Not to Be Mainy on Horn But...

When was the last time he’d woken up sick? Felt like forever ago, because he couldn’t remember ever feeling this uncomfortable in his face and his throat. A raw stinging paired with a thick, dense wall of pressure that made his nose itch. 

Elanos sat up with a blink and lazily swung his feet off to the side of the bed. Yup. Definitely sick. He swallowed. No fever yet, though; that’s good. 

Looking at his phone stung his eyes — barely 8am — and he tried to take a deep breath to wake up fully. The breath got about as ‘deep’ as his throat before he had to cough. 

“Hh—IiSSCHhh!!…iih’SCHIIEeww!!”

And sneeze. Woah. He blinked and raised a hand to cup under his chin. That was aggressive, more than he had time to register, and he realized too late his nose was about to run onto his shirt. He sat still for a bit, eyes bleary, waiting for his brain to catch up. 

It was probably just a cold, if that was anything to go off of. The drippy, itchy, obnoxious kind that he could probably hide if he went the whole day without speaking, if that was an option. 

His nose finally dripped, and he stood, going for the tissue box on his desk on the opposite side of the room with a mutter. 

————

“I can’t come in. I’m sick. Likely contagious.”*

He had to call out of work, as much as it pained him. Illnesses never lasted too long for him, he’d give it about a day or so; if it lasted till tomorrow, he’d have to call out again, and that would just eat away at him until he became sick with anxiety instead. His head was starting to hurt from the pressure, and between texting his absence and getting washed up, he’d gone through about a dozen tissues already. He sorely dabbed another to his nose, sniffling while waiting for the response. 

It wasn’t so bad, just uncomfortable. His eyes teared up a lot when he was sick, it’d been that way for as long as he can remember, and he’d explained too many times that he wasn’t crying, it was just a cold. Pursing his lips, he sniffled, and sighed. 

His nose was itching more than it should. The thought crossed his mind when he gave up on using the tissue to rub his nose and opted to knuckle at it instead. What did that mean, more than it ‘should’? Like it was genuinely making his face itch from malice…a glance in the mirror would indicate it was effective, if that’s what was intended. He looked all red in the face, his eyes were puffy, and coughing brought both tears and mucus, like he was leaking from every orifice…

“What is wrong with mbe…?” He muttered to himself. In another world, his reflection would've answered. 

The urge to go about his day was strong, despite the discomfort. Maybe it was his desperation for structure and order, for someone else to hold the leash instead of himself. He felt compelled to get dressed, eat breakfast, and go on a walk. Exercise was good for illness, so he didn’t need to justify it; hitting the gym may be overkill, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t go out anyway. He could stock up on tissues, run an errand. Was there something he had to get while he was out? His head felt foggy as he tried to recall who might need him to do a run to the corner store. 

His phone buzzed, indicating he would be taking the day off — if he wasn’t in top condition, he would be more a liability than anything in his line of work. Blowing his nose one more time, he finally discarded the tissue.

Getting dressed for comfort meant athleisure, along with a simple black mask he usually wore for the purposes of keeping in the background, out of the way. But now, it felt like a scratchy, humid muzzle, withholding him. He pinched it over the bridge of his nose with another sniffle. The pressure stung the nerves. 

“Snf…hhF-“

His finger looped over the edge of his mask. 

“HHIh!IiYSSChhhiiuhww!!”

It only got pulled down halfway over his mouth before a sneeze violently expelled moisture over the papery surface. 

“…huh…” He remarked after a breath. Itchy…his nose was running and soaking the edge of the mask that now pushed up against his reddened lips. A messy wet sniffle calmed his nerves a little, and he pulled the mask back up. 

———

There was a pharmacy not far from where he lived. Far enough to warrant a ride, but not unwalkable; such were the series of thoughts he had when he stepped out onto the street and stared at the empty driveway. 

His car…he’d lent it the day before for a few friends running an art show. It took a moment to remember. His shoulders slouched. 

There was a moderate breeze, so he could walk, it was only about twenty minutes. Or he could take the bus, get rid of some spare change in his pocket that he was going to get himself some tea with. Elanos scratched behind his ear and sniffled again. He could ponder it on the way. Surely, by the time he was halfway, he could bite the bullet and finish the rest of the journey. It was a bit cool, but his forehead felt sweaty…maybe he should jog, cut the time off by a bit. He shrugged off his top layer and tied it around his waist, leaving a black tee underneath. 

There was a crosswalk he approached, where two people were chatting, water bottles in hand, one with a dog. Likely on a run since it was still the morning. He stood idly by, twisting the crumpled bit of tissue in his pocket.

You need to sneeze, he heard his inner voice say. You should. Not sure why, but the thought was enough to provoke a small itch. He rubbed his nose, which was warm, even with the paper barrier. 

“HhHNgKK’sshh!!”

That sounded…kinda thick. He coughed, rattling up what had dripped down to his throat. The chatter briefly paused. 

“Hhuh—hHHIh!hhdSSCHhhieww! HUH! AdtsshhhhIHhww!!…excuse me…”

That somehow did it. It was a sneeze that demanded attention, and attention it got; loud, disruptive, visuals were quite disgusting, he'd imagine. A sneeze like that he’d normally keep private. 

His face burned as he tried to sniffle up the mess that got caught under the mask, pressing his wrist against the outside and feeling that dreaded spot of moisture. The other two at the crosswalk had turned after offering a quick blessing, which Elanos was much too preoccupied to deal with. He finally pulled the mask down to dab the crumpled, ratty tissue to his lip. 

The moment the light changed, the others resumed their run, and one more sneeze likely encouraged them to pick up speed. When he blinked away the wetness in his eyes, he saw spots of slightly darkened pavement. Was his nose running that much? Usually he wasn’t so…drippy. A touch to the tip of his nose revealed a stray thread of mess had clung on, overwhelming the volume of the tissue that was barely holding itself together. 

It’s fine, he told himself, just cover that up for now. Nobody has to see. You can buy more when you get to the pharmacy.

The mask went up again with a sniff and a deep furrow of his brows. 

———

His nose was itching the whole way there. When he arrived, he’d spent a solid half minute just sneezing in the aisle, garnering the attention of at least three other customers who turned to camp out in the next aisle until he was done. Dramatic, head-thrown, hands free on account of the mask. It left him a bleary-eyed and stuffy mess. 

He made the mistake of rubbing his nose with the mask still on, and the sound got every hair on the back of his neck standing upright. Yuck. 

Focus, he told himself. You’re here to run errands, not to announce yourself. 

He dragged himself to the selection of cold medication. There were so many colours swimming before his eyes, from labels to price tags to fine print that blurred with how teary he was. The flavour of medication he didn’t care much for, but the strength of each would be important. He didn’t like to nap…

This one had tablets — he picked it up to read the label — so it was preferable. Came with drowsiness though. The other options of comparable strength were liquid, and he didn’t care for that. His nose was starting to itch again, and with frustration, he pulled the mask down so the paper would stop rubbing against his skin. Fresh air hit his sweaty face as he tried to breathe in, only to spur on a ragged cough.

He grabbed another bottle. This one worked as cough syrup. Should that be necessary? Why was it so expensive? He put that one back with a frown. 

Elanos glanced down the aisle to see a few long boxes — masks, that he could replace this one with. Without a second thought, he pulled it off his face and noisily blew his nose into it. He waited for a moment, focusing on the immediate heaviness of the paper before shoving it into his pocket. The first breath brought on cold air, the second became a bit more liquidy. 

“Hhahh…ugh, no-“

A plea for his own body to listen, to give him a break. No such luck. He didn’t have anything to contain-

“Hh!hAH! AadtTSSChhhoo!!…hhSSCHhhhhww!!”

His sleeve was perfectly fine. Why did he sneeze into his hands? He only noticed when he pulled away and felt coolness against the wet spots on his cheek and palms. Clasping his hands back onto his face would prove futile, and he did his best to at least tidy his backhand on his collar. That would definitely be going on the laundry when he got back but for now…

He needed to wash his hands. 

Or. 

Well.

If he was going to ask for a pharmacist, he may as well get what he needed. He kept one palm to his nose and then reached for one of the many boxes of cold medication and a small package of three tissue boxes to tuck under his arm. What else, what else…he saved money from not taking the bus so he could spend it now. Maybe like a…a cold coffee-? He didn’t really like sweet drinks, and this shouldn’t be too good for his throat, but it would be refreshing…

He clumsily grabbed a canned coffee from the shelf and wandered back to the counter where he could finally ask. 

“D-do you hhaAVe— have a washroom?”

“Oh— yes but-“ The pharmacist looked to the side with hesitance as he spilled all his stuff onto the counter, “I’ll…I can put in the code for you. It’s just around this corner.”

“Thagks…”

———

When he had finally washed off his face and his hands, he looked in the mirror. This cold was progressing sort of quickly. He looked paler than when he had left. His nose was this drippy, red splotch on the centre of his face. When he coughed, it had resonance. He needed to get home. Get home, and eat something…

In the sanctity of the bathroom, he could blow his nose and cough as much as he needed before going back out; the thought of people waiting for him to finish up didn’t cross his mind until he stepped out and saw a bored shopper on their phone, standing just outside. 

The pharmacist had his stuff put to the side, and he paid with a quiet thanks. They seemed in a hurry to get him out anyway. 

He was about to start making his way home when a buzz came from his pocket. Who would call this early…? Ah. Forthwind? He coughed hard a few times before answering. 

“Hello?” Yikes. His voice was shot. He cleared his throat and was about to try again when his friend answered. 

“Oh good! Glad you’re awake! Look, are you busy tonight? I had dinner plans that fell through, but I still want to try that new bar that opened up. I know you mentioned you wanted to try their stuff too, so if you aren’t doing anything, would you want to come with me?”

“I…I’m not busy-“ He answered mindlessly. There was a pause. You're not busy, but you’re sick. What are you doing? Going out drinking! You should be in bed. As if to reprimand him, he coughed once more. 

“Woah. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine-“ You are not. 

“You sound a little hoarse,” He’s right. 

“It’s just a cold.” Just?

“A cold! Maybe you should stay in…you doing okay on your own?”

“Yeah,” He sucked in a breath. Why are you still talking? You need to go home and eat and sleep, “Heading back. It’s not so bad…I think I can nap it off.”

“Heading back? Why are you out? You can call me if you needed to get something you know.”

“It’s not far. I had to go to the pharmacy—“ He felt his throat itching again. Oh, gods, it was all in his chest. Coughing became an entire ordeal, a fit. The sounds were unpleasant to say the least and he didn’t even have a mask on to muffle it this time, “I’mb heading back. I need to rest. Getting sort of…sweaty. And hungry.”

“Hungry?” The word was like a code, a Pavlovian bell to an eager dog, “Why don’t I bring something over?”

