#scatterfic

In lieu of hard evidence, Omicron did what he did best: quietly observed and amassed information. Thus far his dossier on EJ included practical information offered freely when Omicron asked, and a chaotic assortment of facts the man volunteered on his own. Through this he’d catalogued a rolodex of knowledge.

EJ was hired about four months ago with previous experience in facilities. He spent his teen summers as a part-timer learning from the janitorial staff at his high school. Not to mention his considerable experience on his family’s farm, upon which he’d lived his entire life waking at the crack of dawn to bale hay and scoop muck. Omicron clocked EJ as dedicated to his work, gifted with ingenuity, and good with his hands. He spent his free time building tiny plastic robots and reading comic books. He liked sweets, specifically saltwater taffy. Horses were his favorite animal. He missed his family.

Somehow it annoyed Omicron that he knew all this. Most of it he didn’t even ask for. EJ just told him.

There was only one occasion that Omicron found something EJ wasn’t willing to discuss — when he asked why EJ moved here to the city, the man was strangely cagey. He said something about ‘needing a change of scenery,’ and Omicron filed that particular interaction away with the tag SUSPICIOUS.

“Um… Omicron?” came EJ’s voice.

Omicron blinked and pretended very hard like he’d been listening. “Yes?”

“Didja still wanna show me some spy stuff?”

A zing of purpose prickled the nape of Omicron’s neck. This was his opening, the cue preceding what would be a flawless performance. It had to be, after his disastrous series of introductions to this man. Omicron spent several evenings pouring over the E-Impact Initiative requirements to construct the most mind-blowing, impressively arranged presentation of spy-related information he could possibly offer (within the limits of classification clearances of course).

It’s show time. Omicron straightened his cufflinks, tugged his lapels into place, and folded his hands behind his back with a lift of his chin. “Of course,” he said with a pivot on his heel. “Follow me.”

“Oh, where are we goin?” EJ asked, catching up with three long strides. Omicron glanced up and allowed himself just the slightest edge of a smirk.

“My office.”

---

“Whoaaaaa…”

The word washed over Omicron like a beam of sunshine. He tried not to preen, but it was hard to resist when EJ was rubber-necking every square inch of the room just like Omicron hoped he would. His office was the most meticulously curated space he occupied — his pride and joy, far above that of even his own apartment. This was, after all, the place people actually saw and associated with him. It couldn’t be anything less than exceptional.

“It’s like out of a movie,” EJ gushed, running a hand along the smooth wood of Omicron’s desk.

An imported walnut desk to be exact, rich in color and stately in appearance. It was framed by an arching palladian window overlooking the campus green, where the agency’s many employees scurried to and fro. His french press sat on a rolling stand nearby, complete with porcelain cups and spoons. Diplomas, commendations, awards, and certifications framed and arranged in an aesthetic cascade along the wall. All from a life before this one, his civilian name artistically redacted from the paperwork. Towering shelves of hardback books, every spine sporting a title no self-respecting secret agent wouldn’t have read at least once. An air purifier (a peace offering to appease his nose) was placed inconspicuously to the side of the room, the only blemish to an otherwise perfect picture. On the other side sat a small, round tea table with cushioned stools to conduct business.

And most notably, laid out across that table, was a collection of retired tools of the trade. EJ nearly tripped over himself when he noticed them. “Holy moly.. are these..?”

“Spy gadgets,” Omicron affirmed, arms crossed with a straight face even as his stomach fluttered with glee. “I thought you might be interested.”

EJ turned around, peeling his eyes off all the shiny lures to look squarely at Omicron. And then he smiled. Big. Warm. So wide it wrinkled his eyes. “You remembered I wanted to see ‘em. That makes me happy, ya know? Thanks for doing this.”

Omicron immediately flushed, a surge of heat coloring his ears. It was the verbal equivalent of being slapped with a fish — shocking, unexpected, and he possessed no prescripted reply. People don’t just say things like hey, this thing you did made me happy. Not without some ulterior motive. Was it another attempt at disarmament? A finessed ploy to lower Omicron’s guard? Flattery. Ingraciation. A long con to whittle down Omicron’s defenses and infiltrate the field intelligence sector to mine for sensitive information.

No, Omicron counseled himself, massaging the bridge of his nose. That’s ridiculous…

He chanced a peek at EJ; the man was already perched on a stool, looking comically large at the tiny table, still wearing that wide smile as his gaze roved over the gadgets. Priority 1, Omicron decided, was to play it cool. He could work out the logistics of EJ’s questionable behavior later. Right now he had a show to put on.

Which is of course the moment his nose decided to twinge.

Omicron froze for half a second, realizing that touching his nose had been a mistake. It had churned up the urge, woken the beast from slumber, after all the trouble he went to this morning to satiate it. He’d steamed his morning shower to tempt his sinuses into an indulgent mood and then let his nose run wild. Deep, slow sniffs of thick air earned him a dragging fit of sneezes he’d heaved toward the floor with full abandon while he braced a palm on the shower wall. As hard and as many as his nose wanted, all in an effort to persuade it into obedience today.

No such luck. Never such luck, frankly. He gritted his teeth. Not now, he informed his nose as he felt it prickle with interest. Not in front of him again.

“Are ya sure it’s okay to show me all this stuff?” came EJ’s voice from the table. “You said it’s classified, right?”

“These are exceptions,” Omicron replied. He subtly maneuvered himself to lean against his desk, snatching up a handful of tissues when EJ’s attention rerouted back to the table. “Everything here is retired technology. No longer standard issue.”

“Kinda like a spy history lesson, huh?” 

Indeed, the arranged items exuded the air of a museum exhibit. EJ asked about every little ‘doohickey’ and ‘thingamabob’ with childlike fascination. Between increasingly desperate pinch-wipes of his nose with crumpled tissues, Omicron explained each one: tiny disc-like microphones that transmitted sound through walls via vibration; a grappling device in a holster shaped like a cigar with a 60-foot microfiber line that could lift up to 250 pounds; a chunky car key fob capable of emitting an EMP pulse that easily disrupted cellphone communications or wiped data transmissions off of hard drives. 

By the time they reached the last gadget on the table, Omicron felt drunk on the urge to sneeze. The itch had suffused deep into the walls of his nose, everything inside him squirming now with anticipation. He squelched his nostrils shut in a futile hope of quieting the sensation. It was so distracting he didn’t notice EJ picking up the final tool and turning it in his hands.

“And what’s this one do?”

Omicron knew the gadgets by heart — what they did and which ones he’d selected for display — so he didn’t bother to look. His eyes stayed shut, steeled against the insistent feeling of something soft and enticing behind the bridge of his nose. It was light, maddening, like inhaling a vortex of feathery down. All of it sticking to his slick, trembling membranes, already blushed pink with need. Not enough to make him sneeze. Just enough to make him want to. 

“..huhhit’s.. uh.. pen that you can write with, but..” Here he paused to sniffle, the sound wet enough to make him wince. Tears clung to his eyelashes when he cracked open his eyes to find the tissue box. “.. ugh, one’d mbidute..”

Blowing his nose wasn’t ideal but it was better than a sneeze leaping out of him. There was no way his nose would stop at one if he gave in. Omicron evacuated his sinuses as quietly as he could manage, and that was the only reason he heard the soft ffssh, startled gasp, and sudden clatter behind him. 

He whirled around, eyes wide over tissues still cupped to his nose.

EJ was pawing at his face, reflexive and urgent. On the table laid the pen, the cap twisted in a way that made Omicron’s heart skip and the urge to sneeze dissolve. He jerked the tissues down to his side. 

“Did you activate it?”

EJ squinted at him, struggling to see through a liquid gaze. Omicron catalogued the signs: watery eyes, ruddy patches of irritated skin, nose beginning to run, trying not to cough. Definitely dosed himself. Dammit. Teeth gritted, Omicron snatched the tissue box off his desk and, after a moment of dithering, thunked it on the tea table.

“M’sorry,” EJ rasped, snuffled, and then turned his head to cough into the crook of his elbow. He wiped his eyes, but they immediately teared up again. “.. didn’t know it was.. would—..” His voice tightened around another coughing fit.

“I was going to explain,” Omicron said as he fumbled with distilled water from the carafe sitting beside his french press. After nearly spilling it onto the floor, he wetted a stack of napkins and held it out to EJ, who immediately pressed the sopping wad to his face with muttered gratitude. 

Omicron retreated, arms crossed tight to his chest, and continued, “When you twist the cap, it produces a mist that irritates mucus membranes. Similar to pepper spray. The model is so outdated, I didn’t expect the canister to have anything in it. That was my oversight.”

But for the record, fiddling around with tools like they’re toys isn’t the wisest choice, Omicron thought. He almost said it aloud, but an unfamiliar impulse of restraint silenced him. It felt unproductive to chastise EJ, who was still apologizing between coughs and sniffles with a voice muffled by a soggy pile of napkins. At least the potency of the compound waned with age; EJ’s reaction wasn’t nearly as pronounced as Omicron feared it might be. 

“Feels like I ate a plate of hot wings without my hands,” EJ choked out around a chuckle. He snorted hard and deep, then swallowed. A month ago Omicron might have recoiled, but lately he wasn’t one to talk — even as he stood here his own nose was beginning to tingle impatiently again.

“It will take some time to subside,” he replied. “You may want to stop by the infirmary for a rinse, if it got into your eyes.”

“Naw, I’mb okay.” EJ sleeved beneath his nostrils again, and then noticed the tissues by his elbow. He plucked several, and without any reservations, blew his nose with a trumpeting force that made Omicron jump. When he finished the man wrinkled his nose, blinking wetly with bloodshot eyes. “It ain’dt too bad.”

“If… you say so,” Omicron replied, the words stiff as his posture. He had the urge to insist in the infirmary, but the awkwardness of doing so made him waver.

 He wavered long enough for the siren call of his waiting sneeze to catch up with him. When it teased the tip of his nose, he swiveled his head to disguise a dissuading rub with his knuckle. Only when he looked back did he realize EJ wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. He’d gone still, swollen glassy eyes locked unwavering on the tabletop, and as Omicron watched he saw EJ’s nostrils flare with delicate, wavering uncertainty. A tiny notch appeared between his eyebrows. His lips parted, a sliver of teeth visible between them.

And because Omicron saw this expression on his own face at least a dozen times a day, he knew exactly what he was looking at: a sneeze was brewing. The discovery germinated a sense of weary relief — For once, it’s not me — that grew into vindication — It’s him this time — and at last bloomed into thorny, juvenile schadenfreude. 

I want him to feel embarrassed in front of me for a change. 

Years of discipline smothered Omicron’s smirk before it could form on his lips. He busied himself with tidying up the gadgets, keeping EJ in his periphery with the steadiness of a sniper scope. The man looked lost inside himself, listening closely to a sensation still echoing in Omicron’s own traitorous nose. It was a game of endurance now. Seeing the slow creep of a sneeze sink through EJ’s expression made Omicron’s nose hungrier, eager for its own relief. He cemented a fist beneath his septum like he was laying a brick. His nose twitched, irritated to be denied. Omicron squinted, watching. The tickle paced, waiting.

The furrow between EJ’s brows deepened from confusion into concern. His nostrils peeked open. Wide, then wider. His eyelids grew heavy. His breath snagged.

And then EJ shoved away from the table so quickly his chair nearly toppled. It scared Omicron’s sneeze away; the tickle retreated far into his sinuses with a sting that promised its return. EJ surged to his feet, one hand hovering in front of his nose and mouth as the other steadied his chair and snatched up his satchel.

“Actually I should.. I gotta hit the infirmary, I think,” he said, already moving for the door. His nose wrinkled behind the loose curtain of his palm, his entire expression scrunching with restraint. “Still, uh.. burning kinda bad.”

That’s a load of shit, Omicron wanted to snip, because he was trained in statement analysis and knew when someone was talking out of their ass. He took a breath to reply, to detain EJ long enough that his sneeze would squirm free, but the man turned at the doorway to give him a watery, wobbling smile.

“.. Thanks again for..hh- doin’ this.” He spoke around the urge, his expression weaker by the second before he rushed his sleeve up to scrub his nose into submission. His parting words were rushed, muffled by fabric. “Sorry seeya round!”

“Wait-”

Gone.

Omicron, hands fisted at his sides, stomped up to the door and glanced out to watch EJ’s hulking frame sprint down the hallway at an impressive speed. Not in the immediate direction of the infirmary either. Omicron’s eyes narrowed. Suspicion mingled with the sour, petulant disappointment of seeing this man slip away rather than endure the indignity of sneezing in front of Omicron when Omicron himself has done nothing but humiliate himself with outbursts on every occasion.

Case in point, his sneeze impatiently barged forward. He didn’t even get the courtesy of a build up. Omicron gasped, held tighter to the doorjamb, and staggered over the threshold with an echoing, “-ig’GIZZSCHue!!”

It was loud enough that someone from a neighboring office called out a startled ‘bless you!’ Omicron barely suppressed a growl as he knuckled his dripping nose, still glaring down the mouth of the hallway where EJ disappeared.

You’re not what you seem, he thought with a sniff. And I’m going to find out why.

/tbc!

Thanks again for reading and sticking around! 💕 Hope to see you again soon at Part 3 ^w^

“Similar to allergies?”

“Yes, if you were allergic to air.”

Omicron sighed. He wasn’t in the business of complaining, but this was going to be challenging. He crossed his arms, trying not to fidget. “How long does it last?”

“Just long enough to see you through the mission. Your symptoms should abate by Thursday.”

So he’d be sick the entire time, essentially. Great. His leg started to bounce.

“Will this slow me down?” he asked. Dr. Voster arched a look over her safety glasses. He clarified himself. “Am I going to feel like shit?”

She smirked at him. “Are you one of those man-cold types?”

Heat swept over his ears and burned the back of his neck, and her smile only widened. He crunched his brows with a glare. “No, I’m just being thorough. If this will compromise my performance in any way, I want to know about it.”

“It won’t,” she chuckled, and he tried not to get defensive at the amusement in her voice. “Like I said, the primary function of this virus is to make you sneeze. You’ll be contending with some nasal congestion, but aside from that you’ll be fine.”

That was easy for her to say. She wasn’t going undercover into enemy territory. He tensed as she snapped on a pair of gloves and looped on a face mask. When she uncapped the bottle, he cleared his throat. “The paperwork said something about me being more ‘suggestible?’ What does that mean?”

She huffed at his air quotes and yanked down her mask. “It means you’ll be vulnerable to psychosomatic triggers. In other words, if you think hard enough about sneezing, you’ll prompt one.”

“That sounds unlikely.”

“We have testing data to support it,” she chastised, and yanked her mask back up. “It was a goal for the formula. We thought you might find it handy to take matters into your own hands if a sneeze wasn’t forthcoming.”

“For.. what? Tactical measures?”

“Yes, strategic options. Now, tilt your head and relax.”

He reluctantly settled back into the cushioned chair, sniffing in preparation. One of her latex hands moved to cradle his jaw and keep him still as she nudged the applicator up the right side. It was wide enough to graze the sides of his nostrils, and he felt them flare in response.

“Okay, deep breath..”

Swallowing, he breathed slowly, deeply through his nose. A fffssh from the bottle yielded a mist of curiously warm aerosol that instantly coated the skin. He flinched a wrist up to his mouth to cough in response. It felt suddenly like his nose was running, so he sniffed, sniffed, and sniffed again. A strong flavor coated the back of his throat.

“Why is it salty?”

“Well, we didn’t intentionally flavor it,” she said, already moving to his left nostril. “Probably the saline. We used it as a base. Now, give me another big breath.”

He did as he was told, and again a warm puff of wetness invaded his nose. And another. And another. They performed this three times for each nostril, alternating sides, and the last one rubbed him wrong. A tiny tickle ignited. Omicron warded Dr. Voster back with one cautious hand as the other routed to his nose. He anchored his forefinger beneath his nostrils, pressing deliberately against his septum as he parted his lips to breathe. Voster snorted at him as she set the bottle aside.

“I thought that only worked in cartoons.”

“And on me,” he mumbled in a heady voice. 

It took a moment of concentrated effort, but the urge passed. He sniffed, a little wetter this time as he blinked away tears. Agent Omicron was an old hand at holding back sneezes. Sudden, uncontrolled outbursts weren’t great for business when he was out in the field. That, and he generally didn’t like to draw attention to himself even in civilian life. He caught Dr. Voster smiling at him and his brows trenched.

“What now?”

“I’m not into sneezing,” she told him as she capped the bottle, “but that was pretty cute. Your target won’t stand a chance, Mr. Honey Pot.”

He replied with a scowl and one more see-sawing rub beneath his nose. “When does this kick in?”

“Give it twenty-four hours,” she said, and snapped off her gloves. “I’ll check on you then to make sure it took.”

He stood and slipped back into his jacket, straightened his tie. “Isn’t this cutting it a little close? I’m flying out tomorrow.”

“Maybe, but we didn’t want your poor nose suffering anymore than it has to,” she cooed, and punctuated this with a little tap of her knuckle to his septum. He swatted her away.

“Stop.”

“Oohhh,” she pouted, leaning a hip against her workstation. “Always so serious, Agent O.”

Omicron lurked a warning glare her way as he adjusted his sleeve cuffs and shirt collar. “I’ll be back in 2400.”

---

And he was, though he dragged his feet most of the way.

Omicron believed Dr. Voster when she said this nasal spray contained a virus that would cause his nose some hell, but he didn’t quite understand just how.. intense the experience would be. 

He sniffled, a necessary indignity since he woke up this morning, and the slow, deliberate flare of that ever-present irritation beckoned him toward an unavoidable conclusion. Still, Omicron shoved the hard edge of his finger beneath his nose and tilted his head back for another whip-crack sniff. It flared the tickle dangerously, but the steady breakwater against his septum kept him in the clear. His nostrils twitched and he pinched them, rubbing rubbing rubbing until he heard the embarrassing squelch of something wet in his nose.

Another strong sniff, and a weak huhh on his exhale. Shit. He wiped his hand on the side of his pants with a grimace. He’d have to start carrying tissues.

“There he is!” Dr. Voster greeted him with a disarming smile, but he could see the hawklike way she zeroed in on his nose. He tried not to sniffle. “How’s my magnum opus treating you?”

It’s bullying me, Omicron thought, but as he laced his hands properly behind his back, what he said instead was, “It’s working.”

“Oh, is it?” she said. She wasn’t even trying to mask the delight in her voice now as she crowded him back into her exam chair. “Let me take a look.”

He stared hard at the ceiling as she slipped on gloves and wheeled forward on her stool, leaning over him like a dentist. He hated the dentist. A warm trickle of wetness prompted an automatic sniff, and a huffing exhale when that far-back tickle teased him.

“Runny nose?” she chirped, using her thumb to gently coax his nostril open. She held an otoscope with her other hand, using the little light to peer up his nose. Omicron tried not to shrivel in embarrassment as she crooned with sympathy. “Oooh, poor thing. You’re so inflamed..”

“Wasn’t that the idea?” he sighed, and sniffled again. A spark somewhere in his sinuses caused him a hard blink.

“Yes, but it must tickle so much..”

In response to her words, another spark snapped inside him. Like striking flint to burn kindling. Another reflexive sniffle. His eyes began to water. 

“It must feel like something fuzzy is stuck up there,” she was saying, rubbing her thumb softly against the quivering edge of his nostril. “Every time you breathe, this fluffy thing, lodged in place and too far for you to reach..”

The frantic efforts of the virus continued, tenacious now in its purpose. The fuse caught, as did Omicron’s next inhale. His chest hitched with a stutter. He tried to reach up, finger extended and ready, but Voster caught his wrist and pinned it back down to the chair arm.

“It must be new for you, to be so out of control. This thing inside you, tickling so sweetly, growing unbearable, and there’s nothing you can do but submit.”

That tantalizing feeling got worse. The line of gunpowder trailing through his pulsing nostrils lit up with an unstoppable blaze. It raced through him, and Omicron couldn’t do anything but give it fuel. He gasped hugely, his chest straining against the buttons of his shirt. The exhale crashed out of him clumsily, unrelieved.

“H-HUHhh..”

Dr. Voster leaned away, but set her otoscope aside to pin his other wrist when he reflexively raised it to ward off what was coming. “Don’t fight it, Omicron. That tickle nestled in your nose was built for this. Listen to it. You two are a team, remember?”

Omicron couldn’t even open his eyes, the sensation held him so powerfully. It felt alive, calculated, somehow vying for control. He snatched in another soft breath, breathed it out on a moan, and then gasped again. His lungs strained to accommodate as that demanding tickle wanted more.. more..

He huffed out another helpless groan. “HHUHhhh..”

His hands flinched toward his face, but met resistance. A tear surfed down his cheek and dripped off his chin. He gasped- gasped-! “.. hH-hiIHH-!”

The sensation crested, and finally, overcame him.

“HHZZZSSSCHOOO!!”

The force of it threw him forward. It was the loudest, strongest sneeze he’d ever sneezed, but somehow it didn’t feel big enough. Cool, tingling aftermath quickly gathered a second storm. This time, Omicron didn’t do anything but breathe into it.

“..hhHI’JJIZZSHHUE!”

Another uncharacteristically enormous sneeze. His wrists were free, but he didn’t even bother to cover his mouth or muffle into his elbow. Usually he’d rather disintegrate than sneeze freely even in his own home, but.. this tickle.. he just wanted to let it.. let it do.. 

“HEH’CHIZSHOoo!”

.. do whatever it wanted. And what it wanted was complete and utter domination. Omicron sniffled helplessly, half-aware he was leaking out of more than one orifice but too punch-drunk to do much about it. His breath caught fitfully in his throat and he-.. 

“-idzhih.. HID’ISSsshoo!.. huhh..”

Omicron leaned over to press hands over his eyes, his palms coming away wet. He was normally a one-and-done guy, with fairly normal-sized sneezes; this many at this size had him light-headed. His breath hitched again, quick like the strike of a viper, before he let it go on a sigh. And another, just the same. It felt like hiccups. He didn’t dare touch his nose, too wary of setting off the wrath of this thing deep inside him. Instead he just sniffled pitifully, catching his breath.

There was a tap on his shoulder. He glanced askance to a sheepish looking Dr. Voster who was offering a box of tissues. He snatched several, still too dazed to be properly embarrassed as he blew a wet, crackling sound into the wad of them. It took a few rounds, but when he finished he cleared his throat and blinked at her with teary eyes.

“What the fuck, Anita.”

“Sorry,” she winced, and she actually did seem sorry. “I wanted to test the ‘suggestible’ variable and you reacted more strongly than I anticipated. Also, um.. bless you, by the way.”

He sat back against the seat with a stuffy sniffle, arms crossed, and now that he was more aware of himself, valiantly fighting down the urge to blush. “Yes, well. You were just doing your job, so I can’t be mad.”

She hedged a nervous smile. “Can’t be, or shouldn’t be?”

He gusted a long sigh, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose when somehow even the rumble of his own voice stirred the residual dust of another sinus-deep tickle. “Do you need to test anything else, or can I go?”

His voice had lost most of its resonance from the sneeze attack as the congestion set in -- not yet enough to blunt his consonants but enough to dull the overall sound. Moisture skated down the side of his nose and Omicron wrinkled it with another snuffle that moved nothing at all. How could his nose be both dripping and completely blocked? He indulged a rub this time, soothing his nostrils to stillness with the tempering back-and-forth of his index finger.

The doctor’s voice broke the quiet. “How does it feel?”

Omicron peered up at her, finger still held to his upper lip. “Pardon?”

“Your nose,” she clarified, but not by much. “How does it feel?” He scoffed and stood to leave. She stood to stop him, holding both hands out as if to placate him. “I’m not teasing you. I really do need to know. Are you in pain?”

“No,” he said, chest lifting with another short sniff. He pressed harder against his septum, rubbing in earnest now as the tickle began gathering momentum. It stalled against the wrangling touch, but didn’t back down. “No pain.”

“But it does tickle?”

“I believe we’ve estahh..hkrrrm!” He cleared his throat to steady his voice. “.. established that, yes.”

She eyed him, her gaze trailing down to the finger glued beneath his nose. “You shouldn’t try to hold them off, Omicron. It might be why your sneezing earlier was so extreme.”

All this talk of sneezing was just emboldening the tickle. It’s like the sensation was surging forward, eager to answer to the call of its name. His eyes fluttered closed and he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to try and waylay another gasping breath. His nostrils pulsed against his finger, prompting him to pinch them instead, but still they tried to flare against his grip. He heard Dr. Voster sigh.

“I don’t know why they picked you for this mission,” she muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “If you’re too shy to sneeze, you’re going to lose your target pretty much instantly.”

His eyes sliced open, as defiant as his nose still squirming between his fingers. His voice was bottled back in his throat completely. “I’b dnot shy, I’b.. I’b jhhss.. hooh..”

The tickle hijacked his voice, tremoring it on a snatchy inhale. It prickled ominously behind his eyes, insistent, and Omicron stayed perfectly still in an effort to tame it. Even with his nose plugged and his fervent attempts to rub the sensation away, the tickle persisted. It dragged another breath in on a soft gasp, out on another dreading utterance.

“.. H-Ihih!.. ohh..”

“You’re so stubborn,” said Dr. Voster, and he could hear her rolling her eyes. He’d known her for years, and while he tried to rise above her goading taunts, there always came a point when she got to him.

Omicron let go of his nose and took as long and deep of a breath as he could through his trembling nostrils. The tickle welcomed it, greedily advancing, and rather than prolong the fight Omicron simply braced his hands on his knees to keep his balance as the sensation built inside him. As Dr. Voster so strangely asserted during his last volley, he and this virus were a team. He wouldn’t see the success of this mission without it.

It was this thought that compelled him to breathe again, a sniff that coasted directly into a gasp. He waited, hovering on the edge of it, but the sneeze backed away just before he could snatch it. Omicron squinted up at Dr. Voster, who was watching him with bald interest.

“Iihhff… hoo..” He sniffled, abandoning all dignity as he snubbed the wet edges of his nostrils against the sleeve of his suit. “If I let this tiH.. tiihckle ha..uuHUhh.. have its way ev..” 

His eyes fluttered closed, and he snatched in a series of chuffing breaths. Each was a shrill gasp followed by a bleating exhale, utterly beyond his power to stop. The crescendo carried him into increasingly higher and faster octaves, before the sneeze ripped out of him with gusto.

“HAH’CHIZSHOO!-ohhhh..” He swayed on his feet, panting at the ground, and was shocked to find in the tingling aftermath how good that felt. It made it easier to let the next one swell and crash out of him. “..HIH’SSschoo!- fuck mbe..”

Omicron rarely swore aloud, but the power and sheer abandon of these sneezes were so unlike his usual that he couldn’t help it. Through the haze of another rising tickle, he tried to hurry through the rest of his thoughts before he completely forgot what he was saying.

“If I let it have.. hahve it’s wayiiiiee..ig’GIZZSCHue!!-hah... I’ll be sdnee.. sdiizz.. HIZZSSSHOO!!..ughh, sdeezig for..fuh! UH!hhh.. for days.” He finished on a sigh, unrelieved, one hand now holding desperately onto the chair so he didn’t end up on his knees.

Dr. Voster didn’t immediately speak and when he finally blinked away blurry tears, he found her biting her lip with a worried crease between her eyes. “.. Do you always sneeze like this when you catch a cold?”

Even the very word caused his nose to buzz. His willpower was all but shredded, so he clamped onto the chair with his other hand and threw his head down with a body-shaking, “IID’DZZSSSSSTTH!!”

It was an unfortunate sneeze, one that painted his tie and the seat of the chair with its aftermath. Omicron didn’t have the energy to blush about it; honestly, this was all Anita’s fault so if he happened to catch her furniture in the crossfire of his helpless sneezing fit he.. heeeeeeee-

“HEEZZZSHOOO!!” He stumbled forward into a suspended tray of implements that crashed to the ground in a tremendous clatter. Omicron paid it no mind, tilting his head back to the fluorescent lights in an effort to keep his running nose at bay. “Ugh, won’t it st.. uh.. ohh.. hH!”

