Untitled

“I know I’m not dying.”

“The bad news is that you’re doing almost everything wrong.”

You turn your head toward him by approximately four degrees, which is all you can manage. He’s holding a mug in each hand and wearing the expression he gets when he’s about to explain something, which is basically his default expression, but there are gradations and this one means he has a whole thing prepared.

“I’m doing everything wrong,” you repeat.

“The dry air alone.” He crosses to the bed, sets one mug on the nightstand with the careful precision of a man who has already knocked something over today and is not going to knock something else over. “Do you know what dry air does to inflamed mucous membranes?”

“I’m begging you.”

“It makes them worse. It makes everything worse. I turned on the humidifier in the hallway, by the way, you’re welcome, and I found your old one in the closet and it has what I can only describe as a concerning amount of dust in it so I cleaned it out and that one’s running in here now.” He sits on the edge of the bed. Looks at you with the focused attention he usually reserves for interesting problems. You are, apparently, an interesting problem. “Also you need to drink more water. That,” he nods at the mug he just put down, “is not water, that’s tea, but it counts toward your fluids, and there’s actual water on the other side of the nightstand because I anticipated you arguing with me about the tea.”

You look. There is indeed a glass of water on the other side of the nightstand.

You have been outmanoeuvred by a man in a t-shirt that says THE MITOCHONDRIA IS THE POWERHOUSE OF THE CELL in the font of a band tee.

“I hate you,” you say, and reach for the tea.

“No you don’t.” He reaches over and pushes your hair off your forehead, just briefly, just to check. His hand is warm. “You’re warm.”

“I know I’m warm.”

“How warm, though. That’s the interesting part.”

“Ryland.”

“I have a thermometer.”

“I know you have a thermometer. You’ve had it in your hand twice in the last hour.”

“That’s because I wanted data and you kept being uncooperative about it.” He produces the thermometer from somewhere. Of course he does. He’s like a cartoon character with inexhaustible pockets when he’s in this mode. “Open.”

“I’m drinking my tea.”

“After the tea.”

You drink the tea with what you hope is a withering expression. He waits with what you know is genuine, uncomplicated patience. This is the thing about him in caretaker mode. He doesn’t flutter, he doesn’t hover, he just. Waits. With all the time in the world and a thermometer.

You open your mouth.

He waits the full sixty seconds. Checks the display. His mouth does a small thing.

“Ninety-nine point eight,” he says.

“So.”

“So nothing, that’s fine, that’s completely manageable, I just wanted to know.” He puts the thermometer on the nightstand. “See? Data. Good data. You’re warm but you’re not broken.”

“I feel broken.”

“I know.” He says it simply, no performance around it. “That’s the worst part of a head cold, honestly. You feel catastrophically terrible and there’s nothing actually wrong with you. Your body’s just.” He waves a hand. “Doing a bit.”

“A bit,” you echo.

“An unnecessary bit. Very dramatic. Zero stars.” He stands, and you get a brief anxious sense of him leaving, which you will not be acknowledging, and then he just goes to the other side of the bed and sits down against the headboard. Settles in. Reaches over and puts a hand in your hair, easy and unhurried, like he planned to be exactly here all along.

“You don’t have to stay,” you say.

“I know.”

“I’m disgusting.”

“You’re really not.”

“I’m mouth breathing.”

“I can hear that, yeah.”

“Ryland.”

“Go to sleep,” he says, “or don’t, I don’t care, I’m not going anywhere.” His hand moves slowly through your hair. Outside it’s getting dark. The humidifier makes a soft sound in the corner. “I found that show you like, I can put it on in the background if you want something.”

You want to say something. You don’t know what, exactly. Something about how unfair it is that he’s like this, probably. How he somehow manages to make being looked after feel like a completely normal thing to receive, no ceremony, no debt incurred, just.

Here. Obviously. Where else would I be.

“Yeah,” you say instead. “Put it on.”

He does. You close your eyes, which are also, mysteriously, tired. His hand stays in your hair. The tea is good. The humidifier hums.

You are still breathing through your mouth. You still hate it. But the weight in your chest is a different weight now, softer, and you are starting to think you might actually sleep.

You don’t sleep, and after a while you understand why.

It creeps up sideways, the way the worst things do. One minute you’re a sick, leaking, miserable little gremlin with no thoughts in your head beyond the structural integrity of the tissue pile. The next minute you are extremely, stupidly aware of the warm weight of his hand still moving slow through your hair, and the line of his body next to yours, and the low easy sound of his voice when he murmurs something at the show you’re not watching.

You feel betrayed. By yourself. By your own ridiculous nervous system, which has apparently decided that now, fever and all, snot and all, is the moment to wake up and start filing requests.

You make a noise. It is not a dignified noise.

“You okay?” His hand stills. “Need water?”

“No.”

“Tea’s still warm if you want the rest of it.”

“It’s not the tea.”

“Okay.” A pause. The careful pause of a man recalibrating. “You’re doing a face. What’s the face.”

“I’m not doing a face.”

“You’re absolutely doing a face. I’ve catalogued your faces. That’s a new one and it’s very.” He tilts his head, studying you with the exact focused curiosity he’d give an unexpected reading on an instrument. “Conflicted. That’s a conflicted face. What’s the conflict.”

And because you feel terrible, and because lying to him takes energy you do not have, and because he is going to figure it out anyway, he always does, you tell him. Flatly. Into the pillow. With as little dignity as the situation already has, which is none.

There’s a silence.

Then, delighted, “Oh, that’s fascinating, actually, that’s a known thing, fever can absolutely crank up your, hang on, it’s a whole autonomic nervous system thing, your body’s already in this heightened state and the wires kind of cross, it’s not even that uncommon, it’s just your system being,” and you watch in real time as he hears himself, watch the exact half second where the lecture meets the room, “deeply unhelpful right now. I’m doing it again. I’m sorry.”

“You’re explaining my own situation to me.”

“I am explaining your own situation to you. Force of habit. It’s a coping mechanism.” He sets his jaw like a man recommitting to a task. “Okay. New approach.”

“You don’t have to do anything, it’s stupid, I’m sick, I’ll just suffer, this is fine.”

“You don’t have to suffer,” he says, easy as anything, like you’ve suggested walking to the store in the rain when there’s a perfectly good car. “That’s a wild thing to volunteer for. Suffering.”

“I’m disgusting, Ryland.”

“You keep saying that like it’s load-bearing.” He’s already moving, shifting down the bed, settling in close behind you, careful, unhurried, one arm coming over you to pull you back against him. His mouth is at your ear. He’s smiling. You can hear it. “For the record this is also fluids and rest. I’m a very thorough caregiver. It’s basically doctor’s orders.”

“That was the worst thing anyone has ever said.”

“I know,” he says, warm and pleased with himself and not sorry at all, and then his voice drops the joke and goes soft and certain against the back of your neck. “Just lie still. I’ve got it. You don’t have to do anything.”

And you don’t.

He doesn’t reposition you. Doesn’t rearrange anything. Just stays where he is, settled in close behind you, and you feel his hand leave your hair and go to the hem of your shirt. Your shirt. His shirt. One of his, the old soft one you stole so long ago he’s forgotten it was ever his.

“This okay?” Low, against your neck.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice to come out at a reasonable pitch right now and you are not adding that to the evening’s list of indignities.

He pushes the shirt up but doesn’t take it off, just rucks it up enough to get his hand on your skin, palm flat on your stomach, and the warmth of it makes you shiver, which is absurd because you are literally running a fever. His fingers spread. He just holds you there for a second, like he’s getting the measure of you, feeling you breathe.

Then his hand goes to your waistband. Your underwear. Whatever it is you put on twelve hours and forty tissues ago when you still thought you might leave the house today. He works them down slow, just far enough, not making a production out of it, and you feel his knuckles brush the outside of your thigh on the way and it lights you up like a wire and you hate your stupid traitorous nervous system all over again.