“You don’t ha—have tuhH…hh!hHEH! EtTSCHhhihww!! HHPTsschhyihwww!!…snnff…dhh-dont worry about it…HHYsschhhihwww! Hh…sorry-“

“Well I can’t leave you hanging after all that. I’ll let you go now though, you should be home as soon as possible, goodness. Bless you. I’ll be over in an hour, if you can hold on that long.”

“Ghhuh—I said-“

“I know what you said. But you sound awful and I don’t like the thought of you cooking on your own.”

“Hhah—ATTSCHHihhww!! Ffh…ohh, udh- can I call you back?”

“Please do.”

He hung up and hurriedly tore open the new box of tissues. Streaks of mess were all over his shirt. He felt his face burning. What was this that he had? He never had a cold this violent in his whole life! Especially considering he was the well-mannered type, this was full-on supernatural…

He awkwardly mopped up the nastiness on his shirt before blowing his nose into the wad of tissues. This was becoming hazardous…

———

He was a runner, so going the distance home now that he had all his errands was less of a walk and more of a sudden blacked-out skip in time. One minute he was heading out of the parking lot, the next he was wheezing and coughing his way to the front door, arms and palms clammy from where he had gripped his shopping bags. 

His head was burning and his fingers were cold…if it was a sickness that progressed this quickly, he may have underestimated it. Just a tad. A bad cold or a flu, he figured; best to get something in his stomach immediately so he could lie down. 

When his key finally gave way, he hurried inside and first opened the package of pills. His hands were a little shaky, that’s probably not good. Two now, then in eight hours, two more. Down the hatch. Now he was running on a timer; if the drowsiness hit too early he’d be done for. 

He pulled off his shirt to throw in the wash, scurrying into a warmer pyjama top, shorts and socks. And a hefty blanket he could bring with him.

The kitchen was stocked with all sorts of fresh ingredients but he could only focus on the cans of soup he kept for emergencies. Perhaps…tomato. And he could manage a grilled cheese, couldn’t he? It took like ten minutes to make at most. 

“Hhah—!hHADT’tscHHYYHhww!…hhuh-! Huh! HHaPTShhhhww!! Oh, gods…”

That was stirring up all sorts of chaos in his sinuses, in his chest. It tickled to breathe, but it aches. He felt like shit.

The admission was more damning than the symptoms. Usually a paragon of health, he supposed an actual illness would hit harder to make up for it. A trembling hand reached for the cold metal handle of the fridge. 

The first thought that hit him was that *he was cold.* His body was running on fumes to the point it just manifested his bodily reactions as sentient thought, then? Elanos felt the cold air of the refrigerator hitting his knees and he suddenly felt chills. Genuine chills, as if from a fever. Was he feverish?

Shut the fridge, his mind ordered. He folded his hands into his blanket and wrapped it tighter around himself. 

“HhIIH!!itssSshHhwww!! Snnnfk-!”

Elanos exhaled. 

He was really, really leaking. Coughing brought up mucous. Sneezing did too, obviously. But breathing? He felt like he was starting to melt from the inside.

“Hh—HHAptsscHHyihww!! AdtTSSCHhhihwww!!…asSHyyihwww!! Augh..!”

A garbled groan escaped as he tried to contain everything in his hands. Spray misted the reflective surface of his fridge. Why was he sneezing so much?! He went to rinse his hands and sneezed on the tap; when he went to dry his hands and had to catch another two into paper towel. 

Some cruel joke! Only striking when most inopportune. 

His phone was ringing and he struggled to not sneeze at that for some reason. His head turned and the resulting mess landed in the blanket instead and clung to his face in pale threads. 

“Hhuh?”

“Elanos? You said you’d call back? Wanted to make sure everything is alright, you know.”

“Y-Yeah…”

There was silence as he sniffled. 

“…and is it?”

“Whad?”

“Is everything alright? You sound horrible…no offence.”

“I don’t need cold medication, I need a god damn exorcism…” He said with a shudder, “Not alright. Far frohHm—! From…hhIH!!-hnGkssHHHihwww!! Hahh…”

“You’re breathing kind of heavy…” A spike in urgency from Forthwind’s voice made his skin flesh up with goosebumps, “Where are you?”

“Kitchen…getting really chilly…”

“I’m coming over soon. Hang in there, alright?”

“Uhh huh…”

“Can you unlock the door for me?”

“…yeah…”

“Okay. Don’t do anything, just stay put.”

He nodded, though nobody could see. Unlock the door, he’d been asked…alright. He could do that. It wasn’t so far…

He shakily got down the stairs, blanket dragging in the foyer as he approached. Door…unlocked. Then what? Stay put? He slumped down against the wall. Oh, his head was hurting, it was swimming. Everything was starting to feel too uncomfortable for his own body. He wanted to be close to someone so he wouldn’t be left running mad as he fended this off. Wincing, he slouched further on a spot between the foyer and the living room that had a nice cool hardwood finish. He put his palm down. 

———

Elanos woke up to someone holding his shoulders. He was on the ground. Drooling. Did he seriously just take a nap on the floor? Forthwind was over him with a mask and gloves.

“You scared me! I thought you had fainted! You were only sleeping, right?” The other aasimar exhaled with such relief, for a moment, Elanos felt well again. 

“Sleeping…really drowsy…”

The medication. Had…he taken the right dose? Oh gods, did he double up? Swallowing four pills would be impressive but he could do it. What was he supposed to be doing now? He wiped the saliva off his jaw. 

“Come on- help me help you get up. I can’t shoulder your entire weight right now, I’m carrying things.”

He steadied himself on the wall and wiped his mouth and nose with his hand. 

“Y-you really shouldn’t have-“ He said with a croak, “iiHdt—it’s! HhISSCHhhuhww!! AdtTSHHyyhwww!! Sorry-! HhH! AH!aptssHHIhhwww!! Sorry-“

“My goodness,” The wings on either side of Forthwind’s head fanned out in surprise, “You sounded a little delirious over the phone and now I see why…”

“I did?”

“Just a tad.”

Elanos scrunched up his face. He thought he sounded just fine, thank you. He sniffled wetly and raised his arm. 

“Ah-! I have tissues. You don’t need to use your sleeve.”

“O-oh…hhaah—“

“Sorry, Elanos, I’m just going to ask that you cover your mouth-“

“—atssHHHihhww!!”

A relatively small sneeze compared to before. But covered. By request. Elanos figured that if Forthwind was being so candid, he probably had the same divine health. Maybe his immune system would stand a better chance. 

“I’m going to make you something to eat. I’m no priest but it’s as close to an exorcism as we can get, just like you asked.”

“Uh huh…”

“You can sit over here- no, not on the floor. Counter. Sit there and I’ll be done in no time. I prepared most of the ingredients at home.”

He had to put his head down. The second he was seated, the cool countertop tile called for him and he pressed his feverish face to it to continue his sleep. Now that there were sounds of someone else milling about, he found himself in a much more languid state. 

———

“Your pupils are huge…what’s the matter here?”

He was roused by someone beside him setting down a bowl of something delicious. The steam was enticing. 

“It’s hot!…I said it’s hot! Elanos!”

Such a sharp tone. He froze. Forthwind sighed. 

“Wait for it to cool a little. Or blow on it. What has gotten into you?”

He let his friend tie his hair back as he cradled the soup bowl in both hands before tenderly blowing on the surface so he could sip it. Forget the spoon, he wanted to eat. This was meant to be breakfast! 

“You’re running pretty warm.”

“Mmnh…face ihH…is—hHUH!!-hhiHSHHhh!!'shiieeehww! UdtsSSCHhhiiehww!!”

He reached for tissues on the counter, trying to wipe off the mess caught in his cupped hand. His head turned to Forthwind instinctively who recoiled. 

“Sorry—hHHSChhhiieehww!! Augh…it won’t stop-“

“Don’t- Elanos, turn that way! Don’t aim at me— turn! Your pupils are seriously blown wide, are you high?”

“Nuh uh…”

He blew his nose with a noisy flare of sound. Lot to get rid of there...

“Your fever isn’t nearly high enough to cause delirium…”

Forthwind was rattling off some other theory as Elanos fully immersed himself in drinking the soup. Delicious and filling, he felt the broth go down the itchy part of his throat and clear up his sinuses. In other words…divine! He felt it leak onto his chin and lazily swiped it off. 

“…you haven’t ticked off a fey recently, have you?”

“I don’t know…”

“You seem to be exhibiting a lot of, well, signs of inebriation. And you don’t drink while sick, I know that much.”

“Mmhm…”

He continued to eat, listening to Forthwind between gulps of broth. 

“It feels like someone’s playing a gag on you because I r- slow down before you choke. I recall there is a hex of some kind that is all symptoms of a cold, but mixed with a bit of enchantment. You spilt some.”

That’s what sleeves are for. He reached for the counter but was gently chided into using a tissue before he got to it. 

“In any case, the soup ought to help. It’s got that divine quality! Which is funny, because so do you,” Forthwind took the empty bowl from him to the sink. He still had his mask and gloves on, and Elanos stared ahead, stupidly, nose dripping, waiting for him to finish up, “I’m putting you to bed after this. Are you still hungry?”

“I could go for ah-adother. My eyes are starting to hurt…is that normal?” He paused to cough and ended up wheezing through Forthwind’s next statement. 

“Maybe. Could be the dilation. You should be good to have something a bit lighter, so I brought you some banana bread…”

“Pair with coffee…”

“Uh, no, pair with hot tea and bed. Gods, you really are high.”

“I’m hungry…”

The banana bread was taken from a tote and carefully set in front of him on a plate so he could devour it without grace. He had crumbs on his hands, crumbs on the counter…and he was being taken away upstairs. 

“You’ll feel better after a nap. Hexes rarely last long,” Forthwind said, guiding him to the bathroom so he could wash up. He shied away to the doorway as Elanos let out another sneeze towards the sink and mirror, “I’ll-! Clean up downstairs!”

He's not too stupid to brush his teeth. Washing up took no time at all, and he spent another minute trying to look down his throat with the limited light in the bathroom mirror. Forthwind was waiting outside and offered an arm for him to rest against as he was helped into bed. 

“You look incredibly tired. Did you take anything?”

He nodded, wriggling deep into the covers. His head sank into the pillows and he felt the liquid in his head shift. His sinuses were all sensitive. 

“Good. I mean it when I say to call me if you need anything,” A hand came to his forehead, “Don’t need you stumbling everywhere in this state. Good thing you didn’t drive.”

“Thanks for the food…”

“Of course. Any time. Figured it would help based on how you sounded over the phone.”

“Alright, but, if you get caught later-“ She warned. 

“And I never do.”

“-then I cannot help you out of this one.”

“You never do.”

