbox when he did, and Fjord savored the way the warm soup coated his stinging throat, and let conversation wash into the background as he settled a little bit into misery. He’d perk himself up when he needed to teach his next class, especially if he’d be dealing with a pissed off Kaylie, but for the time they sat in comfortable companionship, he simply let himself wallow a little.

Jester was eyeing him with worry, he knew that, and it embarrassed him, especially since he’d realized that he was very much in love with her, and she very much still had a shitty boyfriend. He tried not to make eye contact, but when the lunch bell rang and everyone started cleaning up their things to get ready for their next class, she was standing at his desk, holding a bottle of ibuprofen and a bag of cough drops.

“Here. I already gave Caleb what he needs for the rest of the day. You can come to me too, you know? I’m basically here for the students and the teachers. Having a cold while you’re teaching sucks so bad. Let me make it easier.” She leaned in and whispered to him, so no one else would hear what she said next. “Especially on your birthday.”

He felt like he was going to melt under the sincerity of her gaze, and he couldn’t do anything but give a little nod, his heart doing some sort of anxious tap dance when he took the bottle from her and their fingers brushed. 

“Thanks, Jessie. I know, I just… didn’t want to bother anyone.”

“Cad told me that you don’t want anyone to know about today. And I won’t tell anyone, but, maybe on Folsen I’ll bring a cake to Molly and Yasha’s for family dinner. Just because. Not for any reason.”

Her eyes were sparkling, and she was looking at him with no pity whatsoever. She wanted to do it, he could tell, and she wanted to help him, and all those things made it really hard to focus on what he was going to say next.

“I– Alright. Can it be strawberry?”

“Of course it can. And, I know you’re going to say no, but I’m going to get you a present. Don’t tell me no, I’ve made up my mind. You deserve something better than a cold for your birthday.”

She nodded, speaking in a normal voice again. “Also you should cancel practice, since you’re sick.”

“Oh,” Beau said, whipping around at the word ‘practice.’ “I can take the boys today. You should go home and sleep, you look like you need it.”

They were the only ones left in the room, everyone else having left, Cad with a small wave as he’d gone while Fjord had been talking to Jester.

“I–”

“Say yes,” Jester said simply, and shrugged. “Or else.”

“Or… else?”

“Or else.” She turned, her hair nearly smacking him in the face as she skipped out of the room, her pink scrubs a whirl as she spun out the door, and around Orym as he walked in.

Orym looked confused, but shook it off as he faced both Fjord and Beau.

“Hi, Coach Lionette. Coach Stone, did you figure out practice?”

“You guys are going to practice with me and the girls today. Let your team know.”

Orym looked between Beau and Fjord for a moment before groaning quietly. “They’re gonna kick our butts.”

Fjord chuckled, which turned into a cough, and he knew he’d made the right decision accepting Beau’s offer. She didn’t know it, but she’d also given him a present that was better than a cold. All he had to do was get through the rest of the day, and he could crawl in bed and hope he’d wake up feeling better, for a better day altogether.

[rickybowensfever]

#Sicktember2024 Day 1: “I’m not hungover, I’m just sick”

AO3 Link

HAPPY SICKTEMBER!! 🤒

I'm excited for you all to read some of my fics for the month. Here's day 1! I won't be doing all of the prompts but there are a few I've been brewing ideas and pre-writing for. I'm going to be doing a variety: HSMTMTS, TSITP, and my ocs! @sicktember

Day 1: “I’m not hungover, I’m just sick”

CW: nausea, emeto, mentions of vomiting, illusions to underage drinking & alcohol 

Conrad walked into the kitchen holding his stomach, turning to the medicine cabinet for something to calm the nausea. He stood glaring at the items in the cabinet as beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and he shivered despite wearing pajama pants and a comfortable hoodie. 

As he surveyed the shelves for anything to help him sleep for a few hours without running to the bathroom, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He jolted which made his stomach do somersaults. He slammed the cabinet doors closed and turned to face the suspect. 

“What do you want?” he barked, sleep deprivation and whatever stomach virus he picked up in the last 48 hours was not boding well. 

Jeremiah stepped back, chuckling at his older brother. “Dude, are you *still* hungover?” he asked, laughing hysterically about the idea of a hangover lasting for more than 24 hours. 

Conrad was not laughing. He glared at his younger brother as the curly hair boy reveled in his brother’s discomfort. 

 “Are you saying my smoothie didn’t work?” Jeremiah asked, giggling aloud. Conrad was not joking around. He was running on about 3 hours of sleep as he laid on the cold tile floor of the bathroom for most of the night. 

Though, Jeremiah wasn’t lying. Conad *had* been hungover the day before. Jere was ecstatic when he made his famous hangover smoothie and delivered it to his patient. 

Finally, Conrad said, “I’m not hungover, I’m just sick.” Jeremiah rolled his eyes then his expression changed to concern as he saw Conrad was being serious. 

“Oh shit” the younger boy said as he studied his older brother’s complexion more; pink cheeks, glassy eyes, and overall, a flushed complexion. Jere relaxed his shoulders and frowned. 

Conrad blinked at him. “I’ve been throwing up all night. I think it’s a stomach virus,” he explained, remembering last night’s events of emptying his stomach every twenty minutes. 

Conrad turned his back to Jere and walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Ginger Ale. While the girls were out shopping and he tried to sleep off his hangover, Susannah kindly stopped by the store to pick up some electrolytes and Ginger Ale. 

Finally something to ease the nausea. 

He took one dose of anti-nausea medicine and a big sip of Ginger Ale to ease the taste. Once he was in bed, Conrad melted into his covers and dozed off, finally he got some much needed sleep. 

[ao3feed-irondadspiderson]

Day Eighteen: My body is one big ache

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59082403 by OBlossom “Ma-aay,” he whined into his cell phone again. “Do I really have to do this?” “Yes, Peter. We’ve already talked about this. You do.” “But it’s going to be so weird!” he argued back. “And I don’t even know what to do!” “You are twenty-three years old, Peter Parker, are currently working on a master’s degree, and are an Avenger who works in high pressure situations every day. Are you trying to tell me you don’t have the skills to figure it out?” Peter glowered, not that May could see it. “I know I can figure it out but— can’t we just reschedule this for when you’re back in the city?” “No, we’re not rescheduling this,” May insisted, “You’re supposed to be taking a break this week, and this’ll help! Trust me! And trust Tony! He says this guy is amazing!” “But, May?” Peter cupped his hand around his mouth and whispered, “What if I have to get naked?” May’s laughter peeled loud enough that a passing pedestrian heard her through his phone and smiled. “It’s not funny, May!” Peter complained, “This is the kind of stuff I get really worried about!” May sobered, “I know you do, and that’s the problem, honey. You’re worrying about everything—” Words: 2511, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 16 of Sicktember 2024 Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Peter Parker, Aunt May Parker (Marvel), Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) Relationships: Aunt May Parker & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Happy Hogan/Aunt May Parker, Peter Parker & Pepper Potts & Tony Stark Additional Tags: Sicktember 2024, Day Eighteen, "My body is one big ache", Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Irondad & Spiderson, Peter gets a massage, Peter Parker doesn't listen to instructions, Aunt May Parker is a Good Aunt (Marvel), Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Post-Endgame, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/59082403

[fanfictasia]

Sicktember Day 29

Side Effects/Adverse Reaction

Spoiler: This is an excerpt from The Mushroom Strikes Back

They finish cutting through the droids in the area not long later, and Anakin pauses next to a tree, resting a hand against it as he starts coughing again. He really wants to sleep, but there’s no time for that.