Behind you, he shifts. You hear the elastic of his waistband, the quiet economy of a man dealing with his own clothes one-handed because the other hand hasn’t left your stomach. Efficient. Unhurried. He settles back in, the whole warm length of him along your back, skin against skin now where it wasn’t before, and you feel him, hard against you, and he still doesn’t rush.

He pulls you back a fraction with the hand on your hip, closing the last gap between you, and then he’s pushing in slow enough that you feel every inch of it, slow enough that your breath changes twice before he bottoms out.

You make a sound. Small. Not one you planned.

“I’ve got you,” he says, low and easy, mouth warm against the place where your hair meets the back of your neck. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there, another point of contact, another thing holding you to the bed.

He sets a pace like he’s matching something you can’t hear. Something patient. He pulls back and presses forward and it’s the same each time, the same depth, the same slow drag, and he doesn’t change it. Doesn’t speed up. He said you didn’t have to do anything and apparently he meant that down to the letter, because he holds the rhythm for both of you, steady and unhurried and impossibly even, like he’s got nowhere else to be. Which he doesn’t.

His hand slides from your hip to your stomach and presses, gently, and the shift in angle makes your breath hitch. He feels it. Keeps his pace. Doesn’t chase it. Just lets it land.

The fever has done something to your nerve endings. Stripped them raw, left everything humming just beneath the surface. Every point of contact is louder than it should be. The drag of the sheet against your thigh. The spread of his fingers on your stomach. The way his hips meet the backs of yours and stay, just for a beat, before pulling away again. You feel all of it, too much and exactly right at the same time, and your body can’t decide whether it’s overwhelmed or starving.

Both. It’s both.

“There you go,” he murmurs when your hips shift back against him without your permission. Not praising, not teasing. Just noticing. Just letting you know he’s paying attention so you don’t have to be.

You thought it would take longer. You thought you’d have to work for it, that you’d have to climb somewhere, but that’s the thing. There’s no climb here. There’s nothing to push toward and nothing to perform and your body doesn’t know what to do with that kind of freedom except fall into it. The feeling gathers low and warm, not sharp, not electric, just a slow swell you don’t realize you’re riding until you’re already near the top of it.

Your hand finds his wrist. Not pulling. Not directing. Just holding on.

He feels the change. He must, because you feel it everywhere, the way your breathing goes shallow, the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers tighten on him. He keeps his pace. Same depth. Same unhurried drag. He doesn’t give you more because you don’t need more. You just need this, steady and close and exactly the same, and he gives it to you like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like there is nothing he would rather be doing on a weeknight than holding you together while you come apart.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, quieter now, and you believe him.

It breaks over you like something warm. Not a wave, nothing that dramatic. More like a long exhale you’d been holding without knowing it. Your whole body pulls taut and then releases, one shudder that starts low and rolls outward, and the sound you make barely qualifies as one. Just a breath with a shape to it. Just Ryland, half-swallowed into the pillow.

After, he stops.

Just like that. The second it’s clear you’re done, that you’ve crested and come down and gone loose and boneless against him, he stops, gentles you through the last of it with his hand flat and still on your stomach, and that’s it. No momentum carried forward. No quiet hopeful pause waiting to become his turn. He just holds you, and breathes, and lets it be over.

It takes you a foggy second to notice.

“You didn’t,” you start. Your voice has gone thick again, the cold reasserting itself now that the better feeling is fading. “You can. I can.”

“Nope.” He reaches down and finds the blanket where it got shoved to the foot of the bed and drags it back up over both of you, tucks it in around your shoulder with the same careful competence he brought to the humidifier and the thermometer and the strategically pre-positioned glass of water. “Go to sleep.”

“Ryland.”

“I’m good. Genuinely.” And the thing is you can tell he means it, that there’s no martyrdom in it, no scorekeeping, he’s just folded this into the same category as everything else tonight, one more thing handled, one more way of being here. His hand finds your hair again. Slow. Easy. “That wasn’t about me. Go to sleep.”

The humidifier hums in the corner. The show’s still playing, low, neither of you watching. You’re still congested. You’re still a little feverish, and you’re absolutely going to feel terrible again in the morning.

But the weight in your chest has changed shape one more time, and his arm is heavy and warm over you, and somewhere behind you he’s already going quiet and even-breathed and close.

Viktor tipped the purple bottle over in his hands, pouring a teaspoon's worth of the liquid in his palm. It was cool and oily- smelling of eucalyptus.

With the cold weather, his leg had been playing up all week. He rolled up his trouser leg and unclasped his brace, exhaling as the locks popped out of place. Slowly, methodically he began to work the ointment over the length of his leg, pressing into the muscle and joints.

He was sat in the small cot they’d set up in the lab, purple blanket beneath him, the distant hum of machinery.

Jayce was still hunched over his desk, hand resting against the side of his face, dislodging the reading glasses he’d started wearing lately.

Viktor watched him as he worked the skin of his thigh- the way his shoulders drew upwards and sank back down with every breath, the lick of hair that stuck up about his crown.

God, this stuff really smelt strong. He’d only bought it yesterday, from a market stall in town. The old woman running the shop had promised it would bring him satisfaction. Odd way to word it perhaps but so far it seemed to be doing the trick.

Jayce looked tired, the stress of the day hanging about his shoulders. He looked so gentle though, bathed in the contrasting yellow and purple lights of the lab.

“Jayce.” Viktor called out softly.

Jayce immediately swivelled to face him, large eyes scanning him.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

Viktor hummed, he patted the bed with his spare hand, “Come take a break?”

Jayce’s expression softened, he leaned round to place down his glasses, and strode over.

Viktor’s hands came to a stop as Jayce plopped down on the bed, though they were still slightly oily from the ointment. Jayce leaned into him, the cool tip of his nose pressing against his jaw as he planted a kiss against his neck.

Viktor breathed in his warm scent, earthy and rich, though still undercut with the sharp smell of the ointment.

“I missed you.” he said quietly.

Jayce laughed, looping an arm around his back, pulling him tight.

“V, I’ve been in here with you all day.”

Viktor could feel himself pouting, “Yes but we’ve been working.”

“What would you rather we were doing?” Jayce asked, low and husky, his mouth close to Viktor’s ear.

Viktor turned and pressed his mouth against Jayce’s, hand coming to cup his cheek.

Jayce exhaled into him, soft lips moving against his own, one of his large hands moving across his back, pushing into the skin.

They moved in tandem, slow and sensual and tasting of coffee and home. Viktor’s hands palmed through the thick mop of Jayce’s hair. He was probably getting the oil into it but he didn’t care, they’d have to shower later anyway.

Jayce was making deep humming noises against him now, shifting on the mattress, scoping Viktor closer and closer.

But suddenly the movement of his tongue halted, he’d frozen. Viktor opened his eyes in time just to see Jayce take a deep, shuddering breath before twisting to the side with a-

“HHah’AASSChuuhh!”

It was uncovered and unrestrained, blasting into the air. Viktor could see the fine droplets of mist as they slowly descended to the lab floor. Oh god. He felt his dick twitch in his pants.He’d always had a thing for… well that for as long as he could remember.

Jayce sniffled thickly, turning to look at him with large apologetic eyes- “Fuck Vik, sorry, that snuck up on me.” he laughed awkwardly.

Jayce didn’t get sick often and wasn't allergic to anything as far as Viktor knew so it was rare to hear him sneeze. But when he did he sure as fuck made up for it. Full-body expulsions that seemed to take hostage of his features and bend him at the waist. He’d always try to raise one of his big hands to press against his nose but often he seemed so caught up in the overwhelming sensation he struggled to get there in time.

Which, before they had become a thing, had made certain days in the lab VERY uncomfortable for VIktor.

To avoid speaking and risk the shake of his voice, Viktor just grabbed Jayce’s face again and pulled him back into the kiss.

He ran his fingers through the gap in Jayce’s shirt, working across the taut muscle of his chest.

Jayce sank into the kiss again, strong arms positioning Viktor so their hips were pressed together, being careful not to put any undue pressure on his bad leg.

Vikor could feel the heat beginning to rise up his neck, pooling at the back of his knees, the hardness in his trousers growing firmer.