A bridge of pressure appeared beneath his septum, pressing firmly against it. He cracked his eyes open to find Dr. Voster beside him, her finger fearlessly anchored beneath his flaring nostrils. They threatened another revolt, under the tickle’s full command. That enduring, swelling force inside Omicron begged again for release and he gasped loudly against Dr. Voster.

“..hihHIT-!”

“Nope, nope, nope,” she muttered, pressing even harder against his nose. “Work with me here..”

Omicron had no idea if she was talking to him, or the virus, but both struggled to comply. The maddening prickle became tortuous. His nose cried out for relief, as the tickle played his sinuses like a fine instrument. Holding it back now seemed impossible. And to be frank, he was still a bit irked with Anita. He flicked his gaze up to the lights, sensitive enough that the bright flash of them set alight the simmering fuse inside him.

And, because he was a gentleman, he did try to warn her. “.. caahh.. cahhdd..”

“O, don’t you dare. I know you have more control than this, just-”

He heaved his way through an ominous buildup, letting the tickle dictate the pace of his breath until it brought him to the brink. His chest inflated, pressing against Dr. Voster as she fought to the end to keep him together. She pressed hard enough that he half-wondered if his nose would bruise, but no amount of pressure could tide it back. He threw both of them forward with a sneeze scraped up from the depths of his lungs.

“HAAAZZSCHHOOOO!!-ooohhhhh..” 

His knees felt a bit weak after that one, but for the first time since he’d woken up that morning, his nose tingled with welcome relief. It would be brief, he was certain, but he’d take the reprieve while he had it. The satisfaction of the fit filled his head with a pleased emptiness as he teetered his way around the edge of the chair and dropped to sit there. He tried to catch his breath.

“Agent Omicron, I swear to god,” groused Dr. Voster. He cracked his eyes open to see her ripping out more than a dozen tissues to throw at him. “You did that on purpose.”

He gathered them up and groaned wetly into the white bouquet. His voice was an achy croak. “I had no control over that, I promise you..”

Dr. Voster washed her hands at the sink and joined him on her stool when she finished. By that time, he’d managed to make himself somewhat presentable. His suit was a bit of a lost cause, but with luck the stains would dry into something less noticeable before his flight.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, and there was a serious quality to her question. “Do you always sneeze like this when you catch cold?”

Omicron shook his head, bringing another bunch of tissues to his face to blow. ‘Sore throat’ may not have been an intended symptom, but it soon would be if he kept shouting sneezes on the hour. He massaged his sinuses through the thin paper, already hopelessly stuffed up as he tried to suck in a sniffle. It just made him cough.

Dr. Voster was muttering beside him. “.. may have hit you harder than intended..”

“Whad was that?” he asked. He didn’t bother masking the reproach in his tone. She sighed and adjusted her glasses.

“I said, I may have underestimated how reactive you’d be,” she admitted. “You rarely sneeze, so I thought your sinuses weren’t sensitive.”

“I have to sdneeze all the time,” Omicron admitted in turn with a sawing rub beneath his nostrils. “I’b just good at holding themb back.”

Dr. Voster stared at him a moment, then bent over her knees with a sound of pure frustration. “Omicron. You should have TOLD me that in the INTAKE INTERVIEW.”

Omicron startled in his seat, sputtering with insult. “Are you tryi’g to make this mby fault? I answered all your questions honestly!”

“I asked you if you sneeze a lot when you’re sick and you said no!!”

“Thad’s because I DON’D!” 

His throat didn’t take kindly to the treatment and he turned away to cough. He yanked out more tissues, determined to free his consonants with a noseblow. Nothing moved, and all he got was another threatening jab from the tickle for his trouble. Oh, please not again, he thought, blinking at the sensation.

“Then what do you call this, O? Are you sneezing for fun?”

Anita’s voice called him briefly back to his ire. “I almost never sneeze this much when I’m sick! In fact I sdneeze more when I’m well, I-..”

He stopped, and Dr. Voster watched him with bare worry as he wrestled with what could be another punishing sneezing fit. Omicron learned his lesson from before, and he didn’t try to fight it at all. Just gave himself over to the feverish tickling until it snagged his breath in one fell swoop.

“H-ih.. TZSshoo!” 

He waited briefly for another, but none came and Omicron could have wept with relief. That was far closer to what he’d expected at the start of this experiment. He wiped his nose with a tissue and was unsurprised to find the skin was already getting sore. His skin was prone to chafing with too much friction, which was just as inconvenient as it sounded.

Dr. Voster frowned at him. “Was that..?”

“My usual, yes,” Omicron verified with a sigh. He was numb to the embarrassment of discussing this by now.

“Okay.” Dr. Voster folded her hands in her lap and with a deep breath, marshaled herself. “Okay, okay. This.. is salvageable. I just have to create an antidote, or maybe a diluting agent, and then maybe I can administer a weaker dose before..” She glanced at her watch and hung her head in defeat. “.. you leave in less than an hour.”

Omicron gave her a half-lidded stare over his tissues. “You didn’t create an antidote?”

Dr. Voster threw her arms up and shot up from her chair to pace. “No, Omicron! No, I didn’t. It’s a cold. It’s a harmless, nose-oriented cold at that. Barely a case of the sniffles. But apparently you have the most delicate sinuses of all mankind because my dose was too strong and now you’re-”

She glanced over at Omicron to find him in a state of sneezy limbo, no longer listening as his nostrils twitched their way to a consuming finale. He stuttered a few breaths, each exhale a sound of unwitting surprise when the sneeze didn’t come. It took longer than Omicron wanted, but he finally got it.

“DZSSSH!” Another pitchy gasp, the corners of his mouth flinching upward in the barest hint of a relieved smile as he vented one down on his lap. “TSSschoo!! ahhh, tha’g you..”

Omicron wasn’t even sure who he was talking to, the tickle or his nose, but each succinct release felt wonderful and left him spent in a way that relaxed him. It seemed if he didn’t try to stop them, they would come in much more manageable waves. Hmm.. maybe that meant if he held them off, he could get another one of those punishing volleys when he needed one. It would depend on the target’s preferences.

“Omicron, are you listening?”

He glanced up to find a fretful Dr. Voster, her hair loose from her ponytail and lab coat a little askew. He sniffed. “No, sorry. What did you say?”

“I’m going to recommend we ground you,” she said. Omicron froze, uncertain if he heard right, but jumped to his feet when she snatched up her phone. “We can’t risk this compromising you.”

He tried to grab her phone from her, but she dodged. “What are you talking about? I thought that was the point.”

“The point was to give you a reliable way to sneeze,” she clarified, quickly typing something out with her thumbs. “Not make you a liabilit-HEY!”

Omicron managed to liberate her phone and held it high above to keep it out of reach as he tried to reason with her. He sniffed again when he felt his nose begin to run, and blinked against the throbbing reply of his nose-tickle. “Listen, Anita, I’ve been training for this mission for months. It’s our only chance t.. to..”

Her eyes narrowed as his fluttered. “You have to sneeze right now, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but I’m telling you I’m hh!UHhh..” He sniffled again, fighting for composure. “.. I’m learning to work with it, alright?”

“If you can go thirty seconds without sneezing, I’ll believe you.”

Omicron swallowed. Thirty seconds yesterday would have been nothing, but today? His nostrils flared at even the suggestion. If he wasn’t certain viruses had no capacity for thought, let alone emotion, he would claim this tickle had a mind of its own and a chip on its shoulder. It was always simmering somewhere in the recesses of his sinuses, but the moment he committed to staving it off, it surged forward with pure intention.

Somehow, he could tell he’d be in for another seismic sneezing fit if he tried any tricks to keep it back, so he let his eyes fold shut. Rather than increments of jumping breaths, this sneeze was a smooth slide into fruition. He drew in a dreamy breath and felt his nostrils ease wide. Then-

“HETZChuu!” It was cleansing, a reset that cleared his mind. He welcomed another. “h-hHEH!h.. ohhH!hh..” 

The urge abandoned him, and of course the moment he wanted to sneeze, he couldn’t. Clearing his throat, he realized with a measure of chagrin that when he sneezed, he hadn’t done more than turn his head. Where had his manners gone? The urges were so immediate, he could scarcely think of anything else.

Dr. Voster snatched the phone from his hand. “That wasn’t even fifteen seconds! I’m calling HQ.”

“Anita!” he growled, and darted forward. The two of them ended up in a spontaneous spar. While Dr. Voster was rarely on the field, she was trained in hand-to-hand as well as he was. They exchanged a series of blocks, strikes, kicks, dodges, and by the time Omicron wrestled her into a hold on the linoleum, they were both breathless. Splayed out on her back, he huffed heavy breaths into her hair. The silken strands ruffled in the gusts.

She threw him a dirty look from the corner of her eye. “Let me go, Omicron.”

“Not until you let go of this notion that I’m incapable of fulfilling this mission, Anita,” he leveled back at her. “It’s unlike you to worry like this.”

Her glare darkened; she didn’t like his choice of words, but didn’t deny it. “I oversensitized you. It will be my fault if you collapse in an uncontrollable sneezing fit and get captured by the enemy.”

He scoffed. “Is that all? I didn’t sneeze once during our spar and, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got you in a lock on the ground. Not to mention the mission is information extraction. If I attract unwanted attention, that would be my own mistake.”

She said nothing in return, which prompted Omicron to slide off of her. Together they sat up, still sitting on the floor together. She tucked hair behind her ear, refusing to look at him. He sighed. “Anita..”

She shot him a side glance. “.. are you seriously going through with it?”

“Of course,” he replied, twitching his nose to one side. The tickle rippled, and he sniffled in response. Out of habit he reached up to rest his finger beneath. “If the target enjoys this as much as sources claim, th-h!.. then it’ll beeeeh-”

He tucked his finger more tightly to his septum, only realizing his mistake after the tickle churned restlessly against the tender, tortured edges of his sinuses. “Oh, fuck mHH-.. HIH!hh.. uhh… UH..”

Dr. Voster made a noise of exasperation and he caught the sound of tissues getting snatched from the box. As he gasped and groaned his way through another incredible buildup, a flurry of softness enveloped his squirming nose. He cupped his hand over hers as he flinched forward into their shared grip.

“iiiIHH’GGZSSCHOO!..oohhh, uhduther-..” He caught his breath in a desperate gasp, straight from the bottom of his belly. When he crunched forward, he heard a couple seams rip in his shirt. “AAHHDZZSCHOO!!”

“I guess I should said bless you,” grumbled Dr. Voster. She wiggled the tissues around his nose, which remained twitchy. He had yet to open his eyes. “Are you done?”

He shook his head.

“One more?”

He paused to consider, then nodded. And after another terrific gasp, the force of his doubling-over wrenched their hands down toward his lap. “EEHTTZZSSSCHOOO!!.. ohhh, wow..” 

Omicron nearly shivered at the pleasant, tingling aftermath. Why did they always feel so good? The bigger the better, even if they winded him. Dr. Voster left him with the tissues as he muzzily blew his nose. He kept his head down for a moment to let the dizziness ease, so he was still facing his lap when he opened his eyes.

Oh. That was new. Side effect of the virus, perhaps..? 

Omicron darted his eyes to the doctor, but she was already up on her feet and brushing off her coat. She hadn’t seen - his first and only stroke of luck today. Because if she thought his violent sneezing was grounds for calling off the mission, his sudden sneeze-induced half-chub would definitely warrant a mortifying and career-destroying advisory call to HQ. He rushed to adjust himself as she turned away, and then both of them jumped when the door opened.

“ - yes, yes, just tell them to fax it,” Agent Delta was saying, attention still focused on someone else in the hall. Omicron scrambled to his feet, standing at attention as Dr. Voster filed beside him, just as Delta turned to them both. He clapped his hands together. “Ah, there they are! Case 28947!”

That was the case number to which they were assigned, and the very case that would see Omicron leaving for the airport in the next.. his eyes flew to the clock on the wall.. twelve minutes. That’s probably why Delta was here. 

“How’s our experiment? A success?” He strolled over to Omicron, over whom he held a few inches. Omicron stood his ground, resolving not to drop his eyes when Delta jovially scanned his features. His gaze lingered on Omicron’s nose. “Looks like it was.”

“It was.” Dr. Voster and Omicron briefly locked eyes before she continued. “It’s.. functioning as intended.”

“Really?” asked Delta, impressed. Dr. Foster preened under that look, in spite of the circumstances. The senior agent looked between the two of them with a polite smile. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind me testing it as well?”

Again Omicron and Anita met eyes. This time, Omicron cleared his throat and nodded his reply. “If you wish, sir.”

Delta scratched his cheek thoughtfully, studying Omicron in silence until the shorter agent couldn’t help but sniff. He also couldn’t help the need to briefly wrinkle his nose afterward. Delta grinned.

“From how it was described, it must tickle pretty bad in there, huh?” he said, nodding to Omicron’s nose. It must be blushed pink by now, if not darker. He waited for Delta to continue, and then realized that his superior was waiting for an answer.

Much as it humiliated him to say it, he replied, “It does, sir.”

“Mmm,” Delta hummed thoughtfully, and to the man’s credit he sounded a little sympathetic. “It must feel like.. hm, how did your poetic literature put it, Doctor? What was it?.. Liiike..”

Dr. Voster, who was busy putting her hair back up into its customary ponytail, darted an apologetic glance toward Omicron. Well, it wasn’t her fault. Omicron knew what literature Delta referenced and it was only part of protocol for her to write something thorough for their records.

“Like feathers.”

“That’s right, like feathers,” Delta continued, shifting on his feet in front of Omicron. His eyes never left his subordinate’s face. “Constantly and tirelessly petting the inside of one’s nose.”

The words seemed hypnotic to Omicron because he could feel it. He could feel those feathers, stroking so gently and repeatedly against the far depths of his sinuses. Somewhere deep, somewhere too far to scratch. They were careful with the fragile nerves there, but dauntless in their purpose. To make him sneeze. And sneeze.. And sneeze…

Omicron’s eyes fluttered shut, his breath deepening as his nostrils flared softly to the siren call of those thoughts. His hands remained firmly clasped behind him.

Delta continued as if he didn’t notice. “Yes. An ever-present irritation in the most sensitive depths, coaxed to greater and greater strength by your breath. Isn’t that ironic? That you yourself are the catalyst to this growing fire inside you, cursed to fan the flames even in sleep.”

Did it start while I was asleep last night? Omicron wondered. Because when he woke, it was to an itchy nose. So itchy in fact he snorted, sniffed, and rubbed it with such single-mindedness he nearly forgot he was due to Dr. Voster’s lab today. He breathed now, a slow and reverent inhale that squeaked around his blocked sinuses and added speed to the stroking sensation of those silken feathers.

His lips parted, his chest jumping with a sudden breath. He sighed it out, the ghost of a moan carried on his exhale.

“And once it starts, it is nigh impossible to stop. That tickle won’t let you. No matter how badly you might want a reprieve, those feathers are mindless. You can’t reason with them. They’ll just keep at their work, teasing and teasing that aching flesh until..”

The tickle buoyed him through a catching gasp. Omicron sighed again, his voice carrying, wanting. Another cresting gasp, the wave of something reachable, and then he fell short again. His nostrils pulsed plaintively, begging what dwelled inside to give him relief. But Omicron didn’t mind this limbo, this torture. He knew what came after would be well worth the wait.

“.. agitating.. working you over.. beckoning you with a relentless tickle.. until you can take it no longer.”

His chest swelled, and what he thought might be another forsaken gasp turned into the exclamation of climax. “HAH-.. BBZSSSSCHHUUHH!”

The first one came, because of course there would be more, and he snatched an arm around his middle when there was a strong, delicious undulation of pleasure deep in his gut. He groaned, his voice deep and gravelly and unfamiliar to his ears.

“Whoa!” came Delta’s exclamation. He sounded shocked. “That sure was something. Omicron, bless-”

“HEH-.. BBZSSSHHOO!.. nnnnghh.” 

These were smooth as butter - one big, long, scooping breath and then a knee-shaking release. He sniffled thickly, wetly, with his eyes shut in concentration. Omicron wanted another, and this time the tickle delivered. Those invisible feathers rustled like wheat in a windstorm, and he caught himself grinning as he gasped another huge breath. 

“HHHH!.. EHDZZSSSHUUE!!”

He swayed forward as another cramp of ecstasy swirled in his gut, and Omicron felt a strong hand brace his shoulder to keep him from tipping over.

“Is he okay?” was one faint voice.

“Yes, just-” came another.

Omicron sneezed.

“HIIH!.. IIHTDZZSSSHHHTT!! .. fuck.”

That one was particularly wet, fired haphazardly at the floor like the rest. It also contracted in a burst of stars behind his groin so intense that Omicron became instantly and fearfully aware that he would actually come in his pants if he kept this up. And holy shit he didn’t want that to happen. Not here. Not now. 

He jerked his free hand out, holding it expectantly toward the voices. With tremendous effort, he tried to be understood. “Tiih.. Tiizzusss.. HUH-”

“One second, one second!!” he heard Anita’s tempering assurances over the rush of blood in his ears. 

And the rush of ticklish sensation through his nose. He couldn’t get the visual of feathers out of his head. Delta, damn him. All Omicron could see behind the dark of his wet eyelids was a field of pristine, white, downy feathers positioned diabolically against every inch of his nasal walls. The tips of them wavered each time he hitched a stuttery inhale, and huffed a helpless exhale. They were devoid of life beyond that which he gave them, breathing intent into them as they swayed against swollen, irritated flesh. He could picture his nasal membranes flinching helplessly against the onslaught, crying out to him for relief. And he would give it-

“hH-.. uHH’TZZZSSSHHOOOO!!”

The feathers fluttered wildly and his nose calmed with a prickling balm, sated. Until he sniffled against the slogging block of congestion in his nose and what little air there was eeked through and-.. the feathers trembled, dragging their soft tips gingerly against his quivering flesh, an endless torment, so subtle yet compounding in its simplicity because he could feel the echoes of that tantalizing sensation all through his nose and as he snuffled against the feeling, the feathers trembled again as if in eagerness, excitement, their tendrils tracing long worn paths on fraught nerves as the aching pressure built and built in his nose, deep inside, and oh-.. ohh-

“hHHHHH-”

“Oh no you don’t.” 

The sudden presence of a hand over his nose surprised him, frightened the sneeze away, and Omicron felt an irrational pang of frustration when his gasp escaped from him with a gutteral hhuhh unrelieved. He realized in retrospect that the voice was Dr. Voster, and the hand belonged to her too. He also realized, in a wash of cold sweat, that he was achingly hard where his prick was tucked into his belt.

“Blow your nose, Omicron.”

He struggled to comply. A hitching breath got out of his control, only emboldening the tickle, and again he thought of the feathers. They were everywhere, impossible to blow out, and they’d just keep… keep-

“RRZZSSSSCHH’HOO!”

It tore out of him with a passion, and the pleasure washed over him so fiercely he would have gone to his knees had Delta not stepped in to catch him. Omicron panicked, bursting into motion to put distance between himself and the others. They let him go, only for him to stumble backwards onto his ass. The impact shook an impending sneeze out the queue, and Omicron had a moment to collect his bearings.

He quickly got to his hands and knees, trying to keep his crotch pointed to the floor. He was still painfully hard, but thankfully he hadn’t managed to sneeze himself into orgasm. Now that he had his wits, he realized he still had the wad of tissues in his hand. He brought them to his face and blew as hard as he could, concentrating only on the act of getting something out rather than thinking too hard about what was happening inside.

Adrenaline and humiliation were quick and quiet boner killers; any residual arousal swirling in his thoughts extinguished as he assessed his situation. He was somewhat sweaty, stained with a few of his own sneezes, and his damn nose still tickled. Omicron threw caution to the wind and rubbed it with fast, punishing pressure against his septum, as if to admonish it. Rather than chance a sniffle, he breathed only through his mouth as he climbed to his feet.

Both Dr. Voster and Agent Delta regarded him warily. Omicron straightened his vest, his jacket, and smoothed back his hair where it had fallen into his eyes. 

“Pardod be,” he rasped, still breathless. He coughed into his fist to clear his throat.

Delta’s features eased into genuine concern. The man’s flippant nature notwithstanding, he did care about his people. “Agent, are you alright?”

“Of course,” insisted Omicron. He cleared his throat again. “Just fine. Why?”

“Well, that just..” Delta looked over to Dr. Voster, who was refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. “.. it seemed very intense, don’t you think? Doctor?”

The doctor startled at her name, then reached to adjust her glasses. She looked now at Omicron, her expression as hard and firm as her voice. “Yes, I agree. And I would recommend..”

Here, Omicron bit his tongue. If Anita really did want to rat him out, he’d only dig his own grave if he tried to deflect. But then her eyes softened.

“.. that Agent Omicron desist from triggering the suggestion impulse until this initial sensitivity wears off.”

Tension left his shoulders. He closed his eyes briefly in relief.

Delta rubbed the back of his neck, contrite. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize it was an issue. You should have told me!”

“I wasn’t aware it was a pattern until you tried it, sir,” said Dr. Voster. She crossed her arms and nodded toward Omicron. “And with all due respect, sir, you should really apologize to Agent O.”

Delta turned to him with dewy puppy-dog eyes and Omicron wanted to evaporate out of embarrassment. He didn’t do well with anything sentimental and at times his superior was pure sentimentality. “Forgive me, Omicron. I hope I didn’t cause you any distress. I’m sure that wasn’t comfortable.”

On the contrary, thought Omicron, but admitting anything even close to the truth made his tongue wither. His cheeks burned, and to add further indignity, he sniffled. The brief, tickling swell prompted him to thumb the end of his nose to encourage good behavior. 

“Not at all, sir. Please don’t trouble yourself over it.”

Delta clapped him companionably on the shoulder, and when he turned toward Dr. Voster, Omicron leaned around him to throw a scathing look her way. She only smiled. That prompted apology was likely just her getting some revenge. To be frank, the new complication of sneeze-induced arousal would absolutely complicate the mission, but Omicron begged to be given a case like this for months. More than a year, even. He’d take the risk rather than give this up.

Besides, it wasn’t his fault his nose couldn’t calm down. He didn’t conduct a half-baked intake interview and design an overpowered tickle virus, so why should he be the one to suffer the consequences? Beyond those he was already suffering, he supposed.

Once again, thinking too much about it summoned the tickle forth. Omicron refused to get stuck in another self-perpetuated sneeze-cycle, so he focused only on the wall as the urge lapped at the edges of his sinuses. Oh, the ones that made him wait were the worst.

“.. to it that we grab your luggage on the way to the jet,” Delta was saying. He still had his hand on Omicron’s shoulder and squeezed when he got no response. “You already packed right?”

Omicron took a breath to reply, but it hitched in his throat. Then rushed out with a soft uhh that he couldn’t suppress. Gone were the days when he could quietly build up to a sneeze; it seemed this virus wanted everybody to know as soon as his nose started to tickle. He fought to keep his eyes open, and his ears from flushing red.

“.. yeh..hssirr..”

Delta’s smile tilted back into concerned territory, and he rubbed Omicron’s shoulder. “Looking a little sneezy, Agent. Try not to knock yourself down this time.”

Omicron huffed a laugh that trembled into a gasping inhale, a fitful exhale, an even more urgent inhale-.. “-uUHH!” and then left him on a frustrated sigh. He rubbed his face with both hands. “Fuck,” he mumbled. Then his head shot up in alarm. “Oh-.. ah, sir-...”

Agent Delta only laughed, booming and cheerful as he slid his arm further across Omicron’s shoulders to give him a jostling side-hug. “Don’t worry, Agent. These are extenuating circumstances, I’ll let that it slide.”

Omicron nodded as he was jerked around by Delta’s strength, reaching up to push his hair back when it fell out of style again. His nose was still tingling, unrelieved, and he scrunched it with exasperation. Sneeze or don’t sneeze, won’t you? 

“Off we go!” crowed Delta, escorting Omicron toward the door while still under his arm. He looked back to Dr. Voster. “I’ll be with him on the flight, so we’ll let you know if there are any case developments.”

He tightened his hold when he said this, and Omicron fought down a flash of annoyance that Delta probably meant any developments with Agent Omicron’s nose. Speaking of which… 

Omicron let his eyes roll shut as Delta led him into the hall, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. He was saying something, probably about the jet, but Omicron let the words wash over him just as he let the tickle wash through his nose. Wary of what might happen, he strayed away from thinking too much about feathers. Instead, he thought of dust motes. A dandelion seed. Something small and irritating and hopelessly stuck somewhere deep inside him. Whatever it was, this thing wanted to escape. It squirmed and twisted, fluttered its wings or flicked its tail. The throbbing urgency of Omicron’s tender pink membranes wouldn’t deter it, neither would the gradual unsteadiness of his breath. He exhaled, yearning.

“..uh-..”

The invader redoubled its efforts, writhing against his most sensitive places. He couldn’t-.. he..

“.. huhh-..”

If only he could reason with it, but on a baser level, Omicron didn’t want to. He wanted it to flap and struggle, tickle and itch, uncontrollable and impossible to satiate. Fan the flames of this urge so feverish that he couldn’t do anything but-

“HAH-!”

Omicron found himself smiling again, delirious as he breathed into this unstoppable force. He was completely helpless to its thrall. This thing in him, nuzzling and ruffling and bothering his nose so fervently, dotingly, sweeping him up with its caress. He.. oh-.. oh-!

“S’combi’g-” He gasped out, if only just to himself. The breathy word preceded an absolutely euphoric sneeze. “WRIZZSSSSHUUU’uoohhhh…”

Omicron stayed as he was, one hand cupped to his nose and the other bracing his middle. Another dagger of pleasure had stabbed him through, but it was fast to dissipate as he sniffled into his palm. The way his nose tingled signaled a temporary relief. Omicron couldn’t decide if he was disappointed by this or not.

“Goodness, bless you!” Omicron jumped. Delta stood beside him, both hands in his pockets now, looking amused. Omicron had forgotten he was there. “That was a big one! Sounds like you worked your way up to it.”

Why was Omicron cursed with the chattiest superior Agent in the force? He snuffled again behind his hand, by habit searching his pockets for a handkerchief or a restaurant napkin, anything. He paused when Delta extended a travel pack of tissues. 

“Thought you might need these, so I brought a few packs along.”

“.. Tha’g you.” 

Omicron took it with grace, turning around so he could use both hands. He blew his nose yet again, dismayed with the sheer amount of moisture he was capable of producing. At this rate he’d need to stay hydrated. Once he finished up, he turned back to Delta to find him extending a small bottle of hand sanitizer. He eyed the other man.

“You can’t actually catch this, sir.”

“I know, Agent, but the public won’t know that,” he said, as carefree as ever. “And even if you’re not actually sick, better to keep your hands clean, mm? And maybe try the vampire trick too.” Here he demonstrated by lifting his elbow and tucking his nose in. 

Omicron burned with the embarrassment of having his lackadaisical sneezing addressed in such an obvious way. Normally he was very thorough with his hygiene practices. He sneezed into his elbow or better, a handkerchief if he had one. He washed his hands frequently and properly. Something about this tickle just emptied his head of all sense when it came over him. It was a miracle he’d managed to even cup a hand to his mouth just now. He didn’t remember doing that.

So he could only nod, his cheeks burning, as he took the bottle and copiously applied. The stringent scent bloomed in the air. Delta could probably tell he was upset because he gave the shorter agent a lighthearted slap on the back. “You’re usually very conscientious. Just a gentle reminder, agent.”

Omicron nodded again, this time with a yip of surprise as his eyes slammed closed. Suddenly his nose was frenzied, filled to the brim with that strong, alcoholic smell. It burned, so sharp it brought tears to his eyes as he rushed his elbow to his face. Unlike the other sneezes of this morning, this itch wasn’t indulgent. It was almost brutal. 

“Chssh-! Tschh!” Even without muffling into his jacket, they would have been small. Smaller than his normal sneezes, even. They were fittish, barely letting him up for air. “Itschh! HHtschh!.. uh-.. TSSH’hee!!.. fucking hell..”

It only lasted seconds, over as suddenly as it began, and Omicron picked his head up blearily. He sniffled, coughing again at the remaining scent on his hands as he fished out another tissue and nursed his nose. Stupid thing was so needy now, he couldn’t even use hand sanitizer without a complaint. Belatedly he realized he’d cursed in front of his superior again.