“Are all the droids gone?”

“I’m having the boys do a perimeter sweep now,” Cody replies, approaching and taking his helmet off.

“You sure it’s safe for you to do that right now?” Anakin asks. They’re a distance away from the mushrooms now, but he doesn’t know how much of that is still contaminating the air.

“Air’s clear out here,” he replies, watching him with concern when he suppresses a cough. Though, Anakin’s beginning to get afraid that Cody was right in warning him about these things. Not that there’s anything he could have done about it anyway.

“I am… usually immune to toxins,” Anakin tells him.

“Because you’re a Jedi?” Cody asks, curiously. All the clones have a certain fascination with the Jedi; unsurprising, when this is their first time interacting with any.

“I’m… not fully human.” He doesn’t want to get into the details of how he’s different. It’s not something he likes thinking about, because he never wanted what the ‘Chosen One’ title always came with.

“Oh,” the commander supplies, but steps closer uncertainly when Anakin coughs again. “You should get some rest.”

“You should, too,” he replies, pointedly. He sits down at least, though, hoping the momentary wave of dizziness he’s feeling is going to pass. That could be from his head injury as much as the toxin, though.

Cody sits down next to him, and Anakin wasn’t really intending to fall asleep, but he wakes up at the sharp inkling of danger in the Force. He’s curled up right alongside Cody, who’s also dozing. They must’ve rolled closer to each other, because he wasn’t practically resting his head on the clone’s shoulder when he fell asleep, and nor was Cody’s arm part-way on top of him.

[monaisme]

Sicktember: Day 20

#20- Medication Bribery

Stephen tried to be inconspicuous while he flexed his fingers as he walked down the hallway of the still bustling medical facility. At least it was easier to do now that the chaos of the last twelve hours had started to settle. The Wakandans had been an absolute gift and had managed to take care of the majority of those wounded at the compound/battlefield with an efficiency Stephen only dreamed of for the hospitals back home, but there were still things to do, and so everyone was on the move.

The exhaustion made his managing the pain all the more difficult, and for a brief moment, he considered popping back to the Sanctum and taking his pain meds, but no. There was too much still to do. He needed to stay sharp and focussed. He just wished—

 “Doctor Strange, could I bother you a moment?” The doctor asked.

Startled by the unexpected call, he hoped his wince of pain came across as more of a surprised jolt. He schooled his grimace into a professional smile. “Of course, what can I do for you?”

She was quick to explain, “I’ve just gotten word of a concern and am hoping that you have enough familiarity with the individual in question that you can be of help to us.”

Stephen’s brow furrowed in immediate concern, his pain forgotten. “I’ll do whatever I can, but Tony’s barely out of surgery? How can he be causing problems already?”

She shook her head, “I’m speaking of someone else, Doctor. The young son of Mr. Stark; he is refusing to leave the man, and while he holds himself cautiously, we have been unable to determine if he requires treatment or not.”

He had to concentrate for a moment to place who she was talking about, and then it clicked. “Are we talking about Peter Parker?” Stephen asked but didn’t correct the relationship. He hadn’t thought of him since he’s caught a glimpse of Hawkeye placing a field dressing on him while the worst of the wounded were being transported to their current location via portals.

“Yes, we had originally hoped he’d allow one of our staff to treat him during Mr. Stark’s surgery, but instead he has sat vigil outside of the medical suite. Even now, he continues to do so, which is noble but I grow worried that we will run into complications if he is left to himself much longer.”

Stephen sighed, “That boy followed Tony into space five years ago. This doesn’t surprise me at all. Now,” he stepped back and nodded his agreement, “If you’ll show me where our young spider is, I’ll see what I can do.”

/-/-/

Even in Wakanda, the risk of exposure to anything of a radioactive nature warranted concern, and as such, the long trek to an older, unused section of the facility made absolute sense in order to treat Tony’s injuries. Stephen’s feet, however, disagreed, not that he’d complain.

“How did the kid even get down here?” Stephen had to ask as they passed a desk that looked very much like a security check point.

“The rest of the Avengers were immediately brought to a separate wing of the facility for treatment and to debrief with King T’Challa. As far as we can gather, he was simply left behind and then somehow managed to track Mr. Stark down here.”

“And your security just allowed him to pass?”

The doctor only shrugged. “The child was recognized as one of your warriors, and we assumed one of the other Avengers would come to check on Mr. Stark and collect him before too long—Not one has come for him or Mr. Stark.” She looked sad as she added, “He’s been in the hallway for approximately eleven hours. We did bring him some clothing, and a recliner to rest in after he initially refused to leave, and there is a treatment cart prepared nearby in the event that we need to intervene... we can see that he is obviously trying to hide his discomfort.”

“And you’ve just left him in the hallway?” Stephen was trying to make sense of it.

“We had no choice. Mr. Starks’s initials scans showed remarkable levels of radioactivity all through his body. Having him come in would have required sanitizing protocols and personal protective equipment simply to get him into the room and we didn’t have the time or luxury. Levels are finally falling to safer levels now that the main...” she paused, then, “issue has been dealt with, but we still have to worry about sterile fields and infection risks. With him continuing to refuse any treatment, the boy is simply stuck.”

Stephen had known from the onset that Tony would have a long road to recovery ahead of him, and had heard whisperings about the amputation.

Stephen started cataloguing a list of physiotherapists to recommend and then stopped himself.

Tony was currently safe and tended to, but for Peter, it had been eleven hours.  “And no one else has been to see Mr. Stark or check on his status, at least?”

She only shook her head, ‘no.’

“What about Pepper Stark?”

“Our last update indicated that she was needed to coordinate several aspects of the clean up effort at your compound in New York. She was here only long enough to give us permission to treat her husband before a man, Thaddeus Ross, I believe, came through and pulled her away.” She shook her head in distaste. “We have been in communication with her, and once the situation has been appropriately delegated, she and her daughter will make their way back to Wakanda. In fact, one of your sorcerers has made himself available for when she and her family are available to travel... a Mr. Wong, I believe?”