She scrunched up her face to stifle an annoyed groan. Mr. Hanson Lerning, the subject of this private investigation, was the husband of Sadie’s friend. On Sadie’s recommendation, if she wanted to get some PI work done, she ought to go to Mortimer Biddley Kyrios. And she did. 

Lerning was apparently a two-timing scoundrel, and the hotel was his most recent HQ. Rumours of flashy partners who would have their hands around his arm and orders of wine or champagne sent up at late hours. The job was almost completely cut and dry, Biddley figured he’d just need some physical proof, a photo or two…

And he knew his way around a hotel. Sadie did, likely as someone who’s stayed in many, but Biddley had the experience of knowing the type who worked there on the regular. Grew up eating lunch in a hotel in his neighbourhood, often ran checks late at night when he was still part of the force, and of course, had more than a few cases that took place in hotels. 

Lerning was no different. 

He managed to saddle up a room not far from him. When the housekeeper came in to open the door, he merely posed as the room’s temporary resident and rooted around all the drawers and furniture under the guise of missing something. A man like Hanson would never be caught dead conversing with housekeeping, so he wasn't nearby. And of course, once Biddley had left, the room was tidied and not a trace of him was left. 

It was so formulaically foolproof.

He was posted up in his room now, knowing Hanson could be not too far away, but who cares? He had a copy of the hotel bill for multiple drinks in room service, too many for one person, old makeup packages, etcetera. There was little he cared about when snooping aside from being spotted; it’s what made everyone who worked with him grimace from a five-foot distance, bare minimum. He’d dig through wastebaskets and wrangle through pillows to find his loot: evidence of a mistress, in terms of disposable cotton swabs with makeup of the same tint. In hindsight…the man had a lot of used tissues he'd had to sift past. It caught his attention then, but he didn’t have the time to focus. He did now, and it gnawed at him like an insatiably ravenous wolf. 

Sadie was sitting on the bed, looking him over as he pondered feverishly. 

“So are you going downstairs or…?”

“I think so. Soon.”

That’s right. He was to stake out the bar and snap a picture or two of the man and mistress. But that could wait. It was too early for them to be at the bar. Biddley leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. The cracked open window let in a sharp draft that tickled his neck. 

“You look to be scheming on something.”

He didn’t respond. Smoke poured from his nostrils as he turned his attention to his watch, then the half-finished crossword on the paper. The easiest way to get photos was to pose as the press, which he often did. Sadie helped too, when the press story didn’t work. She would pose, and he would go in as her photographer, hopefully getting his target in the background. Easy. Helps to have a showgirl who loved to snoop.

“Let’s go down,” He said after a while. Sadie had busied herself listening to the evening news and turned down the radio to get him to repeat himself. He pulled on a coat, gathered his props and ushered her out the door. 

“You look deep in thought.”

“So?” 

She scoffed, “You’re awful at small talk.”

“When we get there…perhaps find somewhere a few tables away. I’m sure I can spin it to have good lighting.”

“Right…! You’re gonna buy a drink for me to pose with?”

And to drink, her tone implied. He relented with an affirmative sigh and rubbed his eyes. The bar wasn’t busy, which was great; almost every other seat was occupied. They were lucky enough to find something, and it wasn’t awfully strange when he slid her a martini glass and started directing her to pose. 

Hanson was there. What Biddley was actually paying attention to. He was having a chat with some nicely dressed lady, looking maybe only five years his junior. His nose was red, and he occasionally turned to the side to cough or clear his throat. Biddley’s ears felt hot, but he eventually raised his camera to Sadie, who gave a flirtatious wink. 

The snap of the shutter got the attention of a few, but, ever quick as his partner in crime, Sadie chimed in with a, “Wait! I blinked! Do another one!”

People shied away but acted as natural as they could, just the way he needed ‘em to. 

A few more proved useful, with Hanson in the left corner of the pictures, hand over hand with his ‘friend’. Biddley cast a glance at Sadie, who had begun to sip. 

“Huhh-hhrsscHHHhuh!!”

The sound from behind her caught her attention as her eyes drifted. Biddley’s did as well, but quickly darted back. Sadie stared at him as he sat. 

“You going to get yourself something, detective? Or am I here to nurse this drink alone?”

“I don’t feel like being drunk. We’re in enemy territory.”

“Suit yourself,” She twirled her finger around his tie and continued with her martini. To leave right away would look incredibly suspicious. It would be better to wait until Lerning and company headed off, and then they could tail, catch the same elevator perhaps. Of course, there would be the risk they’d notice they were rooming, but that was easy enough to fake, as there was a balcony at the end of the hall of their floor. In the meantime, Biddley opened up his newspaper, using it to shield his face, but occasionally glanced over to watch. 

Watch that man sniffle and discreetly wipe at his nose before palming the woman's hand. Schmoozing...

He felt like a voyeur. Some kind of pervert. The crossword may as well have cleared its throat to ask for his attention back with how much he was distracted. 

A ten-letter word for an irresistible urge to act in a certain way, often against one’s wishes: compulsion. The graphite of his pencil scratched in the letters. 

Com-

“HUH—“

-pul-

“HhuUSSCHhuhh!!”

-S. I. O. N. 

His fingers gripped the pencil, hearing Mr. Hanson Lerning sniffle into his handkerchief, only to get a teasing laugh from his mistress. His eyes darted from over the paper to Sadie across the table. She was staring him down like a hawk. 

“How about a six letter word, opposite of exhibitionist?” She muttered, getting daggers stared back at her. 

“Funny stuff…”

“Can you even last until they leave?”

He shushed her. God forbid they hear. Maybe he should drink something. His partner gave a smug bat of her lashes as he rose. Going up to the bar, he ordered an old-fashioned. 

Sadie was toying with the food pick from her drink, scratching in answers to the newspaper as the bartender did his dues. Ugh. Biddley could feel a weird churning in his stomach. Not unpleasant, and perhaps churning was the wrong word. Stirring. A real unrest. It was the idea of digging through that man’s trash and seeing all the used Kleenex that was substituted for his handkerchief, how it was probably a night of misery while getting off with this other woman. It made his head spin a little more than he’d like. It also meant he wanted time alone in his room.

He returned and rested his chin on his palm, his other hand tracing the rim of his glass before taking in a slow sip. 

The sniffling two tables down was so loud and obnoxious, how could he hear it over all the bustle (what little there was) just baffled him. His perception only clued into what he wanted to hear, he supposed. The wet sniffling, the words of sickeningly — in multiple ways — sweet, manipulative affection. He wanted to punch him and fuck him all at once. 

What a thought. Biddley grumbled and returned to his crossword. 

“What’s gotten you in such a mood? I never knew you’d be so annoyed by such a…delightful treat,” Sadie scoffed, “I’m sure you’ll hang onto those photos after the case, a copy for yourself.”

“You are poking a sleeping bear,” He warned. 

“Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

He heard the couple stir. They were going. Sadie looked up, which prompted Biddley to lock his muscles in and be still, as to seem unaffected. He waited a moment before downing his drink — rough — and hurrying out. They were by the elevator, which was about to close before he flagged down the attendant to wait. The grate swung back shut as they entered, beside and behind the target. Biddley felt his fingers itch to steal something out of his pockets. A handkerchief within reach, but it wouldn’t be good evidence. It would have no purpose at all. He stared forward, trying not to look too disappointed as their shared floor approached. 

“Oh, excuse us?” Hanson Lerning seemed surprised as they all stepped out. His voice was thick and laced with something sick. His lady stood beside him. Biddley merely raised his brows and thumbed around for a cigar with a nonchalant nod. 

“Mmh-“

He was going to say something. Something less dumb. Maybe a “pardon” or “just heading out.”

Nothing. Just mum. His brain couldn’t think fast enough. Sadie followed him to the balcony, where he held the door for her, long enough to watch Hanson return to the room, sneeze, then shut the door. He lit the cigar. 

“He’s thrown you off! Weak-willed much?” Sadie joked.

“Stop teasing me about it. It’s driving me insane, and I’m supposed to be working.”

“I think you’re done getting all you need,” She jabbed back, “Pretty sure the job is over. Just send the film to a developer, and you’re set. You basically have the night off. Ugh, and let’s be honest, with the way that was going, you’re probably going to end up catching it, too. I’m starting to suspect you went through more than just his dresser...”

He felt her finger toying with the button on his shirt. 

“Need to blow off some steam? I can leave you alone for an hour.”

“An hour? You think so highly of me,” His turn to roll his eyes. 

“I’d join you, detective, but I’m not in the mood to catch a cold this time. I know that’s disappointing, but it'll probably be stealthier if it’s just you,” She quipped, “Once you’re done, you can walk me home, then I’m assuming you’re coming back here to finish your 'stake out'? Everything else is just bonus points, isn’t it?”

High risk, high reward. He had the evidence he needed. But at the cost of risking being caught, he could get more. The room was booked out for the night after all. He could get into Lerning's next time he left for housecleaning. He could…get in there. The bed. The pillows. 

“Besides,” She continued, taking out a cigarette of her own, “You should probably be sleeping in. If you end up catching that cold, I suspect you won’t leave for days.”

He narrowed his eyes. Implying what exactly?! Sure. Not confined to bed from sickness alone…

“Probably going to be sneezing into your handkerchief more than he was-“

“Alright, that’s enough!” Biddley huffed. Sadie laughed her melodiously chipper laugh. He felt sweat bead on his forehead. 

“I’m just saying…if there’s any night to spend alone…”

“They’d be next door, don’t be ridiculous.”

Absurd to even suggest-

“Isn’t that better?” Sadie smiled devilishly. He felt the snare tighten around his leg, and he was suddenly caught in this conversation, “You can hear everything. As long as you’re quiet. And in a day? That might be a challenge. You sneeze like you're trying to be heard.”

Biddley furrowed his brows. His mind felt flooded. Thin hotel walls. Listening to some cad fighting off a cold while going down on his lover, and at the same time, he himself muffling both the sounds of cold and of pleasure into an adjacent room’s bedding. He could switch pillows. He could—

Ugh! His thoughts were so intrusive. He couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t help it. 

“Let’s get you home. You goddamn busybody.”

Sadie pinched his ear and, triumphantly, reentered the building. He bundled his camera and his newspaper under his coat.

Nathaniel was so sick he could cry. In fact, he'd been crying all morning while Quintus was away. Or that evening, rather. He still wasn't used to his new nocturnal schedule. 

The most recent place of habitation was a giant furniture store. It was a bit of a challenge to be let in initially, the salesperson was confused as to why a pair of suspicious-looking customers needed permission to enter a store. According to Quintus, places like this were not great to stay for long. It was by the goodwill of a manager who knew of Quintus's nature that they could stay for a week. But one week only. And no feeding on company property. 

"Hhheh—" 

Languishing on the showroom couch, Nathaniel grabbed for another swath of tissues and cringed with a tired "-Eh'ishhhieew!!" 