They shifted so Viktor was sat on Jayce’s thighs, pulled in closer against his chest. Jayce broke from the kiss, planting pecks down the side of Viktor’s neck, behind his ears, teeth grazing the skin.

Then, with Jayce’s mouth so close to his ear, Viktor could hear the way his breath jostled and surged, his broad chest expanding.

“Huu’EHH Huhh-” Jayce hitched, nose scrunched up, firm hands gripping Viktor’s shoulders as if the sensation were too much for him to bear alone,

Tipping his head over Viktor’s shoulder he left out two wrenching sneezes, shaking Viktor in his lap with the force-

“H’hh’AESTchuuhh..HE-uhhh–H’ECHuuhh!”

Viktor couldn’t help the shuddery moan that slipped between his lips, the pulse that shot through his groin.

“Fuhh-fuck Jayce, bless you.”

But Jayce wasn’t done, he was gasping desperately, shaking his head left and right as if to try and rid the sensation.

Removing his hand from around Viktor’s waist he pressed it against his face with a loud, half-stifled- “H’’HAT-gnttxx!”

He shook slightly as the sensation finally abated, scrubbing at his face with a knuckled hand.

“Bless you again.” Viktor said breathlessly, sweeping the hair that had fallen across Jayce’s face with gentle fingers.

“God, sorry Vil, s-uuHH something is bothering me.”

“Do you feel sick?” said Viktor, suddenly worried and guilty that he might be taking such thrilling pleasure if Jaycwe was actually unwell.

Jayce sniffed thickly- “Ugh fuck one sec.” he rummaged thorugh his toruser pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, he blew into it, the sound gurgling into teh fabric, 

“No, no I feel fine. I don’t know wh–AHH…. What’s– hh HHE’SCHmmmff!” He buried his face into the handkerchief, body rocking as he shuddered through yet another sneeze.

“Guhh, I don’t know what’s setting me off.” he said, bleary eyes coming to meet Viktor’s again.

The sight of his reddening nose, the moisture still clinging to the base of it made Viktor’s dick practically quiver.

“You don’t… mind do you?” said Jayce quietly.

Did he….

“No Jayce, fuck, no, ” Viktor breathed, “Please just, just don’t stop.”

Jayce’s eyebrows twitched, regarding him quizzically. Was he catching on? Whatever, whatever, Viktor needed him and he needed him sooner rather than later.

He fumbled with the buttons of Jayce’s shirt, popping them off one by one.

“This really doesn’t bother you?”

“Quite the opposite actually.” he finished with the buttons, leaning back to let Jayce do the same.

Both shirtless they leaned in again, Jayce’s thumbs reaching up to brush across Viktor’s nipples, making him gasp into his open mouth. Jacye learnt in, sucking on the sections of skin dotted with moles, going lower and lower.

“Jayce I- fuck, can you?”

Jayce looked up at him with a hunger glinting across his eyes, sweat starting to flatten the hair by his ears.

“Yes. yes.” he sighed, reaching for the zipper of Viktor’s trousers.

Halfway down, Jayce’s movements stilled, with one hand on the zip and the other hooked around VIktor’s waist, supporting him, Jayce’s hands were full.

And so when a tickle flared up all consuming in his nose he was left utterly helpless.

“HH’’AESCUHuchh!!” he ducked forward, spray splattering against the bare skin of Viktor’s chest.

Viktor groaned as the cool spray hit his skin, hips bucking upwards.

Jayce shook his head, nose still twitching rapidly.

He blinked up, realising what he’d done. 

“Oh fuck Vik I’m sorry I-”

Viktor leant in, hungrily pressing into Jayce’s mouth, sucking on his lip, teeth against the kiss-swollen flesh.

“Jayce, I don't care. Please, please.” He gasped out as he broke away.

“I ugh- okay.” ever obedient, Jayce resumed his task, faster now as if he too were getting desperate.

Soon Viktor’s trousers were being slowly inched off, extra slowly across his leg that still shimmered with the ointment.

Jayce moved to his underwear, the hard length stiff within them.

He ever so slightly cupped Viktor in his palm. Viktor let out a shivering gasp at the feather-light touch, the sensation rippling up deep into his core.

But Jayce wasn’t that obedient.

He slid backwards on the bed, crouching forward and pressing his mouth against the skin of Viktor’s good leg, kissing, sucking, working upwards and upwards.

Then he moved to the other leg.

THe effect was almost instant.

“Oh—Oh fu–HHHH fuck Vik–Hhhh H Hh…Heh'KSHhUHh! —kSHh! H-hihh! Hih'ESCHUhh!!” He sneezed thickly and without restrain down onto Viktor’s bare legs, barely able to gasp in a breath as he sneezed again and again.

“I– H’AESTCHUHhhh….HHEUH.. I–I Ca–HH Can’t S-ST HEH’GNTx- Can’t stop.”

Over and over he dipped forwards, shoulders shaking with every itchy release. Eventually he managed to bring a hand to his face and he ducked into it over and over- hitching loudly and desperately.

With a final, wrenching sneeze he rocked back, exhausted from the lack of oxygen, his face an utter slick mess.

Viktor almost came in his pants right then and there. Without even the slightest graze of touch. He could see the damp patch of pre-cum sinking through the fabric.

But he couldn’t think about himself right now.

“J-Jayce are you okay? That was.”

“I think it’s HUHHh- guhh I think it’s whatever’s on your leg. It smells like eucalyptus.”

“It is.”

Jayce laughed miserably, rubbing at his reddening eyes with his fist.

“Vik I’m terribly allergic to eucalyptus.”

Oh. Oh.

“Shit Jayce, it’s all over me, all over you. It’s in your hair.”

“It tickles so badly, I can b–HH bare-HH’UPPTCHOohh..snddfff.. Barely breathe.”

“We need to get you showered off. We need to both shower off.”

Jayce’s tear-streaked eyes flicked down. Down to their dicks that were both straining painfully obviously. He shot Viktor an almost maniacal grin.

(for the uninitiated: these are the nice guys, holland march and jackson healy in order)

---

March snapped forward again, cupped his hand over his nose, and unleashed another loud sneeze.

“HHHHR’USSHHHhhhoo!”

A few clients in the waiting room had flinched and turned their heads at the obnoxious sound during the first one, but this was the third. Not a single ‘bless’ was heard either time. Healy could spot one well-dressed lady scrunch her face up in disgust at the drawn out sniffling and shirt wiping March was preoccupied with beside him. It was dim inside, and other than the ambiance of the receptionist doing her work, the loudest person in the room was March. It always was. Healy’s face was stone still, but his eyelid twitched. Every time the guy sneezed, he’d jostle Healy’s arm. It was like he had no awareness of his body, or didn’t care to reign it in for a moment. That describes most things March does.

“You wanna take that outside ‘till you’re done?” Healy spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

March straightened back up and let his head thunk against the wood paneling of the office and crossed his arms. His nose was bright pink from rubbing at it for the last five minutes. “What d’you mean? I’m done.” He stressed the last word like a punch, and blinked hard several times while bouncing his leg.

“You’re not.” Healy was pretending to peruse one of the waiting room’s outdated newspapers, sporting his reading glasses, to make tracking their suspect easier. 

At least, that was his initial plan when he instructed March to ditch the fancy patterns the day. The man they were meant to track had an appointment booked at some firm. It was frequented by old people with a bit more class than they were used to mingling with, so Healy and March were going to blend in and eventually ambush him after he wrapped up whatever business he was up to. 

He listened to the dress code part, but clearly not the ‘blend in’ part. March was doing a fine job of standing out as much as possible in the measly ten minutes they spent inside. Healy didn’t even have to look at him to notice he was gearing up for another sneeze, by the telltale audible spasm of an inhale beside him. To his credit at least, he held his breath for a moment, his leg bouncing even harder.

“Don’t even think about it,” Healy whispered, focused on the help wanted section.

The arms March had crossed over his chest hiked up as he shook his head. His leg froze, and the waiting room had a nice three seconds of pin-drop quietness until the sneeze roared out of him.