“Hm.” Stephen was appreciative of Wong’s consideration for the Starks. Yeah, he and Tony definitely had their differences, but no one deserved to be dragged from a loved one’s bedside at a time like this. As for the other Avengers, well, he had some thoughts. Regardless, “And I’m personally only hearing about this now because?”

“I am aware that you’ve been as busy as the rest of us for these many hours, Doctor Strange.” She replied sternly. “Now that the worst of our cases have been dealt with, I had assumed you’d be anxious to step away for some much needed sleep. We, well, I had hoped you could take charge of our young friend and convince him to allow for an examination and treatment.”

Stephen wasn’t sure sleep would be in his future, not with his nerve pain flaring so badly, but he knew he could at least accept temporary custody of Peter while they all figured out their new futures. He owed the kid that much, and so he replied, “Of course, Doctor. I’ll do my best to help,” as they turned into another corridor.

“I have seen your work today. I know you will.” She stopped and gestured toward the lone form situated about halfway down the hallway. “With that, I will leave you to your young charge, Doctor Strange. If we do not cross paths again before you leave Wakanda, it was an honour to work with you.” The doctor crossed her arms across her chest and bowed slightly.

Stephen recognized it and reciprocated. “Thank you,” he replied simply. “The honour is mine.”  

With that said, his doctor-guide nodded, turned, and disappeared back toward the main building— leaving Stephen Strange to make his way down the hall to one Peter Benjamin Parker.

He could do this.

Besides, they’d developed something of a rapport, he thought to himself, especially after Ebony Maw and their time on the Q-Ship. And he’d only gotten the sense that Peter was a good kid. Honestly, he had to be good to do the things that he did day in and day out. Granted, it was five years later, and they had been trapped inside of an infinity stone for that long, but still. Trauma was supposed to bring people together, right? Stephen knew he’d read a journal article about that at some point.

He probably should have paid closer attention to percentages.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Peter spoke quietly as his new temporary guardian approached.

Well then, “I haven’t said anything yet. What makes you think I’m going to ask you to leave?”

“Super-hearing.

 Stephen ran through what he’d said on his way to the kid, relieved that his fatigue had softened his sometimes too sharp tongue at least, and nodded. “That’s good to know.”

“And I’m fine, so you don’t need to worry about me anyways. I understood about the whole sterile field thing and infection risk so I’m not fighting you—or anyone on that, I just—”

Stephen waited patiently for him to finish his thought.

“I, uh—” Peter couldn’t seem to finish his thought. He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Stephen stepped closer, “Peter?” Everyone, including the kid, looked like hot, exhausted garbage, but something was wrong.

Peter drew in what was obviously intended to be a deep breath, but it cut short with a gasp then a cough, then he doubled over as he clutched at the side Stephen had seen Hawkeye taking care of. “Ngh.”

With Peter’s eyes now closed to the pain, Stephen didn’t waste energy masking his own as he crouched in front of him, assessing. “Peter? Can you tell me what’s wrong.”

Peter didn’t answer.

Without asking permission, Stephen grasped Peter’s wrist, only to find a racing pulse... and heat. “Shit.” With his other hand, he pressed the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead. The boy was on fire.

Knowing he was busted, Peter glared at the man in front of him. “I’m fine.” He yanked his hand away, flinching at the movement. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Stephen clenched his jaw to keep himself from snapping at him for his stupidity. Instead, he looked up and down the hallway, hoping that someone... anyone would magically appear who could give him a hand in treating him.

“I don’t think many people come down here, Dr. Strange.” Peter said simply. “Sorry.”

Stephen exhaled hard, “If you were sorry, you’d let me treat you.”

“I said I’m—”

“Yes, yes, you’re fine. I know, sitting here in an apparently technology free hallway with no way to get help...” he caught sight of the treatment cart a few meters away. “Hang on.”

He grunted as he did it, but Stephen pushed himself up using the arms of Peter’s recliner and rushed over to the cart, dragging it back quickly. “I’m assuming that you’ve developed an infection from whatever wound it was that Hawkeye took care of back at the compound, am I correct?”

Peter’s pale cheeks flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. Now,” he fumbled through the one of the drawers, familiar enough with item placement after all the stitching he’d done today, “There you are,” he snatched something triumphantly and then commanded, “Stay still.” He placed a thermometer strip on Peter’s forehead and then lifted up the side of Peter’s sweatshirt to reveal a battle worn Spider-man uniform. “Okay, Peter, how do we get the spidersuit off of you so I can get at your wound?”

Peter stayed silent.

“Alright,” Maybe his regular temperament had only been hiding? “Decision made.” Stephen snapped on a pair of sterile gloves before painfully grasping the pair of trauma shears sitting atop the cart and snipping them in the air for effect. “Cutting it all off it is.”

Peter paled more, if that was even possible. “Please don’t?” He tugged at the hem of his top. “I’ll get it off then, just let me—”

It was Stephen’s turn to gasp as his fingers punished him for tormenting the boy. In a flash, the shears clattered to the floor and Stephen had fisted his trembling hands against the pain.

“Doctor Strange!?” Peter had shifted forward on his seat, trying to figure out how to help. “What’s going on?”

Ever the professional, Stephen’s mask was on again in moments. “It’s nothing. I apologize for that. It’s been a long day for all of us.” He shook his hands out and tried to switch the focus back to Peter and the thermometer strip that was now very much indicating a significant fever. “Now, tell me again how well you’re feeling?”

Now, Stephen should have known better than to jinx himself with all of his big talk about Peter being a good kid, as Peter’s mood flipped scowled and, looking Dr. Strange dead in the eye, replied back. “I don’t know, Doctor Strange? How are you feeling?”

How much time had Tony spent with this kid?

Not that he was at all worried about it. Stephen had spent a lifetime around difficult people.

“That’s not relevant at this particular moment,” he answered back calmly. “I think the greater concern is your fever of,” Stephen cast a glance at Peter’s forehead, “39.2°C, and what I’m guess at this point is also the start of septicemia? Unless there’s something else you’d like to tell me?” His brow furrowed in concern. “Can you at least tell me what your pain level is at?”

Peter shook his head in refusal. “I’m not leaving.”

Stephen was growing a little frustrated. “I’m not asking you to leave. I’m asking about your pain.”

Peter said nothing.

The mantle of Doctor Strange, neurosurgeon at Metro-General Hospital was settling around his shoulders for the umpteenth time that day. “Peter. I’m not comfortable with you sitting here getting sicker and sicker when you are literally surrounded by everything we need to correct this.” He glanced at Peter’s forehead again. 39.3°C.