He could hear Quintus sneeze somewhere in the distance. It echoed loudly through the furniture store. 

"Sorry!" Nathaniel called out weakly and blew his nose. Every night, he felt weaker, more foggy, and unfocused. It was just two nights ago when it became intolerable to walk. The hunger didn't make things easier. If he could even call it that. He grew up poor and hungry, but he still never knew how empty someone could feel. It was like life itself was slowly dripping out of him. 

Life wasn't the only thing dripping out of him. He gave his nose another blow, wincing at the squelching noise he made. The cold, if he could even call it that by this point, had only grown worse. 

"—You know, if you just ate something, maybe you'd feel a little better,"  Quintus growled. He seemed to dissolve out of the darkness as he approached, red eyes glimmering. 

Nathaniel sighed. They've been over this argument before. Quintus sat on a nearby recliner, kicking up his feet on a glass coffee table. They sat in bitter silence for a while, with only a sniffle between them. The artificial hum of the furniture store droned, and the small light of the security camera flicked on and off, capturing nothing. No vampiric intruders detected. 

Nathaniel was nearly ready to swoon from the pure exhaustion of breathing when Quintus spoke up. 

"What if… someone let you feed off of 'em? Would that make it better?" 

"What do you mean'd?" Nathaniel coughed roughly into his fist. It was getting harder to breathe, day by day, and not just due to congestion.

"If someone offered themselves to you, like if there was someone out there who was totally fine with you taking a bite out of 'em like a sandwich. Would you eat then?" 

"—I hardly think there's anyone like that." 

"Oh, there is. She's uh- kind of pissed at me right now, but there is." 

"Who in their right mind would want a vampire to feast on them?" 

——————————-

The horsefly that'd been haunting the Slaughtered Goat all day rested on the antique table, rubbing its legs together. It was made to move when it finally met its demise by way of a well-timed slap of a rolled-up magazine. 

"Gotcha, you little bastard." 

A fat ginger cat stretched out languidly on the bookshelf, chirping at the sound of his owner. 

"Don't worry, Buddy, that fly's all gone." 

Joan turned up the sound on the dilapidated TV that hung precariously in the corner of the storeroom. The would-be customers up front were getting loud and interrupting the shark documentary she'd been engrossed in for the last half-hour. A gaggle of teenagers waxed on importantly over pre-packaged jars of crystals, self-serious experts on all things magic. 

All things bullshit, actually. The front of the store was for tourists. Bottles of potions that consisted of glitter and colored water. Resin skulls, bright red candles crafted by Joan's sweet elderly neighbor. Whatever looked mystical enough to make a customer pay up. Whatever kept Joan's family home from being bulldozed into a parking lot. 

She was lucky she still had the house, as annoying as it was to convert it into a novelty store. At least she had a place for the real stuff. The secret texts, the iron basin. The real magic. That wasn't for sale, that was her inheritance. The house and the secrets within. 

If only those secrets could pay the bills. 

"I know you're stealing." She didn't look away from the TV. Grainy images of sharks gliding through the water kept her attention. "Drop it." 

A young girl jumped at her raspy voice and quickly put the crystal she pocketed back into the kitschy barrel. Joan lit a cigarette and breathed in. 

"Try that again, and I'll turn you and your friends into toads, got it?" 

She wasn't going to turn them into toads. Magic didn't work that way, and even if it did, she wouldn't want a bunch of toads all over the place. But the empty threat was enough to send the kids scurrying away. They'd definitely be back, and not just for the candles. Joan played up the idea of a witch. She kept her customer service medium-to-terrible, as was expected of someone who owned a store called The Slaughtered Goat. Anything to keep up appearances. 

She chose not to wear a pointy hat, though. Very overdone. 

Closing and locking the front door, she flicked off the neon "Open" sign. It was dark out, and she was ready to call it a night. She loosened the corset on her kitschy Halloween dress and returned to the desk, tuning into the drama of the marine documentary. 

On screen, sharks swam through a cloud of bloody water, their eyes rolling back in a frenzy. The footage was intercut with scientists talking about the unique capabilities of sharks. Their sensitive noses are a bundle of nerves, attuned to hunting in the ocean. Wild stuff. Predatory animals always fascinated her the most. 

There was a rapid knock on the door. Joan grimaced at the disturbance. 

"We're closed!" She called out, turning up the TV volume. Ocean water splashed and gargled out of the weak speakers as the sharks were whipped up into a frenzy.  

The knocking persisted. 

Joan sighed and walked to the door. 

"I said, we're closed.." 

Quintus stood at the doorstep, grinning like a bear-trap. As always. 

"Hey Joan, been a while—wait!" 

She kept a wreath of dried garlic by the door, not just for looks. She grabbed one after another and began flinging them at Quintus like a barrage of grenades. 

"Fuck—off!—QUINT!"

He cowered from the pelting, each clove hitting with a sizzle and poof of fire. Covering his head, he backed away as the onslaught continued. 

"Will you—OW!!—Will you—achk—Fuck—hold on!!" 

"You're not borrowing Mama's book! I TOLD you!" 

A bulb of garlic bounced off Quintus's cheek, singeing the skin. 

"I'm not here for the damn book!" He fell to his knees, covering his head. Truly, out of all the vampires she encountered over the years, he was the most pitiable. The smiling ghoul in the dark, without memory, without a home. Powerful, sure, but pathetic. And owed her $48.95. 

"Then why are you… " 

Joan lowered another garlic bulb as she caught a glimpse of someone crouching in the bushes, someone tall and looking for all the world like he was about to— 

"Ah—AHD'CHHHOH!!" 

Quintus's head bobbed as he sneezed into the dirt. The man in the bushes seemingly mimicked him with a sneeze of his own, though his was kept to a silent cringe in a furl of tissues. 

She'd never seen a vampire sneeze before. 

Fascinating. 

"…Geshundeit, Quint."  She peered into the darkness, she could see the tall one's eyes glow in the night. Bright and grey like the moon, a contrast to the red glow of Quintus's eyes. 

"I see you, you know. Who are you?" 

"—That's—snfff—Nathaniel. He's uh, he's new." 

Nathaniel approached, sheepish and worrying at the little cluster of tissues between his fingertips. He looked forlorn, with big brown eyes and a mouth permanently tugged downwards. The vampire seemed to be weak and swayed where he stood. 

"Hello there, it's really wonderful to meet you. " He smiled sadly and stuck his hand out for a shake. His greeting seemed stiff and polite to a fault. Practiced. Perhaps he spent his human years greeting people. A receptionist? Customer service? 

She knew not to take the hands of vampires. 

"I can't say I like seeing more than one vampire on my doorstep." She breathed smoke into the air, "Quint, is he a spawn?" 

"Yea, obviously." 

"Is he your spawn?" 

Quintus uncurled from his stooped position on the floor, quickly rubbing at the underside of his nose. He looked as guilty as a dog after vomiting on a new rug. 

"Well…yea." 

"I thought you said you never wanted to make one." Joan leaned against the side of the doorframe, eyeing Nathaniel. He didn't seem like the kind of person Quintus would be interested in turning. Wholesomeness oozed out of him, as thick as the cold he seemed to have.

"It was just an accident, okay? Anyway, we got an emergency here. Can you please let us in? Come on…it's going to rain, and this guy's sick as it is." 

"You don't look so great yourself. I didn't know vampires could pass colds around." 

"It's—snfff—hhh—it's a—ah—." Nathaniel brought his bundle of tissues quickly up to his nose, at the mercy of a sudden tickle. Curiously, Quintus's breath hitched as well, and he brought a finger to his upper lip in a cartoonish attempt to ward off a tickle they both seemed to struggle with. 

"Hiihpp—eehh—It's Nate—heeh—making me—heeehh—HEHD'CHOOHH!!—Goddamnit!" Quintus sneezed, uncovered and angry. 

And the spawn followed after. A watery, exhausted—

"Ah'FHshiew!!" 

Joan looked from one vampire to the other, eyebrows raised.

"Fascinating." 

She mentally kicked herself, knowing that letting Quintus into her house (and life) would always inevitably lead to trouble. But she just couldn't help it. She was curious. 

Behind her, the TV crackled with sharks. A scientific display of the creature's nervous system lit the store in electric blue light. 

"Oh, what the hell. Come in, both of you." 

—————————————-

"Don't touch anything." 

She led the pair down the hidden staircase at the back of the store. For being supposed ethereal shadows of the night, they were both so loud. The newer one, Nathaniel, couldn't seem to go one breath before sniffling or coughing. And whenever he sniffled, it bothered Quintus too. He'd snort and rub away at his nose, jabbing Nathaniel in the arm to stop his incessant sniveling. She couldn't help but be amused by Quintus's predicament. He'd always been one of the more dangerous vampires she'd encountered. Not suave or conventionally handsome, but disarmingly charming in the way a feral dog is. You feel bad, you pity it. You stick your hand out too close, only to get bitten. 

And now he had his paw in some hilariously ineffectual trap, and he had to turn to her for help. Because of course he did. 

"Sorry, it's kind of messy down here. Been running out of space." 

Three more ginger cats, sisters of the enormous Buddy, scampered away from their hiding places amongst the crates lining the dark, murky hallway. They left a cloud of dust and fur in their wake. It made Nathaniel's dark eyes flutter.

"It's—snff-hhh—" Nathaniel's nose wrinkled in an irritated scrunch, and he fumbled with another packet of tissues, hurriedly opening it. 

"Shhiihht—AHD'PTSHOOH!!"  Quintus snapped forward with a harsh sneeze, one that the spawn seemed to start up for him.

"—T'CHIEww!!—snff-snff—it's alright." 

Nathaniel's legs suddenly buckled, and he slumped to the floor. Joan quickly grabbed him before he could hit the ground. 

"Whoa, there, you alright?" She pulled the man to his feet and slid an arm over her shoulder. Quintus did the same, the pair supporting the vampire on either side of his weak frame. He was tall, but worryingly light, and as cold as a corpse. 

"Idiot won't eat. Hasn't since I turned him." Quintus growled. 

"Is that why he's so sick? He looks like shit." 

"You know how it is. Starve a cold…" 

They dragged Nathaniel's limp form down the impossibly long and impossibly wide hallway, its geometries bending as they went. Innumerable artifacts of magic, real magic, were stacked precariously high. Joan had nowhere else to store them and no use for them. 

A great standing iron-maiden of glass stood at the entrance of her underground home. The blurry figure of a mummified body curled inside. Or perhaps, it wasn't a body, but a mass of indescribable tentacles and oil. Or perhaps, there was nothing at all.

"Heya, Ma'am." Quintus bowed his head, smiling toothily. "Sorry 'bout trying to steal your book and all. I swear I'll never touch it again." 

"Mama can't hear you right now," Joan grumbled as she unlocked the door. "She's in outer darkness." 

