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When the feeling of snot sliding down your sore throat began to register as soothing over disgusting, you finally accepted your condition. You’d been hiding it since waking up with sniffles two days ago, a likely result of some long-suppressed teen angst that reared its head at the slightest possibility you thought someone could perceive you as weak. Maybe if you’d had a better childhood and grown into a more well-adjusted person, you wouldn’t have been hiding a crushed roll of toilet paper under your sheets to function as tissues.
Of course, none of it mattered with how obvious your tells were to Agent 47. He’d commented on the scratchy sound of your voice despite how much you cleared your throat and tried to play it off as morning gravel. It would’ve been a more believable lie if you hadn’t told him as much in the midafternoon . He was never one to push though, and only nodded his head as he returned to oiling his guns.
The headache and nausea this morning brought actually makes you almost wish you were a less stubborn person, or at least one that had better foresight so you could’ve had medicine at hand.
Planning ahead was never your job in the ICA, before you went rogue with your no-longer-coworkers. A dealer in everything, you were Diana’s key point of contact for target files and had first met her to deliver arms.
Now you were just a dealer in crumpled toilet paper and sneezes.
Maybe there’s a pharmacy nearby , you think, resolving to get up and go before the small pile of mucous-y wads on the nightstand can mock you any further, looking every bit like a gooning station. You brace yourself on your palms, heaving yourself up to sit, fighting the heft of your thin blanket that feels exponentially heavier than it should be, and the dull pain of your headache becomes sharp and throbbing.
“Damnit,” you hiss into your palm, squeezing your eyes shut until it lessens in intensity.
If sitting up is this bad...
There is no way you could make it that far outside.
Fuck .
You rack your foggy brain for ideas on what to do and realize how parched you are. Water would be better than nothing. Hauling yourself to your feet is equally as difficult as sitting up, but you manage with swaying steps, only occasionally needing to brace yourself against the wall as you step out of the room.
The floorboards creak under your weight and rough patches catch on your socks to rip away like velcro. If anything, it’s better than slipping on polished floors. You’re so focused on stepping carefully, you forget about 47’s somewhat- intimidating presence in the safe house until his black oxfords come into view.
Staring at the shiny leather instead of making eye contact like the goddamned ICA-wanted rogue you were supposed to be, you struggled to come up something to say. Not just because you were hoping to avoid being seen in this state (you were acutely aware of how rumpled your clothes and hair were) but also because you’re panting for breath too hard to form words.
“You’re a mess,” 47 says plainly. It makes you cringe, self-control issues morphing embarrassment into anger.
“I’m fine ,” you hiss, finally looking up at him. His eyes betray nothing but you convince yourself he’s looking down on you, like you’re lesser because he’s the perfect modified specimen who could never understand human ailments . The logic behind this train of thought has no backing, but you weren’t looking to fortify it.
“That clearly isn’t the case. Are you sick?” he asks, ever persistent.
You don’t bother with trying to argue, instead pushing off the wall all too-quickly in an attempt to dart around him, achieving exactly nothing as your limbs deaden and you slump against the other side of the hall, trembling with the exertion. 47 reaches out to catch you but stops his hands centimeters above you, hesitant.
“Possibly a little bit,” you admit, the fire dying down almost as quickly as it’s lit, wincing at the return of the headache.
One of 47’s hands lands on your shoulder with a gentleness you don’t expect. “Let me help you,” he states rather than asks.
You nod sullenly and let him gently tug you to lean yourself against him. The warmth emanating through his clothes is almost odd, but not unwelcome. You realized you’d been imagining him as a sort of reptile, like your old class pet from years ago. He was too big to meet an end under the ham-fisted grip of an overly-excited child, however.
You realize you’d been snickering deliriously at the absurd memory once you make it to the threadbare couch. 47 helps you sit and you gratefully melt into the cushions, exhausted.
“Is there...” he begins, uncertain, “anything you need?”
“Cold medicine?” you ask, hopeful.
“I’ll take a look,” he says and leaves to rummage in the cabinets.