Shit.

“Peter, please?” Even this sick and injured, there was no way Stephen could restrain the superhero vigilante and force him to be treated.

But Peter was teetering on the edge of giving in as he pleaded with Stephen. He could see it.

“I can’t leave him alone, Doctor Strange. Don’t you understand? I need to protect him...”

Wait. What?

“Tony? Who do you need to protect him from?”

Peter eyes filled with tears as he whispered, “From them.”

In a heartbeat, Stephen had placed his sling ring on his damaged fingers and steadied himself for a fight. He’d seen Peter’s spidey-sense on the ship, understood that there was some sort of innate precognition—except, as he looked both up and down the hallway, that there was no one there. He looked back at Peter, confused. “I don’t understand?”

The tears finally fell, “I have to protect Mr. Stark from the others! Gah!” Peter looked like he was ready to explode. “FRIDAY showed me Siberia right before our MOMA field trip and I saw how bad they hurt him, Doctor Strange! They just left him to die, and now they’re right here, in this building!  And they could show up anytime they want! And now Captain America has a hammer AND a shield, so that’s, like double weapons for him and I can’t—” He caught a quick breath, “They don’t even care about him, and Ms. Potts is Mrs. Stark now so I’d trust her, but she’s not even here. And then I can’t even put his suit on him to keep him safe ‘cuz I don’t have tools to fix it! And I don’t recognize what Mark his suit even is! And I broke my suit and—It’s been five years and there’s no one else here who can do what I can, Doctor Strange. I have to keep Mr. Stark safe!” At the end of his word jumble, Peter exhaled slowly and then promptly burst into sobs, still stuttering out with each breath, “I have to—I have to—”

Stephen struggled to keep up with what Peter had been trying to say, but got the gist of it, not that it was the priority as he pocketed his ring once more and pressed a firm hand to Peter’s shoulder. “You’re okay, Peter,” he promised. “I understand now.”

And that was exactly what Peter needed to hear as he threw his arms around Stephen’s waist—or tried. A cry of pain escaped and Peter’s facade was crumbling—fast.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Stephen placed his other hand on Peter’s back and with a gently nudge, helped him to lie back in the recliner that he’d expertly set back. “Can I take a look at this now, Peter? I promise I can keep watch for you while I do.”

“But you’re hurt, too!” Peter gasped. “I can’t—”

“It’s fine. Okay? I’m used to it.”

Peter shook his head ‘no.’ “But—”

“But nothing, Spider-Man!” Stephen needed to snap him out of his spiral. “I need you to hear me, okay?”

It worked, and Peter nodded.

“You’ve seen what I can do, right? Remember on Titan? I’ve never relied on the physical, Peter. You know that a little pain in my hands isn’t going to stop me if a threat shows up!”

Peter thought about it, then nodded again.

“Now, trust me, Peter. Please?”

Peter’s eyes closed and finally replied, “Okay.”

“Good boy,” Stephen crooned as he stepped away to collect the trauma shears still lying on the floor. “We’re going to do some cutting, but I promise you, I’ll keep it to a minimum if I can, and then you and Tony can fix this together, okay? It’ll be fine.” Stephen closed his eyes and prayed silently that he wasn’t a liar.

Peter nodded again as Stephen came back, a little less desperately. “Okay.”

Stephen smiled down at him as he made quick work of the sweatshirt and then spidersuit. “There we go,” he murmured as he cast a quick glance at the thermometer strip again. The fever was high and holding steady. “Now let’s get this bandaging moved out of the way and see what kind of a hack job Hawkeye did?” Stephen pulled back the bulky pad and gulped, then looked up and glanced about again, hoping for someone to miraculously appear to help them. There was no one.

Stephen took a deep breath and then released it slow.

“Well then,” It was time to have a conversation. “We have a bit of a situation here.” 

Peter was confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that this infection is pretty serious.” Stephen couldn’t keep his eyes off of the twenty centimetre gash that ran up Peter’s side, literally busting with infection at the seams of the rudimentary stitches Hawkeye had done and framed a hot, angry red with even redder dots speckling about it. “I can’t even imagine what sort of crap was on whatever weapon did this,” Stephen waved a hand over the wound. “I’m going to have to reopen this and clean it out, and it’s going to hurt—a lot. We’re definitely going to have to put you out for this.”

Peter’s eyes widened as he tried to sit up, “But you said you—!”

Stephen stopped his movement. “I know what I said, and I meant it. I’ll keep watch, but I’m going to need someone to help if I’m going to help you.”

“No!” Peter’s eyes widened. “You can’t ask—!”

“Peter.”Stephen cut him off before he could get worked up more, “I will definitely not ask any of the Avengers, but I do have my friend, Wong. I don’t think you’ve met him officially, but he’s the one that will be getting Mrs. Stark, remember? You heard about him earlier? When I was with the other doctor?”

He looked hesitant. “Uh huh?”

“If you give me a second, I can have him here so I can do what I need to do while he keeps guard. And, if you’re really concerned, I’ll have you know that he’s the one who trained me and I’m a total badass.”

Peter huffed a quiet laugh. “It doesn’t even matter. Regular drugs don’t work on me ‘cuz of the mutation—it’ll have to keep till we can get back to the...” He’d been about the say the compound, but then remembered. “Um, it’ll take forever to find something that would work.” He tried to hide his hopelessness, “I’ll be—”

Stephen was done. “39.4°C, Peter. That is what you’re temperature is sitting at. It is too high and rising. I’m pretty certain you’re some kid genius like your boss, and I’d be most grateful if I could not be known as the guy that let you boil your brain.”

“But I’m not lying about the drugs, though!” Peter was getting defensive. “Ask—” Peter stopped short of finishing his sentence.

Stephen let the slip go unacknowledged. He was too busy trying to come up with a solution—and then he remembered his earlier conversation. “Wait a minute. Steve Rogers was treated today and he’s a super soldier, right? And I’d wager a guess that the Wakandans had to synthesize something that would work for him. If we could track some of that surplus down—get Wong to bring it— would it work for you? Do you know?” Not that Stephen loved counting on a complex medical history provided by a sixteen year old, but it was all they could do.

“I’m pretty sure it would?” He didn’t sound sure. “I know that Mr. Stark used it as a jumping point, but...”

“But nothing!  We’ll jump, too.” Stephen ran a hand through Peter’s hair for comfort. “Stark wouldn’t have risked your safety, and I’d rather get this done sooner rather than later.”

Peter was hesitant.

“Look, let’s make a deal. If you let me do this, I’ll get Stark to buy you a car, sound good? He seems like that kind of a guy to me—tell me that I’m wrong?”