“Huuhh…HHHHUURRRSHHHHHOOO!”

The client who was unfortunate enough to sit in the chairs facing them recoiled as March didn’t bother to cover his gust this time, and Healy didn’t blame the poor guy for the fourth sneeze being his final straw. He got up in a hurry and booked it out of the room.

“C’mon. You’re killin’ everyone here, man.”

“You think I wanna be doing this?” March hissed back, wiping at his mustache repeatedly. He turned to address Healy with a scowl before his expression went slack. “Motherfucker.” He returned to facing forwards, scrunching his eyes tight as he tried to will the sneeze away.

There was no point in people watching for their suspect, now that even the receptionists were whispering about the poor ailing man at his side. Healy fished out a diner napkin from his pocket and waved it at March. His partner plucked it out of his two finger grip and sneered in response, tucking it back into his folded arms.

“I don’t nee-hhd this, but thagks.” March was still trying to act like nothing was happening, but a hand kept flying up to his face to roughly knead at his nose, the napkin clutched pointlessly in his fist at his armpit. That nervous leg of his went off again.

Time to cut their losses.

“The front desk is on to us,” Healy said slowly, still keeping his voice low and the newspaper in front of his mouth. He could spot the hat of the fancy lady on the other side of the room pop up as she gave the two of them a withering glare.

He let March trail behind him to his own car as he tossed the newspaper back on its pile and scooped his jacket up. A polite half wave to the waiting room was met with more pairs of judgemental eyes, and once he had his back to them, his face settled into its usual vague scowl.

Healy squinted against the sun outside. March was at his heels, carrying along with him another incoming sneeze with the way he kept sighing and stopping as it built up. He stumbled to the car and gripped the convertible’s door in a pitiful display of defeat, head hung low. Before entering the passenger side, he let loose again, turning away from Healy and bending over in half from the force.

“HHHEAASSHHHHHOOOO! Shit.” He stayed hunched over and was clearly trying to mop up the impromptu mess on his face with his hand. Again.

“What d’you think I gave you that napkin for?” Healy grumbled as he heard March sniffling like wild. The guy who left the waiting room before them was at his own car across the road, his head whipping around at the echoing scream of a sneeze.

March popped back up and swung the car door open violently. He heaved out a big sigh, and slicked his hair back with his non-gross hand. “It’s unbecoming, okay. Just leave it.” Both men deposited themselves in the car, with March continuing to avoid Healy’s eye contact, popping his sunglasses on.

Healy didn’t want to leave it. He got the engine primed and made his thoughts clear. “I’ve seen you puke your guts up and nearly shit yourself while bleeding out, you’ve been spraying all over your hands for the past ten minutes, and you’re drawing the line at blowing your nose in front of me being too gross?” 

“Uh, yeah?” March responded way too quickly, but he clearly didn’t have his heart in it as his nose started to run again. 

“You’re serious,” Healy followed up with mild amusement.

“Yes,” March stressed. He huffed petulantly, and had to sniff again. “Whatever, just don’t you say anythihg.” His voice was stopped up as he was losing this battle, and he dug the napkin back out in defeat as his breath started to hitch.

Healy rolled his eyes as he got the car started. Always so dramatic with everything. Over the engines running, it was still loud as hell even while turning away from Healy, a sneeze, a honking blow, another sneeze, and March emerged from his steepled hands with a considerably pinker nose and matching ears, sunglasses askew. It definitely was gross, but seeing March feel this shy about it was almost satisfying after all the posturing he loved to do. March dumped the thoroughly used napkin in the footwell of his side of the car and checked his reflection out in the mirror, smoothing his mustache down, back to his usual machismo.

The car slid into the empty midday streets, and they drove in silence for a while. It wasn’t like this was the first or last time March would throw a wrench into their plans, but he felt less inclined to chew his head off considering it wasn’t caused by him being blitzed out drunk midday. That would earn him a solid punch, but this was more excusable. He hoped it wasn’t from a flu or something, or he’d be better off dumping his ass back home instead of keeping him in the car and marinating in March-germs all day. In any case, the spasmodic fit that gripped him in the waiting room subsided, and March kept his eyes on the horizon.

Healy broke the silence once they got to a red light. “So. You’re sick.” “What? No. Trust me, you’d know if I was sick.”

Something wasn’t adding up.

“You told me, the night of our first case. You lost your sense of smell a while back,” said Healy.

“I still have a nose, don’t I?”

“...” Healy made a point to catch March’s eyes and look pointedly at his still pink nostrils.

March sighed. “It’s stupid. I barely even remember what the doctor said, as I was heavily concussed if you remember my story.”

“I do,” Healy responded dryly. “You’re a detective without a sense of smell. You’re like a cartoon strip.”

That one might’ve been too far, because March honest to goodness pouted. Bottom lip jutting out and everything. “That’s not fair… I told you about the fire, didn’t I?”

Healy looked back at the road. “Well. You were drunk.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, and he remembered the story as clear as day, but he still felt a twinge of guilt poking into a very sore subject. Even if March was annoying him.

March gave him a side eye, and fiddled with his chain. The ring strung on it glinted in the sun. “Guess it slipped my mind. It's the reason why everything went… fwoosh.” He chased his hurried explanation with a swig from his flask, and this time, Healy dropped the nagging about drinking while they had the convertible top off.

After wiping his mouth, March continued, nervously drumming his fingers on the outside of the door. “That’s a tale for another time. Anyways. The knock to my head before all that unplugged wires in my brain, so my nose still does nose stuff, I just can’t smell ‘s all.”

“That’s a trip.”

“Tell me about it. Kinda stopped caring, or else I’d go nuts, you know. In the end, food is just food…” His voice got that far away twinge in it again. He took another gulp of whiskey, and Healy tried to reel him back in.

“What do you think your nose was reacting to back there?”

March tilted his head back in thought, rubbing his nose as if it’d jolt a memory. “Beats me. I don’t have allergies, so… Oh.” He snapped his fingers. “Lillies. I never liked ‘em. There weren’t any flowers in there, were there?”

“Mmm… no.”

“Then it must've been someone's shitty cologne. I stay the hell away from the perfume department, I can’t tell which one it is that drives me nuts.” March shrugged and yanked at the chair’s crank to ease his chair back while Healy zipped down a hill. “Old men love dousing themselves to cover up that old man smell. Now that’s a smell you can’t forget if you hit your head a hundred times. Eugh.”

“Damn straight.”

He turned into a residential neighborhood, and March finally decided to remember that they were on a case.

“The girlfriend’s house? What, you wanna go get your ear chewed off too?” March teased.

Healy watched the house. “I just thought of something. You’re coming in with me this time.”

March pulled a face again. This girl was missing a few marbles. He was the one who answered when she rang their number up, in hysterics, about her boyfriend’s suitcase disappearing, and Enzo vanishing himself the next morning. It was more likely that he went out to hunt for his belongings, but she was convinced there was more to it and that he was in danger, so she reported him missing to the two man detective agency. Never mind the fact that you can’t be missing if you were gone for less than a day. Squeezing out any further details was torturous as she acted like they were prying too much by asking simple questions like where he worked, and March had come to Healy with the promise of an extra fifty bucks if he was the sole correspondent this time. 

Healy went to ring the doorbell, and March hung back several feet, hands in his pockets, looking very interested in the ugly, sun bleached lawn decor. The girl, Emily, opened it and instantly launched into a tirade, leaning on the doorframe.

“I don’t see the briefcase, and I don’t see Enzo… It’s just you and that awfully rude detective. Oh, please tell me you’re not here with bad news, right? Right? I told you, you’re not supposed to arrest Enzo! God almighty, oh God…” Healy held a hand up to get her to take a breather and explain that they hadn’t even seen him yet, but she wouldn't relent. She turned back inside the house, deep into a made up scenario involving them chasing her poor Enzo down a street like thugs and triggering his heart problems, giving them no choice but to follow inside to get a single word in. Healy hissed at March, and instructed him once he got closer.