When he looked at Delta, the man was regarding him thoughtfully. Not his usual fond musing sort of look either. The kind of discerning expression that awarded him the rank he currently held. Omicron’s blinked at him, wide eyed over the edge of his tissues.

“S-Sorry for sweari’g, sir..”

Delta stirred from wherever he’d been, and dropped into a polite smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s alright, Omicron, I honestly don’t mind. But, I’ll ask this again: are you alright?”

Omicron blinked at him again, owlish. “Me, sir?”

Delta chuffed an airy chuckle. “Yes, agent, you. You’re sure this..” He warred over his words, trying to pick the best ones. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time for this opportunity, but are you sure? About this?”

Omicron bristled, and he was certain Delta could tell. He finished up with his nose, balling up the tissue and foregoing hand sanitizer this time. “Respectfully, why wouldn’t I be sure, sir?”

“This science isn’t exact,” Delta told him. His voice was lower now, the proper tone of a superior officer. “Dr. Voster is a genius, but this is the first time we’ve tried something like this. There’s bound to be a margin of error. So I’m asking you again, Agent Omicron..” Here he fixed his subordinate with a firm stare. “.. are you sure about doing this right now, as you are, in this state?”

Omicron didn’t have to think about it. He merely drew himself up to a force-standard posture and looked Delta in the eyes without flinching. “Yes, sir. Very sure.”

Delta held his stare, but when Omicron didn’t buckle, he sagged where he stood. With a long sigh, he once again patted Omicron’s shoulder. “Alright, agent. But if you change your mind or if you become compromised, you must be honest and tell me immediately. Am I understood?”

Omicron just barely managed to resist twitching his nose; he could feel it wanting attention, but didn’t want to give Delta any reason to doubt him. “Of course, sir.”

Delta gave him a jaunty thumbs up, back to his usual lofty cheer. “Grand! I’ll take you at your word.” He turned away, beginning to stride down the corridor with expectation Omicron would follow. “Now, we ought to get a move on. They’ve got the jet idling and you know how they are about the fuel budget..”

Agent Delta carried on, blind to his subordinate keeping step behind him. Omicron absently, then more purposefully, rubbed his nose. The skin was starting to sting, no doubt ready to peel by tomorrow like sunburn. The tickle stretched languidly, lazily working Omicron up to another toe-curling sneeze. The hedonist in him wanted to welcome it.

However, he had nearly twelve hours on a jet to contend with, surrounded by other personnel. And he was certain now after that little conversation with Delta that the man would be watching Omicron carefully from here on out. If he noticed anything suspicious, he’d ground the mission and take Omicron off the case without remorse. He couldn’t let it happen, not after how hard he’d fought for this.

His nostrils flared against his finger, a premature warning to what was brewing. But Omicron knew, and he was prepared for the impending battle. It wouldn’t be easy, but he fully intended to negotiate with his nose and keep sneezing to nil on the flight. Almost nil, if he couldn’t hold out. Again his nostrils flared, as if playfully chiding him. You’re not in control, his nose seemed to say. I am.

Well, thought Omicron as he stepped out of the jet bay and into the sunshine. The jet sat waiting on the tarmac, a flurry of activity around it. We’ll just see about that.

/tbc??

I’m not sure if I’ll continue it, but I hope you had fun reading!! Part 2 is in the works!

He’d been in meetings throughout the day, so Omicron tamed it with frequent rubs and firm pressure. He’d rather deal with a flushed, fidgety nose than a disruptive one; being known as “the agent that sneezes constantly” would absolutely destroy any credibility he’d cobbled together from his impressive mission performance. 

Impatient, his nostrils flared and coaxed him to sniff on reflex. It shivered back out of him with a dreading moan.

“..hohh..” Omicron jammed his finger to his septum, bartering with himself as he increased his walking speed. Relax, he ordered. I’ll sneeze in a second, just let me- 

He stopped, mind briefly blanking as the tickle wrestled control with fitful jerks of his breath. “hh!uh.. HH!uhh..” Omicron forced eyes open just long enough to confirm there was no one in the hallway before-

“-KZSSCHoo!!” He bent double, finger still beneath his nose, and straightened up with a dazed sniffle. It popped like confetti in his nose, a burst of ticklish sparks. His eyes welled shut, and down again he went. “-hck’KZSCHiew!”

Whatever linked his propensity for arousal to his nose had faded along with the virus; he no longer had to worry about getting boners from sneezing too much. Small mercies.

He stayed facing the floor, eyes closed, concentrating. One moment the sneeze loomed, and the next it retreated. It felt like a feathered pendulum swinging in his nasal cavity, momentary and stimulating but just infrequent enough to leave him in limbo. He no longer had the misfortune of manifesting a sneeze simply by thinking about it, but he did have occasional luck imagining himself to completion if he was perched right on the edge.

The sneeze was close enough that he could see it, picture the way the pendulum swung in his mind’s eye. Focus on the way it grazed his twitching nerves. He imagined the feathers longer, wispier, dragging languidly over shuddering, pink walls and each time his breath caught the pendulum moved slower, slower, until it stopped with the plumage resting against him. He breeeeeeeeathed deeply, welcoming a cresting gasp, picturing the down as it fluttered against membranes suddenly clenching with hunger, and oh-

“heHD’IZZSSHH!!OOOhhh, fidnally...”

“Bless ya!”

Omicron did not scream, but a little sound strangled out of him as he spun around and instinctively dropped into a defensive stance. The stranger was built like a brick house, tall and broad-shouldered with a hulking frame to suit him. Despite his size, his soft physique suggested he didn’t do physical training. He was also clutching a mop. 

The man startled backward in surprise.

“Oh, sorry!” he yelped in a deep, rumbling drawl. “Didn’t mean to scare ya!”

A custodian, Omicron realized. The man wore the agency’s standard janitorial uniform and he had an ID on a badge reel clipped to one of his belt loops. It lacked a name or division designation, possessing only a personnel number, but that wasn’t unusual. He had an unkempt look about him: unshaven stubble, untidy haircut, an unbelievable number of wrinkles in his clothing. 

Omicron brushed his hands down the front of his pressed suit and smoothed his hair back into place. “You didn’t scare me. I just didn’t expect you to be there.”

The custodian’s brows crunched in confusion. “.. Ain’t that what scaring somebody is?”

“.. No,” Omicron replied, but he couldn’t actually think of a rebuttal so he cut his losses. “Nevermind, pardon me, I have somewhere to be..”

Before he could take a step, the man jumped into motion and dove into the cart next to him. “Oh, hold on a minute!”

It would be rude to leave now, so Omicron stiffly waited. For someone who did this for a living and presumably stocked the cart himself, the man seemed to have a hard time locating whatever he was looking for. Omicron tapped his foot, arms crossed, watching the other mumble to himself. With a defeated huff, the stranger finally snatched a rag from a stack on the bottom shelf.

“Sorry I don’t got any tissues, best I can do.” He brandished it to Omicron. “Here ya go!”

Omicron held up a hand. “No, thank you.”

The man’s brows pinched together again, and when Omicron turned to go, he asked, “Are ya sure?”

Omicron glanced back, gritted his teeth, and replied in a perfectly cordial voice: “Yes, very.”

Still, the man looked unconvinced and said in a blithe timbre, “Well, I just thought ya might want it on account of your nose running’.”

.. What? 

Omicron whipped a hand up to his face and with burning mortification felt how wet his nostrils were. And his upper lip. And his suit, when he looked down to see the damp streaks painted there. He’d sneezed on himself, gotten startled, and then was so distracted by the conversation he didn’t notice what he’d done.

He snatched the cloth from the man’s hands, muttered something about being late to a meeting, and left. He didn’t sprint, but it was a near thing.

---

Anita, naturally, had no sympathy for him. She still hadn’t stopped laughing.

“It’s not that funny,” he grumbled, picking at his cafeteria sandwich. They sometimes shared their lunch hour in her office when their days were slow. Omicron wondered why he even bothered talking to her, when this is the kind of treatment he could expect. 

“It’s pretty funny,” she insisted, and only grinned wider when he glared. “Honestly you needed an ego check. Watching you strut around with that smug look on your face was getting annoying.”

Omicron’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, smug?”

“You know.” Anita pantomimed, tilting her chin and raising her eyebrows with a smirk: an expression that dripped with imperious pride. Arguing would only encourage her, so Omicron tore a bite off his sandwich instead. Anita went back to her leftover stir fry, still smirking. “Now, who did you say this guy was?”

“Someone in Division 8, I think,” Omicron mumbled into a napkin. “He was in a custodian uniform. Tall...”

“…Dark and handsome?” Anita waggled her eyebrows. 

Omicron furrowed his. “Disheveled. I haven’t seen him around before. He sounded like he was from out of town.”

Anita ahhhh’d in recognition. “You met EJ! He’s such a sweetheart, he makes my teeth ache.”

“You know him?”

“Sure,” she said. “I gave him his physical on his first day. That was a few months ago now.”

Great, Omicron mused sourly. What a terrible first impression he must have of me.

Unbidden, a prickle niggled him somewhere far back in his sinuses. He fought the impulse to roll his eyes. Instead he swiped a finger beneath his nostrils and felt them flare with mischief. He rubbed harder, chastising.

“Stay away from him,” Anita said, pointing accusingly with her fork. “You’re too mean.”

“What?!” Omicron squawked. “I am not mean.”

“Oh yes you are. All the interns are scared of you.”

“Don’t exaggerate.” 

He shoved the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, balled up the paper it came in, and then froze. The tickle was back, barging in as if it had been waiting for the moment he’d be most indisposed to receive it. His nose tingled ominously, wrinkling at the bridge. Held prisoner, Omicron could do nothing but breathe through his nose as he rushed to chew. His eyes glassed over. His nostrils pulsed irritably. It felt like the tip of a finger grazing back and forth, teasing and slow, no no no—

Omicron sniffed sharply, loudly, abruptly smothering the sensation. Swallowing was a success. He may have avoided disaster, but a warm flush blitzed through him when he sighed out a reflexive huhh.. on his exhale. Blinking hard and scrubbing beneath his nose with his wrist, he caught sight of Anita. Her gaze lingered, then slanted toward sympathy. He eyed her suspiciously.

“What now?”

“Your nose doing okay?”

“Not this again,” he groaned with one last knuckling rub. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

She heaved a long, dramatic sigh. “I wish you’d let me tinker with it. I’m sure I could mix a new solution to dull the lingering sensitivity. Or some nerve therapy—”

Omicron barked a singular HA! as he stood to slip on his jacket. “Not a chance. I’d rather deal with the consequences than let you anywhere near my nose again.” 

He ignored her pout, straightening his lapel and cuffs with exacting precision before tossing his trash. Might’ve escaped with his dignity intact, if that feather-soft tickle hadn’t wiggled enticingly. His nostrils immediately flew wide, jaw falling open, expression going weak. Omicron was helpless to stop it. He snapped a step forward.

“—hd’TSSshh’HOO!”

He stood wet-eyed in the aftermath, watching the glitter of spray disappear in the air. Dammit. He yanked out the custodial rag he’d been bestowed earlier and wiped his nose.

“Bless you, Mr. I’m Fine,” came Anita’s cheery contribution. 

He flipped her off on his way out.

---

Another week went by. 

While waiting for his next assignment, Omicron tried to forget about his faux pas. It was silly to be so hung up on some random guy witnessing an unfortunate sneeze, but it needled him when his mind was idle. Maybe he would have forgotten eventually if not for everyone’s favorite saboteur: serendipity.

He was in the campus gym, red-faced and spangled with sweat as he did battle with the rowing machine, when he caught sight of someone familiar pushing through the entrance doors. Their eyes met and the visitor smiled with the force of a thousand watt bulb. Omicron sighed with bone-deep resignation.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see!” Agent Delta crowed in greeting, already walking toward him. 

“Hello, sir,” Omicron grunted as he pulled his next rep. Delta came to stand politely nearby, hands laced behind his back and rocking on the balls of his feet. After a span of silence, Omicron prompted, “... Do you need something?”

“Yes, but I’ll wait until you finish,” Delta said with a gesture toward the rowing machine. “Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

Omicron’s eyebrow twitched; a bead of sweat skated down between his eyes, pearling over the rim of one nostril that flared in offended reply. He wrinkled his nose and strained through another rep. 

“I would hate to waste your time, sir.”

“Not a waste at all! This is a refreshing change of scenery for me after too many hours at a computer screen.”

“I’m in the middle of a set so this may take a while, sir.”

“Oh, I really don’t mind.”

Omicron cut a glare toward Delta’s warm, guileless smile — then disguised it with a scrub of his nose against his shoulder, out of breath as he bore down on the foot pedals. “Sir, please. I insist.”

Delta’s smile widened with a hint of fondness that made Omicron’s next pull especially forceful. “Well, if you insist then I suppose I should cut to the chase: I have your next assignment for you.”

Omicron nearly broke form. He scrambled to ease the handle back to its housing so he didn’t whip the chain, then sprang up with legs jelly-weak from reps. Delta darted forward to anchor a hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady as his knees shook. Now flushed from more than just exercise, Omicron tried to arrange himself into a professional-looking stance despite his heaving chest and trembling limbs. 

“Ready to receive orders.”

“I can see that,” Delta chuckled, giving him a single pat before stepping back. “I thought you might be excited.”

Being called ‘excited’ sobered Omicron immediately. “Is it another undercover mission?”

“No, actually—”

“Oh, really?” Undercover work was Omicron’s bread and butter, but maybe the head officers wanted him to widen his skillset. “Then.. asset extraction?”

Omicron imagined himself repelling into a high-security venue, gloved hands handling a highly classified and sensitive item worth millions of dollars for its contents or value. Another drop of sweat skimmed down his nose, lingering until he twitched. He lifted a finger to rub beneath nostrils blotched pink from his workout.

Delta shook his head. “No, it’s not—”

But Omicron was already picturing a pristine, expensive office featuring a hand-crafted mahogany desk he would soon be bugging to high hell for surveillance. “I’ve had experience with infiltration simulations. Would this mission require threat containment? Neutralization?”

“... Omicron, may I tell you what it is you will be doing?”

Omicron blinked, then somewhat sheepishly fell again into a proper parade-rest as he fought down a grin. It must be something important and challenging if he hadn’t guessed it yet. Not even the ominous tingle in his nose could ruin this. He thumbed the tip absently, chasing the feeling further back. 

Delta watched him do it, and his gaze softened.

“I will be honest,” he said. “I suspect this assignment will not be what you expected, but I ask that you keep an open mind. Can you do that for me?” 

This conversation, let alone the assignment, wasn’t going the way Omicron expected. Instantly his instincts prickled, as did the impatient flicker of finicky nerves deep inside his nose. He sniffed, cleared his throat, nodded with more confidence than he felt.

“Of course, sir.”

Delta clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Then I am very pleased to tell you that you’ll be spending the next eight weeks in the trial run of our brand new Everyday Impact Initiative!”

Omicron stared. Blinked. “... Pardon?”

Needing no further encouragement, Delta launched into a spirited explanation of the Everyday Impact Initiative (or E-Impact, for those who wanted to cringe hard enough to hurt). A fresh and bold take on cross-departmental collaboration, the initiative was created to pair employees from different divisions so they could learn more about one another’s day-to-day work. The goal? To build empathy and improve corporate flow. Delta was using his tone to dress up the bad news, gilding it with words like integration and synergy and bonding.

Somehow it was worse than anything Omicron might have imagined. He could not have conceived of more creative or cruel torture. As if to voice agreement, his nose fizzed irritably. Omicron felt the urge assembling, stacking its pieces slowly but with unshakable conviction; a hard blink and whipcrack shake of his head destabilized it. Not gone, but delayed.

“What do you think?” Delta finally asked when he finished his sales pitch.

“I hate it, sir,” he replied, and then added belatedly: “With all due respect.”

Delta wilted. “Omicron, come now. You promised you would give it a chance.” 

Snapshots spun through Omicron’s mind, each more unpleasant than the last: making pointless small-talk with a stranger; trying to explain the complexity of his work to someone who would ask annoying questions about it; watching this person as they demonstrated knowledge of their own profession, essential to the company but absolutely useless to Omicron; pretending to care about said knowledge for the sake of the initiative and his own job performance; and a split-second, shaky thought he resented, What if I’m bad at this?

He snatched and stowed that worry where it wouldn’t see the light of day. Cordiality masked his rising desperation. “Sir, there m-..” The tickle he’d been wrestling with testily spiked. “-muhhst be a more eff.. effective uuhsse of my t-time.”

There would be ramifications now to holding it back, but Omicron wedged his fist under his nose and endured, teeth-gritted and determined to get through this conversation without interruption. Delta, with infuriating sympathy, fished out a fresh handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket to offer him. Omicron pointedly ignored it.

With a sigh, Delta said, “This is a great opportunity for you. I understand you are eager to return afield, but it’s important for you to decompress between assignments.”

“B-Been’d twoooh w-weeeh-hh-H!”

His voice went weak and heady. Air jumped down his throat, inflating his lungs like a crank. His nostrils pulsed, signalling him with impunity even as he tried abrading them into submission. Delta’s gaze got only more intolerably concerned.

“Two weeks is not nearly enough time for recovery.”

Omicron’s gathering scowl changed its mind halfway there and melted into something hazy and helpless. He whirled to the side, shifting his hand to hover just in front of his nose and mouth as he bent at the waist.

“-eh’CHZZSShu!” Perfunctory, exclamatory, and as Omicron straightened up he discovered it wasn’t enough. The tentative throb of relief roared into another need. He lurched down a second time. “-aAHD’DZSSHHOO!” He started to rise and then groaned when he felt his breath snag yet again. Shaking his head, he turned further from Delta and— “hehHTSshoo!”

Softer, but Omicron stayed obediently still until the tickle truly dissolved. An experimental sniffle came out thick, and he grimaced at the state of the hand that had shielded most of the spray. Bitterly, he turned back and accepted Delta’s stupid handkerchief. 

The older man focused politely on the wall of the gym to give him a sense of privacy. “Bless you.”

Still a bit stuffed up, Omicron spoke up from behind the handkerchief. “Sir, if I mbay be direct, what recovery are you expecting from mbe?”

Delta’s gaze returned and landed squarely on Omicron’s nose, which made the shorter man bristle up before the other could say a word. He sniffled and balled the handkerchief up in his hand.

“The sdneezing? Seriously, sir?”

“Not just that,” Delta countered patiently. “It’s important to establish good habits around rest early in your career because your work will only get more challenging. Also in observing your performance afield, I see room for growth.”

That last remark landed like a dagger in Omicron’s chest. Perhaps Delta could tell, because he stepped closer and squeezed his junior’s arm companionably.

“You were exceptional,” he reassured. Then his smile softened with a tilt of his head. “But I think you would benefit from some… interpersonal experience.”

“What does that evend mbean?” Omicron mumbled, sullen and spiraling. He could feel himself making an improper face, something sad and despicably lost. It was almost a mercy when that tickle sprouted again, like a weed that just kept coming back. His expression twinged, nose twitching and lips parting as he hovered the handkerchief close.

“It means I want you to make some friends, Omicron,” Delta said, as if that was the simplest thing in the world. 

Omicron’s eyes fluttered open in surprise, and then collapsed under the weight of what was growing in him. He hitched delicately in little h-h-h! staccatos before tucking into the handkerchief. “ihh-..iih’MMPHhsh!”

“Bless!” chirped Delta.

Omicron wasn’t done, but he refused to let this conversation go uncontested. He kept the handkerchief pinned to his nose and blundered through a breathy, “I hhaave fr-.. frihh.. hih’KSSHoo!.. friends!”

“Bless, then this initiative will be a wonderful opportunity for you to make another one,” Delta said with that infuriating smile. As Omicron teetered on a third with nostrils wide and jaw open, it gave Delta a window of opportunity. He started inching back toward the exit. “I’ll email you the details, yes?”

Omicron shook his head, too tickled by his nose to speak. He sniffled to hurry it along and get himself out of limbo. It shimmered inside his head, catching light like a wavering mirror. “hh-.. hd-!”

“You’ll start the program Monday, bright and early.” Delta was within arm’s reach of the door. “Try to have some fun, alright?” He ducked halfway into the hall, tossing a jaunty wave over his shoulder. “And bless you!”

“-eh.. hehd’DZZSSh’ugh-I don’d wadn- hahh.. ah’GZSSS’HOO!- Fuck!” 

Gone. That bastard. Omicron was caught between a seething frustration and a grudging respect for Delta’s smooth escape. But beneath all that festered a buzzy, defeated anxiety. Regardless of his feelings, if the top brass wanted him enrolled in this inane initiative he’d just have to do it.

And Omicron didn’t do anything by half. Forget eight weeks. 

He’d ace this in one.

---

Omicron was pissed, but he was also a professional. 

On Monday he arrived at the rendezvous point ten minutes early dressed crisply in an ironed suit, shined shoes, and hair coiffed just so. He positioned himself strategically behind the atrium’s leftmost pillar to stake-out the corridors with the highest traffic. Every unfamiliar face was clocked and logged, weighed against what he managed to memorize after frantically clicking through the employee directory last night when he couldn’t sleep.

Delta’s email about what today would bring was woefully sparse, lacking even the name of the person Omicron was meant to meet in the spirit of ‘organic introductions.’ All it contained was a bunch of corporate drivel about the initiative and a vague itinerary outlining the next eight weeks. He and his ‘partner’ had to spend a minimum of four hours a week together, teaching one another about their respective roles. Today, however, was just the meet & greet. 

Casual. Unstructured. Nonessential. The worst kind of activity.

Omicron brushed beneath his nostrils when they twitched for attention, so accustomed to them acting up he barely thought about it. His sniff, sharp and dismissing, echoed in the rotunda alongside the clack of shoes and passing murmurs between colleagues. He waited and waited, and when the allotted time passed without incident, Omicron dared to dream that his prospective partner was a no show.

Then someone rounded the corner. 

Unlike others passing through, this man lingered with an aura of uncertainty. He was tall. Dishelved. Wearing a custodial uniform, and scanning the atrium with the telegraphed hope that someone else would lock eyes with him.

A memory trickled like ice down Omicron’s spine. It’s that janitor, he thought. The one who saw me sneeze all over myself. 

Anita called him EJ, and it was obvious from the man’s body language that he was here to meet someone; Omicron didn’t need to guess who that might be. That was just his luck. He pinched the bridge of his nose, bracing against the indignity of either extreme: greeting this man, or slipping away like a coward.

I’m not a coward, came the next thought, a kneejerk reply. This is a tactical retreat. An opportunity to regroup and prepare an introduction that will amend a substandard first impression. 

Omicron peeked around the pillar to clock the position of the threat and triangulate the best route to safety at the same moment EJ glanced in his direction. 

Their eyes met.

Before Omicron could do anything — hide, fake a call on his phone, pretend to be looking at literally anyone else — EJ perked up in recognition. He lifted his hand in a tentative wave, then waggled it with more confidence when Omicron didn’t look away. 

Oh god, Omicron thought, rooted to the ground and watching EJ beeline straight for him. He remembers me.

“Hey!” Same rich timbre. Same twanging accent. Same crooked smile. “It’s you! How ya been?”

There was nothing for it. Exiting would look worse than just facing the situation. So Omicron stepped smoothly out from behind the pillar as if he’d planned the entrance, clasped his hands at the small of his back, and wrinkled his nose with a willful prayer for it to please behave.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Doin’ good!” EJ offered a hand. Calloused, thick at the palms, dry skin around the knuckles. Omicron shook it with appropriate strength for the appropriate length of time as EJ smiled down at him. “I’m EJ, by the way.”

“I know,” Omicron replied thoughtlessly, and then felt a pang of panic. It would be strange to admit he asked around because he was curious. He scrambled for a convenient lie but could only find the truth. “We’re Initiative partners.”

Omicron anticipated an array of responses, but none of them were the thump of a hand over EJ’s heart as he sagged in relief. 

“Whew, I was hopin’ you’d say that!” He crowed it with such sincerity, Omicron found it immediately suspect. “I’m glad I’m doing this with somebody I already met! Well, sorta. Didn’t get to talk much last time.”

The reminder of ‘last time’ landed with a splat in Omicron’s stomach and a tingle in his nose. He sniffed, louder than he wanted but not as strong as he needed to banish what was brewing. His nostrils quivered. His jaw tightened. 

“I had somewhere to be,” he muttered, then turned stiffly toward a corridor and began to walk. “We should find a suitable place to talk.”

“Oh.. uh, sure,” EJ replied. He caught up in two long strides. “What should I call you, though?”

Omicron briefly closed his eyes, exasperated with himself. Through clenched teeth he gave his answer: “Omicron.”

---

Finding a space to chat was fraught. 

Common areas felt too exposed, meeting rooms were too formal, their own offices seemed too personal. All the while, Omicron contended with his nose. He tried not to make it overt, but it seemed hellbent on ruining his day as it toyed with the idea of either clogging up or dumping a load of congestion straight onto his shirt. His fresh packet of tissues (a necessity nowadays) felt like an iron weight in his pocket.

EJ had trailed alongside Omicron quietly as they walked circles around the agency complex until finally suggesting they could sit outside — which is how they ended up at a spiderweb-strewn wooden garden table in the park plaza outside the west entrance. Omicron sat primly, legs crossed, clutching a tissue for quick access. He latched his gaze onto a potted plant clearly doing its best despite the circumstances of weather and sporadic watering. Omicron could relate.

EJ sat with both elbows resting on the tabletop and cleared his throat to break the silence. “So.. what department are you in?”

“Field Intelligence,” Omicron replied with a sniff, brisk and controlled. His gaze stayed on the plant, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “I presume you’re in Division 8?”

“Um… I think?” 

“... That’s maintenance and facilities.”

“Oh!” There was the sound of creaking wood, EJ shifting in his chair. “Y-Yeah, that’s right. I’m still learnin’ all the different names. What kinda stuff do ya do in field intelligence?”

This was a subject Omicron had confidence in, and he jumped toward it like a drowning man hoping nobody would notice he couldn’t swim. “A variety of covert operations, including surveillance, infiltration, asset handling, extraction, information gathering, and so forth.” Unable to help himself, he added, “I specialize in undercover work.” 

When there was no immediate reply, Omicron chanced a glance at EJ. The man was leaning in, brows lifted, eyes glimmering alongside an almost boyish smile. “Wow.. you’re like, a secret agent? That’s so cool.”

Heat spilled across the back of Omicron’s neck. Those words made him want to simultaneously sit up straighter and hide behind his hands. He sniffed thickly, passed his tissue beneath restless nostrils, and spoke to the plant. 

“You could say that.”

“Do ya got any spy gadgets?” EJ asked. “Like, a grappling gun? Mech suits? Or a pen with a little camera in it or somethin?”

Mech suits? Omicron wondered. Is he being serious? Even so, he had to fight down a twitch at the corner of his mouth when he replied, “That’s classified information.”

“Right, that makes sense, sorry..” EJ deflated for a moment, then rallied. “Oh, then what about spy cars? Spy motorcycles? Spy… planes? Ever been in one of those?”

The twitch migrated from Omicron’s lips to his nose, crawling up inside and coaxing his chest to jump when his breath snagged. He squinted at the plant, white-knuckling his tissue. “Cl-lahhssified..”

“Those still count as gadgets, I guess. Probably also can’t tell me if you got like.. a cute spy dog sidekick that follows ya around and finds clues or fights bad guys, huh?”

Here Omicron flicked his eyes to EJ and didn’t bother replying — partially because the answer was self-evident, but mostly because he was silently strong-arming a sneeze into submission. EJ sighed, slumping back in his chair with a wistful stare at the sky. 

“Man, they ain’t kiddin’ when they call you guys secret agents.”

It was such an unexpected remark that something equally unexpected bubbled up from Omicron’s chest: he laughed. The sound stumbled out of him awkwardly, unpracticed, and the next inhale was a wavering gasp. His expression fell apart, eyes squeezing shut, nose wrinkling up. He couldn’t do anything but flinch away from the table.

“—h’HIDZssch!” It sprang from him before he could cover it. He blinked just in time to see spray glittering in the sunlight. Growling under his breath, his elbow jerked up as the next one filled his nose. “.. shhit-..ihh-TZSSh’uh!”