Peter remembered the first... and second time Tony had offered him exactly that. “Nope. Can’t.”

“Great,” the sling ring came out yet again, “Now, you’re going to recognize the portal—but I’m not going anywhere. I promised, right? You simply get to see the convenience of how sorcerers live with not having cell phones.”

/-/-/

Tony opened his eyes again and looked over to the bed on the right of his as best he could.

As frustrating as it was that they hadn’t managed to be awake at the same time yet, there was still a comfort in seeing his Peter, calm, resting, and alive.

And it took away some of the sting of what he knew was missing under the mass of bandages at his shoulder.

A throat cleared, drawing Tony’s attention to the door of their room.

“I know this is probably a bad time to mention this, but you owe the kid a car.” Stephen Strange announced as he took a few tentative steps inside. “I’ll keep reminding you, though.”

“Anything,” Tony rasped.

Stephen winced in sympathy and came to Tony’s bedside. “Here,” he grabbed Tony’s water glass from the side table and held the straw steady as he sipped his fill.

“Thanks,” Tony mustered and then tried to glance around the room. “Pepper?”

Stephen smiled as he simply replied, “She’s sitting out in the hallway for a bit.” He took in the numbers flashing on the monitors around Tony’s head. “I’m glad to see that you’re doing so well. Peter’s excited to get back into the lab with you.”

Tony blinked slow, the damned exhaustion taking over faster than he’d have hoped. “Good—love ‘im,” he grunted.

“I can understand why,” Stephen agreed, then patted Tony’s good hand. “But you rest now, okay? We three are keeping watch over the both of you, okay?”

He’d have nodded if the burns to the side of his neck weren’t feeling so fresh, Stephen suspected, but Tony seemed content enough to slip off into sleep and that was good enough for him.

He remembered exactly how exhausting healing could be.

Stephen stepped around Tony’s bed to Peter’s, taking the time to check Peter’s vitals as well. It had been a close thing, in the end, and Stephen would be forever grateful to Wong for pandering to the whim of an emotionally overwrought superhero that carried too much weight on such slim shoulders—even though the little shit had tattled on him about his own pain once Wong rushed through that first portal with Pepper Stark to see what was wrong.

“Doctor Strange?” Pepper called from the doorway. “Wong would like to know if you’d like him to prepare something for you to eat for when you get back to take your medication.”

Stephen just chuckled. “Did he open up another portal from the Sanctum to ask you to do that?”

Pepper blinked innocently at the man. “I can neither confirm nor deny that, but Morgan cannot wait for Peter to meet your cloak friend.”

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Sicktember #30

Prompt: Patient 0

Fandom/OCs: The Office (Sick Andy)

Words: 1550

Sicknario inspo: Character faking sick and character actually sick quarantined together from this post.

Author’s comments/background: A fandom I only write by request generally, but one that is always fun to revisit and good in a pinch for a writing challenge, since there’s so many characters. I have a love/hate relationship with Andy, and I’m not sure how great his characterization and dialogue is, but I suppose you all can be the judge of that. 

~~~***~~~

It was the semi-annual HR training day, and the employees of Dunder Mifflin, Scranton branch all shuffled in looking as if it was their execution day. They showed up, though, every single one. Truancy on training day had been a huge issue for a long time, so the corporate HR bigwigs had implemented this policy years ago: Mandatory attendance on training day, no doctor's notes accepted. A no-show meant automatic enrollment in twenty-four hours (the equivalent of three working days) of makeup online training. It was a brutal policy, but an effective one. No one missed training day anymore. 

All was normal until Andy Bernard showed up with a head cold from hell. Dressed to the nines as always, his clothes seemed to be the only thing holding him together. He was a sneezing, coughing, achy, miserable mess. The only thing that kept the rest of them from sending him home was the fact that he didn't have a fever. He would have insisted on staying, though, even if he was feverish. He had gone through all the trouble of getting here and he wasn't about to go home and do online training now. 

The rest of the employees vehemently opposed him joining them in the training room, though, visibly shedding contagion as he was. They came to a compromise after much discussion: Andy would be quarantined in the break room with a laptop for the training and still get credit for attending without infecting everyone else, an arrangement everyone felt was satisfactory, even though Kelly, Angela, and Oscar kept giving Andy dirty looks and muttering about having to decontaminate the break room that evening.

Michael was fashionably late that day and missed all the hullabaloo. He arrived just as Andy was getting settled in the break room and, after much pestering, the boss learned what was going on. Everyone saw the gears turning in Michael’s mind as they prepared to go into training, and they wondered what new foolishness was in store. 

Sure enough, about five minutes before the start time, Michael announced that he had an announcement, visibly shaking around a handful of tissues, which he'd been using to scrub at his nose for several minutes beforehand, making it a passable red. 

"I wasn't going to say anything, but I'm sick too," he said, with a fake, congested tone. "I didn't want to worry you all. But if you all are really so worried about getting sick, I'd better go in with Bernard too, just to be safe."

The staff exchanged looks, wondering if they'd heard correctly. This seemed too good to be true. 

"Well if you're sick, Michael, then you should definitely go in with Andy. We don't want to be breathing in your germs all day," Phyllis said. 

"I'm definitely sick. I tried to hide it when I first got here, but I guess the cat's out of the bag. I'm really not feeling so good. Guess I'll have to go relax in the break room for a few hours," Michael said, trying to sound convincingly pathetic. "I'm not sure how much of the training I'll hear. I might have to take a nap at some point."

"Whatever you need to do. As long as you feel better and stay away from us," Pam agreed. 

"Okay, then I guess I'll head on in there… you guys will bring us lunch at noon, right? Since I'm sure you don't want us going through the buffet line, being so sick and all." He rubbed at his nose with a loud sniffle for emphasis. 

"Oh we'll make sure you're taken care of," Stanley said. 

"I'll be standing guard by the door, Michael," Dwight said. "We can't have you escaping to shed your germs to the rest of us. The office would be in chaos."

One glance at Dwight showed that he believed Michael was truly sick, and Jim and Pam shared a secret smile at this realization. But he was playing right into what the rest of them wanted. 

"Dwight is right, Michael. You'll have to stay in there all day. Can't be too careful," Jim said. 

This made Michael pause, but they all knew he was in too deep now to backtrack. "...Okay," Michael said at last. "For the good of the team. I'll sacrifice my freedom for your health. I hope you're all thankful." He scrubbed at his nose again to make sure it stayed pink and itchy, giving them all a martyred look. 

"You better get in there. You're breathing your germs all over us every second," Kelly said.

"Okay, okay, I'm going. I'll see you all on the other side," Michael said, with an attitude of going off to war. 

Once the door was closed behind him, the staff shared a triumphant smile. A whole day free of Michael, and no chance of him making the training any worse than it had to be. It felt like Christmas had come early, at least as far as work could go.

