SegaSammy

ketzia yaps! : I am so down bad for him, it's not even funny. he may be ooc, but I''m trying here </3 I've noticed a lot of traction on my sick!reader Damon Salvatore fic, so I may make this an ongoing series... also this is my first time trying to make dividers and such! They look a little wonky I know </3

The JOC was winding down after a hectic work day. The teenage daughter of a popular yet politically controversial news anchor had gone missing, the situation had become a state-wide incident. The whole team was laser-focused the whole time, or at least that's how Isobel had seen them. 

But Maggie had seen something different—not in the majority—but in OA. It had been subtle at first. In the morning, he checked his phone once or twice before turning away from the device to focus on the case. 

Then he checked again an hour and a half later when they were in the undercover van. Maggie, giving him the benefit of the doubt, thought that he was just checking the time. But when she saw her partner periodically checking his phone again—and then his watch—she knew she had to say something. 

Unfortunately, the leads they were following throughout the day turned into a full-blown manhunt, so she never quite got the chance to. But now that the case was done, and everyone was getting ready to head home, she spoke up. 

“Are you okay?” The brunette asked quietly, as to not draw the other's attention. OA glanced at her once before turning his body to her direction to respond, “Of course I am, why?” 

Maggie's lips parted for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “You seemed pretty distracted today.” She finally said, watching as her friend's shoulders stiffened. “Did something happen?”

Oa sighed, resting back down into his seat as he placed his elbows on the chilled metal of his desk. He should've known Maggie would notice something off about him—Maggie always notices. “It's my girlfriend.” He started, lacing his fingers together. “She hasn't exactly been… responsive today.” Maggie's eyebrows rose in mild surprise—and maybe a little amusement—as she leaned forward. “She didn't text you back…?” 

He could hear the barely contained humor and felt like banging his head against the desk. But that wouldn't help his situation, would it? He exhaled slowly, drumming his fingers against the surface as if to make his next words any less humiliating. “No, Maggie.” He muttered. “She hasn't.” 

He wouldn't deny that it sounded a bit ridiculous on the surface. You two had only been together for three months, and dates were few and far in between because of his demanding job. It was perfectly reasonable to think that maybe you just hadn't seen them or even just didn't want to reply, that was acceptable too. It would kill him inside—but it's acceptable all the same. 

But he knew you. Way too well for a three month relationship one could argue. 

He knew about your family—every twist and knob of that large and complicated tree that had produced the gift to the world that was you—he knew that you loved your birthday, but you didn't make a big deal out of it due to the reception it had gotten you in the past. He knew your favorite drinks and how you had a personal vendetta towards anyone who leaves empty soda cans in the fridge. He knew about your childhood goldfish and that you swear up and down that your father ate it. 

He even knew about that one college spring break fiasco in Belize. 

He knew you. 

It just felt so unnatural that you wouldn't respond, not even some sort of a short acronym. It unsettled him, and Maggie saw that. So for his sake, she didn't make a teasing comment. “Why don't you stop by her place?” She offered. “Just to make sure.” 

OA thought about it, mulled it over in his mind for a few milliseconds before springing out of his chair and grabbing his wallet and keys. “See you tomorrow, Mags.” He said in a rush before turning on his heel and making his way out of the JOC. 

Maggie couldn't contain her grin any longer, laughing lightly to herself as she watched her partner—a man she's known for years—leave in a hurry like there was fire at his heels. 

You were one lucky woman. 

You felt like the unluckiest woman in the world right now. 

The [favorite color] plastic trash can stood like a short and easily dented knight, filled to a quarter with used tissues and crushed empty water bottles. 

Your body was staging a coup. All of those cells that are supposed to help your immune system rebelled sometime between 3 am and 10 am at the slight sign of a raise in temperature. Your nose felt disconnected from your body in a way that was both uncomfortable and irritating, and if you sneezed one more time you're going to be the first person in history to look into plastic surgery for nose removal. 

A deep and guttural cough left you—the sensation travelling somewhere from your lungs and up to your spine—prompting your body to lurch up from your stack of pillows.

When you get better—if you get better—you swear you're going to be the last person Sienna Cain ever sees. Her and her stupid workaholic tendencies. “You sound sick, take a day off.” You all told her, but no, and now look where you've ended up? She's better and you're dying miserable and alone. 

“(___)?” 

You perked up, feeling a surge of energy as you pushed yourself to sit up as your boyfriend came into view at the threshold of your bedroom doorway. Okay, so maybe you won't die miserable and alone. 

“Omar—” You grinned before wincing as you remembered the several buzzes that your phone (that you tossed somewhere across the room) made throughout the day. Your grin immediately softened into something apologetic. “Hey…” 

OA’s eyes flickered over the room—the space that he'd been in more than a few times over the past three months—he saw the trash can, the twelve pack case of water bottles that had dwindled down to three, and lastly he saw you. 

Who clearly was struggling to even stay upright. 

“You're sick?” He asked, although it was obvious. He walked further into the room, his usually stern features melting into an impossibly soft look as he sat down gently at your hip. He reached out and took your hands into his lap, intertwining his fingers with yours. The metal of the ring he wears produces a soothing feeling to your overheated palms. “Why didn't you tell me? I could've called off work today.” 

His brows did that adorable thing they did when he was perplexed or interrogating a suspect, creating a small wrinkle between the arches. Instinctively, you wanted to reach your thumb up and smooth it out—but then you remembered that you're sick and you certainly don't want to breathe germ-infused fumes onto the guy that you possibly love. 

“I didn't know that FBI agents could just ‘call out’, they should add that to your guy's wikipedia.” 

“(___).” 

“It's just the flu.” 

“It could be dust allergies and I'd still want to know.” He pressed, squeezing your hands once and then twice for good measure. His words made your heart do a treacherous thing, and you're positive that if your lungs weren't actively struggling to keep you alive right now, the organ would've catapulted right up into your throat. 

“Did you rush over here because you were worried?” You asked quietly, your lips twitching upward while you watched your boyfriend open his mouth and struggle for a few minutes, his own smile appearing. “You weren't answering.” He settled for the most neutral version of the reason he could muster. 

A full grin pulled at your mouth, you moved closer and looked directly into his eyes. “You were worried.” 

“I was.” He admitted after a moment, inclining his head to meet your gaze better.  

“My phone could've died.” You suggested, your voice growing quieter but the playful lilt never left your tone. 

OA drew closer, his breath lulling against your lips. “I had to make sure.” He whispered. 

If this flu didn't kill you, OA would. And what a way to go. 

“I hope you're aware that if I weren't fighting for my very life right now, I'd kiss you.” The remark flew from your mouth in the way that words flew out unchecked when the TSA checkpoints in your mind were down from an invasion of bacteria. 

A snort left him, his shoulders shaking in poorly contained laughter. “I had a feeling.” He replied, pulling you closer to rest against his body despite your protests. “You'll get sick.” You mumbled, feeling his chin rest at the crown of your head. “I survived the FBI.” He spoke against your scalp, the vibration of his voice resounding from where your ear was pressed. “I think I can survive my girlfriend.” 

The way he said it—with so much certainty—made your insides feel all fuzzy. “You say that now, but give it a few more months.” You jabbed, your voice a soft whisper. 

“Years.” OA said firmly, his hand squeezing your hip gently. “Then we can revisit that assumption.” He placed a kiss to your hairline, a promise seared into your skin. 

You closed your eyes. 

Years.