“Bless ya!”

Omicron turned away from the table entirely to fumble another tissue out of his packet and hasten it to his nose before the next one bent him over his lap with a mortifyingly exclamatory, “-HIH’CHIZZSSSHOoo!”

“Whoa, bless ya!” blurted EJ. “You feelin’ okay?” 

“Yhhes,” Omicron breathed back, eyelids fluttering shut when the tickle’s tide receded and rolled right back in stronger than before. His inhale was deep, slow, poured into him until he felt too full. His head tilted back, and then he wrenched over himself with even more vigor.

“..hhhhhH-... heh’HEZZSCHHOOOO!!.. mmgh..”

He surfaced from his tissues sniffling, wiping and rubbing and trying like hell to cast out an itch that wasn’t done with him yet. His nose twitched under the abuse, besieged inside and out. Omicron peeled open teary eyes to see EJ staring at him with puppy-dog eyebrows. 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked. “We can go inside if the air’s gettin’ to ya.”

Omicron bit his tongue to ward away the flare of his temper. This was how it went nowadays. He’d start sneezing and the world watched him like a sideshow waiting to be fixed, diagnosed, or consoled. It’s why he strangled his sneezes into compliance whenever possible and had a mental blueprint of the office bathrooms with the least amount of traffic.

“It’s ndot allergies,” he grumbled stuffily, using his tissues like both a breakwater and a privacy curtain. “A’d I’mb ndot sick. I’mb just.. like this.”

He waited for the fallout: an inevitable flurry of followup questions; a doubtful side-eye accompanied by a pointed scoot of EJ’s chair; even the pedantic lecture he’d heard a few times already from nosy passersby informing him that it could be nonallergic rhinitis, have you seen a doctor for that? He girded himself for the burden of fielding all that while still wrestling with a wrathful tickle he wanted so badly to leave him alone.

But all EJ did was say, “Gotcha.”

Omicron paused, stymied. Even his sneeze hovered on pause as he glanced up at EJ through a haze. The man was watching him without pity, without disgust, without curiosity, without anything but attentiveness and something kind in his eyes. It felt absurdly vulnerable as Omicron’s eyes creased shut while holding contact with EJ’s, but the reflex superseded ego, thought, emotion, everything save for the bone-deep wish to purge this tickle from his nose. His entire body bowed to the need, held in its thrall until finally it crashed out of him with a roar.

“-AAAHDDZSSSCHHYOOO!!”

It echoed humiliatingly through the courtyard. Ambience stopped. Heads turned. A bird blundered out of a tree, startled cawing in its wake. Damp tissues cupped to his face, furiously blushing, Omicron scrambled for a fresh one. EJ slumped and let out a breath like he’d been waiting for it too. 

“Oof, bless ya!”

It was suddenly too much. Omicron stayed hunched, shoulders tense, glaring at his lap with his cheeks blazing. “This is goi’g to happen’d a lot. You don’d have to say it every timeb.”

His words slipped out sharper than he meant them. 

“Oh,” EJ replied, which could’ve meant anything.

Omicron winced, his stomach twisting miserably. This was hardly the encore he wanted, after his commendation from his prior assignment. He’d set out with the simple goal of correcting a poor first impression and now he’d gone and fumbled it beyond any possible repair. He was considering how much reputation he had left to lose and if it would be salvageable by excusing himself when he noticed EJ.

The man wore none of the expressions Omicron feared. There was no tension in his posture, no furrow in his brow. When Omicron played it back in his mind, he heard that ‘oh’ not as a sound of offense, but recalibation. 

EJ reinforced it with a nod. “Okay.” 

… Okay? Omicron echoed to himself. That’s it? 

Apparently so, because EJ sank back in his chair with an easy slouch and looked up at the sky as he scooped up the conversation like they’d never dropped it. 

“Sorry for jumpin’ to conclusions,” he said, scratching his stubbly jaw with one hand. “Some allergies can be all year round, so I just thought ya might have ‘em. Actually, I was kinda worried I might get allergic after movin' here on account of all the different plants—”

Carefully, unsure of how fragile the moment was and unwilling to accidentally break it, Omicron blew his nose. He kept his gaze zeroed on EJ, waiting for the moment the man flipped the spotlight back to him, but EJ just continued chattering all on his own.

“—didn’t have any allergies back home either, thank mercy.” He smiled then, like he was revisiting a happy memory. “Guess that’s what bein’ raised a farm boy gets ya, huh? Strong immune system. That’s what Mom always says anyway.”

At this point, Omicron had cobbled himself back into composure. Shoving all his used tissues into his pockets was undignified, but he’d rather that than leave the evidence strewn across the table. He could feel how warm his nose was, no doubt glowing with irritation. His little steadying sniffles sounded cottony, betraying how swollen his nasal passages were, but his nose was no longer actively running. Nor was it tickling, thanks to those cataclysmically strong sneezes.

“You lived here long?” EJ asked, his gaze and conversation drifting back to Omicron. The timing felt intentional. 

And as Omicron cleared his throat and lifted his chin to answer, he didn’t quite know how to feel about it.

/tbc!

Thank you so much for reading! 💗 Hope to see you again soon at Part 2 ^w^

Firstly, he absolutely could not stop sneezing. It was simply impossible. He’d swaggered to his plushy recliner with hubris and paid for it about 57 minutes later after dutifully repressing every single rising urge that niggled his sinuses over the course of the hour. It grew and grew in him, increasingly worrisome in its size, until the tickle was just too strong to hold at bay. No amount of snorting, nose blowing, or finger rubbing would ward it back.

It forced him at metaphorical gunpoint to the closet-like bathroom, blindly staggering through tears and wrenching hitches, where he dropped to a crouch and then to his backside with almost a dozen cataclysmic sneezes. Each one worked his lungs like a bellows, dizzying him until he saw spots, winding him until he felt breathless. By the end he was wrecked, and clinging perilously to his self control. He realized then that his sneezing wouldn’t bring him to orgasm alone; it could only lead him to the edge and trap him there until he finished the job himself. Which he obviously couldn’t do in the agency’s aircraft lavatory.

So. He gave up on the ‘don’t sneeze until the jet lands’ plan.

Instead, Omicron washed his face, dried his hands, and resigned himself to minding his nose’s whims. His original hypothesis was correct - if he did nothing to deter his sneezes, they’d come at regular, but controllable, intervals. This remained consistent as long as he didn’t make the other critical error.

Which led him to the second issue: if his mind strayed too far toward anything sneeze-related, he armed the tickle with more ammo. His sneezes became unwieldy if he held them back, yes, but they also magnified to arousing proportions if he imagined literally anything tickling his nose. This was the hallmark of Dr. Voster’s virus - the ‘suggestion sneeze.’ So to avoid a case of blue balls, Omicron did his best not to ruminate on the ceaseless, beckoning sensation that lived in him now. This was by far the most trying aspect of his predicament.

And the third and final bit of info was an exasperating realization: Agent Delta was a chronic and committed blesser even in these circumstances.

“H-ah.. DZSshuh!” 

“Bless you.”

Omicron resisted the urge to rub his nose, and instead treated it to a dab from his beleaguered tissue. Any motion more substantial than that would goad it into further misbehavior. He wasn’t interested in another stumbling trip to the bathroom.

“Sir.” He sounded as congested as he felt; his voice was locked up in his sinuses. “You really don’t have to bless me every time.”

Delta patted Omicron’s knee. The two of them sat side by side, despite the sea of empty seats around them. “Aw, Omicron, you keep saying that. I really don’t mind.”

I mind, groused Omicron. That’s why I keep saying it. His gaze drifted to the porthole window and all the little, passing structures beneath. The ground drew closer meters at a time, just as the tickle, yet again, tugged him closer to a conclusion he’d given up fighting. He blinked wetly against the sensation, then let his eyes fall shut. The image of the tiny cars cruising down below lingered, each one speeding undeterred to a destination. They were perpetual. Indefinite. And it was far beyond Omicron’s ability to stop their momentum.

He felt the tickle lurch forward, ripping his breath into a shuddering, “-hUH!hh.. mbb..” Omicron swatched his finger beneath his nose, pausing when the tickle reprimanded him with a lancing spark. “eh-HEH!..hh..”

Hurry up already, he chided with a daring snub to his nose. His nostrils pulsed erratically, aggravated, and another gasp shivered out of him. “h-hh-hh.. HAH-TZSS!sss’uhh..”

“Bless you!” chirped Delta.

It was a particularly unsatisfying sneeze, and ridiculous as it was he felt mocked by his own nose. Omicron sniffled, sniffled again, trying to flare the tickle into action. But it wouldn’t budge. He dug at his eyes with his palms.

“Does your head hurt?” asked Delta.

Omicron dropped his hands and leaned his head back against the seat with another defeated sniffle. “Ndo, sir. Mby head doesn’d hurt.”

“Do you need more tissues?”

His fingernails bit into the palm of his hand. “Ndo, sihHH-”

Unwilling to endure another hygiene lecture, Omicron flinched both elbows to his face and kept his nose there. He heaved through a series of increasingly yearning breaths, light on the inhales, heavy on the exhales, shoulders lifting and dropping each time he thought the sneeze might grant him mercy. In the end it left him wanting. He dropped his arms and panted, eyes still closed, cheeks streaked with tears.

Delta cleared his throat and Omicron lulled his head in that direction, squinting through sticky eyelashes. His superior held a fresh pack of tissues in offering, and Omicron’s cheeks heated. How many of these did he bring??

He didn’t snatch them, but it was a near thing. Delta’s smile tilted with sympathy, and Omicron prickled like a wet cat. “You can vent your complaints to me if you want, I don’t mind.”

“Not sure what you mean,” he muttered through gritted teeth, scrubbing his nose with intentional strength. It stung, but served it right. 

“It’s okay to be grumpy, Omicron.” Delta spoke like he was soothing a startled horse. “I’m sure this is a tricky situation to manage.”

What remained of Omicron’s professional decorum disintegrated, and he snapped with a waspish, “What would you know?”

Delta’s eyebrows flew up and Omicron’s blood flashed cold. He hadn’t meant to say that. 

“P...Pardon mbe, sir,” he mumbled and lowered his tissue with a sniff. “I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

“Yes, it was,” Delta agreed, his tone contemplative. “But it was also very out of character for you. I’ve seen you stay composed during triage for a gunshot wound. Just what about this has you so out of sorts?”

Admitting to Delta that there was more to this than simply sneezing - disclosing the induced erections that were slowly eroding his self control - would be professional suicide. Even if this side effect wasn’t Omicron’s fault, it was his responsibility to manage. This was a chance to prove himself, and if he screwed it up he’d never get this chance again. That’s just how it was at the agency.

He’d have to lie. Lie until he could deflect. 

“Dnothi’g, sir,” he said. “It jhhust tih.. iih..ckles-hh..hH..” Omicron’s eyelids fluttered and he crushed his crumpled tissue to his face. 

Please, please, please, he found himself begging as the itch crawled around behind his eyes. Give me a good one.

Against his better judgement, a smoky silhouette sprung to his mind’s eye. Something lithe and graceful, skulking through his nasal passages heedless of the sorry state of them. It glided across raw nerves, pausing to snuggle against their warmth as Omicron sliced his lungs with a gasp. Then dragged the breath back out on a groan. Fuck, he could feel it. Could feel the dimensions of the tickle as it prowled and pawed, arched and sprawled, coy in its torture. He could feel his nerves recoil, his nostrils spasm - a panicked cry for action.

“h-YEH!hh..oh.. hh-HEH-” 

Omicron panted as the tickle receded, plumeing into an indistinct but irritating mist. Like a phantom it spread through him, coating his quaking membranes as it drifted deeper.. deeper.. deeper still. It filled his nose with a sensation too ambiguous to do much more than hopelessly itch. His hiccuping breaths eased to stillness; he was trapped on this plateau, punished by a tickle that wouldn’t grow. It merely wanted to endure. A bit frantic, Omicron tried to grasp onto a more solid visual. It didn’t matter what it was, it could be anything, just so long as- 

“Agent Omicron?”

The torturous mist evaporated, leaving his nose singed and no longer imminently sneezy. It took substantial restraint for Omicron not to pound his armrest in abject, miserable frustration. He blew his nose in defeat, raked his sleeves over his cheeks to clear the tears, and sniffled. His nose squeaked in reply. 

“.. I don’t think I can adequately communicate how annoying this is, sir.”

“Well, it really must be a bother if it’s making you pout like this.”

Omicron puffed up in offense and casted for a snide reply before he remembered that this was his boss. He bit his tongue, figuratively and literally. “It’s true this is testing my patience,” he said, “but I assure you that it won’t impact my performance. I’ll achieve nothing less than exceptional results. And respectfully, sir, I’m not pouting.”

Then he shimmied in his seat to face the window.

Agent Delta considered him with a skeptical eye, and as someone who knew the extent of his subordinate’s gifts he was right to do so. Deception was something of Omicron’s specialty. Trained in the art of information extraction, he excelled at becoming whomever a target wanted to see: a cautious creative type, a severe and dismissive businessman, the gullible boy next door or the leather-clad motorcyclist your friends warned you about. This ability, among other qualities, landed him this case.

But tricking a stranger he’d researched for weeks and swindling his superior officer were two different beasts.

“As you say,” Delta conceded to Omicron’s back. 

The jet’s landing gear grazed the runway.

+ + +

The destination was tropical, but close enough to a coastline that the heat wasn’t stifling. Their resort hotel was nothing short of opulent, offering amenities such as: a grand carpeted staircase, bellhops in uniform, and over a dozen glittering chandeliers. They’d changed into their civilian clothes before entering to better blend in. Well, blend was a strong word for Agent Delta; he wore Bermuda shorts with an equally garish aloha shirt printed with hibiscus flowers. Omicron doubted it was an officially sanctioned garment. He himself donned something understated - khaki shorts, boat shoes, and a white v-neck t-shirt. A pair of gold aviator sunglasses sat on top of his head.

He’d done what he could for his nose. When he caught sight of it in the jet’s bathroom mirror just before they deplaned, he could understand why Delta kept needling him. The skin was blushed an obscene red, the color deepest at his nostrils and fanning out across his septum, cupid’s bow, and as far up to the bridge of his nose. He also hadn’t been aware of how much it moved on its own, incessantly prodded by the tickle inside. Looking at himself too long just made him feel sneezier, and Omicron had braced his hands on the bathroom counter with helpless hitching until he coughed out a single, underwhelming, ih’BZSch!

Now watching Delta check in at the front desk from across the hotel lobby, Omicron tempered his trembling nostrils with a touch of his index finger. Settle down, he bargained. Stop teasing me.

His phone vibrated against his thigh. It was a burner; he got a fresh phone for every assignment and didn’t keep a personal cell. A glance at the number told him exactly who it was. He lifted it to his ear.

“Make it quick, Doctor,” he said. “I’m onsite.”

“Well, hello to you too, Mr. Grouch!” Dr. Voster trilled. His mood further soured at her enthusiasm. “New phone again, huh? How’d you know it was me?”

“I memorized your number.”

“Because I’m your favorite?”

Omicron wrinkled his nose. “I memorize all my numbers. Don’t get excited.”

“You really know how to make a woman feel special, O.”

“Did you want something?” he asked, eyes on Delta as the man chatted amiably with the clerk. His nostrils twinged and he gave them an appeasing rub. “I’m busy.”

“Just checking in. How’s your nose doing?”

As if to answer, the tickle squirmed. Omicron snorted reflexively and rubbed more sternly against his sore septum.

“You’re calling at..” He checked his watch. “..1:15 in the morning your time to ask about my nose?”

“Your viral load should be pretty high by now,” she replied, sounding wide awake despite the hour. “I want to know how it feels.”

“It feels-” He’d been gearing up for a snarky remark, but it died on his tongue. Between one breath and the next something changed. His nostrils slowly flared, grazing his finger where it rested against his lip.

“… it feels?” prompted Dr. Voster.

To his credit, Omicron tried. “I-hht.. h’tzuh..” 

But then his eyes flickered shut as he became entranced by that incurable tickle. It advanced slowly, enormous in his nose, lumbering forward and promising him a bounty. The swell would have intimidated him if he hadn’t been waiting for the better part of a day. He dropped his finger from his lip and braced his hand against the wall instead. If this was as big as it felt, he’d need it to stay on his feet.

“hUH-… ugh..” A sharp sniff, and a mutter under his breath. “..chhome on.. h-hh-!”

Fuck, it was oppressive. Omicron cinched his eyes tightly shut as he eased a breath through his tingling nose. It didn't hasten the advance, only threw gasoline on a raging fire. The tickle licked at his nasal nerves, which began to spasm in alarmed reply. Suddenly he was gulping down air, hitching so loudly it felt lewd.

“hah!hh.. uHH!h.. HUH-.. HUH-.. HUH-!”

The fire burned on, colossal and all consuming, demanding so much of him that his lungs filled to the brim. He could feel his head ratcheting by degrees, twitching back even when he could take no more air. If he could open his eyes, he’d probably see the shimmer of those fancy chandeliers. The tickle seethed for an agonizing moment. A quiet ache of pleasure twisted his gut. And then-

“WRRUZZSSSSHOOO!!”

Ecstasy. 

“HHHH-!.. RRIHSSSSCH’YUU!”

It scraped through him thoroughly with a crack of throbbing relief. Dazedly, he hitched anew. In, in, in-

“h-hH-HH-” And out in one fell swoop. “HPT’ZSSSCHOOO!!..nnngh..”

Omicron thanked himself for the foresight of leaning against the wall. Otherwise he’d probably be on the ground, or at the very least staggering aimlessly as his sneezes tossed him around. His nose didn’t seem to know what to do, other than grant him another.

“HAH’DIZSSSH’uh!”

And another.

“HEH’YIIZSSCHOO!ohhh..”

He gasped for breath, the hand holding his phone routing to his sternum. He could feel his heart hammering, his chest heaving. Each time he sneezed, his abs clenched. And with each release, a cloying ache spread through his groin. He was probably erect by this point but-

“Hih-.. HIHBISSSH’YAHhh!”

He didn’t want to stop. Omicron breathed deeply into the tickle, feeling it paint the inside of his nose with a swath of sensation. Something speared into his sinuses - the probing tip of a paintbrush, a thin piece of twine, a fiendish little intruder intent on undoing him.

“IIH’TIZZSCH’iu!!”

His lungs emptied and replenished themselves with another single, flowing breath. Despite his light-headedness and unsteady legs, Omicron felt himself smiling. 

“HHHH!.. EHJZZSSHUE!!’hhhooohh by god..”

It resonated pleasantly, like he struck his body with a tuning fork, and the trancelike need to sneeze, gasp, sneeze finally ebbed. The tickle receded, mollifying his nose in its tide. He could still feel it floating around in his sinuses somewhere, sated for now but impossible to fully satisfy. And of course his dick wasn’t satisfied in the slightest. His balls ached terribly. He’d had the good sense to arrange himself before entering the hotel lobby, fully aware he might find himself in this predicament in public. Again.

A voice spoke intelligibly, muffled against his shirt. Oh right, the phone. He put it back to his ear.

“What?” he panted.

“Did those feel good?”

He sniffled and fended off a full body shiver. “Don’d all sdeezes feel good?”

“Mm. Yeah.” Her tone was weirdly stilted. “Well. So. This is awkward, but I might have-”

Omicron tuned her out as he gathered himself. He was in dire need of a tissue, and he’d caught his own shirt in the crossfire of those last few sneezes. A quick scan of the room confirmed that just about every guest and employee saw him letting loose without even an attempt to cover his mouth. Many people were staring, including Agent Delta. The man was agog, but as Omicron stared back, he got the prickling feeling that it wasn’t him Delta was looking at. It was a second after that when he heard who exactly caught his superior’s eye. 

“Bless you.”

He clocked the voice before he turned, which gave him a split-second to prepare his expression. He arranged a look of chagrined surprise and hung up the phone on a still-nattering Anita.

“Oh!” He jumped, and flashed a shy smile. “Thagk you.”

She was taller in person, with legs a mile long and hair falling in thick waves to her waist. She wore burgundy lipstick, accentuating the plush shape of her mouth. A voluptuous woman, her Bohemian ensemble framed her curves and flowed around her like a modern renaissance painting. Her jewelry spoke of wealth, her painted nails spoke of elegance, and her eyes concealed a careful fire. 

She held out a pair of sunglasses. Mine, Omicron realized.

“You dropped these.”

He took them from her with a chuckle. “Ah, jeez, that’s embarrassi’g.” He sniffled and didn’t miss her swift glance at his nose. “I really mbade a spectacle of mbyself. Sorry about that.”

“Not at all,” she said. Her voice was dark velvet, soft and sophisticated. “I’m sure you couldn’t help it.”

Omicron juggled his phone and his sunglasses, keeping his eyes on her as he unearthed a half-empty package of travel tissues. He kept up his sniffling, in part for her benefit and also because his nose dripping onto his shirt was an imminent concern.

“Yeah, I’b kind of a mbess todahhy..” He tried to keep his eyes open even as they fogged with emergent tears. His voice scratched against a tender throat, tremoring around little hitching hiccups. “I do-hh!T huh.. don’t eved doe where th.. hh-hH!..mbghh, where all thad came fromb I-hhH!.. ndormally don’d sdnee-”

It overpowered him suddenly. He just barely rushed a tissue to his nose in time.

“hiH’TISsh’oo!” Back to the regulars, and just one didn’t quite cut it. Omicron huffed his way to a second. “..uh.. hck’KSSH’u!.. ugh..”

“Bless you,” she said.

That took care of the itch (for now). He wavered on his feet, fawn-legged from his earlier fit, and muttered a guttural “Pardod be” as he ducked away to noisily blow his nose. It took several tissues before he deemed himself presentable and by the time he got all the used ones shoved into his shorts pockets, he turned back around to see his sunglasses being offered to him again. 

Omicron chuckled hoarsely as he took them from her. “I should probably start carrying a spare pair, at this rate.”

There was an amused tilt to her lips. “Perhaps.”

He shared in her smile until the pause between them stretched a little too long. Then he jolted into awkward conversation. “Ah, um- where’s my manners, jeez, I’m Nicolas.”

Nicolas Foster, his cover for this operation: an under-the-weather tourist in town for a destination wedding.

She inclined her head to him gracefully and held out her hand. “Josaline.”

Josaline Jewel, his target: business mogul of the fashion world with a clothing line, makeup brand, and lucrative designer bag collection all sold exclusively online. The agency suspected her of extensive cybercrime; Omicron’s job was to uncover any signs of money laundering, malware manufacture, or identity theft.

“I’d shake your hand,” he said with a self-conscious scrub of his palms against his shorts and another self-deprecating laugh, “but I’ve been sniffly all morning, I’m sorry.”

“Oh?” Again her gaze flashed to his nose when he wrinkled it with a sniffle. “Are you not feeling well?”

He sniffled again as he fiddled with his sunglasses, bashful. “I’m still hoping it’s the jet-lag, but it feels like I’m coming down with something, yeah.”

He punctuated this with a wrist swipe beneath his warm, chapped nostrils. They flared to caution him against further meddling. Josaline crooned in sympathy.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Doubt it, he thought to himself as he offered a warm smile. “That’s really sweet of you to say. Thanks.”

Omicron researched sneeze fetishes as thoroughly as he cased intel on Josaline Jewel. Operatives observed her engaging with unfamiliar men at industry events or galas, escorting them off the dancefloor and into private quarters. All these men had two things in common: they were shorter than she was, and they were at the time afflicted with sneezing. Though she didn’t seem deterred by illness, the agency lacked further details. To fill his void of knowledge, Omicron dove headfirst into a world of niche kinks; he read and watched a towering amount of sneezy content, some of it about fictional characters he’d never even heard of. But he left the experience a more educated man, enlightened and prepared to perform. Now it would be a game of discerning Josaline’s preferences.

“What brings you to town, if I might ask?” Josaline asked. She took a hesitating step in her peep-toe wedges and Omicron followed the cue to walk with her.

“A friend’s wedding,” he said, and it became obvious that his increasingly wet sniffles required maintenance. He sighed as fished around for his last clean tissue. “He’s an old college buddy, super nice guy. The wedding’s not until next week, but I had some time saved up at work and the flights were cheaper on weekdays, so..” Tissue acquired. “..I guess it worked out pretty well.”

“Do you enjoy traveling alone?” she asked, setting a sedate pace across lush carpet and spotless tile. “I find it invigorating, but it can be a little lonely now and then.”

He blotted gently at his nostrils. They fussed at the treatment, jerking and fidgeting against his fingers. Yes, that’s right, Omicron goaded. Tickle me. Go on. The virus humored him, unfurling and sauntering forward with ambition. Instantly his eyelids got heavy, and his voice grew heady.

“Oh, I couldn’t afford this place by mys-.. mys-hhelf..” He kept the tissue tucked to his face this time, muffling his voice and obscuring her view of anything but his fluttering eyes. “I’m hhuh-” 

The tickle got to work, trailing feather-light fingers along his nasal walls. They writhed, trapped and helpless to the whims of a persistent itch. It stroked sensitive places, unhurried and secure in the knowledge he could do absolutely nothing to stop it. He tried to speak around the buildup, each breath a little blip or sigh he couldn’t repress.

“Ho, sorry, I’m rooHH-!.. uh.. rooming with another frihhend whose… als-uHH’h..H-H!” 

He paused as the tickle escalated, now lounging indulgently as it guided him to a gasping high. Its approach was always rhythmic, an everlasting titillation that magnified as the tolerance of his nose diminished. Omicron shot Josaline an apologetic glance over the edge of his tissue and found her looking right at him. For the first time she lost composure, and hurriedly ducked behind a lock of her hair.

“.. Are you alright?” she asked, staring at the floor as they continued to stroll.

Omicron cringed through another playful swipe of the tickle, like fingers made purely of fluff skimming up the length of his nose. He gasped hugely, certain it would come, but then let it out on a near-moan. “..ohhh, sorry- it’s this cold, I-.. Iyyiieee..HH! iG’GZZSCHhu!”

It was a little stronger than he thought it would be. Instinctually he flashed a hand out and anchored his grip to whatever was nearby. The tickle gave him another long, firm stroke and his nerves begged mercy. 

“HIH!PPSSHh’oo!” And another lancing tickle, like washing your car with a sponge, running your hand along a cat’s back, a frictionless glide but it was malicious in its softness and it agitated his nose into rebellion. With one hand, Omicron sealed the tissue more tightly over his nose and mouth. “MMPPHSssh!”

He emptied his remaining air in a desperate blow. His nose tingled with temporary relief. The single, brave tissue did its best, but he’d absolutely need to wash his hands and find another fresh package as soon as possible. Picking his head up, he balled up the trash and knuckled his nose with his fist.

“Sorry, that was gross, I’m-” Genuine anxiety prickled in him as he looked up and realized his other hand was clasped firmly to her upper arm. That was an accident. Omicron flinched away and clung white-knuckled to his disguise. “-SO sorry, oh jeez, I really didn’t mean to grab you like that, I wasn’t- I just, I had to sneeze and then it felt like it was gonna be a big one so I-.. guess I reached for whatever was around, I wasn’t thinking…”

Josaline stood and silently let him run out of steam. A molten heat pooled in her irises. A rose tint glazed her cheeks. She lifted her purse, an understated but expensive clutch with a golden chain, and popped it open.

“Not at all, Nicolas.” Her words melted from her lips. “I truly don’t mind.”

She slipped a swatch of white fabric from her bag and shook it. It unfurled like a flag of surrender, and she held it out with a coy smile. He lifted his finger once again to his nose to graze it just beneath his itchy nostrils and felt a telling touch of moisture. His ears flushed and her smile grew.

“Oh gosh, sorry, that’s..” Cupping one hand over his nose, he reached with the other. “Thank you, Josaline.”

Omicron took the handkerchief and paused when she didn’t let go. Their eyes met.

“I do hope this won’t be the last we see of one another,” she told him. 