~~~

Michael steeled himself as the door shut behind him to turn and face the visibly sick Andy. A whole day alone with Bernard would have been bad enough, but a sick Bernard would be a special sort of torture. Michael had a fleeting thought that getting out of training might not have been worth it for this, but there was no turning back now. 

Andy was clearly surprised to have company, but Michael erupted into a fake coughing fit before he could speak, then carried forward into a loud, fake sneezing fit. When he emerged from his handful of tissues (with plenty of scrubbing at his nose for good measure), Andy's gaze was sympathetic. 

"So you've got the crud too, huh? That's tough luck." Andy sniffled now, and it was far too wet-sounding to be fake, not to mention his glistening upper lip. "I wonder which one of us was patient 0."

"Huh?" Michael made his way to the sink, feeling the need to wash his hands already.

"You know, which of us got the other sick. Patient 0. The source of an infection."

"Oh! Oh it was definitely me. Yeah, I've been feeling sick since last Thursday or Friday."

"Wow, that's a long time. Yeah, then I guess it was you. I knew I shouldn't have let you sit at my desk for so long the other day." He clearly wasn't upset though and reclined in his chair, coughing and blowing his nose intermittently, never once washing his hands and leaving his tissues heaped up beside him. 

 Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty, and still the laptop screen remained blank, saying they were waiting for the presenter in the lobby. It seemed they were having technical difficulties down the hall. Clearly bored, Andy stood and began to dig through the drawers idly. 

"Hey, a deck of cards! We should play something," he said, sitting back down at the table and pushing the laptop aside, beginning to shuffle. 

"I don't know… are you sure that's a full deck?" Michael asked, unable to pull his eyes from Andy's germy hands touching every card. 

"Eh, who cares. We'll figure it out," Andy said. "C'mon, what are you, chicken? You think you can beat me even though I'm sick? No one ever beats Andy Bernard at cards. Just name the game."

