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18 from the "ways to say I love you" meme for 06 and 22 (Firebreak) đś
Ahhh sorry it's taking me so long to get through these, I haven't really been able to write since last week but I am trying!!! (And Kase, I know you're probably more patient in general because we live together but still) I have NO idea how good this is because I've barely written them before but I tried!!
Foster knows where the Director keeps the whiskey. Sheâs snuck into this office enough times and stolen enough things from the expensive mahogany desk that she knows her way around itâmaybe even better than the Director herself.
But tonight isnât about escaping. Tonight, 22 is back in his bed, coughing so much that no one is getting any sleep, no matter how hard he tries to muffle them into his flat pillow. Salazar already snapped at him twice, even though everyone knows that wonât make him stop. Maybe itâs that this illness is so unfamiliar to them allâsure, all of them have had middle of the night coughing fits, but itâs rare that they happen because of the flu rather than a collapsed lung. Foster is almost more scared for her friend now than she would be if his body were rejecting his lungs altogether. At least she knows what happens then.
Medical had sent him back to the huge room where all of the operatives sleep, claiming that after a week in quarantine, heâs no longer contagious. But he sounds contagious, and he looks like shit, and Foster isnât convinced that the Medical staff really know how to handle ailments like this. At fifteen, sheâs seen them fuck up too many times to trust them with something so simple.
Which is why sheâs now in the Directorâs office in the middle of the night, taking matters into her own hands. The Directorâs office isnât as big as the training rooms or the sleeping bay, but itâs still enormous for just one person. At the back, thereâs a shelf with several packages of cookies, all but one open, and the crumbs littering the Directorâs desk say that the operatives arenât the only ones who eat them. A filing cabinet sits in the opposite corner behind the desk, and Foster knows that the bottom drawer holds things that have nothing to do with the Directorâs paperwork.
But that isnât where the whiskey lives.
Foster knows by now how to apply the right amount of pressure to the desk drawer to make it pop open without breaking it (sheâs made that mistake before). Inside is a collection of snacks and knick knacks, but Foster digs for the panel beneath it all, lifting it to reveal the glass bottle half full of amber liquid laid on its side.
She pulls it out and sets it on the desk where sheâs laid out the rest of the ingredients. Sheâs pretty sure she got them all, based on how she saw the Director make this last winter. And anything is better than letting 22 suffer.
She managed to steal a glass from the kitchen along with the lemon, honey, and cinnamon. Sheâll get the water on the way back, from one of the water fountains. As she sets it and her ingredients on the Directorâs desk, preparing to make her concoction, she realizes sheâs run into a problem. While she knows what goes into the drink, she has no idea how much of anything to put in.
It doesnât matter, she decides in the end. Sheâll figure it out.
She uncaps the whiskey and pours it into the glass until itâs about half full. Then, she tears the lemon in half and squeezes it into the glass. The honey is a bit more difficult, owing to the fact that she forgot to steal a spoon, and she doesnât have time to rummage through the Directorâs desk to find another. So she tips the jar, partway full with partially crystallized honey, on its side, waiting for the sticky substance to creep close enough to the opening that she can scoop it out with her fingers. She licks them afterward, savoring the intense sweetness on her tongue as she stirs the mixture with a cinnamon stick.
Distant footsteps reach her ears from down the hall, which means her time is just about up. She knows the security route by now, and sheâll have about five minutes after the guard passes by the door to get herself from the Directorâs office back to the sleeping quarters. The timing doesnât worry her, but she still has to clean up, rubbing away all the lemon juice that missed the glass and mopping up a few drops of spilled whiskey with her sleeve.
She shoves the bottle back into the secret compartment and jams the panel down over it before cramming the remaining ingredients into her pockets, just in case she needs them again later. Before she leaves the office, she leans over the glass to smell it, making a face when the sour bitterness sits at the back of her sinuses.
But last year, the Director had said this helped, and Foster would give 22 her own lungs if they were any less shitty than his. If a gross drink would help him, then she would make sure he fucking drank it.
On her way back, she stops at one of the water fountains to fill the glass the rest of the way. It doesnât help the smell, and Foster doesnât dare sample the drink herself. She doesnât want to have to lie to 22, to tell him it doesnât taste that bad if she knows it does.
As she slips back into the big room with all their cots lined up, she hears him cough again, a horrible, barking sound that feels like it lasts forever as Foster makes her way across the tile. Soft snores drift from Ayresâs cotâheâs the only one who could possibly sleep through thisâalong with rustling from Salazarâs, no doubt to make a point rather than to get comfortable. And finally, Foster reaches 22, across from her own bed, huddled beneath the blanket like the room is any colder than it ever is. When she touches his skin, it feels hot, and he jumps as if he hadnât heard her coming.
âHey, itâs just me,â she whispers, crouching down beside the bed. âI brought you something.â
22 opens his eyes, and theyâre glassy even in the dark. His breathing sounds ragged and shallow, and Foster once again curses the Medical staff for not fixing him. But at least she can keep an eye on him herself now.
He doesnât say anything, so Foster raises the glass in front of his face. âHere,â she says, offering it to him. âDrink this. Youâll feel better.â
22 pushes himself up into a sitting position, muffling a few more coughs into his sleeve. Foster moves to sit on the mattress beside him and hands him the drink. Sheâs grateful he canât smell right now because if he could, he wouldnât take the first sip.
When he does, he looks like he might spit it right back into the glass. âThis is gross,â he rasps with a grimace.
âYeah, itâs like medicine,â Foster says. âI saw the Director drink it before when she was sick. Just try it.â
âI donât want it,â 22 says, holding the glass out for Foster to take. She pushes it back toward him.
âNo way,â she says. âYou have to drink it if you wanna get better.â
22 gives her another skeptical look, but heâs too feverish and exhausted to argue. Instead, he tips the glass back, brow furrowing through another series of swallows until he has to stop to cough again. By the time itâs gone, he looks like he might be sick.
âWhat was that?â he asks, and Foster is pleased when his voice comes out a little stronger.
âA hot toddy,â she proclaims, taking the glass back to hide under her cot until she can return it to the kitchens. âDid it help?â
âIt wasnât even hot,â he grumbles, burrowing back beneath his blanket with a shiver that ripples through the mattress so that Foster feels it, too. But he doesnât cough again, and in the time it takes Foster to walk to her own bed, retrieve her blanket, and drape it over him, heâs fallen asleep.
Before she retreats to her own blanketless mattress, Foster whispers, âNot you. Not me.â
I find it viscerally satisfying and entertaining that all of the ghost/22â˛s main relationships are flawless platonic representations of three of the greatest ship dynamics in existence
Ghost/Foster: epic battle couple, only-I'm-allowed-to-hurt-him, violence as expression of affection, anything you can do I can do Better, attached at the hip, we finish each otherâs sentences
Ghost/Wasp: enemies-to-Besties, Incessant Insults and Teasing, fuck you (/affectionate), lmao You Know You Love Me (platonic), don't you dare be as self-deprecating as me
22/Mal: Soft and Awkwardâ˘, only you get my sense of humor, why do I understand you better than everyone else when I don't even know you, you can step on me (platonically)Â