Just behind her, the elevator dinged. He blinked, only just noticing where exactly they were. She stepped back into the gilded lift, leaving him with her handkerchief and one last view of her burgundy smile. Then the doors closed. Omicron dropped his shoulders and blew a slow breath from his cheeks. Initial contact: not a catastrophe. Step two: arrange a serendipitous rendezvous.

Agent Delta appeared beside him. Omicron was certain he’d watched it all from a covert corner. He spoke softly, so as not to be overheard. “This is going swimmingly. Well done.”

Omicron ignored his heart’s little leap at the praise. He didn’t like to count chickens before they hatched. His mind raced to assemble all that he’d learned, the pieces of what intrigued her. “Thank you, sir.” 

“Nicolas.” Omicron looked at him, and resisted shooting the man a withering glare when Delta brightly grinned and said, “Your nose is running.”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Omicron snipped. “I’m aware.”

He tucked into the handkerchief. It was a balm to his sore nose after so many cheap tissues. The cotton was of superb quality, probably with a thread count higher than his bed sheets back home. Omicron nuzzled into it to snuffle and blow; seconds later, he realized with dawning dread that this was the wrong thing to do. For while this handkerchief was freshly laundered, it was also steeped with an overpowering perfume.

The tickle took umbrage with this. It bristled in his nose like a startled cat, sinking claws into his tender membranes and whipping its tail angrily against the sensitized border of his sinus. He couldn’t even suck a breath in before-

“Tssh! Ih’TSsh!.. HSH’u!” He ripped his nose away from the handkerchief, holding the cloth away from him with revulsion. “Hih’KSSh!.. h’KZSh’iu! Ugh!”

“Ooh, bless you, bless you.”

The handkerchief disappeared, and without any other options, he buried his nose into the prayerbook of his hands.

“IHPsh!.. h’PZSsch!.. fugk, ednough, plhHE- HH!BZSSh!”

“Bless you!”

At last it abated. He could imagine the tickle huddled far back in his nose, growling low as it continued to lash its tail. Omicron sniffled behind his hands and coughed from the effort.

“It’s impossible to say whether she doused this intentionally or not,” mused Delta, studying the handkerchief. He tried to pass the offending item back to Omicron, who shrunk away from it. He didn’t want it anywhere near his nose. “She couldn’t have known you were allergic.”

“I’b dnot allergic,” Omicron argued through gritted teeth. Delta gave him a look that plainly said, I don’t believe you, but I’ll humor you because you’re irascible and sneezy. Omicron fantasized about strangling him with a garrote. 

They took the elevator up in silence. Delta passed over another package of tissues and Omicron plowed through several of them. More garbage to add to his pocket collection. He’d have to unload once he got to his hotel room, and used tissues weren’t the only load on his mind. His erection had yet to flag. It was easy to ignore during his conversation with the target, focused as he was on his work, but with nothing to distract him Omicron was getting tense and eager for alone time.

Which is why he balked when Delta tried to follow him into his hotel room. Omicron stopped just over the threshold. “Is this your room?”

“It’s our room.”

Omicron’s grip tightened on the doorknob. He’d been lying when he told Josaline he had a roommate. That was his cover story, yes, but not the actual plan. “I thought we were bunking separately.”

“I’ve reconsidered,” Delta replied, and while his tone was light there was a finality to his tone. “Sharing a room will reinforce our cover, and given this is your first high stakes case I’d rather stick close to support you on the ground.” He fixed Omicron with a pointed stare. “Unless there’s a reason you’d rather not share?”

Oh, you bastard, he seethed. You know what I’m going to say. Delta was already suspicious - giving him anymore ammo would just worsen things for Omicron. His hand slid off the knob. “Of course not, sir.”

There were so many reasons Omicron would rather not share a room with Agent Delta. He preferred solitude over company, silence over noise, and Delta was the opposite. The senior agent prattled about nonsense while awake and he snored very loudly while asleep. He hovered around Omicron all evening and compulsively blessed his sneezes and bullied him into watching crappy reality television shows. The hotel room was excellent, but small; there was no opportunity for privacy. The silver-lining was that there were two beds so they didn’t have to share.

After unpacking, discussing tomorrow’s plans, and sharing an array of delivery boxes from Panda Express while they watched some inane matchmaking show, Omicron collapsed into bed with a heavy head. All the congestion settled behind his eyes, and both nostrils were blocked as soon as he reclined. He jammed the charger into his phone with stuffy grunts of exasperation and then noticed the flurry of missed calls and text messages from Dr. Voster lighting up his screen. They were hours old, most of them berating him for hanging up on her and demanding that he call her back.

But it was late, he was tired, and surely by now she was asleep. He’d catch up with her tomorrow.

+ + +

Steamy hot water fell around him, sliding warm down his skin and thickening the air. Omicron tilted his head back. He hitched a single breath, and shuddered it out on a voiced sigh. “..huh..”

He braced his hands more securely against the shower walls and steadied his feet beneath him. He woke this morning with post-nasal drip and a too-big tickle in his nose. Just as Delta said before, it stockpiled power in his sleep and by the time he came to bleary consciousness, he could feel the itch in every nook and cranny of his respiratory system. It wanted out.

The tickle scuffled with his weary sinuses and his lungs snagged with a sharp gasp, “Hih!” and another slow, yearning sigh. “..hhuhhh..”

His prick throbbed and he brought a soaped-up hand down to grip the shaft. He was rock-hard, woke up that way, too muddled with arousal and tickling misery he could do nothing but stumble to the shower. Another grungy sniffle roused the tickle to action; it shimmied in the confined space, touching every nerve with its feathery borders. It was such an overpowering sensation that he couldn’t actually sneeze. Only suffer.

“h-H-HH!” Both he and the tickle waited, but to no avail. He deflated with a moan. “.. hhh-uuuhhhh..”

Omicron stroked himself, stepping forward to press an arm to the cool tile wall and lean his forehead there as he lost himself to the climb. Sneeze or no sneeze, he was going to come. Muggy air coaxed a dry cough, a snuffling breath, another flexing fidget from the tickle. It didn’t settle afterward, but instead began to twist and turn. Thrash and flail. His nose shuddered helplessly in the onslaught. Yes, yes, yes, chanted Omicron as his nostrils pulsed. That’s it. Tickle me.

He smoothed his thumb over his slit, arching forward. He panted hot breath against the sweaty tile. Water pounded down against his shoulder blades, muscles shifting beneath skin as the tickle wriggled and wormed against its prison. His nose frazzled at the attention, and Omicron’s parted lips flinched up with a little grin. He heaved with breath, whining his way through a monstrous buildup. All the while he pumped his hand at an increasingly feverish pace.

“..uh... hhUH-hh!.. HUH!’hh.. HAH-H-” His voice reverberated off the walls with obnoxious volume. The sound of wet skin squelching mingled with the patter of water on the shower floor. He gasped at the bolt of pleasure sparkling below his stomach. “-H-Hhh’oh-hh.. h’H-uhh..”

The arousal broke his momentum. He thumped a fist against the wall with an abysmally soupy sniffle. With warring sensations, neither could win. Omicron lifted his head to the shower spray to wipe his face and paused to chafe his index finger beneath his flitting nostrils. He slowed the rhythm of his other hand. You can do better than that, he challenged the tickle. C’mon, let me have it. He snorted, feeling his sinuses vibrate with the strain. Make me sneeze.

Wish granted. With a loss of sensation down below, the tickle rushed in to fill the void. It consumed him in an instant. Omicron inhaled as if the shower water suddenly turned to ice.

“HHHHH!! IIHDDZSSSCHHYOOO!!”

It was finally out, the start of what felt like a dozen. His whole body trembled, including his dick, and Omicron dazedly picked up the pace as his nose cramped with another powerful swell. Another butter-smooth gasp.

“HIIIIH!! EHTZZSSHHH’EH! Mmmbb-!”

A beautiful ache bled through his abdomen, mirrored in the tingling clarity of his nose. Fuck he didn’t know when Delta would be back from his morning run, but.. “nnnggh..HAAASCHHYUU!-uuooh..”

He’d never been a quiet man in bed and these sneezes were some of the best he’d had so far. His membranes twitched in relief each time, as did his prick, before another storm quickly gathered. Omicron instinctively sped up the tweak of his wrist as he rocked into each stroke. He wouldn’t last much longer; he’d been edged long enough. His flaring nostrils flew wide.

“h’YIZZSSSH’Iyuh!! hooh-.. hh.. H-HIISSCHH’OOO! hhhAH-!” 

The orgasm hit like a truck. It rippled through him, wrenched him forward, and it would have been perfect if the shower floor wasn’t so damn slippery. As he shook his way through the aftershocks, the tickle snuck up on him.

“iiGGXSHH’TT- AAH-” Nothing about him was prepared. It exited roughly through his congested airways and upset his equilibrium. His feet went out from under him and rolling with the momentum spared him a concussion from the slick tile. It didn’t spare his pride however when he heard a voice from the other side of the door.

“Bless you, Omicron! You okay in there?”

Fuck, cursed Omicron, back flat to the tile as the shower pelted water into his eyes. When did he get back?

“Fine!” he barked back. The slip-scare soured what remained of his orgasm and the inside of his nose ached with raw exhaustion. He touched a knuckle to the tip. Before Delta could ask, he added, “I dropped the shampoo!”

“Well, be careful,” Amused, now that he knew his subordinate was alright. “Sounds like that nose of yours means business today!”

Omicron covered his face with his hands and sighed.

+ + +

Sunshine coated the simmering pavement. People kept their sandals on as they milled about for fear of burning their feet. Couples cuddled together in upholstered loungers around the pool’s perimeter. Loners relaxed with books on couches sheltered by giant, colorful parasols. A dual walk-and-swim-up tiki bar bustled at the far end of the pool, surrounded by wading, tipsy tourists. This was an adult-only area, so aside from the group of trust-fund college grads squealing and shoving one another off the diving board, it was quiet and classy. 

Nicolas ignored wandering eyes as he maundered the water’s edge. 

After his ill-fated shower, Delta informed him there was surveillance of Josaline Jewel in this area and it was time for a fated meeting. He’d put on a pair of colorblock swim trunks and a thin cotton cream shirt he left unbuttoned over a waxed chest. He was not a big man, but his work kept him toned. Defined abs, firm pecs, broad shoulders with muscles that rolled across his back when he moved. He’d use them all to his advantage.

Deep in his sinuses, the tickle swelled. His nostrils weakly complained and he hushed them with a quick back-forth sweep of his finger. He’d use this too, when the time came.

An arm draped over his shoulders, dragging him in for a chokehold hug. “The whole team should take a vacation sometime,” Delta said fondly. “This is fun.”

Speak for yourself, groused Omicron. Irked as he was to have Delta here, it would help his cover. Acting with a partner provided an opportunity that single performances couldn’t. Besides, jerking off in the shower took the edge off his temper, so Omicron weathered the affection without complaint. He only pressed an elbow to Delta’s chest when his own expanded with a fast-rising urge.

“G-Gonnaahh-” He hiccuped a hitching breath. Experienced now in dodging, Delta leaned away as Omicron pitched haphazardly into his opposite arm. “hih’DZSSS’ooh!”

“Bless you,” muttered Delta, and mercifully didn’t complain about the distinct lack of vampire-sneeze etiquette. Some of these sneezes just got away from him, no matter how slow or quick they came on.

They both paused for more, but after a couple uneasy breaths, none arrived. Omicron checked the damage: no shirt stains, a slight drink spillage but not on himself or anyone else, and Delta wasn’t caught by collateral. Insufferable as his senior officer could be, Omicron would perish if he accidentally sneezed on him. 

Delta lowered his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “See her anywhere?”

Omicron scanned as they walked, swirling his stemless wine glass before he took a sip. “Not yet.”

“Maybe she left before we got-”

“Hello.”

They whipped their heads to the left and there was Josaline. She wore the widest brim sun hat that Omicron had ever seen, black with a dramatic dip, and streaked with a white ribbon that matched the chic blacks and whites of her asymmetrical one piece suit. She still wore heels, toes painted to match her nails, ankles crossed. Her smile peeked at them from under her hat and designer sunglasses.

Nicolas roused himself and gave her a helpless smile, as if he hadn’t meant to stare. “Hi.”

“Were you looking for me?”

He fished a hand at the back of his neck, flushed to his ears, and Delta playfully tightened his grip. “Yeah, he couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Nicolas elbowed him with a hiss under his breath. “Harry!”

“I’m Harry by the way,” Harry told her, swooping in to offer his hand. Nicolas wrestled out of his hold in the meanwhile, straightening his shirt with a huff. Josaline raised a hand to her mouth to hide her widening smile.

“You must be the friend Nicolas mentioned. The one he’s rooming with?”

“Oh, he told you about me, huh?” Harry smoothed back his hair and waggled his eyebrows. “All good things I hope.”

Nicolas took another sip of his drink as they chatted, wrinkling his nose to one side and then the other. A quick, strong sniff flared his nostrils wide. He let the breath go on a sigh. Josaline tilted back the brim of her hat.

“Feeling any better?”

“Ndot really,” he conceded, then moved to sit across from her on an empty lounge chair. His shirt fell open to frame his sculpted chest and she curtly inspected the view. His pecs jumped with a brisk sniff, then another. He knuckled more aggressively at his nose. “But I’mb dnot gonna let it spoil mby vacation, if I can help it.”

Feeling lousy wasn’t actually a lie. Omicron woke up in the thrall of the tickle, yes, but when he had the ability to think afterward he realized he wasn’t at his best. His throat stung when he swallowed, scraped sore from all his harsh sneezing. His abs felt like they’d been through a ruthless core workout. And there was a disconcerting malaise settling over him, a woozy feeling that he refused to acknowledge in hopes it might just go away. 

“Forgive me saying so, but should you be drinking in your condition?” she asked, nodding to his glass. He took a breath to reply but Harry interrupted with a booming laugh and an amiable slap to the smaller man’s back.

“That’s just lemon tea and honey,” is what he told Josaline and that was also true. He did lie to Delta about it just being a prop for his cover story though. In actuality, it took the edge off his aching throat. Harry carried on, unaware. “I told him to try a hot toddy but he’s a little goodie two shoes when it comes to nursing a cold.”

Nicolas narrowed his eyes, blinking as they began to glass over. All the while since he woke, the tickle in his nose continued to haunt him. Contrary to Dr. Voster’s claim to Delta, the sensitivity hadn’t diminished at all. He bodily turned from the conversation with his drink held far away from him. His other arm tucked snugly around his nose as he sucked in a shuddering breath. Then quaked in place.

“.. hik-.. iH-GZSShu!”

“Bless you,” chorused the other two. 

He picked his head up by hesitating degrees before giving it a sharp shake. More sniffling, a thick clearing of his throat. His gaze darted to Josaline, who glanced away when he caught her looking. “Pardod mbe.”

“You know what? Try not to ruin my vacation either,” Harry griped at him, then looked to Josaline. “Nobody wants to get within five feet of me with him around. He’s like a walking cold medicine commercial.”

Omicron’s eyebrow twitched. “Well at least I don’d snore.”

Delta shot him a look that Nicolas met with innocence and a sip of his drink. Omicron shouldn’t push his luck, but he refused to pass up the chance to take pot-shots at Delta while he could get away with it. Josaline giggled.

“I can tell you’re old friends,” she said as she looked between them. “Do you see one another often, outside of events like this?”

This spiraled into deeper discussion. Delta and Omicron rattled off fake trivia to all her questions, and asked about her in turn. She was vague about her work but fairly open about her personal life. Almost all of it was useless small talk, aside from a compelling instance when she told them she created the software for her website’s security certificate herself. Her competency in coding wasn’t something Josaline Jewel advertised to the public. 

Dr. Voster called him exactly three times during the chat, and each time he dumped her to voicemail. She knew he was working. Whatever she needed to ask him could wait, or ideally, be an email.

Soon the sun was past its apex and Omicron was running out of tissues. Mortifyingly, a passing poolside waiter brought him a little bin for him to toss his trash so he didn’t have to keep walking off to a garbage can. Over the course of their conversation Josaline’s attention gravitated squarely to Nicolas and both men took this as a cue.

Harry slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “Alright, I’m gonna check out the casino. I’ll catch up with you later, Nick.” He winked. “Have fun.”

Nicolas waved him off with one hand and tended to his unruly nose with the other. His nostrils pushed against his fingers, pulsing irritably. The tickle seemed to get worse over the course of the day, and his sneezes were coming with frustrating regularity if he didn’t waylay them. He tried to strike a balance between holding back and letting go, observing Josaline’s reactions all the while. She definitely wanted him to sneeze as badly as he did, which is why he chose to press the flat of his forefinger hard against his septum until the urge receded. He huffed away the gasp he’d gathered.

“.. huh-hh, sorry, I’b probably ndot great combpadny right ndow..”

He opened his eyes to find Josaline staring at him from under her lashes. She’d taken off her sunglasses some time ago. “On the contrary, I find you captivating.”

Nicolas laughed, ducking his head to cough. “Really? Thad’s a relief. I was worried all… this,” here he gestured to his nose, “would put you off.” 

He punctuated with a sniff, the sound purely liquid, and rushed a hand to cup his nose while he tried to free the last of his tissues from the pack with the other. “Ugh, sorry-”

“Did you lose the handkerchief I gave you?”

Omicron feigned surprise, as if he hadn’t been waiting for her to ask. “Umb.. so-.. hah.” He scrubbed his finger under his nose, subduing his wavering nostrils. “I did use it, but I thig’k you had someb kinda perfumeb on it?..”

Her lips parted in shock, and Omicron knew at once that the scent on that cloth wasn’t intentional. Maybe it was a habit of hers, dousing her handkerchiefs in perfume, but she didn’t know it would actually make him sneeze. There was a faint, petal-like blush spreading across her cheeks and her thighs tensed more tightly together. Well, well.

Nicolas blinked wetly, as if the memory of the handkerchief was enough to make his nose tickle. Granted, literally anything was enough. “As soon’d as I-.. as I-yee…huh-” He blinked again, and again, each time a little harder and with more moisture in his lashes. With a swallow, he tried to hurry through the rest, “As I used ihht I.. st- st..”

He pressed a hand to his sternum as his chest jumped with a little sip of breath. The tickle fluttered in him, enticing. Omicron gave in for just a moment, letting his eyes fold shut, relaxing into the sensation of it. Sometimes the virus felt mechanical, automatic, indifferent to him and his reactive nose. Like a machine chugging ever onward, so did the tickle continue to toil. Tickling.. and tickling.. and tickling… Blind to his convulsing nerves, deaf to his snagging breaths, just carrying on with its function with no regard for the consequences.

Unable now to open his eyes again, Omicron spoke around compulsive gasps and breathed his words on the exhales. “hH!S’made be-.. h-HH!Bade be-uhhh.. snd’HIH!.. sdeehEEZZSSHOO!”

Nicolas snapped forward, sneezing over his lap, and belatedly raised a hand to his nose. It was running copiously. He wouldn’t get the job done with what was left of his tissues, unfortunately. He squinted against another hopeful tickle, begging himself now to keep it together. He really didn’t want to sneeze again like this.

A flash of white caught his eye. Josaline, her gaze boring into him with palpable weight, offered another handkerchief. He swallowed. It was identical in every way to the first, and Omicron suspected it smelled the same too. But this was what she wanted, and he was a professional. He would deliver.

He took it from her and began to unfold it with both hands to give her an uninhibited view of his face. As he began to wind up for another sneeze, he gave the tickle full control over every micro-expression. The fitful flare of his nostrils. The crease of his crow’s feet. His quivering, parted lips. The way his nose gathered grimacing wrinkles at the bridge when the urge became undeniable. His voice bled into his heaving exhales, unintentional but not unwelcome.

“H’uhh.. iIH!hhh..h-h-!hohh.. mbbggh..”

This was the worst part, when it crested to a peak but couldn’t quite get him high enough to tip him over. Throwing caution to the wind, he lifted the aromatic cloth to his face and breeeeeeeathed-

“KZZSSSCH!”

Rough, wrenched out of him in fury. As the methodical tickle gave way to a fierce burn, Omicron had just long enough to wonder if Delta was right: he might actually be allergic.

His eyes rolled closed and he shuddered helplessly into the handkerchief. “iih’TZSsh!” A tight breath and then, “iik’KISHH!... hd’IZSSH!.. Tshh! it’TZSH!”

There wasn’t time for anything else. No wavering gasps, no bleary moment of respite before the next volley. It was a quick trigger release, too itchy and ineffective to do anything but wind him. “-DSSH’uu!.. hd’DZSSH’oo!! ohh..HH!”

He heard Josaline stir in her lounge chair, and then felt the jostle of his own when she sat down beside him. A hand smoothed up and down the line of his spine, pausing to feel his back expand with a single, catching breath. 

“-ig’GEZSC’Hoo!.. GZSShuu!.. Chshh-IH’chzssh!.. HIH!chzsch! Ugh!” He finally managed a shaky blow into the folds of the handkerchief. A couple desperate hitching breaths and then he quickly committed to another. It cleared away most of the mess; he was able to free his nose for air.

His eyes were still locked shut, but he could feel his nostrils twitching like a rabbit’s. Rushing a finger beneath them did nothing. He sneezed against his hand. “iihpssh!... h’TZschh!h- hIKssh!! TIZSSCH’u!”

It felt endless, and nothing like the big, bad wolf sneezes that the tickle cooked up. No, these didn’t help anything. Each sneeze just somehow itched him more. “..hah-..hh.. hH’ZSSCH’yah!”

He nearly lifted the handkerchief back to his face and caught himself at the last moment. Loathe as he was to do it, he used the collar of his shirt instead. He had nothing else. Omicron lifted the corner to his nose, his nostrils so warm to the touch they felt feverish, and muffled what he could.

“MMFZSSH!.. hg’ISHH!..” At least it was slowing down. He sniffled, feeling muzzy, and finally cracked his eyes open. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He closed them again with a jumpy, “hih- IH!-..MMPHZSSH!!”

Omicron waited, tense, for the next one. It sizzled in his sinuses for a solid few seconds before dissipating in a wave of prickling dismay. It left his nose wary, on guard for the next attack, even as the virus insidiously labored away inside him. His shirt was a lost cause, so he shrugged it off and used it to blot at his face as he snuffled and hitched his way into presentability. Holy hell, that was more than he bargained for.

“Bless.”

A touch alighted on his bare arm. Nicolas picked his head up, squinting through puffy eyes and already cringing with apology. “Sorry,” he croaked. “I thigk I mbight be allergic.”

“Yes, so do I,” she breathed, and smoothed her touch to his back again. Without his shirt in the way, her palm glided up and down his skin. Her other hand thumbed a tear from the corner of his eye. “You poor thing.. I didn’t realize that’s what you were trying to say. Forgive me.”

They were both lying to each other now. Nicolas shook his head, both his hands coming to hold one of hers. “Ndo, ndo, it’s ndot your fault! I couldn’d explain itd well.” He gave her a pitifully tearful smile. “Had to sdneeze too bad.”

The tone shifted. Omicron could feel it keenly. Josaline squeezed, then let them go. Her hands lifted instead to cradle his cheeks, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I need to confess something.”

He blinked at her, wide eyed. “... Codfess whad?”

“I’m not the sort of woman to be repelled by all... this,” she said softly, with an equally soft graze of her thumb against one of his chapped nostrils. It flared in response, and Omicron fended off the visceral need to rub it. Josaline stroked him again, and his nose twitched away from her. The tickle bristled and he leaned out her hands, racked with fittish hitches. He jammed his finger beneath his septum, barely catching himself before a sneeze tumbled out. 

She watched him avidly as he battled back the urge, one eye squinted shut in a lopsided wince. Her attention honestly flustered him; Omicron never liked attention when he sneezed, and her gaze in particular stripped him bare. He lowered his finger reluctantly, and kept his hand hovering at chest level. The sneeze was stalled but certainly not gone.

He sighed his words. “S-uh.. Sorry, I-.. hooh, I bight.. I-ihhm godda-HH!” He wiped his head to the side. “iih’DZSCH’iew!! ugh, b’sorry..”

Her voice wavered. “Please don’t be sorry.”

“I-hhuh.. hkrrm!” Omicron cleared his throat, bringing the edge of his shirt up to his nose to blot and then, with great disgust, blow. He was going to burn this thing when he got back to his room. When he finished he looked away from her, painfully embarrassed. “I’m seriously so gross right now, I’m sorry-”

“Nicolas..” She slid a hand up his arm, splaying her fingers on his shoulder. Her other arm came around to rest at the juncture of his neck so she could toy fingers at the short, fine hairs on his nape. “I want to be clear. I’m not put off at all by your cold. Frankly, I think it looks very good on you.”

He frowned at her as the gears turned, then perked up when they slotted in place. “.. Oh!”

Josaline smiled wide enough to show her teeth, humming a little laugh. “I would like to kiss you. Is that alright?”

She drifted into his orbit as she spoke, her smokey stare flicking between his eyes and his lips. He nodded, and met her halfway. As their mouths met, she tugged down the brim of her hat to hide them from view. They kissed behind a black veil, his hand reaching to cup her jaw as she pushed a palm up the plane of his bare chest. With his nose so completely packed, Nicolas gulped air between passes of her tongue and chuffed soft, stuffy breaths against her skin.

Something about Omicron. He was suited to his job in many ways, one of which being his attitude toward infatuation and sex. Romance made his skin crawl, and physical intimacy was to him nothing more than a nice dessert. Delicious? Yes. Mandatory? No. He desired sex as much as he desired bubble baths or a night at the opera. He never let it distract him from his mission, even when at times it was his mission. It was a point of pride for him.

She eased him onto his back, kissing him deeply into the plush of the lounge chair. The new angle wasn’t great for his nose, shifting congestion in his head like tetris blocks until he whimpered against her lips. She finally let him up for air and he heaved in a breath, snuffling squeakily and then coughing when the air bottled up in his sinuses. He belatedly turned his head, and flushed up to his hairline.

“- guh, suh-sorry,” Nicolas whispered, his voice gravelly. “Can’d breathe through by dose at all.”

“Stop apologizing,” Josaline whispered back. She nudged the tip of her nose against his, nuzzling him even as she bit down on his lower lip to mumble around the flesh. “Can I help?”

He didn’t get a chance to reply before her tongue was back in his mouth. It was dark beneath the shade of her hat, with bits of sunlight dancing through the weave. While it was no mystery what they were getting up to under there, it was as subtle and as tasteful as public displays could get. She leaned more of her weight against him, pushing the planes of her palms up the span of his chest until he made another pleading sound.

Again she leaned back by an inch and again he tried to catch his breath. His nose fizzed with a wicked tickle. Sinuses immobile. Couldn’t agitate his nose with air. It would have to be something else, another method.. 

A bolt of inspiration struck.

“Josah-H!.. Josalind,” he mumbled. She was passing time sucking a bruise on his neck. “hah.. Josalind, cad you-”

She blew a puff of cool air over the patch of wet skin and smirked as he shivered. “Can I what, baby?”

“Hhhelp,” he gasped, and arched when she laved her tongue over his collarbone. His neck was sensitive, and Omicron resolutely continued even as he arched his back. “I’ll breathe better if I cad sdneeze, bud.. huh..” He sniffled in vain. The attempt ended in another disappointed cough. “.. id won’d combe.”

It was like he said the magic words. Josaline lifted her head and refocused her attention on his nose. It looked pitiful, so raw from rubbing and snubbing that the skin shined a brilliant red. His nostrils flared like a beacon, irregular but frequent. Nicolas gazed up at her, blotchy and half-lidded. She skimmed her pinky finger up the bridge of his nose, watching his eyes fall closed and his brows crunch and his nose wrinkle up beneath her touch. She sighed, besotted.

“I can certainly do something about that, but I’m not sure I should do it here,” she murmured. Fingers threaded through his hair, scritching lightly at his scalp. “I have things in my room-”

He slivered his eyes open. “Whhee.. cad d..” They fluttered closed again as he breathed, breathed!... And then sighed out a groan. “-ohh..We cad go to your roomb-h-H!.. hiiff you w-wand.. but..huh-”

Unable to help himself, one of his hands routed from her waist to his nose to grind beneath his throbbing nostrils. Just enough to take the edge off so he could finish what he was saying. His entire expression scrunched as he worked his nose, but he plowed onward.