"Oh. Ah." 

Joan shoved the door open with her foot, and two more ginger cats sprinted out of the room. Together, Joan and Quintus swung Nathaniel onto the bed. Another ginger cat emerged from under the covers with a sleepy chirp and darted away. 

"So let me guess, you both want to feed off me tonight. Right?" Joan sighed, kicking her boots off and crushing the end of her dying cigarette against a nearby deer skull. 

"If he can wake up, yeah? He refuses to hunt the living."

Joan examined Nathaniel, catching a glimpse of the scar around his neck. 

"What did this guy do before you bit him?" 

Quintus looked bashful, like he was caught. He shrugged and murmured a quick "I dunno."

"Whatever. Just give me a minute, and we'll get something in him." 

"And, maybe I could—I mean, seein' as you are—" 

Joan rolled her eyes and sighed. 

"Fiiine. You can eat too. But just tonight! I'm not a blood bag." 

She retreated to the bathroom to get ready. Normally, she wouldn't leave vampires alone in her "lair", but neither one seemed to be up to do any snooping or mischief. The one called Nathaniel was clearly weak, and he was dragging Quintus down with him.

Carefully, she pulled the seal out from the back of her neck and prayed to the outer darkness. The blood in her veins coiled and relaxed. It felt nice, just like kicking off a pair of boots. Under the boudoir was a coil of rope piled in a shoebox. She had it just for these occasions. 

"AH'CHHSHH!!" 

"—HF'shhiew—" 

Sounds like Nathaniel was awake.

"Alright, you two. You have thirty minutes' worth of dinner. Anymore than that and I'll tear both of your heads off." She reemerged from the bathroom and pointed at the hands of the old grandfather clock in the corner. 

Nathaniel sat at the edge of the bed, nearly folded in on himself. He looked up at her, bleary and shy, a bundle of tissues in his fist. 

"…will this hurt you? I don't want to, if it will…" Nathaniel sniffled.

Quintus rolled his eyes and groaned. 

"I told you it won't! She aint human. I mean, she sort of is, but she's not—" 

"Neither one of you can hurt me. You'll just be draining my pipes." She sat between them, and uncoiled the rope in her hands. "But just in case, I'm using this." 

"Ah come on, you can trust us…" 

"Rules are rules. No rope, no food." 

Despite his grumbling, he obediently put his hands behind his back, letting Joan tie his wrists together in a knot. She did the same to Nathaniel, who blinked shyly up at her. She had to admit, he was a rather sweet-looking man, for a vampire. Once he learned how to hunt, she could see him being dangerously adept at charming people. 

Vampires properly bound, she leaned back on her hands, the bed squeaking with the movement.

"What'll it be then, Neck or wrist?" 

Nathaniel dumbstruck. He sniffled and Uhhm'd for a bit, finally pointing timidly to her wrist. 

"And I guess you want the neck again, right Quint?" She rolled her eyes and pushed her hair to the side. 

Quintus's eyes glowed, his teeth already sharp. 

"Yes! Oh darlin', I'm so hungry I haven't had a meal in weeks—" 

"Oh my god, wipe your mouth at least, Quint." 

"Sorry, sorry." He wiped at his mouth with the back of his bound hands, drooling already. 

Joan gave him a nod, and Quint eagerly bit into the soft flesh of her neck. 

It didn't hurt. Joan had never felt pain, being a child of the outer darkness. She felt the fangs and the pressure, the warmth of his mouth. The built-up energy within her finally eased out between his lips. She sighed in relief, as if she was being massaged rather than feasted on. Quintus was annoying, but he did have a way with this sort of thing. After a boring day in the shop, it was nice to drain out. 

Nathaniel froze. She watched him staring at her wrist like he was looking at a dirty magazine for the first time. Scandalized. 

"Mmm-Hey. It's alright. I don't feel a thing." 

Not entirely true. She shivered as Quintus's tongue lathed up the side of her neck, and she leaned into his touch. She felt many things. None of it pain.  

Timidly, Nathaniel pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist, soft as a kiss. She could feel his labored, stuffy breathing against her skin as he finally opened his mouth and bit in. The sensation buzzed and tickled up her arm, the melange of teeth and tongues sent her off into a wonderful daze as all the nightmares in her blood were drained away, a letting much needed. 

She felt Nathaniel hesitate, his teeth retracted. He paused, jaw slack and glowing eyes unfocused. And then Quintus began to sniffle. She could feel his nose pressed up against the skin of her neck flare wide, and he pulled away. 

"Snnff—Damnit Nate.." He wiggled his nose back and forth, scrunching up his face. "Just let me—hhh—eat!" 

"S-sorry—heehh" 

Nathaniel was clearly going to sneeze. Blood dripped off his chin as the sloped bridge of his nose furrowed. 

Fascinating. 

Joan slowly turned her wrist around and pressed the back of her hand under Nathaniel's mouth. She pushed up, just enough to feel the soft end of Nathaniel's nose bend. He huffed against her knuckles, his long eyelashes fluttered with the threatening sneeze. 

"Hipbht—" 

At her side, Quintus's face crumpled, lips pulled back in a sneezy grimace. His nostrils, expressive even when not in the middle of a sneeze, were fully dilated, hungry to suck in air for what was sure to be a messy, spluttering release. 

"You have an interesting link. Is sneezing the only thing you share?" 

She smirked. She knew neither one could properly answer as they panted and hitched on the precipice. But it was fun to watch a pair of dangerous, otherworldly monsters barely manage to think straight. Joan thought of the sharks and all those nerve endings in their noses. She wondered how much this tickled them, how she'd be able to drive a stake through both their hearts right now if she wanted to. 

I was Nathaniel who managed to talk first. She gave his dripping nose a rub with the back of her hand, the friction was just enough to scare the sneeze away. His breath shuddered against her hand as he sighed. 

"hhhhehhg—We don'd—snfff—d'know.." 

Quintus got a final pant in, and a rather ridiculously sounding "AH'GYEEH—" of a half-sneeze before the reaction was snatched away from him. He growled, roughly rubbing his nose against the meat of his arm, being driven mad by the itch. 

"We were hoping—snfff—You could help us out with this.." He warbled. 

Joan could feel her wounds healing fast, as they usually did. She cracked her neck back and forth, eyeing the pair of them. 

"I might, I might not. I'll have to run some tests on both of you first. Do you mind?" 

Nathaniel looked up at her, innocently. 

"Will it hurt?" 

Joan smiled. Nate really was sweet. She could see why Quintus turned him. 

"Not at all. Unless you think feathers are painful." 

--------

“Looks like bad weather at the lighthouse.”

Ruby, polishing glasses behind the bar, rolled her eyes as a fisherman, dripping wet from the rain outside, approached her Aunt Hortense with this grim warning. Two weeks working at the Dropped Anchor, banished to the tiny fishing town of White Water for “unbecoming behaviour” with the attractive son of a prominent cleric in the city, had done little to curb her impatience, or tendency towards sarcasm.

“It’s bad weather everywhere. Look outside!”

The fisherman looked to Ruby with disbelief, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Aye… But it’s bad weather at the lighthouse.”

Aunt Hortense gave a disapproving tut, looking up from polishing the bar and meeting the fisherman’s eyes.

“Ignore Ruth. She…”

“Ruby!”

“Ignore Ruth. She doesn’t know, doesn’t care, and won’t be staying. Does it look bad? Poor Mister Seaver, out there all alone…”

Ruby snorted.

“Does he expect a social life, living in a lighthouse?”

Her elders ignored her completely, with the fisherman going on in grim tones.

“We’ll see how bad soon enough. His supply run day, isn’t it? And if he’s got what half the town’s had…”

Aunt Hortense’s brow creased with worry.

“If he’s got what half the town’s had, he’ll be sneezing up a storm. I’ll see that there’s something on the stove in case he wants to stop by for a meal, and we’ll just have to hope he has matters under control.”

As Aunt Hortense retreated to the kitchen, Ruby turned to the fisherman with interest, no longer even pretending to polish the glass in her hands, instead leaning in for a chat.

“So, what’s the big deal about this Seaver? Someone important? How come I never see him around town, if that’s the case?”

The fisherman shook his head disapprovingly.

“He’s a wizard, is our Mister Seaver. A weather wizard, and a good one, too! So mind you show him proper respect, and leave him be, he likes his space.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, turning back to her glasses and making a half-hearted effort at polishing one.

“Who ever heard of wizards these days? I thought they all live off in towers somewhere, all high and mighty and above it all. And if he’s so good with weather, can’t he warm things up a little? It’s been miserable for days!”

The fisherman opened his mouth, no doubt to chastise her, only to be cut off by a gust of bitter wind as the door opened, and a stranger entered. A tall figure, clad in an oilskin coat dripping with rainwater, his face largely obscured by a blue woolen scarf, and his hair wild and damp from the weather. Ruby caught a glimpse of hazel eyes over his scarf, looking watery from the chill wind.

A terrier trotted in ahead of the stranger. A scrappy-looking little creature, with one ragged ear, and a tail held proudly in the air like a banner. He looked up at the stranger, all attentiveness, and Ruby heard a soft, hoarse voice from behind the scarf.

“Go and sit, Neptune.”

The terrier, Neptune, plainly familiar with the place, trotted over to an isolated table in the corner, while his master approached the bar, hanging back a little as if unsure if the fisherman sitting there was being attended to first. The fisherman nodded respectfully and gestured for him to approach, and shot Ruby a warning glance, as if silently urging her to show respect as well. Evidently this was Mister Seaver, the local wizard.

Never one to blindly bow to those deemed respectable, Ruby had a quip ready along with an empty glass, when the stranger stepped forward, carefully unwinding his scarf. Ruby’s cheeky remark died in her throat.

The term ‘wizard’ had conjured up a mental image of an old man with long white hair and an equally long white beard, with flowing robes and perhaps a pointed hat. A somewhat ridiculous creature from a storybook. Instead, the man revealed as the scarf peeled away was strong-jawed with a hint of stubble, his age hard to determine. Handsome, in a weathered and weary sort of way. Jaw-length brown hair peppered with grey, gentle, intelligent eyes, and a prominent nose, the bridge of which was a touch irregular, as if broken sometime in the past.

Said nose was absolutely ravaged with a seemingly brutal cold. Rubbed red and raw, decidedly damp about the nostrils, it sounded dreadfully congested as the wizard wrinkled it and gave a marshy snuffle.

Ruby felt her cheeks flush. Something about a handsome man with a cold always made something inside of her squirm. It was no coincidence that the cleric’s son who had been her undoing had constantly been catching the sniffles. She broke into a catlike grin, leaning forward on the bar a little, displaying herself to best advantage.

“You must be Mister Seaver. I’ve heard all about you.”