“I’ll keep her distracted. You go poke around inside. I don’t wanna spend a minute more with her.” March saluted stiffly and slipped into the house behind him, still donning his sunglasses.

Keeping her attention was easy as Emily seemed barely aware of anything else  but her worry for her boyfriend and berating the two detectives, allowing Healy to wedge in a few questions while March pretended to contemplate one of her house plants. He led her to sit in the kitchen, away from the rest of the house.

“Can you at least describe the men he’s been meeting with?”

“No! I’ve never seen them, I just know they came from his work. Or else I would’ve gone to the police before you two! But I just know they’re terrible men, I feel it in my soul…” She kept going, and Healy bit back a suffering sigh. It at least gave him time to attempt to direct March to check out the stack of mail he spotted sitting on a coffee table. March pointed left. Healy’s eyebrows went right. He nodded and gave Healy a double thumbs up. 

“Don’t make faces at me, I know I’m right,” Emily scolded Healy. Shit. He nodded and settled his eyebrows back down, letting her continue. “You can just tell when someone is bad, there’s an energy around them, and oh, I’ve felt that energy ever since they crossed over the door…” She slumped onto the kitchen island. 

Healy hovered his hand over her shoulder. Patting her might set her off even more, so he let it rest on the counter. “So you were there when these… men visited your boyfriend?” he asked unhelpfully. “No, or else I would've gone to the police! God, are you even listening?” It would be great if they could wrap this up fast. There wasn’t much of the detective work Healy deferred to March for, but talking to the clients was clearly his forte. Even if March wasn’t the most eloquent, and Healy doubted he could even spell the word, he still was able to weasel information out of them as easily as he breathed. Too bad this lady was clued in already to ‘his type’, as she so colorfully described to Healy the day before. It was funny when her ire was directed at March, but it wasn't so funny now, facing the full brunt of it.

“I’m listening,” said Healy, half-listening. “It’s important info to help us figure out who your boyfriend deals with, since you’re not gonna tell us.”

March waved a handful of envelopes behind her back, then made a show of stowing it in his blazer. Emily looked offended, oblivious to the antics going on behind her. “I never said he deals anything, so get that nasty little idea out of your head.”

“Ah, no, not that kind of dealing ma’am, we don’t deal with that.” Healy was shaking his head, and when he spotted March pointing repeatedly at a hallway, he fixed it to a nod.

“Kind of hard to believe with that partner of yours.” “Yes. I mean, no, he does not partake at all.” Back to shaking his head and lying.

March came back from the hallway, clutching a work jacket. He fished a pair of keys out for Healy to see. Bingo.

Emily continued her rant. “You know, I’m pretty sure those horrible men were weed cigarette smokers as well. On account of the vibrational nature I got from them. They wanted whatever Enzo had in that suitcase, I bet.”

“Of course. And that uh, vibrational nature, is from when you saw them.” “No, from when they entered this house, and ruined the very air we’re breathing, and did God knows what with my boyfriend, and left!”

March then decided to butt into the convo with a roar of a sneeze.

“HHH’RUSSSHHHHHHOOOoohh!”

Emily jumped in her seat like a gun went off and swiveled in her chair. “Goodness. Bless you.” She was shocked enough to forget she was angry at March.

He made a strangled little noise and quickly tossed the jacket back into the hallway where she couldn’t see, and Healy couldn’t tell if it was a noise of acknowledgement or of pain, because he was standing as still as a wall for a good couple of seconds. March turned away from his impromptu captive audience and did nothing to suppress another ear-splitting sneeze. His sunglasses clattered to the floor. Healy could swear the houseplant swayed from the gale. 

“Is he sick?” Emily’s tone bounced back to being irritated. “No, just stupid,” Healy explained. 

“I’b fihhd– HEAAAASHHEEEUUHHhh! Fuck!”

One could be written off as a fluke, but the same pattern as before was starting to emerge. Puzzle pieces were falling into place in Healy’s mind as he watched March scrub at his nose fitfully. “Any of these flowers lilies?” He pointed to the assortment of plants that filled the house.

“Hmm… Not that I’m aware of. Half of these are plastic. I’m just terrible with plants.”

“Uh huh. And your boyfriend, does he wear cologne?” “Well of course. I’m not sure what this has to do with anything, or if you’re just stalling, but I’ll have you know I am not going to pay you by the hour if you’re just playing with my time –” “We’ll be out of your hair, don’t worry,” Healy cut her off. Snatching his keys back up, he stepped over to snatch up the discarded sunglasses, and gestured at March to follow him, who had a hand cupped around his face as he backed out of the living room too.

“Next time you come back, you better have my Enzo with you in one piece!” Emily called out to the retreating men.

On the lawn, Healy waited for a gap in March’s onslaught of sneezing to get a word in. It was almost impressive how he still managed to sneeze so violently with his nose now pinched between his index and thumb. He barely made it off of the steps after Emily slammed the front door closed, before launching into a throaty sneeze entirely through his mouth, making him sputter and choke. 

“Did no one ever teach you that doing that shit will blast your ears off?” said Healy. 

“Just give mbe a fuckihhhgg…” March straightened back up, now with his hands on his hips, breathing like he just ran a marathon. Or like he was hitching into another sneeze. “IITSDDHH! There’s. IIIEESHHHHhhooo! There’s ad oped widdow. Id the bathr… hhh…” He limply pointed at the side of the house with his mouth agape, at the mercy of his respiratory system, and Healy took the hint, letting him ride out the rest of the fit while he poked around. 

An open window is what it sounded like he said… And just like that, at the back of the house, was a half-cocked window. The house was situated on a hill, making it two stories high. Not too bad of a drop still. Picturing someone jumping from it to disappear into the interconnected backyards of all the swanky houses in the neighborhood made sense, and made it clearer why Emily thought Enzo had vanished without a trace after his shit was stolen. That is, if Enzo was the one jumping out of windows and not the mysterious men. 

He looked at the ground under the window again as March blasted off another echoing sneeze that made a flock of birds startle. A garbage bin was on its side, its contents all over the grass. Judging on the shoes in the foyer, he wasn’t too big of a man, if his shoe size matched his girlfriend. One guy falling on it wouldn’t make this much of a mess. That was enough for Healy, and he returned to his partner, who was in the middle of running his wrist back and forth across his face like he could rub it into submission. It was pathetic. Like this was his first time experiencing a sneezing fit or something.

“I’b fuckig dyig, Healy,” March whined. His hair that he liked to keep smoothed back was starting to flop in his face. He was starting to look clammy

“I’ll send my regards.” They hopped back into the car, but before he started it, Healy tapped the dashboard to grab March’s attention.

“The mail. Any paystubs in there?” March sniffled thickly and dug around his inner blazer pocket to fish out the stack of mail he stole, passing it over with his left hand. Healy plucked it at the very edge, not missing the fact that March proceeded to use the same hand to pinch his nose shut. It did nothing, as his breath started to come out in stuttering pants again.

“Don’t come crying to me or Holly when you blow a hole in your eardrums.” March whined again, louder. “Ugh. How else ab I supposed to stop it?”

Suddenly, Healy smacked the back of March’s head hard, surprising him enough to drop his hand and unleash a wet sneeze all over his lap. 

“EDDDSSSHHHHHHIIUUuhhh!” Healy made a point to look up and away once he caught a glimpse of the trail of snot extending from his nose, giving him some semblance of privacy as March dug the end of his shirt from where it was tucked in his pants to mop up his face.

“Fuck you,” he said, muffled into the fabric. “Dod’t say addythig.”

Healy pressed his lips into an unamused line and rifled through the mail. Bills, advertisements, some subscription cancellation by Emily… There it was. A paystub from his place of work. It was a pizza joint on a street he recognized. For how stupidly long it took to find this banal piece of information, he still learned a few more things that would bring them closer to the truth. He floated his newly forming idea to March, who was doing some rifling of his own in the glovebox.

“What’re the odds that this Enzo guy made off with his own suitcase, along with his buddies?” “If he’s as annoying as his lady, prolly high.” March tossed a bunch of trash to meet the used tissue from before on the floor of the car, finally finding some old napkins. He shook them open and tended to his leaking face.