“..I usually don’d ndeed buch,” he clarified. “Jusd thinking about id is edough to.. to…” He dropped his hand and snatched in a gasp so deep, his chest lifted Josaline where she lay across him. “HHHUH-!” But nothing came. He growled, his first real display of frustration in front of her. She comforted him with another rake of her fingers through his hair.

“Truly?” she asked, and when he fought his eyes open to look at her she seemed awed. “No.. external stimulation at all?”

Omicron knew of the methods to which she alluded, but Nicolas didn’t. He gathered his eyebrows together. “.. Ndo?”

“How do I help?”

“You cand just talk.” He anchored his hand back to her waist, his gaze glassing over. “About how buch id t.. tiihckles..”

She pressed her lips together, her cheeks beginning to darken. “.. could you demonstrate?”

Not the response he expected. He figured she’d want to take the lead, but Omicron was nothing if not flexible. “Yeahhh..h!IH-.. I usually thig’k about fhheathers or.. flowers or.. sombthig like..” He closed his eyes and conjured an image. “Like a little bug, crawli’g around up there.”

And just like that, it’s what the tickle became. Small, at first so unobtrusive as to be barely of notice but over time the irritation compounded. Omicron hauled in a hearty sniffle, coughing for his trouble, but the endeavor cleared up some of his consonants.

“It doesn’d know what it’s doing, but it’s tryi’g to escape and the luhh.. lohhnger it searches the.. huH!ohh.. the mbore unbearable it becomes.”

He could feel it zipping about, uncaring and unaware of how it stirred his haggard nose into motion. As it scampered along the length of a nerve, the membrane flushed and quivered. As its glossy wings grazed the tender pink walls, they shuddered. Another sensation pulsed further down; heat began to pool into his abdomen.

“And it’s tiih.. tiHII-!ckling mbe, but it doesn’t know that and I can’t tell it to stop and at this p-hhoint I don’dH! wantHH!- hhihht to..” 

The little presence adventured in the wrong direction, into more sensitive depths, so deep in his nose he didn’t know it could tickle there. Omicron moaned at the honeyed ache in his groin. He desperately wanted friction, but common sense kept his hips welded to the lounge chair. He felt the tickle flutter, then flit, and then begin to panic. It realized this wasn’t the exit.

“Ahhnd th-then.. it starts freaki’g out. It’s buzzing all around and maki’g my ndose itchier and itchier, and I’m st.. start-HH!h’ingHH!!h-to.. IIH!”

Omicron imagined the wet, cavernous expanse of his tortured sinuses, every inch of it undulating in agitation all because of one little tickle. And that tickle persevered even now, darting around in the abyss of his nose unceasing. A smile flickered across his lips as another pang of pleasure swirled through him.

“.. and I just want it to keep..HHHH!” He huffed a momentous breath and his chest jumped under her hands. Words carried on his pining exhale. “.. -want it to mbake mbe-HHHHH!” Tingles trailed down his spine as he uttered the last few words in a high, airy voice. “.. make mbe snhheeze… HHDZZSSSCCHH’OOO!!”

Sparks popped behind his eyelids and Omicron moaned helplessly through a wave of carnal delight. He didn’t come, but the sneeze was paradise. He hitched gratefully up to the next one in line. “HH! HH! HHHH-” Something billowy and soft tucked over his nose and he pitched into it. “EH’JZZSSHHH’IUU!”

He groaned into fabric, stretching restlessly on the lounge chair as his cock twitched again. It was confined to the tight pressure of his swim trunks, a problem Omicron couldn’t think clearly enough to solve as he huffed and puffed his way toward another humongous sneeze.

“-ah.. haH.. HAAASZZSSSH’UE!” And still his nose craved more. Who was he to deny it? “-iihHHIIZZSSHEW!! mmbb..” Once they started, they felt too good to stop. “.. uhTZSSSSCH!!iuuhhhhh..”

Omicron keened, muffled by the cloth snugged over his nose. The break afforded him a chance to snurfle into its folds and reach up to brace his hand over the one that held it there. Deep in his nose, the tiny intruder buzzed brainlessly against nerves flayed raw. They were defenseless, vulnerable and so, so very sensitive. His chest rose and fell with an increasingly staccato rhythm, his expression frozen with need. He needed t-to.. He hhhad to-!

“ehhHPBBZSSCCH’IIYUU!”

He seized into the cloth and collapsed back to the chair. Heat surged through his veins, wondrous but left wanting as his erection strained against the front of his shorts. But at last the attack on his nose abated; the tickle retreated to the dark, hidden place where it liked to bide its time. Omicron mustered through a long, alleviating blow into the sturdy fabric. Sinus pressure dissipated from behind his eyes, just enough to take the sharpest edges off his encroaching headache. Then he just laid there panting and steadying his hazy vision when he finally opened his eyes.

He noticed a few things.

Nearly everybody in the vicinity was looking at him, sunbathers and staff members alike. Josaline was not an exception. Her hand rested lax in his, where she’d held his shirt to his face as he sneezed. And blew his nose. And he had a visible erection, blocked mercifully by Josaline’s position to the wider crowd but absolutely not hidden from Josaline herself. And for the first time, Omicron thought, Oh shit. I might actually be compromised.

“Um-..” he squeaked. All he could hear was a rushing noise, like standing in a wind tunnel, his heart banging against his ribs. Cold sweat broke out over his skin. “Um-..”

Josaline was similarly speechless. Paralyzed, even.

Did she not like it? Was it the bug thing? Fuck, he should have gone with pollen or something, that was more mainstream or at the very least, comparatively less weird. What was he thinking?! He thought this ‘sneezing untouched’ method might entice her, but a hell of an idea that was. Dr. Voster and her ridiculous pursuits. ‘Sneezing by suggestion,’ his ass. Now he was sprawled out here on display with a cock harder than diamonds and he’d just blown his nose into his shirt and practically into her hand-

Don’t panic, he counseled himself through shaking breaths. This is salvageable. Just play it off with a laugh, apologize for everything, then tactically retreat, regroup with Delta, fess up, come clean, apologize AGAIN-

“I-I’ll go,” he said, barely present as he gathered his shirt and held it in front of his crotch to stand. “I’m really sorry, very sorry about this. I just… um..”

Delta will be so pissed that he’ll take me off the case and the agency will put me on probation and I’ll be sorting files in the office for the rest of my career and they’ll never let me live this down, I’ll be the laughing stock of the force, I’ll-

A hand caught his wrist. He looked down and there was Josaline, coaxing him with soft, careful touches to sit back down. She smoothed hair off his sweaty brow.

“Relax,” she told him. “No one knows. They only looked because you were loud, and nothing more.”

If she meant that to be reassuring, it didn’t help. Everybody and their neighbor just watched him obnoxiously sneeze and moan for what might have been several minutes. So much for subtly, which was his entire job description as an agent. He was a disgrace to the force. Omicron buried his face in one hand, elbow propped on his knee. Nebulous plans to cut his losses and find a new job stalled at the sound of her chuckle. 

“And didn’t I tell you to stop apologizing?”

He shrunk inward, painfully embarrassed and hissing a whisper into his clammy palm. “Yeah, but that was-”

“It was incredible.” 

Omicron snapped his head up, blinking the blur out of his eyes. Josaline’s flushed cheeks and smile came into focus. She scooted closer to him, pressing her bosom to his arm and tucking her head in the crook of his neck. She raised the edge of his shirt, still piled between his limp hands, to dab beneath his nose. Omicron startled, recognized the feeling of something wet on his upper lip, and lost what remained of his composure.

“Could I not be a disaster for just five seconds? Please??” he demanded of the universe, of the virus, of anyone, and turned his head away to clean himself up without help. Sniffling and scuffing his nose prompted retribution. It tickled like a dangling string. Omicron ducked forward. “..h’HIDZssch!!”

Josaline swayed with him and pressed a kiss to his throat. She trailed her lips up and up even as he rushed to wipe his nose. “Listen, Nicolas,” she said against the corner of his mouth. “There is something else I need to confess to you. I want to introduce you to someone.”

Omicron’s nostril wrinkled as it was bestowed a kiss. “.. intro..hh.. duhhce me to someone?”

“Yes.” Silken breath glossed over the bridge of his nose. “To my husband.”

Everything grinded to a halt. 

It was a good thing she expected him to be floored by that news. Husband? Husband?? The word echoed around in his head, immaterial; he couldn’t grasp the concept. There was no intel about a husband. Nobody mentioned a husband. She’s married? How can she be married!? His eyes jerked to her left hand, bare of a ring. She followed his gaze with a charming smile.

“Neither of us wear one,” she explained. “We married for practical reasons, and we aren’t interested in exclusivity. He and I consider ourselves free to explore as we like.”

She’s… married. The fact churned sluggishly in his mind, untethered and unexpected. She’s married. So..

“..uhh..” Omicron contributed intelligently. “Uh, s-so.. huh-” 

Oh for fuck’s sake. He fought tooth and nail to keep his eyes open, watching Josaline bite her lip as the last sliver of light disappeared. Now the tickle was just kicking him while he was down. It snagged him by the lungs and hurled him forward over his lap.

“-eHTCHZSS’hoo!”

“Bless you,” Josaline purred, stuck to him from shoulder to hip.

Omicron tucked his fist beneath his nose with a couple convalescing sniffles. “-nguh, thagk you..” Another sniffle, sharper, and a crinkling blink to disperse the dark spots floating in front of his eyes. “So, you want me to.. meet him?”

“While my husband and I have similar tastes,” she continued delicately, “we find it more gratifying to seek pleasure with others than with one another. However..”

Here she guided him to look at her with a single finger to his chin. 

“.. very rarely, one of us will meet someone special. Someone who would please us both. Together.” 

This conversation was going at light speed while Omicron was still floating in space. He nodded, buying himself time, trying to gather more than just the word husband. So his mortifying sneeze-fit failure was actually a success, to the extent that Josaline wanted him to meet her husband, who also had the hots for sneezing? Presumably? Possibly? But wait, nothing in the files ever mentioned a husband, so that meant this was a secret husband..

“Do you understand?” Josaline asked. “What I’m proposing?”

Ménage à trois, his strategic mind supplied. Ménage à trois with the suspected cyber criminal’s secret husband. 

Suddenly, and Omicron truly didn’t know how, everything was turning up aces. Not only did he have intel on a secret husband but he’d get to meet the guy. Talk to him. Learn more about Josaline through him. Find some incriminating indication that she actually was a white-collar mastermind screwing thousands of people out of hundreds of thousands of dollars. And then he’d get his ass kissed by everybody at head office and they’d crown him King of Spies and give him only the coolest assignments henceforth. Maybe he’d get a fancy company car.. or a commissioned self-portrait in a tuxedo.. or..

Omicron jolted, as if coming awake from an impromptu nap. Shit. He rubbed both hands over his face, dismayed when they came away sticky. The humidity must be getting to him. Moist air always made him groggy. 

“Nicolas?” Josaline looked a little uncertain now.

“I’d love to,” he blurted, then ducked his with a sheepish sniffle. “Ah, I mean.. if that’s-.. if you’re offering..?”

“If you’re comfortable?” she asked back. Nicolas nodded, maybe a little too quickly because his head felt like it was on a string five feet in the air. Josaline broke into a toothy smile, reaching to smooth thumbs over the puffy skin beneath his eyes. “Really?”

“Well, I-... as long as you’re both okay with it,” he replied. His nose creased at the bridge when she nuzzled the tip of hers to his. Omicron hiccuped a breath, and huffed it against her lips. “I-hhah..”

“Dinner tomorrow night,” she promised him, watching avidly as his expression contorted. Omicron squirmed his nose in a bid for it to behave, but Josaline wasn’t having it. She kissed just beneath his nostrils as they flared against her own. Lurking in the recesses of his sinuses, the tickle emerged. “I’ll ask him.”

Then she sealed her lips over his as he contended with the damage in her wake. His nose felt full of fuzzy bits, and with his nose as his only source of oxygen, Omicron was forced to keep stirring them with air. Each inhale swept them in a wind, sending them spinning against every inflamed atom of his nerves. They moved deeper, joined by more, an escalating infestation drifting deeper into his sinuses until he was dizzy with it.

“mmm!” he hummed into her mouth. Both her hands sunk into his hair, holding him still, keeping him locked to her lips as the tickle grew and grew. He sucked a hitching, shaky sniffle that whipped all the fuzz into a storm. Omicron whimpered again, higher and sharper. “-MM!”

Only when he set hands on her shoulders did she part from him with a soft sound, and even then she did it reluctantly. By now Omicron was lost to his gasping ascent. “hih-..hIH!h.. IHT-!” On the cusp, he whirled to the side and rocked with a perfunctory, “-DZSHH’iew!!”

She draped her arms around him, tugging him into her side as he fussed with his nose. Nicolas topped backward with her to the lounge chair. “Bless.” 

“Ugh, thagks,” he snuffled and shifted in her arms to see her better. “Had to sndeeze, I’m sor-”

Josaline pressed a finger to his lips to silence an impending apology, and when she was sure he’d gotten the message, she trailed her painted nails along his bottom lip. “It’s a date, then?”

Nicolas smiled. “It’s a date.”

/tbc! 

I know what happens next, I just have to write it! Thank you so much to everyone who’s stuck around for part 2, I really appreciate you!💗Hope to see you again at part 3 ^w^

Isn’t it tacky to discuss the parameters of a threesome here?, Omicron thought with an arched brow. He lifted a handkerchief (lended to him by Delta) to dab beneath his nostrils. They’d tried to apply vaseline, then concealer, to ease some of its obnoxious color; of course he’d rubbed it all away minutes after application, teased to distraction by the smell and sensation. Even if Josaline and her husband would appreciate the abysmal state of his nose, he didn’t want to look like a sick, snivelling mess over dinner. He sighed to himself, resigned. Even an ounce of discretion is too much to hope for.

A stop by the host’s podium led to a winding walk through the venue that ended at a spot at the back. The table, he noticed, was a little larger than the rest to accommodate an extra person. It sat against a window for privacy, lit dramatically by the sunset sky and sparkling lamps. A man and a woman sat there — one of them was familiar.

“Nick!” greeted Josaline, in that dark velvet voice of hers. 

She rose from her seat with flowing grace, hugged by a glittering black gown, and even Omicron wasn’t immune to the way her hair spilled over her bare shoulders. Her lips were brighter tonight, a classic red, and they brought out the brilliance of her smile. She met him before he reached the table to take his cheeks in her hands and kiss them one after the other. Her smile fell to a pout.

“Ohh, sweetheart, you feel a little warm,” she said. Anita got his temperature down with reducers, but it had yet to break entirely. Josaline’s thumbs rubbed the apples of his cheeks, and just as he predicted, drank in the burgundy hue of his nose. He was uncertain how she’d feel about a fever, so he funneled the anxiety into his performance.

“Yeah, I’b-.. hkkrm!” He turned away to clear his throat when his voice cracked, then slanted a sheepish smile. “I’mb, uh.. ndot at my best. But I didn’d have your ndumber and wasn’t sure if you’d wandt to cancel, and I did really wandt to see you and mbeet your husband- uh-.. so-”

She silenced him with a peck on the lips; her eyes glittered in the lamplight. “It’s alright. We don’t mind as long as you’re feeling well enough to be here. Thank you for coming.”

For someone who was apparently suspicious of Nicolas Foster, Josaline seemed calm and pleased to see him. It set Omicron on edge. Did she have an alternative plan up her sleeve that gave her confidence? Did she simply not care about the risks of spending an evening with someone who might be trying to apprehend her? He didn’t let anything show on his face as she led him to the table, but nearly faltered when he saw who he was about to meet.

“Nicolas, let me introduce you to my husband,” said Josaline, gesturing. “This is Cristoph.”

Cristoph Meyer. Josaline’s nonconcern over his cover made much more sense. 

Like her, Cristoph was powerful, well-connected, and capable of squashing any slapdash probing from law enforcement. Unlike her, he was suspected of operating one of the most prolific dark web identity rackets in the world. Josaline had the business and brains, but Cristoph had the means. The fact they were together at all was incriminating, but with their combined clout across facets of society and criminal underworld, it practically guaranteed them immunity from investigation.

It was now imperative that their hack tonight was a success, or else the agency wouldn’t have enough evidence to touch these two with a one-hundred foot pole.

Cristoph stood from his chair, hand extended, with a perfectly polite greeting, “Nicolas. I have heard so much about you.”

He matched his wife in height, her platform heels notwithstanding. Fair hair parted to the side, tidy salt and peppered beard, browline glasses with a tweed suit that evoked a professorial style at odds with the criminal Omicron knew him to be. A little bulky in the torso, thinner in the legs, silhouetted like a martini compared to Josaline’s hurricane glass curves. Together, they defined elegance. Omicron couldn’t help but feel embarrassingly outmatched in his slightly wrinkled suit, clutching a rapidly dampening handkerchief, with a nose glowing brighter than any light in this restaurant.

“Probably mbore thand I’ve heard about you,” he jested. There was an awkward beat where Cristoph’s offer for a handshake remained unmet. “I, uh.. sorry, I don’d kndow if I should shake hands while I’b still sdiffling all over the place..”

Considering what they were going to do tonight, Nicolas’ abundance of caution was silly, if a little charming. The crinkles around Cristoph’s eyes told him so.

“Nonsense,” he said, and when Nicolas finally took his hand, Cristoph cradled it with both of his own. “If it’s not too forward of me to say, I wouldn’t mind catching a cold from a man as lovely as you.”

Nicolas flushed, gaping for words, before finally settling on, “Uh! Well- uh, that’s.. thagnks, that’s a relief!”

Josaline smiled at the two of them, the cat who got the canary, before shepherding Nicolas toward the empty seat. He caught a glimpse of her loaded glance at Cristoph, a smoldering exchange, before she swept to her own chair. And naturally, as soon as they all got settled and ready to chat, Omicron’s needy nose demanded attention. Now you want to sneeze? he griped, tucking the edge of his handkerchief beneath his nostrils as they indulged in an indolent flare.

It baited him all afternoon, bringing him to the breathless verge of release and then dancing away just before he could finish. In spite of this, he stayed civil. He didn’t meddle, didn’t try to force relief. He heeded his nose meticulously, minding it’s every demand, no matter how much it wanted to mock him. He did all this with the hope it would behave during dinner.

I’m an idiot, he thought ruefully as the tickle struck its baton on a music stand, commanding a collective ripple of sensation through his nose. It snagged his breath, beat by beat, hitch by hitch, as he pressed the handkerchief more securely over his nose and mouth. Of course it’s going to do whatever the hell it wants.

“..h-h-H..-ih’MFZSSh’u!” One was never enough anymore. And thus, an encore. “..hd’MMPHZzsh!” Before he could be grateful for their manageable size, a ticklish crescendo ripped through him and he gasped helplessly, deeply, to bowl over his lap with a much louder, “-eEH’MBFZSSH!”

At a nearby table, a startled fork clinked against a plate. Ambient conversation paused and cautiously continued. Somehow it didn’t occur to Omicron until this moment how clamorous his sneezing would be in a muted space. When he finally opened his eyes, he found two hungry pairs staring back at him from over the table. 

Josaline spoke first, the words dripping from her lips. “Bless, Nicolas.”

“Mbbgh,” he replied eloquently, before leaning away from the table to blow his nose as quietly as he possibly could. Unfortunately this did next to nothing and he was left no choice but to sniffle most of it back into his sinuses. 

Wrong move. Moisture shifted against alert membranes, and he felt the ramifications all through his nose. The tickle snagged his breath, tugging in, in, in — “.. h-.. hh.. hHT-!” and then it vanished as quickly as it came. In its wake was that awful, unrelieved prickling sensation, lingering like an afterimage. 

He sat back up with dewy eyes and half a smile. “Ugh, sorry about thad.” He waved irritably at his face, the red rosy center of it, and tried to make it a joke. “Tricked mbe.”

Josaline laced her hands and rested her chin there, elbows on the table, shadows on her face from flickering candlelight. “Speaking of tricks, before this goes any further there’s something we’d like to get out into the open..”

“We’re aware you are not who you say you are,” Cristoph continued. Despite his directness, he spoke like he might speak of the weather. “Is it safe to assume you came to this resort because of us?”

Omicron wondered if they might take this route. It was certainly the simplest. He’d been prepared to play mind games all night, adding layer upon layer to his cover as the two of them tried to outwit him into revealing something. Assignments like those got complicated fast. Quiet jazz filled the seconds of silence as Omicron analyzed his options and the likelihoods of their best outcomes. In the span of one congested breath, he made his decision. 

“Ahh, you got mbe,” he said, with a wincing smile and meek rub beneath his nose. “I kdnew Ms. Jewel would be here, but ndot you.” He looked toward Cristoph. “I’mb shocked you let mbe mbeet you, under the circumstances.”

The man chuckled as he picked up a slice of bread from the table’s communal basket, scooting a plate of olive oil closer to swab it in. “I knew the risks, but Josaline insisted. She claims you’re quite special.”

“And you’re a smart man, Nicolas,” she added, and then bent over the table to give him a playful tap on the nose. “I’m sure you can see that between us, you have your work cut out for you.”

He didn’t have to exaggerate the effect of her touch. With his nose on a hair trigger, just the reminder it was there was enough to stir the tickle. Omicron blinked against it, bewitched, as it fluffed up like a startled animal. Knuckling his septum didn’t quite dispel the feeling.

“Youhh’ve g-..” Here he paused, nostrils trembling wide, before they reluctantly relaxed again. He sniffed hard, and the sound was hopelessly stunted. “... ndgh, got mbe there too.”

Cristoph watched them as he took a bite of his bread, savoring it before he swallowed. “I will be candid, so please take me at my word.” He fetched the napkin from his lap to wipe the crumbs and oil off his fingers. 

“We do not care who you work for, or why you came to this resort. What we do care about is having an enchanting evening with you. Would you be open to setting all other motives aside for the sake of a wonderful time?”

Interesting, Omicron mused. He digested the honesty in their expressions. It would be a relief to avoid juggling advanced psychological warfare with a fuzzy head and nose. Under his new directive he wasn’t expected to extract an ounce of information — he only had to keep them occupied and ensure they didn’t catch on. Easy enough, but agreeing too quickly would attract suspicion. 

Nicolas lowered his eyes with a stuffy chuckle, fidgeting with the edge of his bundled silverware. “I, uh.. I don’d thigk that’ll go over well ond mby end.”

“You’ll be returning to your employers empty-handed either way,” Josaline said. He jumped when he felt her foot slide up the side of his leg. “Why not go with a good memory?”

He pretended to give it some thought, but the furrow in his brow deepened when his sinuses twinged. They’d once again grown intolerant of his galvanizing cold. Omicron wrinkled his nose and got his hand halfway to his face when his lungs seized. The sneeze snapped his head down, aimed uncovered at the table and entirely unmuffled.

“-iihPZSSHuu-!..oh, HH-!” He couldn’t even convey his surprise, it came over him so fast. It felt like the inside of his nose was squirming, desperate to get away from the unyielding sensation of something tickling it. “-ht’TZSsh!.. huh.. HD’IZZSshoo!”

He caught the next two against his wrist, uncertain of where his handkerchief was and too sneeze-brained to open his eyes and find it. The usual size wasn’t cutting it, so it was ‘go big or go home’ time. Soft sounds snuck out of him, feeble with desire, each a little higher pitched than the last.

“..uh.. huh... iihh-!”

He could feel it mounting, feel his nose throbbing with want of it, feel the way his body waited for the tickle to overwhelm him completely before he finally jolted into the cup of his hands.

“HIDJZZSSHOO!!-ohhh..” 

That got it. Omicron snuffled muzzily in the tingling aftermath. A few wet blinks cleared his vision, and there was Cristoph holding out not Delta’s weatherbeaten handkerchief, but his own. It was covered with fleur-de-lis, monogrammed with his initials. Omicron took it with a hushed thanks and wasted no time treating himself to a long, gurgling blow. The reproachful stares of other patrons, including some waitstaff, seared into him. Even if this was all for the mission, it was still fucking embarrassing. Omicron funneled his mortification back into Nicolas.

“Jeez, sorry about that,” he huffed under his breath, clutching the patterned handkerchief in both hands. His cheeks burned. “They snuck up on me.”

A soft touch beneath his chin coaxed his gaze to Josaline. Her voice was liquid silk, pouring over him just like the tresses of her hair when they’d kissed behind her sunhat. “Baby, there’s no need to be embarrassed.”

He lurked a glance toward a pair of middle-aged women a few tables over that were whispering and glaring in his direction. “... but this is such a classy place, and the other people who-”

“Fuck them,” Cristoph said bluntly, and moved his chair to block the ladies from view. Then he gave Nicolas a disarming smile. “You’re here for us.”

So he was, and dinner proceeded to that end.

Josaline and Cristoph were in no hurry. The group split appetizers, sampling one of every dish, before ordering a family-style main course with the intent to share plates. His cold and mild fever wore him down over time; at their encouragement, he surrendered to his symptoms and let himself be as noisy as he needed to. The fact he wasn’t actually contagious eased his guilt, but not his self-consciousness. His only solace was that in dining with two very powerful people, no one dared approach the table to complain about him. 

Conversation revolved around boundaries, expectations, safe words, and preferences. It was obvious by the way they talked that the couple enjoyed this sort of thing — planning an erotic evening together to take a third person apart. It also convinced Omicron that despite their rampant cybercrimes against the public, they were exemplary and experienced practitioners. That dispelled any lingering doubt he had about tonight, and by the time they got to dessert, the three of them had cultivated a rapport.

Omicron was blinking sleepily at the elegant menu lettering, mulling over the merits of ordering gelato on the criminals’ dime, when Cristoph brushed elbows with him. He glanced up to find the man closer than he expected, wearing a wolfish smirk.

“So, Josaline tells me you have a unique talent, but I do not believe her,” he said, drinking in Nicolas’ delicate features before his gaze stopped squarely on his nose. It stood out in crimson contrast to the rest of his face and twitched under the scrutiny. “I would like to try it for myself.”

It took a few seconds for the implications of that to break through Omicron’s fever haze, but once it did, his gut swooped. He wants to make me sneeze in front of this entire restaurant.

“Here..?” he asked, eyes darting to other tables. “Now?”

Josaline clucked her tongue at her husband with a smack to his arm. “Cris, you’re incorrigible.”

Recollections of yesterday’s poolside humiliation flashed through his mind. No doubt this ensuing fit would be as bad or worse. Omicron had carefully avoided any ‘suggestive’ mental images leading up to the date to stay clear-headed; walking into this restaurant with half a boner would have been foolish.

“Not if you’re uncomfortable, of course,” Cristoph assured him, looking between his wife and their shared paramour. Omicron could tell he was genuine when he added, “I won’t pressure you.”

Omicron was unprepared yesterday when he stumbled nose-first into a lucky outcome at the pool, but tonight was different. He knew what he was here to do, what the situation required of him, and he knew he wasn’t alone; Delta and Dr. Voster were working hard behind the scenes to support him. They all had their part to play.

It’s showtime, he thought, and sniffled with a shy little smile. His nostrils flared, just once. He’s going to regret asking for this before we get to the room.

“Actually..” Nicolas lifted a finger to his nose and gave it a priming rub, back and forth beneath his chapped septum. His nostrils pulsed with an unsteady warning. “I wouldn’d mbind. Mbight give mbe someb relief.”

That wasn’t a lie in the slightest. Both of them saw first hand how tireless the torture really was. Even right this second Omicron could feel faint, idle irritation like a channel stuck on permanent static. It would make him sneeze eventually, whether he had help or not. Cristoph gave the room a cursory scan, probably assessing the likelihood of a waiter walking up on them.

“You will let me know if you’d like me to stop?” 

“Of course,” Nicolas replied. A hand grazed his knee and he found Josaline, doe-eyed, close on his other side. Her eyes asked the same question, to which he nodded in reply.

The two shared a look, and their smiles darkened. Nicolas swallowed. 

“From the way she described it, you can be influenced by psychosomatic suggestions, yes?” Cristoph murmured, his voice accompanied by the underlay of soft jazz. “Let me see now..”

He glanced around for inspiration and found it on the table with a sound of delight. Omicron followed his gaze: a small, lit candle.