The wizard only briefly met her eyes, and then lowered his gaze. Not to where Ruby wanted it, annoyingly, but rather looking at a corner of the bar, as if embarrassed to look her in the eye. He sniffled again, his nostrils arching with the effort of it, and he rubbed a knuckle beneath his leaking nose.

“I am. Crawford Seaver. At your service. You… erm… You’re new…”

He turned away slightly to cough into his fist, and Ruby took the opportunity to tug the neckline of her blouse a little further down. The fisherman, watching her disapprovingly, tutted and shook his head.

“I am indeed. Ruby. A pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you? You look as if you need warming up…”

Her attempt at a sultry manner was ruined by Aunt Hortense returning and taking her shoulder, pulling her back and directing her towards the kitchen, scowling all the while.

“If you’re not going to make yourself useful out here, you can go back there and start washing dishes. Now, Mister Seaver. You look wretched, I imagine you’ll want something warm in your belly. We’ve a mutton stew, if that suits?”

The wizard, Crawford, nodded, fishing a frayed old bandana from his pocket and roughly pinching at his nose. For a moment, his eyes took on a distinctly absent look, and his breath caught. Ruby, lingering in the kitchen door, watched unashamedly, and tried not to feel too disappointed when the vaguely sneezy expression faded, and Crawford breathed a sigh of relief.

As did the fisherman, who, Ruby noted, had been watching Crawford nervously.

Odd.

Crawford spoke up again, his quiet voice muddled with congestion.

“Thank you, Mrs. Platt. And if I might have some tea? My throat…”

“Sounds like you’ve gargled gravel, and no doubt you could use some steam to clear you up. Go and sit down, the girl and I will take care of it. Ruth, kettle. Now!”

Ruby shot a sulky look at her aunt, and, before retreating into the kitchen, looked back over her shoulder at the ailing wizard. As she watched, he took his bandana again and mopped at his streaming nose, before rubbing it none too gently. His breath caught, his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, Ruby noted both Aunt Hortense and the fisherman tensing up, the fisherman edging away a little. Both only relaxed when Crawford let out the breath as a soft moan, rubbing his nose once more.

Aunt Hortense spoke up.

“You have those sneezes under control?”

Crawford’s cheeks coloured a touch, and he nodded, avoiding her eyes. Stranger and stranger, Ruby mused, before retreating into the kitchen as Aunt Hortense turned and glared. Grumbling under her breath, she set about filling the kettle and hanging it over the fire, while Aunt Hortense came to fill a bowl with steaming mutton stew, and slicing bread to go with it.

“Why’s everyone so nervous of him sneezing? It’s just a cold, and we’ve had half the town hacking and spluttering all over the bar these last couple of weeks. No more risk of catching it from him than any of them.”

Aunt Hortense shot her an irritable scowl, placing the bowl and bread on a tray and passing it to her.

“Don’t you go meddling in our Mister Seaver’s business. It’s none of your concern. Now, take that out, and then leave him be. The poor man’s ill, he doesn’t need any of your nonsense!”

“Oh, I don’t know. He looks rather miserable. A little nonsense might cheer him up!”

“Ruth, I swear to whatever god happens to be listening, if you keep talking back…”

“Alright, alright, I’m going!”

Tray balanced on one hand, Ruby made her way back out to the bar, spotting Crawford now seated at the corner table, his dripping oilskin removed to reveal the same sort of cable-knit woolen jumper the local fishermen wore. He rested his head on one hand, and with the other, kept his bandana pressed to his nose, alternately pinching and rubbing. Evidently the swollen appendage was troubling him immensely.

The little dog, Neptune, sat obediently at his feet, and alerted him to Ruby’s arrival with a sudden “Wuff!”. Crawford sat up a little straighter, and lowered his bandana, avoiding her eyes once more. Up close, she could hear him giving soft little sniffles with every other breath. Offering her most charming smile, Ruby set down his food, and lingered, holding onto the tray.

“That ought to put some colour back in your cheeks.”

“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”

Crawford hesitated, seemingly unsure whether to begin eating in her company. No doubt unused to the charms of city girls, Ruby mused, toying flirtatiously with her braid. She offered a teasing smile.

“Everyone says you’re a wizard. You don’t look like one.”

Crawford blinked up at her. There was a hint of feverish haze to his eyes that melted something inside of her, and when he replied, soft and hesitant, his voice was so heavy with congestion, he struggled to make himself understood.

“Erm… Then I must resort to the old cliché, Miss Ruby, regarding appearances being deceptive.”

“I suppose they must be. Your appearance says you should be in bed. Yet here you are, up and about!”

Crawford flushed a little deeper, and looked down at his bowl as if it might hold the answer to escaping this conversation. Unwilling to let him get away just yet, Ruby grinned, leaning her hip on the table.

“So, if you’re really a weather wizard, can you conjure us up a ray of sunshine? Gods know we could use it around here!”

Crawford continued to stare down into his food, stirring it idly and addressing the bowl.

“That would be inadvisable for a number of reasons. Natural conditions shouldn’t be… Hehhh… Shouldn’t be tampered with. Too much… Huhhh…. Uhh… Sndfff!... potential for… for unforeseen… consequences… I’m so sorry, I beg your pardon, I…”

Shaking his head as if he might somehow deny the inevitable, Crawford lurched forward into his much-abused bandana, though, having struggled to talk his way through the build-up to his sneeze, he buried his nose in the damp folds too late, failing to entirely cover an impressive plume of spray.

“HhhhHHRUFFFSSSHOO!”

It was as if someone had suddenly pulled out a weapon. The various tavern patrons, who had been shooting Crawford the occasional worried glance, suddenly pulled abruptly away. One or two leapt to their feet. One dived under his table.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, broken only by Crawford’s unsteady breathing and pitifully damp snuffling. At length, cheeks and ears flushed red, looking as if he wished to disappear, Crawford emerged from behind his bandana at last, and chanced a brief look around the tavern, raising a hand apologetically.

“… Sorry… Under control…”

The patrons returned to their drinks, though wary glances continued to be sent in Crawford’s direction.

Ruby, mouth dry, face warm, struggled to find her words. Gods, the man sneezed like a thunderstorm. Loud, and wet. She swallowed hard, and struggled not to giggle as she spoke.

“Well, I’ll bless you, even if no one else here has manners. It’s alright. No need to be shy. Sneeze as much as you like.”

Crawford shrank into himself a little more, and dabbed at his long-suffering nose.

“I’d very much prefer not to. Apologies. I… You ought to keep your distance.”

Almost as if he meant to chase her off, Crawford buried his nose in his bandana once more, and, thin chest expanding with a slightly wheezy inhale, let loose with a blow that rivaled a foghorn, giving his nostrils a vigorous rub afterwards. Three times, he repeated this process, and at last tucked his bandana away once more, drooping over the table, somehow still looking heavy with congestion.

Far from being deterred, Ruby clucked her tongue sympathetically, and tried not to squirm. If ever a man needed to be held…

“Oh, you needn’t worry about me. I never catch anything. Except when I decide to chase something.”

Once again, her flirtation fell on deaf ears. Crawford merely shrank in on himself further, and shivered. Ruby fought back a sigh.

“Alright. I’ll leave you to eat, and get that tea ready for you.”

As she passed the bar, the fisherman, now being poured a glass of ale by Aunt Hortense, let out a low chuckle.

“You’re barking up the wrong wizard there, my girl!”

Ruby’s cheeks flushed with annoyance as she stormed back into the kitchen, and poured hot water into the teapot to prepare it for the leaves.

“Honestly, does anyone in this washed-up wreck of a town have taste?”

Waiting for the pot to warm, Ruby went to listen by the door, and struggled not to squirm as she heard another sneeze from Crawford’s table. Once again, it sounded loud, soaking, laden with cold… And was once again it was accompanied by the scraping of chairs and sound of movement as patrons drew away, followed by a hoarse, miserable apology, and assurance that all was under control.

“Honestly, they can sail through a storm but can’t handle a man with the sniffles…”

As Ruby emerged from the kitchen with a large, steaming mug of tea, her attraction to the ailing wizard merged with sympathy. Looking to his table, she saw him shivering hopelessly, having pulled his oilskin back over his narrow shoulders, poking miserably at his food. And, as if to further compound his misery, all those who had been anywhere remotely near his table had relocated to the other side of the tavern.

“Honestly, it’s just a cold…”

Ruby glanced at Aunt Hortense, and found her at a table at the other side of the room, laying down the law regarding a patron’s unpaid tab. Taking her chance, Ruby ducked beneath the bar, seizing a bottle of whiskey and adding a generous shot to the mug of tea. That ought to chase away the chills!

Crawford, feeding Neptune a piece of mutton from his stew, looked up at Ruby with bleary eyes as she approached his table, setting down the mug with a smile.

“There. That’ll have you nice and warmed up in no time.”

Worn and weary and wretchedly full of cold as he looked, this time, Crawford managed a slight, shy smile in return.

“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”

Crawford wrapped his hands around the mug, sighing in relief at the warmth, and raised it to his lips, attempting to inhale some of the steam through his stuffy nose. Failing this, he took a deep sip instead.

His eyes, closed in relief at the warmth, suddenly opened in horror.

“Is… Huhh… Is there… Snff-SNF! Huhhh… HaAHhh… whiskey in this?”

“Just a nip! I thought it might warm you up?”

Crawford gave a flustered snort, setting the mug down and pushing it away, and grabbing urgently for his bandana. His reddened nostrils flared wide, and he shook his head, as if he might somehow refuse the oncoming sneeze, even as his eyelids fluttered closed and his chest and shoulders jerked with violent hitches.

“I… I can’t… Ihh… I’m sorry… I… Ehh… HehEHhh… HhhHRFFFSHHHOO!”

Crawford did his best to smother the explosion in his bandana, but to no avail. It was torn from him, throat-scraping and violent, and already he was gasping in air for another. Neptune gave a sharp yap, and retreated under the table between Crawford’s feet. The patrons at the other side of the table rose to their feet, and Ruby heard one of them cry out.

“Best clear out, here he goes!”

“HhiieeffsssSSHOO!”

The second sneeze left Crawford panting and teary-eyed, bracing himself against the table, coughing weakly, but already drawing in air for a third effort. Several patrons hurried out the door. Others ducked under their tables. Aunt Hortense, spying Ruby, came storming over and seized her by the arm.

“Get away, you silly girl, before…”

“HhhHHRAAASSSSHOO!”

The sound of the sneeze itself was nearly drowned out by a crack of thunder, and a blinding brightness as lightning flashed just outside the window. Wind shrieked through the tavern, blowing an abandoned newspaper about the room. Ruby gave a shriek of alarm, clutching Aunt Hortense as the sudden violent gust tore at her hair.

Crawford, rubbing furiously at his swollen, leaking nose, attempted to stammer out an apology.