“The suitcase goes missing, then he does. Someone was obviously snooping inside the house the next day. Several someones. On account of the window.” “The widdow, yes.” March blew his nose with gusto.

“And you’re sneezing your head off the same way you were at the firm.” “Lay off me already, I told you, I can’t stop it!” His face was all red now as he tucked his shirt back into his pants. He sniffled once more and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Maybe I am getting sick. I’m startin’ to feel like shit.” Healy shook his head. “You’re set off in the firm. We step outside, you stop. You’re set off at their house. We step outside, you stop. Clearly this moron’s been under your nose this entire time.” “No one asked for your comedy routine, buddy…” March groused, but it didn’t seem like it was clicking just yet. “Oh shit. He was at the firm.” Now it did. Healy stepped on the gas to their next destination. By the time they made it to the pizza shop, the sun was setting. March spent most of the ride trying to fix up his appearance and bitch about Emily, but he couldn’t do much for his eyes continuing to water. He also downed the rest of his flask, and Healy showed excellent restraint in not telling him to knock it off. Today was mostly a bust anyways, and this last stop should at least put them on a better track for tomorrow.

Healy tossed his sunglasses to him once he maneuvered the car to the curb side. If this worked out, he’d get his answer to whether Enzo clocked into work today if his prediction was right.

There was a teen bored out of his mind at the register, and the tables were empty save for an old man in the corner. He made no move to acknowledge Healy strolling up to the counter, preoccupied with a book. Hey, at least the kid was reading.

“Is Enzo in today?” “Who?” The kid sneered without looking up.

“Enzo.” He put on his best no nonsense face, which didn’t move the kid at all. Little shit. “Is that a type of pizza or something?”

March pulled up beside him. “Don’t get smart, kid. Just answer the question.”

The kid finally put his book down and sized him up. “Who’s asking, the police?”

“Matter of fact, yes.” March patted his pockets down, looking for his badge. He whipped it out. It wasn’t upside down this time, thankfully, as the cashier squinted at it.

“Holland is a gay name. And you’re not even a cop, it says detective. Pretty sure you can’t legally ask me nada.”

Healy put an arm out when March lunged forward, failing to elicit a flinch, and tried a different approach. “I could smell the skunk coming off you a mile away. I suggest you answer my colleague’s question before I send my cop friends down here to have a sniff.”

That seemed to do something, because he finally let his book close and glanced at the old man slowly eating his pizza. He straightened his back and puffed out his chest. “This conversation never happened.”

“Scout’s honor.”

The kid squinted at the both of them. “Aren’t you two like… way too old to be scouts?” “Just answer the question,” Healy insisted.

“Jeez. Okay. So like… there is no Enzo here, but I’m guessing you mean Eric.”

“And who the fuck is Eric?” March piped up.

“He’s Enzo.”

“Wait, so which is his real name?”

“Um. Enzo, I guess,” the kid answered March.

“Hold up. Why the hell would he choose a cooler name as his disguise name --”

Healy elbowed March in the stomach to shut him up, then addressed the cashier. “His girl said he’s got some friends down here.”

“I dunno anything about that.” Healy stepped towards him, which made him cower behind his arms. “I’m serious, I legit don’t know. I only know like, two people here, and one of them is out delivering pizzas right now, and the other is apparently named Enzo or Eric or whatever.”

One last thing to do, then. Healy left the conversation hanging and strode out of the pizza shop. When March popped up at his side, he held his hand out.

“The guy’s keys.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He quickly fished them out and dropped it in Healy's waiting palm obediently. The two circled around the building through an alley, to where a sole pizza delivery car was parked.

“You look in the back, I’ll take the front,” March instructed. It didn’t matter to Healy, but he still gave March a judgemental look for thinking he could call the shots when he spent half the day getting snot all over himself. Well, if his deduction was correct, he was about to do it again, which would solidify a suspicion he had. Healy let March dive halfway into the car on the passenger’s side, ass wiggling in the air as he tossed random junk over his shoulder.

Healy swung the backseat door open to see a pizza delivery bag very full of something. He figured it wasn’t pizzas, and while March was 4 empty soda cans deep into his side of the investigation, he fished out a big, shiny black suitcase. Bingo.

He popped it open, and his eyebrows shot up his forehead. Rows and rows of plastic wrapped white bricks lay side by side. What was it that Emily said earlier? Her boyfriend didn't deal? That idiot kid cashier would be meeting the police after all.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” March groaned in exasperation. He had stopped kicking his legs in the air and they were slumped halfway on the pavement, with his head somewhere near the gas pedal. Healy wanted to tell him to get out of there before he busted his head open once the telltale hard sniffs started up, when a movement in the corner of his eye jolted his attention away from his idiot partner. He spun around.

Down the alley on the other side of a building, a shadow stepped into the streetlamp light, a balaclava over his head and a pistol in hand. Healy raised his hands in the air and backed away from the car slowly. His own gun in its holster burned at his side.

The thug gestured with the barrel of his gun. It trembled in his hands. “Tell your buddy to get up too.”

“March,” Healy said in a low voice.”

“Gibbe a secohh, s-sec-EAAASSHHHHOOOOO!” His legs comically shuddered from the force. Both Healy and the thug were staring at him. “EGH’SHHHHEAAUUUUUhhh! Fugck. I’ll just stay dowd here,” was March’s muffled response before he sneezed yet again, following it up with very wet sounding sniffles.

Healy’s plan worked out for him better than he expected, because the idiotic display distracted the thug enough for him to get the upper hand. His fist whipped out and wrapped around the arm holding the weapon, and before the thug could get his trigger finger to fire, Healy brought him in a rough arm lock. It clattered to the asphalt.

The guy tried to make a mad dash for it, only to be met with a face full of Healy. The men wrestled like bulls interlocking horns, with the thug clawing at Healy’s arms before landing a solid punch to his side. Healy twisted, then swept his legs against the man’s.

His face was planted on the asphalt with swiftness. The scuffle lasted all of a few seconds, with the man only getting a few punches into Healy’s abdomen before he retaliated with a skull rattling knock to the jaw. He shook his fist out while the thug was left reeling. Healy got to his feet, exhaling roughly. He walked over to the car, yanked on March’s belt so he bowled out of the footwell, slammed the suitcase inside shut, and picked up the discarded gun.

He took one look at March. “Go call the cops.”

“Uh huh.” He got to his feet shakily, then sneezed uncovered.

–

The guy was booked, and the stoner cashier was suddenly nowhere to be seen, but Healy and March were left in a worse state than where they started. They were suitcase-less and Enzo-less. No doubt that Emily wouldn’t appreciate the detectives giving her a suitcase full of cocaine in lieu of her boyfriend. They were basically back to square one.

“I think the guy left his girlfriend,” March mused to himself. His voice still had a nasally twinge from before, even if it was a whole hour ago. The two men were back in the convertible, inching their way back home amidst the rush hour drivers.

Healy said nothing as he gripped the steering wheel. His side still ached, and March buzzing in his ear was less tolerable now.

“I mean, I would too. Why would I want a narc boyfriend if I was secretly dealing blow. Makes zero sense. At least get a girl who isn’t so uptight and would do it with you. Hehh’HIDSSHHhuhh.” His system apparently did not get the memo, as he was still sneezing on and off while being far away from the incriminating cologne, body still fighting through his almost entirely blocked nose.

“Are you gonna be doing that all night?” Healy snapped.

March shot him an offended look with glistening eyes. “I don't want to be doing this! My head’s absolutely killing me. And my throat.” He cleared it loudly, as if he needed to make a point.

With a tinge of resignation, Healy changed lanes and drove until he spotted a drugstore sign. 

“This is not the bar…” March mumbled.

Healy didn’t have to say anything, only transfixing March with his withering stare until he got out of the car and meandered inside. After a beat, he followed March inside. If he didn’t have antihistamines at his place, there was a fat chance there would be painkillers, and he knew his side would bruise come morning.