There’s nothing to do but twiddle your thumbs as you wait, having left your devices in your room. It would’ve been hard to focus on small text anyways. Your attention falls on the beams of light filtering through cracks in the house’s dented venetian blinds and the fine particles that dance in them, mesmerized.
A kettle’s shrill whistle breaks you from your reverie and you become somewhat conscious of the realization you’d been staring at dust for the entire time it took 47 to boil water without your notice. Still, the discomfort of your sinuses keeps you from caring too much, twisting in your seat to watch him prepare tea.
He places two filled cups on a tray with something that crinkles and gathers it up to walk stiffly back to you in the living room, careful to not spill a drop, before gently setting it down on the coffee table.
“You didn’t need to, but... thank you,” you murmur, and reach out to take one for yourself. He holds up a hand to stop the movement.
“Wait,” he orders, scrutinizing you up close. You lean back at the proximity, somewhat flustered, but he straightens up almost immediately and leaves, somehow silent on the old flooring. Only a moment later, 47 drops a folded quilt into your lap from behind the couch, startling you. You open your mouth to complain but get interrupted by a particularly violent sneeze.
“Damnit,” you manage in a muffled voice, rubbing the moisture off your lips with your sleeve.
He only responds with a brief sort of hum, then reaches over to pick up the quilt again, unfolding it with a single, fluid motion, and drapes it over you, carefully tucking the ends around your shoulders. You don’t expect that at all, nor do you expect the cursory pat as he smooths out the wrinkles.
“Staying warm will shorten the length of time you’ll need to fight the viral infection,” he provides as explanation, rounding the side of the couch to join you. The cushions sink under his close weight. “You... looked cold.”
“Sorry for being so needy,” you express, both for how pathetic you feel and guilt with your behavior.
“Don’t apologise,” he says, pressing a hot, chipped teacup into your hands, “many people fall ill this time of year.”
You look at your expression wavering in the ripples of the dark tea. It’s hard to make out.
“Earl grey. I promise I didn’t poison it,” he deadpans.
What.
No way.
“Did you just make a joke? ” you exclaim, searching his face for some sign of mirth.
“Never,” he lies, reaching for a foil packet on the tray and holding it out to you. “I located acetaminophens. They’re expired, but the vast majority of over-the-counter medications are stable enough to remain potent well past their listed date.”
You accept the pills, prying one out. It’s white, the brightness contrasting with your mood. It goes down easily with a mouthful of hot tea, leaving a fading bitter taste from its immediately-dissolved coating.
“Are you sure I’m not being a bother?” you ask with a grimace.
47 is holding his own cup, taking slow, measured sips. His gaze is focused, examining you like a lock and he the pick. You can tell he’s contemplating how best to reach you without shattering you and reversing the roles.
“You’re no hindrance. If you were, Diana would never have invited you to join us, or I could have easily left you behind when you lost your ticket at the airport terminal ,” he says in a leveled, serious tone. Somehow, you can tell he’s inviting banter with that last bit, even if he doesn’t show it.
A little huff of a laugh escapes you and crooks the corners of your lips at both the memory and sudden self-awareness of how needless your miserable demeanor was. It’s something you would have to learn to control. No, you wouldn’t magically stop being so defensive, just as you wouldn’t recover from your cold in a single day, but it could be that part of the answer was in learning to rely on others.
If Agent 47 was this willing to help, then maybe it would be okay to grow closer to him, to everyone.
“I can’t argue with that, not with how I still owe you for smuggling me onto the plane,” you smile genuinely behind your drink.
“Repay the favor by recovering soon,” he offers, and in that fleeting moment, you swear his hard-set features soften the slightest bit. The sickness could be altering your decision-making process, or it could just be that you had poor judgement from the start, but an opportunity you can’t let slip presents itself.
Boldly, you shift over from your seat, closer to 47, and lean against him. His relaxed form feels pleasantly warm against your cheek.
“Okay,” you agree and take another sip.
It’s really a very good Earl Grey.