“I suppose it might feel like this tiny flame,” he began. “Glowing deep in your nose. An urge in its infancy. Too weak to give you relief, but too strong to snuff out. So subtle you aren’t even sure it’s there.”

The image filled his mind and the tickle took form — a painless speck of light hovering in his sinuses. It was a less tangible feeling than usual, ghostly and almost as if he’d imagined it. Omicron wrinkled his nose with a stunted sniff, blinking repeatedly.

“Ah, yes. It tickles a little doesn’t it?” Cristoph continued. “Negligible at first, just an annoyance on your periphery. But given time, even something this small takes its toll.”

Omicron sniffled again and again, then tried to lift his hand to rub the edge off his itch. Josaline caught him smoothly, twining her fingers with his as her other hand glided over his thigh. Without relief, his expression pinched. Cristoph tsked at him.

“Ohh, poor boy. When you sniffle it only goads the flame. Makes it flicker. Makes it bigger.” 

His words sunk into Omicron, luring him down into a trance until it’s all he could hear, think, or feel. With each breath the light grew, guttering against nerves worn raw by ceaseless, maddening stimulation. They seemed to recoil from the tickle when it flared, futile as it was — soon there would be no avoiding it. Each time he blinked, his eyes were slower to open again.

“Mm, it looks like that adorable nose of yours is getting upset. Your nostrils are twitching. They’re so red and sore that I can only imagine what the inside looks like.”

The observations would have flustered Omicron if he’d been in a mind to process it. As it was, all he could focus on was the swelling flame of this tickle. It lulled his eyes shut, parted his lips, tilted his brows in hope as it spread like molasses wildfire. Ponderous. Intensifying. Each time the tickle wavered, licking against an ever increasing surface area, he felt a similar, encroaching ache of pleasure ooze through his gut.

Josaline’s hand crept over the tent in his pants. He flinched, and a breathy moan tumbled out of him.

“You like this,” purred Crisoph, barely a whisper as his words melted through Omicron like softening butter. “And it will feel so good to let go, won’t it? You are in luck because that tickle isn’t going anywhere. It just grows and grows.”

Cristoph had no idea how true that was. Ever since Anita sprayed this cold up his nose, he’d lived on the edge of a sneeze. When he finally recovered, he wouldn’t miss the permanent little niggle that stirred his sinuses to anarchy. He would, however, miss the way the tingle in his nose echoed in his groin. Omicron hitched in a knife’s-edge breath, and let it go on a soft, stuffy sigh.

“Tell me how it feels,” the voice commanded. Omicron bit his lip as pressure increased against his hardening erection in one long, continuous line down the shaft. He strived to comply. 

“..feels..h-hhh-..” A shivering inhale preceded a shuddering exhale, punctuated with a sniffle. “..huhh.. like mby dose iihss..h-hH!..hoo, whed I breathe, every t.. t-hhime it’s ti.. it’s t…HHH!” A pause, then the rest delivered on a defeated breath as he slumped against his chair. “-huhhhhit’s ticklig mbe..”

Josaline’s hand inched down his cock. Omicron, eyes cinched closed, nostrils flaring so hard he could feel them stretch, tried to arch into the touch. An iron grip pressed his thighs firmly to the chair.

“That tickle is written into every line on your face.” Fingers found the bridge of his nose and traced down to the twitching tip. “Agony.” The lightest touch circled the diameter of each spasming nare. “And ecstasy.”

A twinge raced down Omicron’s nasal cavity. A tear squeezed through his lashes. Oh, it was close. He could feel the urge becoming critical, nerves stimulated to a burning frenzy.

“.. Nicolas, I can see that it’s making you want to..”

Omicron heaved in a preparatory hitch and lost it in a frustrated groan. “-hUH-!..ngghh..”

“.. that you need to..”

Another surge of tickling coated his membranes like a hot, prickling blanket. He filled - “h-hhHH!” - and emptied - “..HUHhhh..” - his chest with another heaving breath.

“.. that undoubtedly you’re going to..”

The depth of his gasp came as a surprise, rolling through him as an entire body sensation that began in his nose and ended in his dick. When his lungs bottomed out and didn’t empty, the corners of his mouth tugged with the hint of a smile.

“-hhHHHHH..”

“Sneeze.”

“-EEHHDZZSSSCHYOOO-!!”

It crashed out of him like a calamity, uncovered and inexcusably loud. Omicron didn’t care. Felt so fucking good to sneeze that he couldn’t spare a thought for anything but the exquisite ache at his core. It would have taken his breath away, if the next sneeze hadn’t already.

“-HIH’YIIZSSSHHOOO-!!”

There was a small percentage of his brain power devoted to public decency, and it was this shred of awareness that kept him from moaning aloud as a powerful burst of arousal shot through him. Like a boomerang, what little relief the sneeze granted him came winging right back in a rush of furious, nose scrunching tickles. 

“HEH-.. HEHSSSHUHhh-!!”

Omicron jerked his head down, sneezing clumsily over his lap, and clenched his thighs together when his dick twitched in reply. He gritted his teeth against any noises trying to escape, fastening his hands to the bottom of his chair to ride it out because it.. it-

“-H’JZZSSSCHhh!uhh..” Fuck it just kept coming. He sniffled wildly, his nose streaming, and flinched with an itch that billowed up from his nostrils to his sinuses. Omicron threw himself forward. “-BZZSSSHOO!.. hhP’BZSSHYOO!!..” 

Each one caused him to crunch in his seat, hunching lower and lower toward the table, until someone pressed a hand to his sternum to push him upright. Omicron couldn’t even open his eyes to see who it was. His chest pressed into their touch with staggering hitches that slammed into a herculean sneeze.

“..iih-hhH-HHH-HD’DIHZZSSSCH!-hahh!” 

He couldn’t quite muscle down the moaning punch of pleasure. While not very loud, it sent ice down Omicron’s spine and he whisked a fist beneath wet, widespread nostrils. His other hand scrabbled blindly on the tablecloth for any shred of fabric he could utilize. In vain, he tried to speak.

“-hhah..” He pressed the edge of his hand harder to his septum as the pressure swelled. “..hhhangk.. KIZSSCH!... hH’KZZSSCH’UH!” 

The dismay at drenching his hand was outweighed by the savory zap through his veins. His erection ached for friction, and Omicron couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing that Josaline had stopped stroking him. He snorted, or rather tried to, but was met with a cemented clog. The strain made him cough, and then in a haze of dread, start to sneeze. It filled the spaces the congestion couldn’t, throbbing with a tickle so urgent he couldn’t have fought it off at gunpoint.

“-oh shihH-.. hH-H’PPZSSSCHH’IYA!”

It was a disaster of a sneeze, with consequences that left him in dire need of a tissue. Someone gently pried his fist from his face and cupped something crisp and fresh over his nose — a promise of relief. He didn’t think about it; he blew his nose immediately and as thoroughly as possible.

It took four big breaths before he ran dry, and a singular, jolting “-ihg’KSSHU!” that added insult to injury. Only then, in the panting aftermath, did it register to Omicron what he’d done. He froze.

Oh god, he thought, mortified. The fire was gone from his nose, now dwelling in his cheeks, neck, and ears. I just blew my nose into somebody else’s hand. 

He forced himself into a teary squint to assess the damage. Cristoph was gone, his seat vacant. The restaurant was dead silent. Omicron did himself a favor and kept his head down, absurdly grateful his back was to the room. A rustle of cloth against his nostrils caught him off guard.

“Bless you, Nick,” sighed Josaline. The sultry tilt to her tone reassured Omicron a tiny bit.

She was still beside him, gently tending to his nose with an unused edge of what he realized was yet another new handkerchief. The idea the couple brought extras for him was almost as embarrassing as his sneezing fit. He let her do it, still numb, before managing a croaky whisper.

“I-.. jeez, Josaline, I’m-”

“I hope what you are about to say is not ‘sorry,’ darling,” she whispered back, giving his nostrils a careful upsweep with the handkerchief. He scrunched his expression when it stung and she tutted in sympathy. “I enjoy this, just as I have enjoyed every moment of this evening thus far.”

“But..” Omicron couldn’t bring himself to look behind him, even as the ambience of the restaurant gradually resumed. “Is Cristoph… did I upset him?”

“Not at all,” she assured. Her warm smile verged toward wicked. “He’s just very eager to pay the check.”

Omicron sat there mulling it over, staring sightlessly at the open dessert menu laying forgotten on his plate. His mind was sluggish with fever, his heart still hammering from the humiliation of causing such a ruckus. Ludicrously resilient, his dick remained erect. And somehow, after all that, his nose still had the audacity to tickle. It came over him swiftly — a couple blinks, a flare of his nostrils, a quiet huffing inhale. Then-

“..ih-TSSHuh!” In spite of its size, he still shook in place. Josaline pressed close to breathe a blessing against his temple. Her teeth found his earlobe after that, a sharp enough sensation that it banished the nebulous itch of another waiting sneeze.

She looped her arm around his, tugging him up from his seat onto unsteady feet. “Come along.”

He felt like he was three steps behind her when he asked, “What about dessert?”

“Oh, darling,” she chuckled, and ducked in to nuzzle her nose to his. “We’re getting it to go.”

+ 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 +

As I suspected, Omicron mused as he felt a warm, slick digit tease his rim. I’m the dessert.

The trip back to the couple’s top-floor suite was a steamy blur smeared with wet lips, wandering hands, and an unsuspecting tourist who had the misfortune of waiting for the elevator when the doors opened. After stumbling into the suite, Josaline unzipped her dress to unveil stark lines of lingerie filigreed over her skin, and while still wearing her T-strap peep-toe platforms, disrobed Nicolas like she was unwrapping a gift.

Cristoph wasn’t far behind, striding into the room with an air of impatience that dissipated once he joined them on the bed. It didn’t take long for the evening’s plan to unfold. He allowed them to arrange him as they wanted, pliant in their arms, amenable to their requests, a little shivery when his bare skin touched silken sheets.

The finger breached him, and Omicron knew for certain now that his symptom relievers were wearing off. Fevers made him sensitive; even that small intrusion was seismic, yanking a whimper from him before he could stop it.

Cristoph paused. “Is this okay?”

They checked on him often, and while the vigilance was reassuring, Omicron had to repress his reflexive annoyance. He wasn’t a particularly amorous person, but he was very competent in bed. He approached it with the same gravity as he would with any other aspect of his job, and it irked him that he wasn’t capable of his best performance tonight. As a result, they were treating him with the delicacy of spun sugar glass. 

This is what I get for roleplaying a persona with virgin energy, Omicron sourly deduced. Not to mention I look like a stiff breeze could knock me over. Stupid, debilitating, super virus from hell.

Nicolas nodded where he lay belly down with his head resting on Josaline’s pillowy chest, snuffling as quietly as he could. “Y-Yeah, just surprised mbe. Didn’t hurt.”

It took a moment for the man to continue, long enough that Omicron nearly reached back there to help him along. His erection from dinner had yet to fade, as constant as the itch in his nose. Between Cristoph’s glacial-pace prepping, Josaline’s occasional arching pressure against his crotch, and his intermittent, uncontrollable sneezing, it was no wonder. Speaking of which..

He dragged in a gurgling sniffle, one that vibrated enticingly against pleading nerves, and his eyelids fluttered closed. As best he could, he used his elbows for leverage and whipped his head to one side. “..H!heh..h’DZSSHuh!” 

By Josaline’s mandate, Nicolas wasn’t allowed anything for his nose — no tissues, no handkerchiefs, no hands. When he’d stammered out the question of what he was supposed to do if he needed one of those things, she’d bestowed on him a smile worthy of an heiress and said she was confident he’d ‘figure it out.’ What he figured out was that she was goading him into sneezing on her and that he was far too embarrassed to do so. He kept his head turned away as his breath jagged again.

“..iyeh-.. iih’KIHSSH’u!” 

Rather than punish him with a single, prodigious sneeze, the tickle strung him along with several smaller ones. It reminded him of a disgruntled customer ringing a reception desk bell deep in his nose; they waited just long enough to give the illusion that they’d given up before.. DING! 

He felt its call keenly, a request for service that he was helpless to deny. Omicron aimed for the blankets - “het’TEHZSHiew!!-mmgg..” - and trembled in the tingling aftermath. 

In lieu of a blessing, Josaline caressed Omicron’s flushed cheek. Each time he sneezed his muscles clenched, and it wasn’t doing Cristoph any favors as he worked on loosening Nicolas up for a second finger. It was an absolute miracle the two of them found this arousing because Omicron felt like a limp rag for all that he was contributing to the process. He should probably make an effort here.

Snuffling up the aftermath of his last sneeze, he shifted his knees to push against Cristoph’s intrusion. The man’s hands were thick, wide-knuckled, and long. Perfect for fingering, even if he was being incredibly slow about it. At the risk of slipping his cover, Omicron cast aside the shrinking violet act to insist, “I can take adother.”

“Oh, can you?” mused Crisoph. He pumped his finger in and out, inch by agonizing inch. “Care to ask nicely?”

So, he was being slow on purpose. And now he wanted the magic word? It was a testament to Omicron’s exemplary professionalism that Nicolas was able to muster a polite reply. “.. Mbay I have adother? Please?”

After a hum of approval, another slippery finger entered him — a split-second icy burn that heated into gut-clenching delight. A stuffy sigh fell from his lips, gusting across Josaline’s chest as she stroked her thumb up the bridge of his nose. Her voice was liquid gold when she purred in his ear. 

“What a good boy.”

Pressed prone against her thighs, his dick twitched. Hard. Fuck. 

She grinned and dipped to kiss him, soft and sweet, teasing out congested sighs that she muffled with her tongue. He lost himself to her, and soon two fingers became three. He snuffled clumsily when he felt the stretch, panting against her lips as he rolled his pelvis for friction. Then Cristoph crooked them to graze the spot that struck sparks behind Omicron’s eyelids. He moaned into Josaline’s mouth. “MMBgghh-!” 

“There we go,” Cristoph growled behind him. He arranged his fingers and presssssssed. “How does that feel, beautiful?”

Hopefully the fact Omicron couldn’t formulate a reply spoke for itself. All he could do was whimper and squirm against Josaline, kiss her senseless, and chase his pleasure with every rock of his hips. Momentum mounted, heat accumulated, his thoughts quieted to nothing but more, more, more. 

And deep in his nose, the bell rang. 

Omicron snapped his eyes open just in time to close them again. It overwhelmed him instantly — a singular, ticklish sweep down the length of his nasal cavity. Nostrils widening, jaw dropping, he only had time to rip away from her lips and jerk his chin down. 

“-eh’GZISSSHoo!”

It was just the one, but that was plenty.

Warm aerosol misted her bare chest. Cristoph’s fingers pulled away. Josaline gasped. Any pleasure he felt from the act shriveled when panic seized him. Before he could gather himself for a profuse apology, she had him by the hair. Kissed the shame from his lips. Fetched a tissue from a box waiting on the nightstand. She wiped his nose for him, then commanded him to blow. He didn’t dare defy her. 

After that he found himself face first in the valley of her long, smooth legs. Josaline snaked a hand down her waist to unhook the side of her thong and peel it away. Her vulva, like the rest of her, was groomed with exacting precision. The dark curls were trimmed to frame her glistening lips, swollen and open to him like a flower. She didn’t need to explain what she wanted. 

Obediently he lowered his head, guided by her hand, and glanced up at her through his lashes when he nibbled the inside of her thigh. Parting his lips helped with his lingering congestion, and he knew from experience the delectable sensation of hot breath gusting across wet skin. Josaline may not have minded (enjoyed..) him sneezing carelessly on her boobs, but he’d rather give her some top quality oral. He had it on good authority that his technique was solid, coveted even, among those he’d pleasured. Thus it was with confidence that Omicron resolved to blow her mind, his cold be damned.

Until he nuzzled into her curls and was slapped across the face with a familiar scent. Josaline saw him hesitate, and he watched in real time as her vulva undulated with anticipation.

“I’m surprised you can smell it,” she murmured, setting her heels against the mattress and arching just enough to skim the tip of his nose with her burning seam. Her words were a wanton sigh. “My gift for you.”

It surprised him too. This was a testament to the power of her perfume that it could penetrate days’ worth of swelling and congestion. Even at this proximity, his eyes began to water. The tickle stretched like a lazy cat twitching its tail, on the verge of getting restless. His nostrils pulsed in unhappy reply. There was absolutely no way he’d manage this with any degree of finesse. 

Josaline had to know that, and she confirmed it when she told him, “Sneeze as much as your nose desires. As many times as you want, as hard as you want, but do not forget what you’re down there to do.”

The way she tightened her fingers in his hair told him he wouldn’t be lifting his head until she finished. Her vulva flexed again, inviting him in. Omicron allowed himself two steadying breaths before sealing his fate. He ducked down to her swollen folds and skimmed the tip of his tongue up her seam. The way she moaned, low and guttural as her head fell back against the pillows, was promising. He got to work.

Oral was a delicate process, but Omicron let experience lead him. Lick with the flat of his tongue; delve into the core of her for a taste; circle her clit with the tip before tracing the lines of her lips. When her folds fluttered around him, expectant and needy, he doubled down on the techniques she liked. He breathed only through his mouth, kept his nose away from her short hair, and did his best to ignore the way his nostrils flared with increasing frequency. Occasionally the tickle fidgeted, disturbed in slumber, and he sipped in a little gasp. Willpower alone helped him sigh down from the tempting high, each time letting his breath pass over her wet folds to hear her mewl. 

She was gripping him hard now, fingers kneading, thighs shaking, breathing heavy. Omicron smirked against her, tongue in her hole, the bridge of his nose barely grazing the edge of her clit, licking against her soft, pulsating walls with the intention of dragging this out until she made him pay for it. That is, until he felt something hot and slick press up against his ass.

In his concentration, he’d missed a couple telling sounds: the rip of a wrapper, followed by the elastic squeak of a lubed condom. Cristoph apparently wouldn’t be sitting idly by while Josaline had all the fun. Omicron had no issue with this, but what he did mind was the ramifications of the surprise.

At the feeling of a cock against his crack, Omicron gasped. With his tongue deep in Josaline, he did this instinctively through his nose and dragged a billowing cloud of perfume into his sinuses. The tickle woke from its fitful sleep and, as expected, flew into an irrational rage. It was a brutal itch, assaulting his tortured membranes with a storm of demanding, sparking sensation. 

Omicron couldn’t get a breath in, let alone jerk away from Josaline, before the first sneeze tripped out of him. “-PBBTHHhsht!!”

It was the least sexy noise he’d ever made, delivered messily into Josaline’s gleaming folds, but nevertheless she arched into his face with a high, breathy whine. Omicron sniffled reflexively and got a noseful of curls and that infernal, floral scent. His eyes rolled back as he hitched, his head ratcheting by increments and nostrils spasming with distress. The tickle hadn’t diminished at all; it remained an unrelenting, dominating force in his nose down to the deepest reaches.

“-MMBSSshh!” He muffled it into her vulva, feeling the way it contracted in reply, hearing how she cried out, and it was fortunate she liked this because he couldn’t do much more than hold onto her thighs and, “-MPHzssh!.. hk-MPHSshh!!”

Josaline’s hips left the bed, her hands forcing his face more secure to her. She was thrusting in earnest now, so Omicron did his best to slip his tongue inside her and meet her rhythm. Each time they pressed together, he angled himself so that his nose would rub against her engorged clit. Each time he eased back, his ass nudged more firmly against Crisoph’s firm cock. Pleasure skittered through him from both ends, sensations warring for control.

On top of all that, the tickle reigned terror. It led an army of irritation through his nasal passages, running roughshod over his worn membranes while they quaked with stimulation. His nose didn’t know what to do with this other than sneeze. The cloying perfume was all he could smell, overpowering even the scent of Josaline’s pleasure.

“-nggshh!.. hh-HGZssh!!huh-hhGXSssh!” 

There was a stuttering anguish to them in the wake of his body’s confusion. Why isn’t this working? his nose cried out. Please, it tickles so much. Makes us have to-

“-ihgGXZSSHT!!”

It was the closest to a stifle he’d ever come, and it scraped out of him with such misery that he decided he couldn’t do that again. Nor could he muscle through another second of this fragrance. Omicron leaned back with a weak huHH! and tried to aim where Josaline needed him most- 

“-hH’EHDSSH!.. h-HA’JZSSHEE!” Oh that was better- “hhHHH’CHZZSSSHHOOO! Fhhuck-!”

The physical recoil of that last sneeze popped Cristoph past his rim. Jeeeeeezus, he was thick. Omicron hadn’t caught sight of his penis, but he could feel the girth as it pushed into him, slick with lube. His toes curled with the stretch. 

“Mmmmm, god you’re tight,” Cristoph groaned, holding onto Omicron’s hips and shaking with the strain of staying still as the smaller man adjusted. “And so damn hot..” 

It was difficult to know if he meant aesthetically, or physiologically. Omicron could feel his fever thrumming through every molecule, heightening sensations, fogging his head, beading sweat along his hairline even as he shivered from intermittent chills. Lost in the feeling of being filled, he almost forgot about Josaline. She was kind enough to remind him by yanking him back down flush with her quivering hole. Given the rough handling, they’d probably realized he was more experienced than he let on. He grinned as he shoved his tongue in, lapping up her juices and moving up to lavish her abandoned clitoris with long, flat licks.

His nose, not to be outdone by either of his partners, reminded him of the scent he’d spent the last few minutes sucking into his sinuses. Breathing through his mouth did him no favors now that the damage was done. He got a second’s notice of buildup before the tickle waged war. 

“-eh’KSSH!.. hK’IISShh!” They toppled over one another in their hurry to escape his convulsing nostrils, his trembling lips, his shuddering chest. “-eHTSSH!-h’IKSH-.. kshh!- h..HIHkshh-! HEH.. KZZSHHOO!”

He’d never sneezed like this in his life. His nose was frantic with them, and not a single one relieved an iota of irritation. Tears broke their water-lines and painted his cheeks. His nose dripped freely. Each sneeze made him clench around Cristoph, who groaned in reply, and he showered Josaline’s spasming, wet core with a regularity she audibly appreciated. She wouldn’t let go of his hair, keeping him where she wanted him.

“-H’KSsh!-eh’SH!-.. hohhbygoh’DZZSH!-hahh..” This wasn’t going to stop until she came, so- “CHZsh- ehCSH!..h-HH’GZsh!!” -he needed to hurry up and- “TZSsshoo!- fugk-” -do something about it.

Omicron buried himself into her, tongue flicking like mad against her clit, swirling and wiggling and licking as fast as he could manage as her moans hitched to higher and higher pitches. Sneezing with his tongue occupied seemed hazardous, but when the first “eHPTTHHeh!” burst from him with no issue, he let the rest come as they pleased. One, two, four, eight, compounding on themselves so that when the ninth lagged behind with a shivery gasp, Omicron dove to suck her clit between his lips.

Josaline bent over him with a shout, nails scratching his scalp as she was struck with powerful, rhythmic contractions. Omicron polished her off with one last lick, loathe that he couldn’t tongue her through the aftershocks, but-

“-HAHZZSSHHOOO!!” 

His nose was pretty angry with him. He panted into the aftermath before roaring another huge, ab-clenching sneeze between her legs. “HEEHHSSSHHOO!.. ugh, huhh..ht!DZZSHHHYOO!”

They exploded from him with such force that he squeezed Cristoph mercilessly. The man leaned over, his huffing chest to Omicron’s heaving back, and reached a hand around to Omicron’s neglected cock. It was so hard it ached, beading precum every time he sneezed. He gasped to the brink of one, and then lost it to a whine when Cristoph’s thumb circled over the tip. Fuck fuck fuck-

“I’b godda-” he choked out, hoarse and out of breath. Cristoph seated himself to the hilt, deep. The tickle writhed in him, deeper. Omicron gasped out a hitchy, “Ghhodda c.. cumb-! uhh-h-HHT-”

“Not yet,” Cristoph grunted, and looped his finger and thumb just beneath Omicron’s cockhead. Then squeezed.

Omicron knew about this type of edging, but had never been on the receiving end. The towering wave of his orgasm hung over him.. and then receded. As did the hovering threat of his sneeze. Both sensations spiraled into nothing, the most unsatisfying thing he’d ever felt, and Omicron shocked himself when he pounded a fist against the bed.

To be fair, they talked about this technique at dinner and declared it fair game for the evening. Foolishly, Omicron didn’t think he’d mind it in bed. It was an unexpected discovery for him to realize he did.

He whipped a glare over his shoulder, and his face — the freshly falling tears, the fever flush, the uninhibited mess leaking from his nose, his furious scowl — did something to Cristoph. He tensed and fell unexpectedly into his orgasm, so unprepared he yelped. Omicron could feel the man’s dick twitching in his hole, but because he was pissed off, he did absolutely nothing to help it along. Just wiped his face on the blankets until Cristoph went boneless on top of him. 

On a better day Omicron would have shouldered the weight no problem, but pleasure and fever made him weak. He floundered, his dick still hard and trapped uncomfortably beneath him, before mustering a stuffy sound of protest.

Cristoph pulled out with a shudder and moments later there were hands on him, scooping him up, cradling him, and Omicron refused to look at anything other than the bedspread. He was angry about the denial, embarrassed by his anger, exhausted and feeling frustratingly fragile as new tears bubbled at the corner of his eyes.

“God, you’re cute when you pout,” Cristoph groaned, burying his face into Omicron’s neck to suck apologetic kisses into his skin. “I’m sorry, love. Had to be done. Wanna see your face when you cum.”

“Let us spoil you rotten,” Josaline crooned, recovered from her orgasm and swooping down to smooth sweaty hair away from his forehead. “After all, you’ve been such a good boy.”

His dick twitched and Omicron bit his lip on a whine. He wanted relief, he needed it, but when he tried to grab himself he was stopped by Josaline’s wrangling hands. The words burst out of him, “Fuck, please, I- I- ndeed to-”

“Shhhhh,” she soothed, kissing the pleas into silence as Cristoph’s big, firm hand came around to grip Omicron at the base. He arched, whimpering, and she ran her tongue along his lips before leaning back. “Listen to me, Nick.”

He laid against Cristoph’s chest, dazed, blinking through sticky eyelashes as the man warmed a handful of lube and applied it to Omicron’s straining erection. Omicron hissed, bucking into the slide, trying in vain to get himself off when he had so little energy. He shook with the effort until he was hushed by his bed partners. They rearranged themselves to settle a shivering Omicron against the soft mountain of pillows at the head of the bed, the other two by his side. Josaline drenched her hands in lube as well, speaking as she warmed it up.

“Relax,” she told him. “Close your eyes.” He complied. “Focus on what you feel.”

First it was just Cristoph’s hand lazily stroking his dick, too slow and light to get him anywhere. Then it was Josaline spreading his legs to sit between them, gliding her touch along his knee, his thigh, until she moved to his empty hole. One finger slipped in, joined by another, and she beckoned his prostate with gentle rubs. He gasped through his nose and mouth, dragging just enough air through his congestion that it kindled the tickle.

After that aborted sneeze, it had sulked in his sinuses for a while. Always present, but for a time immaterial. Just a reminder of something stuck and waiting. His breath emboldened it. 

Omicron’s nostrils twitched, alert to the urges that dwelled within, and Josaline must have seen it because her next words were, “Oh? Got a tickle?”

Always, he thought, but nodded nonetheless. Another tremor from the tickle, and a reflexive twinge of his nose. Someone would probably stop him if he used his hands to rub it, so he turned his head to chafe the ailing appendage against Cristoph’s shoulder. The man denied his orgasm so he deserved it; judging from his hum, however, he didn’t mind.

“I know it’s itchy, sweetheart, but let it come,” Josaline tutted. When he lifted his head he felt the pad of her thumb brush the raw skin of his septum. Her other hand never paused, petting a steady rhythm that she matched to Cristoph’s measured strokes. “Deep breath now..”

Omicron tried to obey, but the effort just made him cough. His membranes were so swollen they throbbed, and the tickle twisted against them with intensifying tenacity. He hiccuped a gasp, sighed it out on a moan, and fidgeted when his other urges escalated as well. Josaline and Cristoph picked up the pace and pressure in harmony.