While Healy took a glance at the kitschy postcard rack, preferred medication in hand, March bent over and tried to read the tiny text. With the way his eyes were now puffy and the fourth flask of the day coursing through his veins, the letters were hazy and his temples pounded. 

“HehhH’IDSSSHHHHHOOOoo! EIIISSHHHHHHOOOO!” 

The drugstore owner, an old man with coke bottle glasses, craned his head over at the noise. “Cold and flu remedies are on the shelf behind you, sir.”

March braced a hand on that shelf, dragging his hand over his face before attempting to compose himself against the quickly building fit. He pulled himself up to his full height, with tears swimming in his eyes, and addressed the old man confidently. “I’b actually ndot sick, it’s eahh… huh-H’USSHHHHOOO! Ad allerg-hic reac-GH’SHHH-iod, huhhh… HHEIIIIGHSHHhhooo! Oh shit.” He was doing a pretty great job of convincing him too, with his spasming diaphragm and clutching at his chest and all.

This time, it was Healy’s turn to crane his head over. March’s flop of hair bobbed up and down several aisles away as the sneezing attack gripped his system, each inhale a battle against his streaming nose. Which made no sense for that to be happening now at this level of intensity. Unless…

He quickly scanned the rest of the drug store. In the back, next to a tower of laundry soaps, was another mop of hair, dark hair. Healy subtly took a few steps backwards so he blocked the drugstore exit, and watched the man make a beeline around March, just to be met with Healy’s broad shoulders.

“Enzo.”

The shifty look in his eyes said everything. The man was sporting a black eye and a split lip, and had the same painkillers under his arm too.

“You’re not gonna cause a scene in here, are you?” he asked Healy.

“Step outside with me, and I won’t.” Healy dumped the pills on a random shelf and lead Enzo out of the drug store, leaving March to flex how many times he could sneeze in a row to the incredulous drugstore owner.

Healy was fully expecting his second fist fight of the day when Enzo reached into his jacket, which caused him to back up and wave his hand. “It’s money! I swear.” And true to his word, a bundled stack of cash emerged in the hazy light of the shops. The day could not get any stranger.

“Forget you ever saw me. I know you got Benson cuffed. I don’t want to be part of any of this anymore, it was a fucking mistake. They put me up to it” He shoved the cash at Healy, whose gears were turning in his head.

“Before I decide, I’ve got a question for you.”

“What?”

Healy leaned forward and took a good whiff of him. “You guys use the same cologne?”

It threw him off of course, and Enzo stammered out a “Yes?”. When Healy didn’t respond, he continued. “Benson said it covered up the stink. Of weed. He- we.  We smoked a lot...” His voice petered off.

“Huh,” Healy laughed dryly. “And this Benson schmuck. He’s the one who stole the suitcase from you.”

“Well, there were two… one with the uh, goods, and one with the profits. He stole the wrong one, and gave me this.” He pointed to his shut eye. “But I’m done with this all, I swear.”

“Lucky for you, I don’t really give a shit. Emily’s looking for you.”

“I know.” Enzo’s face crumpled. “She was never supposed to get involved. I don’t even know how much you told her. I can’t…”

“She doesn’t know much.” He snatched the stack of money up from Enzo’s faltering hand and pocketed it, as his decision was made. “If you go back to her, we’ll get off your ass.”

He looked like he couldn’t believe it. When Healy raised his eyebrows, Enzo booked it, jumping into a car parked right behind March’s. As he peeled away from the curb, Healy took a moment to himself. The case basically wrapped itself up. A stack of hundreds was more than enough for him to look the other way. He was done taking clients from March for a long time.

With that all conveniently wrapped up, he shuffled back into the drug store and picked up the painkillers he was meant to buy, and on a whim, a bottle of wine off the alcohol rack. March was knocking back some pills in the middle of the aisle, with the store owner handing him a little paper cup of water.

“So I can’t have a drink before, or after this?" March asked, bringing a fistful of tissues to his face after he gulped the medicine down.

“Neither. You’re not meant to mix antihistamines with alcohol, sir,” he responded over the productive nose blowing.

Healy figured he had a good fifteen minutes before March passed out on his feet if he was blitzed enough to not shy away from such a  display in front of a stranger. 

With his goods purchased, they finally slowly made their way home. March, as expected, started to snore open-mouthed around the third traffic stop, head lolling against the door and his hair gel coming undone. When he was (somewhat) quiet like this, Healy appreciated it. He wanted to kick him right up the ass half the time, but a part of him kept glancing over to the shadows his eyelashes were casting on his cheeks. Despite his flopping around today, it was a bit admirable that he still saw this stupid case through. They were in it for the money, March more transparently than he. Still, Healy could admit he’d back out of most things if he felt under the weather. March was the type to show up to a stakeout with appendicitis. It was stupid, but nice, in his own stupid March way.

The idiot must’ve pavloved him into feeling this surge of appreciation when March was at his most vulnerable. Whatever it was though, wasn’t enough to stop Healy from yanking the passenger car door open once they arrived home, March spilling onto the pavement in a pile of limbs and fancy suit. He had to enlist Holly to help drag him into their house.

----------------

Dr. Jack Abbot considered himself a touch more observant than the average guy. Years of military and ED experience tends to do that to a man—sharpen his eye, hone his pattern recognition. So he really couldn’t help but notice how consistent Dr. Michael Robinavitch was. He was certainly a bit of an stickler, very particular about everything from arriving at the hospital at least 20 minutes before his shift actually started, to religiously using hand sanitizer every chance he could, to the way he knotted his boot laces. And yes, the man was introverted on a good day and downright antisocial on a bad one (although always friendly and compassionate with his patients), but Abbot made it a personal goal to wear him down until the pair was teaming up for traumas, working in easy tandem, and eventually even spending most free evenings together.

So it was really just proximity that made Abbot start noticing those little things, the things that even Robby himself didn’t seem to notice. Quirks, mostly. Like how he always took his third coffee of the day black, no sugar, but always chased it with something sweet. Or the way he rotated between his two most well-loved zip-ups in three-day intervals. Or perhaps the fact that he really did try not to smoke, but always found himself bumming one off of Dana after losing a kid to a trauma. And like most of Robby’s little quirks, the rain one started as a coincidence. At least, that’s what Abbot told himself the first six times.

But by the seventh—well, by the seventh, he was leaning against the central hub, arms folded over the counter, watching Robby try (and fail) to stifle his fourth sneeze in under a minute into the shoulder of his hoodie (because God forbid he put down his newspaper for a second).

“Hh—h’Kkxtch—TCHhh—eh’EHTCHUUu”

“Bless you, bless you, bless you” Abbot said, with a very careful neutrality, like he didn’t want to scare the other man off.

It was a slow shift, around 2 a.m. on a summer night cooled by the unexpected precipitation. These moments, the slow ones between the thrilling rush of multiple traumas and back to back to back patients that seemed to stream in endlessly during day shifts, were the ones when Abbot really got to know his fellow attending in the first year or so of working together. When they could pass off the odd walk-ins to residents and pass the time by catching up on charting and reorganizing the staff room snack stash.

Robby scrubbed at his nose with the back of his wrist, not looking up from the crossword he was working on. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that every time,” Abbot replied mildly.

“Maybe that’s because I am fihh—hhah’tIUSHH—” Another sneeze escaped, seeming to have snuck up on him—sharp, sudden, violent enough that he folded slightly forwards in his chair.

Abbot tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Mm.”

Robby glared at him through watery eyes. “Don’t ‘mm’ me.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Abbot pushed a tissue box toward him.

He snatched up a tissue with more force than strictly necessary. “You mm’d. That’s worse.”

Abbot pushed off the counter and stepped around the desk to where Robby was seated, taking a stool closer to him, gaze flicking briefly to the window. Outside, rain streaked down the glass in thin, steady lines—gray sky, slick pavement, the whole dreary package. He looked back at Robby. Then back at the rain. Then back at Robby.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Robby said immediately, “keep it to yourself.”

Abbot couldn’t help but bark a laugh at that. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“I’m just thinking, Robby.”

“That’s worse.”