Michael started to smile. "You know what, you're on, Bernard. Prepare to eat your words."

~~~

Andy's cold had a fast incubation period apparently, because the next morning it was Michael who arrived a sick, contagious mess. (Andy himself called in now that the threat of HR training had passed; apparently it was a long lasting cold too.) Michael announced his entrance with a violent sneeze that made everyone turn to look, wondering if he was continuing the charade. No such luck, though. There was no fake scrubbing needed to make his nose red and drippy, and there was no faking the wet, chesty coughing. There was also no mistaking the mischievous look in Michael's eyes as everyone was forced to witness the inevitability of this cold. 

"Michael, why are you here when you're still clearly sick?" Dwight asked in alarm.

"Oh it's not that bad. I can still work. Besides, if I had to get sick from Bernard after being trapped with him for eight hours, then the rest of you should be sick too. I am patient 0!"

"No, you're not…." Jim said in irritation. "Andy still is. You just said you caught this from him. That makes him patient 0." 

Michael glared at Jim and was trying to think of a good response when Dwight stepped between them. 

"Oh no. I will not allow this, Michael." Pulling out gloves from somewhere on his person, Dwight began to shove Michael toward his office, with Michael protesting the whole way. Once Michael was inside, pounding against the door, Dwight posted himself as a guard outside just as he had the previous day. 

A sullen-looking Michael shuffled to the window of his office to gaze forlornly out at them, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. The staff turned away one by one to return to their work, leaving their sick boss to stew in the consequences of his choices.

[cuddlepilefics]

Coughing fit

Fandom: P1Harmony

Sickie: Keeho

Caregivers: P1Harmony

Prompt: @sicktember

No one’s POV.:

Keeho had been dealing with a runny nose for almost two weeks at this point, so none of the members were surprised when he went right back to sleep in the car as they headed to an extremely early schedule. He hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep the previous night and neither had Intak nor Jiung. While the leader’s cold had mainly affected his head and nose in the beginning, it seemed to have travelled down to his chest the past two days and although Keeho really tried to be quiet, always turning his face into his pillow to muffle his cough, his roommates witnessed most of it. “Is he okay?”, Taeyang whispered, nodding towards their leader. Rubbing his face, Jiung yawned: “He’s been coughing at lot last night. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him, the walls aren’t that thick.” – “I mean, compared to last week his condition is declining for sure”, Intak added quietly. Shaking his head in disappointment, the oldest sighed: “Not really surprising. He doesn’t get nearly enough rest.”

They were lucky to have a rather long drive to the interview they were attending, so Keeho managed to nap for almost an hour with Shota slumped into his side. Both Intak and Jiung also closed their eyes for the bigger part of the drive, catching up on the sleep they had lost the previous night. “Woah, didn’t think I’d actually sleep”, Keeho yawned, trying to sit up straight before realizing his dongsaeng was cuddled up to him, “How much longer till we get there?” – “Fifteen to twenty minutes maybe”, Taeyang hummed, giving the leader a sympathetic smile. It was obvious that the nap hadn’t helped him feel better in the slightest. The car was quiet with some of them at least dozing, so it was easy to hear the crackle of congestion as Keeho drew in a deep breath before carefully clearing his throat. It really itched but he didn’t dare cough while Shota slept against his side. The younger should get as much sleep as he could before the interview.

As soon as they got out of the car, Keeho turned his face against his shoulder, giving a chesty cough. He couldn’t help but wince at the pain in his throat and it were days like this that he wasn’t all too happy about his position in the group. Without having really tried out his voice that morning, the leader could already tell it would come out scratchy at best with how much he had been coughing the previous night and he wasn’t really looking forward to doing most of the coughing for the group. He had taken a generous dose of cold medicine before they had left for the day, which was probably the only reason he had managed to sleep in the car. A tired smile spread on his lips as Shota bumped their shoulders, quietly imitating a Minecraft noise, the younger simply knew how to cheer him up.

Keeho kept his eyes closed as he got his makeup done, the bright lights in the dressing room aggravating his headache. “Hyung, we’re going to get coffee, do you want us to get you a caramel macchiato? Maybe the caffeine will help you get through the interview”, Jiung asked after lightly tapping the leader’s shoulder. For some reason him and Intak were long since ready, while Keeho still had his face dabbed at. Squinting up at the younger, Keeho sniffled: “Really not in the mood for coffee but some milk tea would be awesome.” – “On it”, Jiung smiled, putting on his coat before heading out with Intak. The pair really needed their caffeine fix after the night they had had. “Why are they already done?”, Keeho muttered hoarsely, frustrated because his face was itchy, nose runny and he really didn’t feel like having his skin be messed with. Biting his lip, Taeyang hummed: “I don’t think you want to hear this but I’m pretty sure there won’t be any concealer left after your eyebags are covered. They simply look less dead than you.” He himself only needed his hair fixed and cracked up at the look Keeho shot him. They both knew he wasn’t wrong though.

Gratefully accepting his milk tea, Keeho took a sip and relaxed. It did soothe his throat, so he hoped it’d help his voice too. Shota was growing a little fidgety next to him, so he shot the younger a smile as he rehearsed his interview replies in his head. Keeho was impressed he even remembered them with the ever-growing headache but to be fair, this was far from his first interview, he knew what he was doing. As they went on stage, he had to suppress a wince as the light made his eyes water and for a moment he forgot everything he had just been rehearsing. Luckily, the interviewer guided them through the conversation well and after some comments about his voice sounding weird, they moved on from the topic of his health. About half-way through the interview, Keeho started to sweat. Has it always been this hot underneath the spotlights? His breathing started to pick up and he lightly fanned his face when he noticed the camera zooming in on one of the other members. Taeyang lightly touched his shoulder, wordlessly asking him if he was okay. Forcing a smile, the leader sat up a little straighter and somehow got through the last few questions of the interview well before heaving a sigh of relief when the cameras were turned off.

“Need air”, Keeho announced tensely as they walked backstage, the other members giving him questioning looks when he didn’t follow them to the dressing room. Wrapping his arm around the leader’s shoulders, Taeyang guided him to the fire escape, relieved there was one that wasn’t secured with an alarm. Stepping out onto the metal staircase, Keeho ducked his face into the crook of his arm and gave a deep cough. He had been fighting this off for so long, he felt he couldn’t breathe. Gently patting he other’s back, Taeyang hummed: “You’ve been holding that for a while, huh?” Weakly gasping for air, the younger glanced at him with watering eyes as his body shook from the force of his cough. When the fit continued, the oldest grow more concerned though. “I’m okay”, Keeho choked out between coughs but Taeyang didn’t seem to believe him. Rightfully so. The leader was growing increasingly shaky and when he reached for the railing to steady himself, the older grabbed his shoulders. Lowering himself into a crouch, Keeho rested his back against the building’s wall and rasped: “I’m okay, got a little lightheaded.”

He still kept coughing every few seconds, so Taeyang really wanted to get him some water, hoping the fit would taper off once he had something to drink. He didn’t deem it safe to leave Keeho alone though, seeing as he had just felt faint, so he quickly texted their group chat, asking for someone to bright them some water. It didn’t take long for the door to open, Intak looking quite worried as he handed Taeyang a bottle of water, who opened it, encouraging: “Try taking small careful sips.” Keeho shakily lifted the bottle to his lips and took a sip before clearing his throat.

With the occasional sip of water, Keeho was eventually able to catch his breath. “I feel wrecked”, he admitted weakly, his voice completely shot at this point. They had been outside for quite some time now and goosebumps were covering the arms, so Taeyang sighed: “Not surprising. Do you think you can stand? We should get back inside, freezing your ass off isn’t going to help.” – “Yeah, yeah, I can stand”, the leader muttered, struggling back to his feet only to sway for a moment as the blood drained from his face. Quickly grabbing his arm, Taeyang pulled him back into the hallway, where Intak took the other arm, so they could get their friend back to the dressing room. Keeho tiredly clutched his spinning head, slurring: “’M so dizzy, why the hell am I so d-dizzy. I wasn’t dizzy this morning.” – “You weren’t feverish this morning”, Taeyang pointed out, walking the other to a chair.

Collapsing into his seat, Keeho heaved a sigh of relief, which inevitably turned into another cough. “What are we going to do now?”, Intak asked quietly. They’d have to get to the next part of their schedule soon. Furrowing his brows, Taeyang hummed: “We don’t have dance practice today, which is good. Keeho, do you have any vocal practice today?” The leader shook his head, reminding: “We’ll have a bunch of meetings for the rest of the day. I can do that. There’s a bottle of cold medicine in my bag, so if I take that now, I should be functional till we get there.” – “I don’t really like that strategy but I also know that there’s no point in arguing, so…”, Taeyang sighed, handing the leader some makeup wipes, so he could clean himself up. Having overheard the conversation, Jiung brought them Keeho’s bag.

