#nicklopez

   The weather was the same as it usually was in L.A. - smoggy to say the least. It was well-fitted with Nick’s mood that morning though, so points for pathetic fallacy. He’d been trying all day not to let it get to him, that general ache and chill that started to spread even out through his frame even in the sunlight, but he realised he was fighting a losing battle. And his partner was catching on.    “You’re sure you’re alright?” Blade leaned over to ask, worry lacing his tone. They were waiting in between scene cuts for another bit, but the smaller helicopter had started to look a little wobbly on his skids. And a bit pale.    “I’m..fine.” Nick replied, shaking his front in denial. “Just tired, didn’t sleep well.”    Blade knew full-well that was a complete lie. He was the one who never slept, unable to over the audible snoring beside him every night. How he still managed to be an early bird, no one knew. But then again, this morning he hadn’t been. He’d actually slept past his alarm, to the point that Blade had to physically shake him awake. Even then, he’d dragged from the moment he’d gotten up.    “You think I’d fall for that?” The older male accused, but not harshly, “C’mon, what’s going on?”    “It’s nothing,” Nick said firmly, “I’m just..not feeling it today.” He tried his best then to disguise that wave of vertigo, hoping the other wouldn’t notice, and that it would go away quickly.    It didn’t.    He’d actually had to move to brace himself against the other chopper when another wave hit, just as hard, causing the floor under him to feel like it was being moved.    “Nick?” Blade suddenly asked, worried.    He’d just leaned against his partner’s side, eyes shut tight so as not to watch the room go spinning. He hadn’t even realised when Blade had called for the medic, until he felt a pair of tines against his other side. He didn’t protest - he was used to them being all over him usually, and the last few times he had tried to fight ended with a wrench to the helm.    “That time of the season.” The medic sighed, tearing off a piece of paper from her clipboard. “Another flu victim I’m guessing. If someone can get him back to the hangars I’ll let the producer know. With good R&R and decent med-taking, he’ll be back on set in less than a week.”    They may as well have just stabbed him with a sword. A week?!?    “I’ll take care of it.” He heard Blade say, moving off from his partner’s side cautiously. The younger helicopter hadn’t fallen over, so it was a start.    He left for a minute to get something, leaving Nick to fend for himself. The main hangar they were in was spacious with high ceilings, but it was also crowded in corners with props and scenes put away for later use.    He hated that he wasn’t able to work. Stunts were out of the question. He’d be grounded and practically locked in his own hangar until the virus let up. Meds he was fine with, but having to laze around in bed all day was not his idea of coping with not being able to work on the set. He was sure Blade would agree. The workaholic never slowed down in the slightest.    Just as he was wondering where he’d gone off to, the chopper returned, and Nick scoffed at what he’d brought back with him.    “No.” He said flatly.    “You don’t have a choice.” He replied, setting down the front latch of the vehicle.    “I’m not using it.” He answered.    “Fine, you can hop all the way across the tarmac to the hangar, your choice.”    Nick bit his lip hard, face tight in indecision. He hated the wagon as much as he hated being sick. He hated everything it stood for, everything that made him feel useless for not having landing gear like the Agustawestland. But he also hated the idea of hopping all the way back, too. Normally he’d just fly back - it was his excuse for just about everything - and that would be the end of it, and he seriously considered just doing that instead, but in his state of vertigo he probably shouldn’t risk it. Especially considering the boss might have a conniption. Blade apparently knew how to read his thoughts, and without producing words, he shook his front in denial. Freaky. “Fffffine.” Nick said finally, glaring at the other helicopter. It was only because he felt like crap, that was it. He’d use it just this once and never again. The ‘wagon’ as the team had given name to it, was a flat cart with wheels that acted as the skidded-helicopter’s version of a wheelchair. It was supposed to be for all of Nick’s ground-transportation, but since he hated it so much he decided that he’d just have no ground transportation to begin with. He was going to toss the wagon off a cliff someday, but the directors kept it around “in case of emergencies”, or, he thought, in cases of indignity. But as another wave of vertigo with an extra side effect of good ol’ nausea decided to hit him, he decided it better not to squawk any more protest and just get it over with. The sooner it was dealt with, the sooner he could be back in the air. Blade had the front latch wrapped around his front landing gear, leaving Nick full ability to lay against him. He was cold anyways, and he’d already lost enough dignity as it was so why not. He didn’t care anymore. He’d realised the blue and white helicopter was probably trying his best not to panic. When it came to Nick’s own safety and well-being, he tended to lean on the side of worry-wart, but that was probably just because he’d watched Nick get into a lot of accidents since they’d been here. He wasn’t clumsy, exactly, but as the medics would describe, he was “possibly brain dead” as risk-taking as he was. It was worth it, he felt, to live and get hurt over not living and being bored. Like he was going to be for the next week.