“I’m so sorry… The whiskey… I… Iihhhh… AhhHAAaahh… AHHhhHASHOO!”

Aunt Hortense swore, shoving Ruby aside and taking Crawford by the arm, trying to haul him to his feet.

“What whiskey? Who… Alright, time for you to step outside!”

“I… Hhhehhh…”

“Oh, no you don’t! You keep that nose of yours under control!”

Crawford struggled to get to his feet, but, seemingly clumsy from illness, stumbled back into his seat with the sheer force of the next sneeze.

“HhhhHHYAAASSSSHH!”

Aunt Hortense took Crawford by the arm once more, snapping at Ruby as she did so.

“Help me get him out, girl! Before…”

“EhhhHESSSHOO!”

Another violent wind ripped through the tavern, and this time, fat, heavy raindrops began to fall, slowly at first, then thick and fast. Ruby gasped as they splashed against her skin, rapidly cooling her flushed cheeks. Seeing the urgency of the situation now, she took Crawford’s other arm, and between them, the two women helped him to the door, the poor wizard already shuddering with urgent hitches, fueling the next sneeze.

“I… I’m really so… Huh! UhhHuhh… sorry, I… HhHRUFFFFSSSHOO!”

The force of it nearly sent Crawford stumbling, and Ruby put an arm around him to steady him as they stepped out into the street, where wild winds tore at their hair and clothes, and sleet stung their skin. The chill, Ruby noted, made the feverish heat radiating from Crawford all the more pronounced. With her arm around him, she could feel his chest heaving, readying for the next effort. The little dog, Neptune, yapped urgently, getting underfoot in his attempts to herd them onwards.

“HhhHRASSCHOO!”

Ruby felt the spray of that one on her cheek, and the shiver that ran through her wasn’t entirely from the cold.

As Crawford, teary-eyed, nose streaming, looking exhausted, stumbled to a halt as the next sneeze began to overwhelm him, Aunt Hortense took Ruby by the arm and tugged her back, looking grim. Still reeling from all that had unfolded, Ruby watched with wide eyes as Crawford leaned back in readiness, and was flung forward by the force of one final, exhausting sneeze.

“Ehh… Hehh… Huhhh... HhhhHHUUURUSSSSHOOO!”

 One last burst of howling wind swirled outwards from the unfortunate wizard, followed by an eerie silence, broken only by his soft moaning and snuffling, as the pattering rain turned to a thick, heavy fall of snow.

Crawford, shivering as snowflakes settled over his hair and clothes, raised his now all but useless bandana to his nose and gave an exhausted, careful blow, and looked to Aunt Hortense with rheumy eyes, looking thoroughly miserable.

“I… I’m really so terribly sorry. I could have sworn I had it under control, only…”

Aunt Hortense folded her arms across her chest, shooting Ruby a look that promised dire consequences to come.

“Only this one slipped you a shot of whiskey, it seems. That’ll be coming out of your pay, girl! And as for the mess…”

Crawford held up a hand apologetically, wrinkling his nose and snuffling terribly.

“You mustn’t blame her, she didn’t know. And if you’ll let me catch my breath, I can clear all this up…”

“She knows better than to slip people drinks they haven’t asked for! And by the time you’ve collected yourself enough for that, you’ll have sneezed us up a proper storm!”

Unable to argue with that, Crawford visibly slumped, hanging his head, mopping at his nose once more. Aunt Hortense strode briskly back inside the tavern, and returned with Crawford’s scarf, which she briskly wrapped around his neck, before pulling his oilskin coat around him tighter.

“Go home, Mister Seaver. I’ll speak to the grocer and have your supplies sent to the lighthouse.”

“I… You mustn’t go to any trouble…”

“Did it sound like I was asking?”

“… Thank you. Good day, Mrs Platt.”

The wizard and his little dog turned to walk away, Neptune with his tail still carried high, Crawford with his metaphorical tail between his legs, sniffling and coughing all the while. Ruby watched them go, vaguely aware of Aunt Hortense scolding her.

“And you, my girl, can spend the rest of the day with a mop for company!”

Bruce taps the side of his phone absentmindedly at the end of his Watchtower shift. He had sent a quick message at the beginning of his shift, and Lois was just getting back to him now. 

BW: Did Clark seem…? LL: Like he's been fighting the headcold from hell for the past few days? LL: Pls tell me you have a way to force bedrest. Or at least stop him from spraying his germs all over the bullpen.  LL: Can he even be contagious?  BW: Working on it.  LL: You're welcome. And thanks xo

Apparently, the blue boy scout was sneezing through his Daily Planet shifts too. Bruce had showed up for his watchtower shift ten minutes early, as always, and headed to the main monitoring room to switch off with Kal-El. What he had found wasn't completely the Kal that he knew. Superman, normally picture-perfect and coiffed, had been a sniffly mess. Bruce had watched him try and fail to cover a spraying sneeze, the particles settling on top of the monitor board. He had been able to cover his kneejerk reaction of disgust, instead rifling through his memory bank for a previous example of Kal sneezing. Finding none, he had tilted his head slightly, asking, “Everything alright?” 

Kal had answered with the affirmative, and since Bruce trusted him, he had let it be. Mostly. After he sent a text to Lois and collected a swab of the moisture left behind on the monitors to run via flow cytometry later. 

_______________________________

Bruce had three hours between his Watchtower shift ending and Clark getting off from the Daily Planet. He spent most of it running Clark's fluids through a multitude of tests and getting too many positive results to confidently say which ones might be causing his ailments. No kryptonite readings at all, either. On a good day, Superman had an overwhelming and unique microbiome. He couldn't see many differences between Kal's baseline and these readings, except for a slightly elevated viral load. Was that enough to cause his current symptoms? And why was Clark acting like he was unaffected? It was a mystery, which was luckily Bruce's specialty.

Although he and Clark had an agreement that Bruce would let Clark know if he was breaking into his civilian apartment, Bruce figured this counted as extenuating circumstances. Since Clark had seen fit to lie to him, he didn't feel very bad about a little B&E. 

The apartment itself was telling. It was usually cluttered due to its small size, but it was in more disarray than usual. Although it was early fall, and Clark was unaffected by cold weather, there were many blankets piled on the threadbare couch. Bruce catalogued tissue boxes that usually weren't present on the small kitchen counter, the couch, and the TV stand, and Clark’s small kitchen trash can was set up beside the couch as well, filled a quarter of the way with balled-up tissues. Bruce sat delicately on the uncomfortable sitting chair that he had already tried and failed to get Clark to replace, crossing his legs by settling his ankle on his thigh just in time for the lock on the door to rattle. The door opened, and Clark appeared a few moments later, closing and locking the door behind him. He turned around and froze, wide eyes locking with Bruce's. 

The surprise took only a moment to clear from his face, replaced with a tired resignation. “Lois?” He asked, shoulders slumping in that stupid oversized suit jacket of his. 

“What's wrong with you?” Bruce always found getting right to the point was best. Clark wrinkled his nose in annoyance. 

“Would it kill you to be ndice?” Clark rubbed at his face before dropping his messenger bag at the door, making his way into the living room and flopping down on the couch. He leaned his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose over the top of his glasses as he breathed through his cracked, parted lips. Bruce hardly saw him so miserable, especially outside of kryptonite poisoning. 

“You look…concerning.” Understatement. Clark looked properly ill, cheeks slightly flushed in what Bruce figured was a fever, his nose red and raw down to the lip, his eyes rimmed pink and watery. Bruce could hear the catch in Clark’s chest when he sighed, the congestion that probably felt like cement in his sinuses (if the way he was massaging them was any indication) bogging down his words, the exhaustion in his words that were punctuated by light sniffles. Even his outfit had suffered the effects of his illness, damp spots sticking out on his gray suit top sleeves from where he presumably wiped his streaming nose into them. “How are you sick?”

Clark huffed out a laugh, one that turned into a hacking cough that he hurriedly muffled into the already damp cuff of his sleeve. “It happends, Bruce. Ndot oftend, but I’ve had a few colds and flus.” He sniffled, wiping the corners of his mouth with the wrist of his sleeve. He looked so delicate, which was a strange state for someone who was probably the strongest person on Earth. “Usually whend I’m already runnding mbyself ragged.” He sighed, pressing his fingers to his face where it looked like the congestion was bothering him the most. “I overdid it with that tsunami and the League mission. And a lot of people at the Planet have beend calling out, some sort of flu I think. I’m just the mbost recent victimb.” 

“This information is not in your file,” Bruce said. Discomfort prickled at his skin. Superman being affected by the common cold or Type A and B flu was the sort of thing that should be included in the files that he kept on everyone. What if Clark had fallen ill on an away mission and was unable to tell them what was wrong? Or no one could get ahold of him? A few dozen worst-case scenarios ran through Bruce’s head, but he bit them back. Clark was probably well aware of what points Bruce would bring up. 

“It’s the flu, B,” Clark looked amused. “And I hardly ever ge-heh…hah!” Bruce leaned over and plucked a few tissues from the box on the couch, holding them out to Clark, who was fanning his face with one hand and reaching towards the box with the other. He hurriedly grabbed the proffered tissues and held them firmly over his nose and mouth. “...Hihh!! Heh’KSHht! Heh’ESHH’uh! –TSCHieew! Ngh. ‘Scuse mbe.” 

If anyone had asked Bruce what he thought Superman’s sneeze would sound like, he would guess some sort of loud, abrasive, and succinct, “Ah-choo!” noise. But Clark was a hitching, damp mess, panting into the tissues and seeming almost embarrassed as his voice pitched up oddly in response to his tickling nose. His sneezes wrenched him forward but didn’t incapacitate him, though his glasses were knocked askew and the tissues squelched as he pinched off the mess he had produced. Bruce watched in silence as Clark threw the bundle of tissues away only to immediately grab two more, blowing his nose unproductively before giving a stuffed up sniff and tossing those as well after a final sniffle and a crisp swipe under his nose. He hadn’t managed to catch everything, though, or maybe the nature of his congestion meant that sniffing wasn’t effective, because a small gleam of moisture clung to his reddened nostrils. Clark sighed, exhaustion tinging the noise. “I’m assuming ndo one’s letting mbe go into work tomorrow?” 

“Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve been going at all this week,” Bruce quipped. “It’s highly irresponsible to be around other people when you’re as ill as you are.” 

“I’ve beend masking up,” Clark protested. “And I had a big deadline.” He blinked. “Crap. I took mby mask off when I got into the building.”

Bruce shrugged, standing up. “Don’t worry about it. Do you have a fever?” 

Clark shrugged. “Probably. I feel kinda achy. What…what are you doing?” 

“Taking your temperature. I assume you don’t have a thermometer.” Bruce stood over Clark on the couch, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. Years of fatherhood gave Bruce a pretty good idea of what fevers felt like. “Elevated, but not too far from your normal range. Are you tired?” 