Taeyang measured out the right amount of medicine, watching the leader knock it back before changing into a more comfortable hoodie. His style was not completely inappropriate for the meetings they were about to attend but he’d also get a sense of comfort from his clothing choice. By now, everyone was well aware of how Keeho’s condition had deteriorated and kept the noise down as they filed back into the car. Lightly poking the leader’s side, Shota offered him a cough drop, along with a smile when the older accepted it. It was sweet really and Keeho, gladly rested his head on his dongsaeng’s shoulder as the fever drained what little energy he had had.

With his throat on fire, Keeho somehow made it through the meetings and was glad when it was finally over. Taeyang and Jiung had made sure there was always some water in his glass, discreetly refilling it when it got empty, so he always had something to sip on to soothe his throat. When Keeho walked out of the meeting room, he seemed surprisingly put together but excused himself to the restroom right away. Intak had wanted to remind him to take some water with him, figuring the leader was about to descend into another painful coughing fit but the older was already out of earshot. Seemingly having had the same thought, Shota grabbed Keeho’s water bottle and followed him. He cringed as he approached the door, already able to hear the other’s deep, chesty cough.

“Hyung”, Shota started, taking the leader by surprise, “You know, that really doesn’t sound good.” Patting his chest, Keeho held onto the sink and choked out: “I’m okay.” – “Sure, you are”, the younger said, rolling his eyes, “Want some water?” When Keeho nodded, he uncapped the bottle and handed it to him. Taking a sip, Keeho seemed to catch his breath for the time being and rasped: “Always got bad chest colds when I was younger. Yeah, it sucks but it’s always fine after a couple of days.” – “How did you handle that?”, Shota frowned as the older coughed into some paper towels, “Jiung-hyung said you barely slept last night.” Keeho dabbed at his watering eyes before responding, his voice giving away just how exhausted he actually felt. “Lots of tea, naps and endless movie marathons”, he admitted, making the younger laugh. Taking the leader’s arm to pull him back to the rest of the group, Shota giggled: “I’m pretty sure we can do that too. Come on, you can nap on my shoulder on the way back.”

That was exactly what Keeho did, the motion of the car surprisingly soothing. His eyes were still sticky with sleep when Taeyang tugged him out of the car, making him stumble. The oldest guided him to the dorm where he pushed him straight towards the bathroom, instructing: “Take a shower and try to breathe deeply, so the steam can clear up some of that congestion.” While Keeho sluggishly followed the other’s orders, the rest of the group got changed and started to prepare dinner. They had some soup ready when the leader shuffled out of the bathroom, sniffling into the cuff of his sleeve. Unbeknownst to him, Shota had informed the other members about how to take care of him and they had already piled about a dozen blankets onto the couch for a movie night while the tea steeped in the kitchen.

“Are you up for a movie or would you rather go to bed?”, Taeyang asked when they were done clearing the table. Clearing his throat, Keeho whispered: “I’d love watching a movie but please don’t blame me if I fall asleep halfway through.” – “Of course not”, Jongseob laughed, “We will make fun of you though.” That did make the leader chuckle. “Fine with me”, Keeho agreed and let Shota pull him to the couch. The younger was quite comfy to cuddle with, Keeho noted and clumsily threw a blanket over their legs. While Intak turned on the TV and they discussed what to watch, Taeyang handed the leader a steeming cup, mouthing: “Hot ginger tea with honey and lemon.” Shooting the older a grateful smile, Keeho lightly blew onto the tea and took a sip, careful not to burn his tongue. The drink felt amazing on his raw throat and the warmth made him feel drowsy, yet he didn’t want to go to bed already, far too comfortable surrounded by his group.

[zartophski]

Sicktember Drabbles, Day Twenty Eight: Chronic Illness

Warriors glared down at his hands, as if he could scare the tremors away. Of course, it did nothing, but that didn’t stop the annoyance bubbling up inside of him. It was the seeming randomness of it that bothered him the most. Some days, his hands would barely tremble, and he could even pretend they didn’t at all. But other days, like today, he wasn’t even confident he’d be able to hold a cup, let alone his sword, without some accident happening. He balled his hands into fists, tucking them under his arms as if to hide the problem away.

[softsnzstuff]

Cuddling On The Couch

@sicktember Day 25

Fandom: Stranger Things, (Edissy)

Word Count: ~950

*******************************************************

Chrissy made her way up the steps to the Munson trailer. When Eddie called to tell her that he wasn’t feeling too great, she’d decided on the spot that she would go over and check on him.

“Hi Mr.Munson!” She greeted cheerily as the door opened for her.

The man gave her a hug and let her in, “Chrissy, we’ve been over this, you don’t have to call me Mr.Munson.”

“Sorry!” She chuckled and made her way to Eddie who was sitting on the couch in a nest of blankets.

“You don’t gotta apologize, sweetheart. Thank you for keeping Eddie company while I go to work.”

The man in question offered her a smile. He was sipping tea out of a circular orange mug. Upon closer inspection she realized it was Garfield’s face.

She stared at it and giggled. “Are you laughing at my SNF my Garfield mug?”

Wayne laughed himself, explaining to Chrissy, “That’s Eddie’s ‘sick mug’. It’s the only one he’ll use.”

Eddie blushed with slight embarrassment. Chrissy kissed him on the cheek and sat next to him, “I think it’s super cute.”

She and Eddie had been seeing each other for almost eight months now, but this was the first time she’d seen him sick. He was so… small and quiet, two things Eddie Munson definitely was not.

“Well I’m heading out to work. You two have a nice night.” He nodded as he made his way out the door.

“How are you feeling?” She turned to ask.

“Been better.”

“My poor guy.” She pouted.

He sat up, hugging her from behind and then leaning back with her so they were laying down. He kicked off one of the blankets so they could fit more comfortable on the couch, Chrissy tucked away as the little spoon.

He groaned into her hair as they lay there for a moment, Eddie pulling away slightly to duck down towards the small space between them.

“HiKSH’hiEW! N’gtCHEW! H’eKSHiksh!”

He sneezed openly, misting the back of Chrissy’s hoodie. He sniffled thickly in her ear as he resumed his position as big spoon.

She reached up an arm behind her and pet the back of his hair, whispering, “Bless you. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”

He closed his eyes and hummed in response, Chrissy shifting her arm back down and rubbing his forearm. After several minutes had passed, his soft congested breaths had turned into gentle snores.

Every now and then, the congestion would catch in his throat as he snores and made him cough slightly. She lay like that for twenty minutes before carefully rolling out from under him, placing a pillow under his arm where she used to be.

Luckily, he was a heavy sleeper even without illness. Once she was out of his bear hug, she started putting around the trailer.

A nice smell roused Eddie a good while later. He slowly blinked away the grogginess, seeing Chrissy holding his trash can and going around the living room picking up and throwing away the tissues scattered about.

“Mmm Chris- don’t do that.” He mumbled.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind.” She kept going.

“No, Chrissy don’t touch my used tissues that’s so gross. I’ll clean them later.”

“It’s okay Eddie, really. Having a clean space might make you feel better faster.” She smiled at him. “Do you want some more tea? I washed your Garfield mug.”

Eddie’s heart fluttered. What the fuck was happening. “You… what?”

“I washed it. You don’t want to drink from a cup with germs on it.”

She was nurturing in a way that reminded him of his mother. Wayne was caring for sure, but neither of them would have thought to wash the mug between uses. In Eddie’s mind, he was already sick so what’s the harm. But Chrissy - she had other plans.

“I… thank you Chrissy. I’d love some tea.”

She finished sticking the scattered tissues in the trash can and set it down by the couch, kissing his forehead and heading back to the kitchen. She washed her hands and put some water on to boil.

“What’s that smell?” He asked before he could even think about it.

The blonde leaned against the counter, chin resting in her hands as she smiled at him, “I heated you up some soup for later.”

The man had to practically scrap his jaw off the floor. “I love you so much Chrissy.”

“I love you too!”

---

Two nights later, Eddie opened the door to find Chrissy, unexpectedly.

“Hey Chris, what’s up?” He sniffled into the blanket that was wrapped around his shoulders.

She walked in and rested her forehead on his chest, Eddie wrapping his arms around her. “I think you got me sick.” She murmured into his hoodie.

He leaned back to get a good look at her. “Aw shit. I’m really sorry. Come and join me in my house of pestilence.”

Chrissy, in a sweatshirt herself, flopped onto Eddie’s sofa, making him chuckle.

“Can i interest you in some tea?” He offered, gesturing at wall after wall of coffee mugs, “You can take your pick of ‘sick mug’.”

Chrissy looked up from the cushions and scanned the room. “Can I use the Mickey one please?”

Eddie smiled, “Absolutely.”

Chrissy let her face fall back into the cushions as she lay face down on the sofa. Eddie made some tea and poured it into the Mickey and Garfield mug.

Carrying them both into the next room, he set the mugs on the table. “Scooch.”

He nudged her with his knee gently until she rolled over, Eddie climbing over her so he could be the big spoon again.

He shifted slightly until he had both arms wrapped around her, blanket pulled over their legs. They must have fallen asleep at one point or another, because that’s how Wayne found them when he came home from work in the morning.