Abbot stood up again, clasping his hands behind his back and starting to pace the length of the hub. “Out of curiosity,” he said, in the tone of someone who was absolutely not asking out of curiosity, “have you noticed any correlation between—”

“No.”

“—your symptoms and—”

“No.”

“—precipitation patterns—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—because I’m starting to notice that—”

“H’eHHsTCHUU—”

Abbot stopped pacing to arch an eyebrow at him. “You did that on purpose.”

Robby sniffled indignantly. “How could I have possibly—?”

“That was eight, by the way.”

“You’re counting?”

“I started after the third.”

“Why would you—” Robby broke off, pinching the bridge of his quickly reddening nose. “It’s just allergies.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know. Dust. Pollen. Life.” He looked up from his crossword with a rare wry smile. “You, probably.”

“You’ve never had allergies like this because of pollen.” Abbot’s mouth twitched. “Other than when it rains—”

“I am not allergic to rain, Jack.” His usual edge was undermined by the congestion in his voice.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Robby blew his nose (rather obnoxiously in Abbot’s opinion, but that’s neither here nor there). “You’re certainly implying it.”

“I’m considering it.”

Robby opened his mouth, probably for another snippy retort, but was cut off by— “hahh—TCHHUUh’H—h’hih’tCHKx’uh”

Abbot didn’t even bother hiding his interest now. “Bless you again. That’s ten, Rob.”

“Jesus Christ, stop counting!”

“I’m collecting data,” Abbot replied easily with a small shrug.

“I am not your—heh—dahhta—hihh’h’etrUSHCHU!” Robby scrubbed at his nose, more frustrated with the misbehaving appendage than with Abbot.

Abbot hummed sympathetically. “Bless you, Robby.”

Robby just grunted in response, not looking at him as he attacked his nose with a fresh tissue.

Abbot tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We could test it.”

That made Robby look up. “No.”

“Controlled exposure—”

“No.”

“Short intervals—”

“Jack, stop talking.”

“Indoor versus outdoor variables—”

“Dr. Abbot.”

He finally paused, looking at Robby with wide, innocent eyes. “Yes, Dr. Robinavitch?”

“If you try to walk me outside in a storm like a lab rat, I will report you.”

Abbot considered that. “Ethics board might frown, yes.”

“Might?”

“They’re notoriously anti-rain-allergy research.”

Abbot was rewarded by a short, surprised laugh for that one. He grinned back at Robby widely.

Robby stood, slamming his pencil down on the desk like he was betrayed by his own expression of amusement, and started stalking off. “I just have a cold or something.”

“Only when it rains?” Abbot trailed after him into the staff room, where Robby was pouring himself a glass of water.

Robby glared at him over the rim of his cup. “It’s a coincidence.”

“Eight instances is not a coincidence.”

That gave Robby pause. He looked back at Abbot, an odd expression on his face. “You’ve been tracking this for eight instances?!”

Abbot shrugged, indifferent, reaching out for Robby’s glass for a sip of his water. “It’s been rainy in Pittsburg.”

Robby stared at him for a minute. “That’s deeply weird.”

“It’s medically thorough.”

“It’s obsessive.”

“It’s science.”

“It’s insahh—insahhne—heh’het’TRCHUU—Jesuhhs—HEH”TTRUUSHU!”

Abbot’s eyebrows shot up, slightly startled by the force of them. “…Bless you.”

Robby sniffled weakly. “I hate you.”

“I think the traditional response is ‘thank you,’” Abbot replied drily, holding out the tissue box he’d (rather cleverly) brought with him like an olive branch. Then added with a a smirk, “And you don’t hate me.”

Robby snatched the box, bringing another handful of tissues to his streamy face. “I hate this conversation.”

“Which is about your possible hypersensitivity to—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—rain.”

Robby made a sound somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh, throwing the (now empty) tissue box at his head. “You cannot be serious.”

Abbot stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing something confidential. “Think about it.”

“I refuse.”

“Every time it rains—”

“I’m leaving.”

“—you exhibit acute nasal—”

“I am actively leaving.” Robby, voice thick, brushed past him to the hallway towards the back storage room.

Abbot followed immediately. “—symptoms consistent with—”

Robby stopped short just outside the storage room and turned on him. “If you say ‘rain allergy’ one more time—”

A cold gust of air swept through the corridor as the automatic doors at the far end slid open. Someone rushed in, dripping, shaking water from their coat.

Robby inhaled, burying his face in his sleeved elbow—

“—hEH—eStCHUUU!! rETCHHUu—” he gasped slightly, folding at the waist, one hand braced against the wall— “hHEH—TRUSHHUU! Fucking Christ.’

Impeccably timed. Abbot placed a gentle hand at the small of his back, steadying him. Robby straightened carefully, eyes glistening with irritated tears and nose red. He looked at Abbot with a dignified levelness (particularly valiant considering the display he’d just put on). “Don’t.”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything.”

Robby sniffled again. “You’re thinking it.”

“I am.”

“Well, stop thinking it.” Robby’s usually kind brown eyes were red-rimmed but cold as ice. His withering glare, of course, was weakened by the fact that his nose was red, slightly drippy, and (believe it or not) twitching.

Abbot barked a laugh, unable to help himself. His 6-foot-1, motorcycle-riding, medical-stunt-pulling, objectively badass (and occasionally terrifying) colleague had a nose twitching like a bunny rabbit. “I can’t.”

Robby dragged a hand down his face, trudging into the storage room with a defeated resignation. “I’m transferring departments.”

Abbot trailed after him, still smiling more than he really ought to be. “You’d still encounter rain.”

“I’ll move to a desert.” He reached up to the top shelf for a new box of tissues. The bottom of his scrub top lifted with his arm, revealing a trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the hem of his pants. (Not that Abbot was looking. The redness creeping up his ears had nothing to do with Robby and the warmth of their proximity and the fact that they were so close now that Jack would smell the cigarette smoke clinging to hhis shirt. Obviously not.)

Abbot just poked him in the side. “Don’t worry, I’ll visit.”

“Don’t.” Robby, having retrieved his chosen prize, left the room, not even looking to see if Abbot had followed.

Abbot clasped his hands behind his back again, insufferably pleased, still tailing him like an overexcited puppy. “We’ll need to design a study.”

“We will be doing no such thing.”

“I already have a framework.”

Robby plowed back into the break room, all but collapsing onto the sofa. “I’m begging you to delete it.”

Abbot lingered in the doorway, blocking the view of any stray passers-by. He tilted his head, watching as Robby scrubbed at his nose again, eyes watering, dignity rapidly eroding under the weight of relentless, poorly timed sneezing.

“You know,” Abbot said, softer now, voice somewhere between gentle and conspiratorial, “for the sake of medical advancement—”

“Abbot.”

“—and your own well-being—”

“Jack.”

“—you might consider—”

“Jack, pleahhh—hehh—”

Robby squinted at the overhead lights, eyes watering and nose quivering, trapped for a moment in the limbo.

“hh—hehh—come ohhhn—”

A beat of silence while Abbot watched, waited for the inevitable while Robby resisted in vain until—

“HheH’teCHRUU—! H’HheTCHHUU’uH!!”

Abbot nodded to himself, as if that settled it. “And that makes one hundred sneezes, folks,” he said to no one in particular.

“HaH’iRRISHUU!”

“Our lucky winner is Dr. Michael Robinavitch—“

“hn'HUH—heH’etCHHUu! Hah—hhh—”

“—whose grand prize—“

“Hh'ETSCHHh—ETSCHH’uh!”

“—is an antihistamine and a nap.” Abbot paused, shutting the door and setting down on a chair in front of the couch. “Seriously, brother. Take a benadryl and draw the blinds. I promise I’ll wake you if anything good comes through.”

Robby, breathing through his mouth and looking absolutely spent for the fit, stared at him with wet eyes. He looked exhausted and maybe a bit bewildered. “You promise you’ll wake me?” His voice was gravelly (even more so than usual) and congested.

Abbot made an X over his heart. “Scout’s honor. Trust me,” he added, softer, genuine now.