“Exhausted,” Clark exhaled. “Wait, you shouldn’t get too close. You’ll catch this.” 

Bruce ignored him, moving into the kitchen. “Get changed and make yourself comfortable.” 

Clark grumbled under his breath but did as he was told, shuffling into the bedroom to presumably change into something more appropriate for a sick day. Bruce could hear his dry, painful-sounding coughs punctuating his actions, though he was focused on cataloguing Clark’s food supply and medicine cabinet. Predictably, there was nothing stronger than over the counter painkillers, probably for guests, but Clark had a fair amount of ingredients in his fridge and pantry. Bruce wasn’t much of a cook, but Clark could hold his own, even while not feeling his best. Bruce had been witness to many of Clark’s culinary adventures, the man able to balance cooking, holding a conversation, and editing Lois’ article without skipping a beat. Sneezing and cooking at the same time would be a cakewalk comparatively. 

Although he was lacking in medicine, Clark did have some cold packs in the freezer, and Bruce got one out, wrapping it in a towel before taking it back to the living room alongside a glass of water. That was about the time Clark shuffled back in from the bedroom, clad only in a t-shirt, a pair of boxer briefs, and thick socks. He had ditched his glasses, which made his eyes look smaller and more watery. He immediately beelined for the couch again, grabbing one blanket to pull over his lap and another to wear over his shoulders. If Bruce hadn't felt his forehead, he'd be sure of that fever now. Clark had obviously chosen his outfit so that he could alternate between feeling hot and cold at a rapid pace. At the moment, he shivered slightly, tightening the hold of the blanket a little. With his reddened nose and eyes, he looked the sick man that he was. 

“Here,” Bruce held out the glass of water, watching Clark drink half of it before setting it back on the side table. He handed him the towel-wrapped cold pack. “Put that on the back of your neck.” Clark did as he was told with a sniffle, eyes fluttering shut in relief as the cold pack soothed his the heat that seemed to be plaguing him. He leaned his head back again on the back of the couch, giving Bruce a clear look into his nose, which was so swollen and red that he was positive Clark had been sick for at least a few days prior and was doomed to many more days of his illness ahead.

“Four days?” Bruce guessed. 

“Hm?” Clark didn’t open his eyes. Bruce looked at him fondly. 

“How long you’ve been feeling sick. Four days?” 

Clark hummed again, this time slightly contemplative. “My throat started hurting Friday.” 

Today was Wednesday. “Five days, then.” Clark hummed once more, sounding slightly miserable about it this time. “That’s one hell of a flu.” 

“The other symptoms didn’t start for a few days.” Clark coughed slightly. “Can we stop talking about it for a sec? It’s making me feel itchy.” His nostrils flared as if in warning, and Bruce knew he would acquiesce to almost anything Clark asked of him when he was looking so pathetic. “Tell me how the family center’s renovations went?” 

Bruce wasn’t pleased with the deflection, but he understood it. Clark wasn’t used to being cared for, he was usually the one doing the caring. He couldn’t count the times that Clark had helped a friend, a family member, or Bruce himself through an injury or illness, and he knew all too well the feeling of weakness that came with asking for help. So he sat back down and started regaling Clark with stories from the renovations. The surprisingly high volunteer turnout, the surprisingly beautiful weather in an otherwise rainy autumn, the general cheerfulness and the stupid speech he had to bumble his way through at the beginning. 

Although Clark didn't move from his lounged position, Bruce could tell he’s listening actively to his words. He puffed out a breath of amused laughter when Bruce mentioned Dick parading in with his friends, all of them playing at being airheaded socialites with minimal gardening skills while also installing an irrigation system in the newly-built front garden beds. When Bruce talked about the innovative updates to the building, he made appreciative cooing noises. And when Bruce shared his annoyance about the shareholders who decided to naysay directly to his face, Clark scoffed hard enough for snot to shoot from his nose, and he quickly straightened up, the back of his hand lifting to cover as the shifting congestion causes his eyes to crinkle, lids heavy as a wrinkle appeared between his brow and his expression turned hazy behind his hand. 

“HEUH’kkSSCHeugh! Gah, ha-h’kchiew! HII’idgsheuh. Ugh.” Clark ended the fit with a miserable gasp, snorting inelegantly into his hand. “Godda be gross for a sec, B,” he said, horribly congested, hand still pressed to his nose. He put the cold pack in his other hand down and used it to pull two tissues from the box on the couch. He probably gave the warning so that Bruce would look away, but instead he watched as Clark pulled his hand away, sniffling in large, soupy sounds but unable to snort back a rope of watery snot that connected his hand to his upper lip. Clark grimaced, looking like he was trying to decide whether to wipe up his nose or hand first, but his hand won, Clark mopping that with the tissues before following the rope of mess to his running nose and blowing, a thick, gurgling sound coming from the action. He balled the tissues up and repeated it, the same germ-laden, snotty noise filling the room. He pulled the tissue away with a thick sniffle, thumbing at his sore-looking nose. 

Bruce looked away before Clark caught him staring, and once he felt his lover’s eyes on him he turned back, smiling in genuine sympathy. “You sound miserable, Clark,” he said. “In what world made you think you should go to work like that?” 

Pink embarrassment dusted Clark’s cheeks, and he pulled the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter to himself. “Like I said, there was a big deadline. But I finished it this morning.” 

“And you still finished out your work day? You’re always on my case about being a workaholic, but you’re just as bad.” 

Clark sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Bruce gave him a sympathetic look, then walked over from the chair to sit on the couch, pulling Clark in for a one-armed hug. “Don’t be sorry. But look out for yourself, sometimes? It’s okay to take the time to be well.”

He could feel Clark’s nod. Once he felt that Clark suitably understood his point, he pulled away and pressed a kiss to Clark’s forehead. “Put the cold pack back on your neck. I’m going to make you something to eat.” He had made the executive decision that Clark was too ill to have to do anything, especially make dinner, and although Alfred liked to pretend otherwise, Bruce could follow a simple recipe. 

“Don’t you have patrol soon?” Clark asked, squinting up at him like he was trying to remember if he was correct. 

“There’s still a few hours,” Bruce responded. “I’ll get you set up, then into bed, and by the time you wake up I’ll be back from patrol.” 

Clark blinked. “Oh. You’re…staying?” He looked genuinely touched, like his long-term partner deciding to stay in his apartment with him when he was sick from a near-debilitating cold was a gift instead of an expectation. Damn, Bruce loved him. 

“Of course. I’m sorry I have to leave for patrol,” he turned away to wander into the kitchen, pulling out the raw ingredients that Clark had for a simple curry. Potatoes,onions, peas, chickpeas, carrots, chicken, spinach, and apples, all of it with plenty of ginger and garlic. He would make a curry so healthy that Clark would immediately be healed upon eating it. 

Another liquidy sniffle and a loud, “HIh-GGKSSHUU’HA!” followed by another sopping nose blow. Okay, so maybe Bruce was being a bit optimistic. Nevertheless, he was determined to get some nutrients into Clark. 

Clark was mostly quiet in his misery, sounds of sickness but no words coming from him as Bruce chopped the vegetables as quickly as possible. So when Clark stood, he paused, giving his partner his full attention. “Clark? Need something?”

Clark blinked, thumbing at the moisture at his nose. “Bathroom,” he said with a sniffle, then shuffled off. Bruce listened carefully for the door to close, and then followed the noises of Clark relieving himself and washing his hands. He knew that this was Superman, and Superman could handle a bathroom trip, but Clark was so vulnerable looking and miserable that Bruce couldn’t help but worry. He got this way around his kids when they were sick or hurt, too. It irked the hell out of them, he knew, but he couldn’t stop the paranoia that crept into him when his loved ones weren’t feeling their best. 

He was just finishing leaving everything to simmer on the stovetop when he heard the bathroom door open again, though it sounded like Clark was making a pit stop for something in his bedroom.

Then Bruce heard a muffled thump, just a bit louder than it should have been, and he quickly moved from the kitchen towards the bedroom, concern spiking. Did Clark fall? Did he trip over something? Trip into something? He rounded the kitchen in time to see Clark leaning heavily against the wall in the small hallway that led to his bathroom and bedroom, face hovering above his forearm before he lazily brought it towards his nose. “hehh… h'uhhH'EHSSCh'uh! Heh'ESHHuh! Eh’ISHh! Esh'SHiuhh!”

Clark braced himself on the wall, head bobbing up and down with each sneeze. He tried to sniffle between them, but it seemed that his nose was adamant about being cleared, because an itchy look overcame his expression and his glistening nostrils flared again as he aimed the next flurry of sneezes towards his arm again. “-IIhp’sshHHEhww! HiihhhhiH-HiisccHHihwww!!” He tried to dab at the mess, but it was futile, a strand of it connecting his nose to his bare arm. It broke in half, dripping down his face, and it must have been ticklish enough to bother him again because Clark only had time to brace his hand against the wall as he bent in half with a, “IhZZSCHHihhwww!!” that had his huge chest heaving towards the ceiling at its start and snapped him in half by the end, his running nose shooting towards the floor. Bruce was frozen in disgusted fascination at the thick ropes of mucus that stuck to themselves as they were expelled weakly from Clark’s nose, clinging to his septum and unable to be sniffed up, despite the marshy sniffles Clark was attempting between ragged, exhausted breaths. In the sunset of the early evening that filtered through Clark's limited windows, he could see glittering spray in various sizes rain down upon his poor sick partner.

Bruce went from voyeur to witness when Clark looked up, embarrassment written in his expression at the performance being seen by someone else. “Oh mby god,” he mumbled, quickly bringing the corner of his blanket to his nose. “Sorry. Sorry, that was gross.” He snuffled without any progress, and that finally kicked Bruce into action. He turned around and grabbed the tissue box from the TV stand, handing four to Clark. He looked away politely while the other man cleaned himself up, miserable breaths and squelches the only thing letting him know that Clark was still working at it. Bruce pulled a couple more tissues out and offered them again, and Clark took them with a grateful thanks.

Once the noises had subsided, Bruce turned to see Clark still leaning against the wall, red-faced. His chest warmed at the sight. 

“Let’s get you back onto the couch. Want me to take those?” Bruce held a hand out for the used tissues, but Clark’s grip went white-knuckled on the mass of soggy paper. 

“I’ve got it,” he said, and gratefully accepted Bruce’s arm as they shuffled back to the couch. “Sorry,” he said again. “Ugh, I’ll ndever be able to forget that. Absolutely humbiliating.” Bruce rubbed his back comfortingly. He wanted to comfort Clark, but he knew his words probably wouldn't convince the man of anything. The best he could do was hand him tissues and be here to get him through the worst of it without judgement. Then he realized that there was an etiquette faux pas he had been making, something he hadn’t said yet today.