Nick flopped onto the bed tiredly, and slightly agitated, while Blade went back to put up the wagon. ‘Good,’ he thought, ‘I don’t want to see it again.’ It wasn’t until he’d begun to relax on the cushions that he’d realised just how out of it he’d been. All day his body had just ached all the way through, in that weird not-exhausted kind of exhaustion that being ill usually went with. His helmache had gone from iffy to steadily worse, but he supposed he couldn’t complain about that one. He knew Blade’s migraines were a whole lot more hell than he’d ever know. There had been days so bad he couldn’t leave the bed. Those few occasions, he’d worried himself sick over making sure he rested, and making sure nothing interrupted that rest in the meantime. Come to think of it, that was probably how the older chopper felt about him now.    Blade had returned within a few minutes, finding his partner had already rediscovered the blanket stash in the closet and bundling himself up to the best of his ability. Like a burrito with eyes.    “Here.” He set down a couple pill bottles on the bedside table, “One of them is every four hours, the other is every twelve.”    “Great.” Nick said, sarcasm dripping from his tone.    The first day had gone by rather effortlessly. The medic probably knew he was going to be worse before he was better, so the early move was much appreciated by the young Hughes, especially on the morning of day two, in which he’d discovered that other wonderful flu symptom everyone hated: inability to process food.    “Crackers,” he said, “just a bag of flipping saltine crackers. That’s all I want.”    It was, for the time being, the only thing he could keep down. Even water messed with his system, so he took short, barely single-sip amounts at a time.    Bladed did try to coax him into something a little better than crackers, but in the end that was the only thing that stuck. Everything else was usually rejected within fifteen minutes. Fine, crackers.    The second day was also more prominent in coughing and hacking, so thank goodness for a med that helped with mucus relief. Nick had tried to make Blade keep a bit more distance, even if he was still taking care of him, but he’d stood his ground.    “You’ll end up sick, too.” He argued.    “So be it then, I’m not letting you try to take care of yourself like this.” He answered, “And besides, I take vitamin C.”    “Pfft, yeah, you religiously take them.”    “You’re the one sick in bed, I’m fine.”    “For now, sure.”    Fever was something that behaved pretty interestingly in Nick’s case as well. It wasn’t a permanent symptom like the others seemed to be when they showed up. His temperature fluctuated on a whim, like it couldn’t decide. One minute there was a low-grade fever, then he was fine, and then you blink and his engine was sitting at 209 degrees fahrenheit, cold and unstressed. Sure, let’s give the Agustawestland more reasons to have an engine failure.    Day three was probably the worst one of the week. It was long, tiring, and fever had finally made up it’s mind that it wanted to stay there. Nick slept through most of the day without request, a sure sign that he really wasn’t feeling well. Blade hated to, but he’d actually had to wake him now and again for another dose of this or that, and then he’d just dose back off again.    The blue and white helicopter watched over him like some overprotective mother with a newborn propling. He knew he’d be fine, but that didn’t stop him from worrying. This was the most out of it he’d ever seen his partner, since viruses didn’t act like physical injury did. In the latter, he was just the same. This crept it’s way into his very being, made him weaker and more vulnerable than before, and he couldn’t just brush it off like it was nothing. This had to run its course, as much as the both of them hated it.    The older male sighed, putting down his book to snuggle up against his partner’s side, who he’d been watching begin to shiver again. To anyone else they probably couldn’t see it, but he could. He knew how the other reacted to things, even without so much as conscious thought of it. It was getting late, the team outside packing up for the day. Even without both of their star actors, there was a lot to be done in the way of setup and additional scenes, and with the beginning of a new season there was more to be done than the usual. He supposed that was a good thing, giving Nick more time to fully recover, the way he needed to.    Days four and five were the beginning of improvement. Finally, he could eat some freaking food again! Well, so long as he was slow about it. The fever had also, finally, broken. One of the medics had come over for a quick assessment, and stated that he was indeed beginning to improve. But he wasn’t there yet, she warned, already knowing the excitement from the Hughes that he was almost able to go back to normal living.    “Give it a couple more days, until everything is cleared up,” she said, “And finish that bottle even after it does.”    The total time it took from first to last day was about eight, give or take. But finally, after complying to the medics and Blade’s frantic worrying, and his own tired, formerly ill-feeling self, he was cleared again to work - and to fly.    “Someone go set the wagon on fire!” He shouted, already taking off from the helipad.    “Keep dreaming, Lopez!” One of the set workers replied.

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Title inspired by the song “Shelter” by Porter Robinson and Madeon. It’s gorgeous, and the animated story is too.