“What a cold you’ve caught, you poor thing,” whispered Josaline in a honey-soaked voice, “You’re so congested. I bet that sneeze would like some help. It’s gotten stuck so deep in your nose, and there’s not much it can do, is there?”

No, and there wasn’t much Omicron could do either — except ride the electrifying waves of sensation circuiting through his penis, prostate, and sinuses. He was at the mercy of all three of them.

“Do you feel it inside you? Locked away somewhere and struggling. Probably searching for an escape.”

Her suggestions entered him, crawling and prickling as they went. He could see it, this imaginary force that fanned out into feathery tendrils to search the depths of his nose. First it was heedless of the way it lit up his neurons with need. It wasn’t long before it realized its power however, and the irritation was no longer incidental. It was intentional. 

“Yes, that’s right. It will do what it does best and stimulate those susceptible nerves of yours. They must be terribly sensitive. To have something squirming against them at this juncture, I’m sure it’s torture.”

Oh, it was. Hellbent on whipping his nose into hysteria, the tickle was relentless and targeted. The sinuous threads continued to spool, probing his membranes, brushing down his nerve pathways, slowly invading him. Nothing was safe, not his sinuses, not the shores of his nostrils, not anything in between. Omicron turned his head one way and then the other as if he could evade the tickle’s probing touch. The hands around him and inside him responded by shifting up another gear.

“Soon it won’t matter how stuffy you are. This tickle will taunt and tease you, caress those sensitive places only it can reach, entice you and remind you that it will feel oh so wonderful to sneeze until you’re desperate for it.”

Please, he pleaded with himself as he snorted and coughed. Please please sneeze. He could feel each individual tendril dragging against his walls, the stirrings of them deep inside him as they coalesced into an urge looming over him alongside his impending orgasm. He gasped, sighed, gasped again-!, groaned. Arched against the cool, sweat-sheened chest behind him. Dug his heels into the mattress. His head was spinning, nose twitching, on the edge of something enormous.

“Once it starts, you cannot resist. The way you hitch and moan. The way your nostrils pulse with uncertainty and your expression pinches with desire. You ache for it. Crave it. This elusive release.”

Again, the pulsating trio of stimuli doubled speed. The hand on his dick jerked him fast and sloppy. The fingers inside him bore down and swirled. The ticklish threads writhed in his nose, creating waves of irresistible feeling. Soft, yearning hitches became heaving gasps he couldn’t let go of. He felt the scales tip, the first toppling domino, a pleasurable chain reaction with an unavoidable end.

“Your body can only take so much, and I can see you’re at your limit.”

Omicron could only assume he looked wrecked, fucked out, fever-flushed, and splotched with fluids. He strained into their touches and into the unstoppable tickle as they sent him hurtling headfirst into release. It couldn’t come fast enough. Lungs inflated to the brim, throat blocked by waiting air, he couldn’t even beg. Couldn’t think of the words to do so. Could only tremble on the brink with a tiny, broken whimper.

It’s coming, it’s coming I’m-

And then - “Go ahead, my darling. Let it all out.”

His orgasm struck like lightning, followed by thunderous ecstasy. In a singular moment, tension snapped and broke over him in a deluge of powerful, convulsing delight. Omicron couldn’t make a noise, lungs still locked up with an impending sneeze that his body, even in the flood of endorphins, hadn’t forgotten. He was barely through the first spasm of his orgasm when-

“BZZSSHHh-hHUH, ahHH!!” 

It wasn’t the strongest sneeze of the night by far, but it sent a mind-blowing ricochet of pleasure through the core of him. With momentary control of his throat, he managed a short shout before his breath was whisked away on another gasp. His orgasm hovered on pause, building tension and expectation as his body struggled with executive commands. Stymied, it decided to do everything at once.

“H’BBZZSSSHHhuUHHHohgod!!” 

Omicron folded over himself as he ejaculated a second time, and shuddered with another devastating orgasmic rush. His abs clenched, his thighs trembled, he kept one hand on the bedspread to prop himself up as he groaned through seismic waves of sensation. Usually the pleasure centralized to his groin but now it was his entire body, every single inch of him tingling with residual energy.

When he felt his lungs stutter, his nostrils flutter, the come-hither squirm of something in his nose, his eyes widened before rolling closed. His dick twitched, weak but willing. He was helpless against the tickle, didn’t want to fight it, wanted it to tease his nose to insanity so he could sneeze and sneeze and sneeze and sneeze, but the rational side of him knew his head was spinning and his skin was prickling and-

A fittish hitch for every eager moan. “-hh!uh.. hHH!uhh..” 

Omicron’s mind spun, a touch of panic even as he fidgeted with anticipation. I’m so wrung out, I might-

Pressure building. Exhausted, but unsatisfied. “-HHH!uhh!..hHHH!-UH-” 

I might actually black out.

Regardless of the risks, when he felt the surge of sensation finally reach his nostrils flung wide and ready, Omicron smiled into the release. “HH!!- HP’BBBZZSSSHH-!!”

The sneeze reverberated through him like a gong, down to his very atoms. Pleasure overloaded his veins, too much for his body, and he sank down dizzily while he shook through the clenching aftershocks. He had nothing left, but his dick spasmed anyway, leaking what was left of his load onto the sheets. Faintly, he realized he’d never had an orgasm so intense. Probably would never have one quite like it again. It was this thought that made him savor the trembling bolts of brightness that coursed through him as he drifted.

His vision fuzzed at the edges. His heartbeat pounded in his head. I was right, he thought as he watched dark spots overtake his blurry view of the room. Gonna pass out. 

As he faded, he felt soft hands cradle his cheeks and heard a satin voice tell him, “Good boy.”

+ 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 +

Awareness came back in pieces. 

First, tactile sensation — a damp cloth wiping sweat, mucus, and cum off his skin; gentle fingers massaging sore muscles, raking through his hair; clean, dry blankets wrapping him up. 

Next, sound — quiet banter; hushed bustling around the room; a door opening and closing, the comforting drone of a television set to low volume.

Finally, Omicron cracked open his eyes. Turned out to be a terrible idea, as the rest of his body came online to remind him of what he’d just done. His head pounded, there was an awful taste in his mouth, and his rear end stung when he shifted his weight the wrong way. Not the worst he’d ever felt, but coupled with the immovable sinus pressure and overall fever-malaise, Omicron would have preferred more sleep to being conscious.

You shouldn’t have been asleep in the first place, came the conditioned response that he ignored. While it wasn’t exactly advisable to fall unconscious in enemy territory at the hands of international cyber criminals, after the intimacy they’d shared Omicron doubted they tried any funny business while he was out. He didn’t have the strength to berate himself for it.

With much effort, he sat up to an empty room bathed in low lamplight. All the traces of guests were gone, save for a few items on the bedside table: two unopened bottles of water, a fresh-bought bottle of NyQuil, a stack of clean handkerchiefs, and a note written in a looping scrawl. He picked it up and squinted at it.

To our dear Nicolas-

Very sorry we couldn’t stay. Thought it was safest for us to dash.

The room is yours for the week, paid in advance. Get rest and feel better soon.

It’s best if we don’t meet again, but we will miss you terribly.

Hopefully Cris and I will catch your cold to remember you by 😘

Kisses-

J & C

Omicron slumped there for a second, zoning out on the lettering with static on the brain. It was over. He completed the mission. Relief didn’t come because he had no idea how successful he was, wouldn’t know until he hiked back to his hotel room. Aside from feeling like shit, he couldn’t come up with an excuse to delay it.

And so after guzzling down an entire bottle of water, off he went.

If the scramble to Josaline and Cristoph’s room was a blur, the hobble back to his own was a blackout. Omicron couldn’t remember much from the trip, aside from glaring at a graveyard shift housekeeper who clocked his walk of shame. Yes, he was barefoot in a bathrobe, smelling of sex, carrying his wrinkled belongings under one arm. He’d also just been vigorously railed up the ass and had lost half his weight in cum, snot, and tears. Excuse him if he wasn’t in the mood to make pretenses.

When he reached the door, Omicron realized he didn’t have his key card. With a sigh, he let his sweaty forehead thunk against the door — after which he almost became painfully acquainted with the carpet when it swung open a second later. A firm body spared him that fate.

“Omicron!” Strong hands steadied him by the shoulders. He raised his head to find Delta, very awake despite the hour and scanning his subordinate like he expected an injury. “Oh, thank goodness. It’s been hours.”

Omicron squinted, partially because he was so exhausted his eyes were blurring but mostly because he was confused. Of course it had been hours. Then a terrible thought struck him. “W-Was thad ndot edough time?”

His voice was a raspy, gunked facsimile of itself. Delta started shaking his head before Omicron even finished speaking. “No, no, it was more than enough! Don't worry, the hack was a complete success. The crypto team is very pleased, as am I, you knocked it out of the park. I suspect you'll receive a commendation from headq- oop!”

For the second time on this mission, Delta caught Omicron before he could swoon to the ground. The knowledge of a job well done thrummed through his veins. He felt like Atlas letting the world roll off his shoulders; his knees were weak from the strain of carrying it. With one arm anchored around his waist, Delta lifted the other to test Omicron's forehead against his palm. He hissed at the heat he found there. 

“Oh, Omicron,” he muttered, exasperated, and glanced over his shoulder. “He's burning up.”

“Probably overexerted himself,” came Anita's voice, clearer as she got closer. Another hand, colder than the first, cupped the nape of his neck. Omicron couldn’t fight off his reflexive shiver. “Mm. Well, we still have some acetaminophen he can take.“

I'm standing right here, he thought, miffed but unable to marshal an objection. He let them bicker about what to do with him, limp in Delta’s arms, until his stuffy breaths grew shaky. For fuck’s sake, after everything, still?? Omicron groaned against Delta’s chest, eyes pinching and nostrils bucking in preparation for what was assuredly coming. 

Conversation abruptly stopped, and Delta stiffened. “Omicron? What's wrong?”

“heh-..eh’TZSSsh!” His head bobbed and Delta tightened his hold while Omicron blinked in the limbo of another. It came gently, a feathery wind through his tired nose, and he took his gasp in sips. “h-h-hH’TDZSsh!”

‘I'm in charge here,’ he told his cold mere days ago. To imagine he began this journey with such hubris. He was defenseless, drained, devoid of the will to fight the way it twisted his expression. Lassoed his breath. Made his nostrils flutter, his balance suffer, and yet-

“DZZSSh’uu-!”

-they delivered him a visceral satisfaction he couldn’t begrudge. Someone pressed a bushel of tissues into his hands. Logically he knew he should use them, but the tickle kept him immobile. All he could do was lean against Delta, helpless to the thrall, breathing into it greedily with a feeble hope it would give him something strong enough to feel satisfied. 

“..idzh.. h-HH!” It stalled out in his sinuses, and his expression froze in wait. Then-.. it rocked him forward. “..ZZSSH’uu!.. h’EH-” Stuck again. Omicron wavered there as the tickle smoldered, jogging his head back by tiny degrees. Oh, it felt big, then bigger and bigger as his nose wrestled with it. The back of his head bumped Delta’s shoulder before the tickle finally pushed him over the edge. He doubled over, anchored by the arm around his waist. “EEHCHZZSSSHHhhhhaa..”

A momentous sneeze petered out on a fulfilled sigh that dissolved into a muffled cough. He sagged, and Delta’s grip tightened again. As the world came back to him, he realized he’d sneezed freely, possibly catching somebody in the crossfire, but he just didn’t care. He belatedly lifted the tissues to his nose and cringed when they grated like sandpaper. The skin was so tender he dare not do more than blot it.

“Are you injured?” demanded Delta. Omicron shook his head against the man’s chest. No, no injuries. Nothing beyond what’s expected from vigorous sex. Delta asked next, “Do you want a shower?”

That was the politest possible way of saying, You look and smell like an utter wreck and it sucker-punched the tattered remains of his ego. Omicron shook his head again, partly because doing anything aside from laying down might make him cry, but mostly because he couldn’t stomach the idea of needing help from either of them in the bathroom.

Delta hitched Omicron more securely to his side, a decision made. “Alright. Bed, then.”

No, wheedled his sense of duty. I haven’t given my report yet. Omicron could barely keep his eyes open. He mumbled, “But, the debrief..”

“Can wait,” his superior finished. There was a rare sternness to his voice and it brokered no argument. “You need rest. That’s an order.”

Well, the boss meant business if he was throwing around orders. They washed over Omicron with a comforting finality — he didn’t have to worry about anything anymore. Delta would handle it. Responsibility evaporated and it was sweeter than anything he’d felt that evening. Heat welled up behind his eyes, a lump in his throat, and Omicron turned his face into his superior’s shirt.

It was so rare he could drop all his walls and lay himself bare, not on a bed but in life. Trust wasn’t a word in his dictionary, but tonight he wanted to know it. He sought solace in the steady thump of Delta’s heartbeat under his ear. Emotion loosened his congestion, forcing him to repeatedly sniffle as he tucked the sleeve of his bathrobe under his sore nostrils.

“Okay,” he whispered, and surrendered. 

The walk to the bed was slow, shivery, and stumbling, but Delta threw back the covers and lowered him to the mattress. Once Omicron was supine he brought the blankets back up and took care to tuck them in. He’d make a good dad, his fever mused as he watched Delta fetch a fresh box of unscented, lotion-infused tissues for him. He ripped out a dozen to hand over and Omicron gathered them to his nose for a strengthless blow. It didn’t do much for his congestion, but got his nose dry enough that he wasn’t constantly sniffling.

The vibration of his sinuses chased out a sneeze, one that came over him like a misty cloud — foggy, permeating, gentle. His eyes weighted gradually as the tickle filled him up, and he huffed little hitches as it mounted. Someone (Delta) exchanged his used tissues for clean ones. He brought them up to his nose just in time to catch it.

“-heh..TSSsh!” 

He blinked as the cool, tingling conclusion hazed into another declaration. As if it knew how tired he was, the tickle barely tried. It reminded him of the way someone might pet a small animal, with just one finger and very little pressure. Delicately, carefully, like you were scared of hurting it. The tickle was a repetitive, soothing stroke against his frayed nerves. What once wouldn’t have been enough was now plenty, and Omicron relaxed back against the pillows while he let it come. 

“hh!ih.. h.. h…mmbb..” A soft sniffle, a softer sigh, and oh- “.. ih’TZSssh!..” His eyes fluttered open, eyes tilted skyward under heavy lids. His nostrils flared methodically, hypnotized, and his lungs gathered breath with an unhurried hhhhhhh.. before he jolted into his pile of tissues. “TZSSshoo!.. huh..”

His nose tingled pleasantly, and while it would be temporary, Omicron let himself float.

“.. Bless you.”

Delta stood there with a hand on his hip, scrubbing the other back and forth through his cropped hair. There was a look on his face that Omicron couldn’t parse — knitted brows, lips pressed in a line, thoughts racing behind his eyes too quick for Omicron to guess at them. Anita walked up behind Delta’s shoulder, studied him for a moment, and then pinched her nose with a long, silent sigh. Omicron caught her smiling, a tiny, amused slant to her lips, before she stepped up alongside their team leader to give him a hearty slap to the back. 

“I’ve got him, sir,” she said with a grin. He turned to look at her, then back at Omicron, then Anita again. His feet stayed rooted to the spot until she arched a brow. Then scratched his head one last time.

“Alright,” he conceded, though he sounded unhappy. He bent down to Omicron, cupping his subordinate’s shoulder through the blankets, and gave him a genuine smile. “You did a stupendous job, Agent Omicron. Leave the rest to me. All you need to do now is sleep. Do you understand?”

Omicron nodded. The praise of a job well done, so sincerely and deliberately conveyed, sprung instant tears to his eyes. They gathered faster than he could wipe them away. Thankfully Delta didn’t see, already moving for the door with an authority he seldom exuded. 

“I’ll radio ops to update them. Call me immediately if anything changes.” 

It shut behind him, and Anita plopped herself down on Omicron’s bedside. Her smile was warm, not a trace of good-natured mockery, as she reached out to thumb a tear away from the corner of his eye. This wasn’t the first time she’d watched him come apart after a mission, or found him docile because he didn’t feel good. This also wasn’t the first time she’d seen him cry. Because of this, she knew how to handle him when he got this way.

Quiet voice. Yes or no questions. No unnecessary attention drawn to his demeanor. Simple instructions when she wanted something from him, and positive feedback when he accomplished it. She gave him medication, water, and ignored his weak complaints when she insisted on a quick physical examination to ensure the night went as safely as he insisted it did.

And when there was nothing left to do, as Anita stood to give him space, Omicron reached around to hook a hand at the hem of her shirt. She paused. He heard the huff of fondness and felt the bed dip when she sat down again. He closed his eyes when her hand smoothed up the plane of his back through the sheets.

“Until you fall asleep?” she asked. He nodded into the pillows, and sighed when she moved her hand back down his spine. Up again. And down. Steady and reassuring, a sedative that reached for him and escorted him toward slumber. 

But because this was Anita, and because she was the way she was, she couldn’t help but mutter around a smirk, “Why can’t you be this cute all the time, O?”

He grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at her. This time, it didn’t miss.

/tbc!

Omicron: (has mind blowing sex while sneezing his brains out) Omicron: Omicron: this better not awaken anything in me.

There will be a short epilogue to wrap up the story! Thank you for sticking with me this far! 🧡

It took longer than planned to pry himself away from Josaline. She was content to lounge for as long as he’d let her, asking him idle questions and tracing shapes on his chest with the tips of her fingers. All the while, she watched his nose. To Omicron it seemed like she was reluctant to miss even a second of his nasal misery, and she was treated to a fair amount of sniffling, sneezing, and nose blowing while they talked. When he finally managed to extricate himself, he surmised his nose was as red as the sunset. The light painted brilliant streaks over the coastline and reduced distant seagulls to silhouettes as they flew over sparkling water. 

And somehow, looking too long at the birds flapping their wings meant he had to sneeze. Bitterly, Omicron tucked a finger beneath his nostrils. They began to flare, anxious as the tickle took flight somewhere in his sinuses. Indulging this in his hotel room was better than the hallway, so Omicron picked up his pace. He could feel the sensation worsen, his nerves trembling, and soon a whole flock of frantic tickles startled into motion.

“-hhHH-” He flipped his hand up over his nose and increased his power walk to a near sprint.

“-gUH!hhh..HHH-” He skidded to his room door and through tears he scanned the keycard, shoved himself inside-

“HHEH’DZZssch!”

“Oh, here he is. He just got back.”

Omicron eased his eyes open long enough to see Agent Delta with his phone to his ear, frowning at him.

“Bless-”

“-IHCHZSSH’oo!” He flattened a hand to his chest, feeling himself breathe and breathe and- “..hah!-CHIZSSH’uh!.. ngghh..”

Omicron groaned and belatedly nosed into his shirt, at this point a decimated, jumbo-sized rag hanging limply from his hand.

“Bless you.” Delta delivered it firmly, and asked in the same tone, “How are you feeling?”

“Whad?” he asked, muffled at first before he lowered the shirt. “I’b fine.”

The senior agent gave him a doubtful once-over, then spoke to whomever was on the phone. “He says he’s fine.”

Muzzily, Omicron looked down at himself. Then sidelong to the closet door mirror. He stood only in his swim trunks, bare from his hips up with hair made wild by hungry hands and a smattering of burgundy lipstick across his throat. Worst was his nose, just as raw and sore looking as it felt. It twitched as he watched, his nostrils slowly stretching wide. His expression collapsed by degrees, jaw slacking, eyelids fluttering, chin tilting, chest lifting in one long breath.

“hhhhhHHH’ADZSSHiew!!” he sneezed, and threw himself a step forward.

Delta sighed. “Bless you.”

Once again Omicron lifted his shirt late and huffed a frustrated sigh of his own. When the tickle came over him, he couldn’t do more than simply sneeze. His days of diligent etiquette were long behind him now. There was a tap on his shoulder and when he looked up, Delta was standing in front of him with a fresh box of unscented, lotion-infused tissues. Omicron could have cried.

“Thag’k you-” he choked, snatching a handful just before he “-hd’ZZSSCH!-guh..”

He transitioned his groan into a strengthless blow of his nose. Even for how little effort he used, the action was productive — more audibly than he would have preferred. At least the tissues didn’t chafe. It took several rounds, Delta patiently holding the box for him, until Omicron’s sniffling was stuffy but dry. The tickle relaxed as much as it ever did, tracing shapes against his membranes. It reminded him of Josaline. By the time he was finished, Delta had traded the box for the room’s little trash bin. 

“Yes, just a moment..” he said into the phone, then tipped the bin expectantly at Omicron. Meekly, he dropped in all his tissues (as well as his shirt, it was a lost cause) as Delta continued. “Let me speak with him first.”

Omicron tried to cobble together some semblance of professionalism. He straightened his spine and folded his hands into a parade rest to deliver his report. “Sir, there is a new development-”

“Apologies, Omicron, that will have to wait,” Delta bulldozed over him. “Something’s come up.”

A prickle of anxiety raised the hairs at the back of his neck. “… Sir?”

“It concerns your condition,” Delta replied, and his faltering loss of eye contact didn’t reassure Omicron in the slightest. “It’s a.. delicate subject, so I’ll leave this to Dr. Voster.”

Omicron closed his eyes in exasperation. He’d forgotten about her. Shit. Delta passed him the phone, and then very conspicuously occupied himself across the room.

Bracing himself, Omicron lifted the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

“Hi, Agent Omicron,” said Dr. Voster in a tinny voice from the receiver. “You’re a hard man to get a hold of lately.”

“Well, I’ve been a bit busy,” he said, then lifted a fist to his nose. Idle as the tickle was, the incessant, gossamer sensation of it was beginning to bother him. “Forgive me if I don’t have time to shoot the breeze.”

“You think I’d come to you for small talk? I’d have better luck with a brick wall.”

“Noted,” he replied as he glanced around for the tissue box. He found it sitting on his bed. “Are you calling to berate me or is there something you want?”

“If you remember from yesterday,” she insisted with unnecessary attitude, “I’m calling to talk about your nose.”

The tickle twinged, perking up like a dog to a whistling call. The rims of his eyes grew wet. His breath hiccuped. “I’d reahh- hly rather not.”

“Too bad, I’ll cut to the chase: are you getting erections when you sneeze?”

Her words pierced him like arrows, followed by the bleed of heat into his cheeks, ears, and neck. Omicron’s hand froze halfway to his face, tissues hovering. She knows, his mind shrieked. She knows. He whipped his head to Delta, who was faffing pointlessly with his suitcase while pretending to ignore the conversation unfolding across the room. And so does he.

“Your silence is telling,” said Anita.

“No.” His mind was static and his mouth was dry. Words wouldn’t flow. “I’m not.. No.”

The lie was so poorly delivered that it wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Sweat slinked down his nape. Dr. Voster blew a breath over the line, sharp and rueful. “Welp. That one’s on me.”

He darted another glance to Delta and caught the man staring just before they simultaneously turned away. Meanwhile, the tickle followed the path of a twitching nerve with a light, curious touch. Hunching his shoulders and scrunching his face, Omicron mumbled into the receiver. 

“What’s that supposed tuhh.. to mean?”

“Your reaction at the lab was extreme, in relation to the vigor of your sneezing as well as the presence of physiological responses indicating arousal,” she explained, her tone appreciably analytic despite the awkward topic. “Dilated pupils, shortness of breath, difficulty concentrating..”

She suspected it from the beginning? Omicron reeled. It made sense; she was impressively educated and one of the most respected techs at the agency. Her knowledge ranged from biology, physiology, immunology, and beyond. In retrospect, he’d been a fool to think he could ever hide something like this from her. 

“Even so, I couldn’t be sure. It warranted further research and I found something unexpected.”

Omicron pushed a hand through his hair, pressing his thumb into the soft indent of his temple. He’d walked in here with a headache and he could tell this conversation would only make it worse. “Oh?”

“It’s a little known fact that parts of the nose contain the same type of erectile tissue as the genitals, and both are linked to the body’s autonomic nervous system.” 

As she spoke, the tickle feathered a persistent, teasing swirl around a sensitive spot. His inflamed membranes pulsed insistently, as did his chapped nostrils. He tried his damned best to ignore it. “... Pardon?”

“I believe because I gave you a higher dose of viral particles than you needed, the overstimulation of your nasal nerves is causing an echoing effect to the erectile tissue in your penis.”

A dangerous emotion lurched up from Omicron’s stomach and got caught behind his teeth: anger. It warred, then mixed, with his humiliation. Exhaustion eroded his willingness to swallow it back down. 

“This is actually not unheard of. Kinks aside, some people experience this during intercourse, or even from simply thinking about sex, though usually the arousal causes sneezing rather than the other way around..”

Anita blathered on about speculative science, and the bubbling pot of annoyance he’d nursed since the start of this assignment at last began to boil over. Frustration erupted into rage.

“..Still, it’s a variable I completely overlooked. I’m sorry, Omicron.”

“Sorry?” he barked, raising his volume to a throat-scratching degree. “You’re sorry? Are you serious?”

There was a pause over the line. “.. Yes?”

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it.” The ardor in his voice vibrated in his sinuses, heightening the caressing sensations of the tickle, which only angered him more. “Yhh-You told me I wouldn’t b-be comprhhuh-.. hhmised by your stupid experiment!”

“That was before I saw its effects in action. I advised you not to go forward with the mission, remember? I only agreed in front of Delta because you looked so sad. It was foolish on my part. I should’ve grounded you.”

“So that I could suffer for your mbistake??” he demanded. His nostrils shivered and he shoved them with the heel of his palm. Congestion clogged his words. “I’ve waited so long for this mbission, Anita, you kdnow I have!”

“It wasn’t my intention to compromise you, Omicron,” and while she said it with contrition, there was also resignation. “I can’t predict every outcome. It’s just one of those things.”

The pragmatism in her voice only fueled his fire, but before he could assemble his response, the tickle struck. Even in the throes of wrath it wouldn’t leave him be. Its touch seeped through his nose like a spill. His lungs jumped with a single breath, and then Omicron’s head snapped down. 

“DDJZSSsh’oo!”

The sneeze staggered him two steps back and another was fast on the rise. It held him hostage in its grip, but Anita’s curt “bless you” in his ear waylaid the urge. He fulcrumed a finger beneath his nose to buy time. Emotion roared up from his chest and broke out of him in a rambling crash. 

“I get one chandce! One. To prove mbyself and if I fail they’re gonna relegate mbe to archives and filing duties for the rest of mby career!!”

He was peripherally aware of Delta, who’d at some point moved to stand in front of him. There was something in his hand, a gadget Omicron recognized but couldn’t think to name. His vision tunneled, dark at the edges. His heart pounded in his ears. His nose twitched ominously, not to be delayed much longer. 

“I c-.. hhhan’dt lose this case,” he was babbling, quicker and quicker when his nostrils began to flare. The burgeoning sneeze tugged his eyelids shut and stole his breath away. “It’ll- it.. iyeehh…h-HH!hck’KZSShiu!”

Dr. Voster took the opportunity to cut in; she sounded deliberately calm as he sniffled fitfully through a recovery. “Omicron, listen to me, you’re catastrophizing. Slow down for a second and breathe.”

“Ndo, you listen!” His voice cracked and an ugly desperation made itself known. “They’ll really do it, if I’b ndot perfect they’ll write mbe off a’d I’ll end up a cautionary tale, they’ll laugh mbe out of the agency, everythi’g I’ve worked for will be for dnothi’g, I-”

Glowing numbers flashed in front of his eyes. Omicron startled, teetering unevenly on his feet. At first he had no idea what it was, but as his vision steadied the image formed. Delta stood before him, grim, offering the readout screen of an infrared thermometer.

The numbers read 102.4°F / 39.1°C . Omicron squinted at them, uncomprehending.

“... what’s thad?” he rasped.

Delta’s reply was immediate and immutable. “Your fever.”

Omicron blinked. Squinted harder. Read the numbers again even as they started to blur. I have a fever? he asked himself. As his fury ebbed, new sensations emerged: the painful heat radiating from his head, a pervasive chill seeping from his core, the weakness in his knees and the cotton in his ears. He began listing to the side. The phone slipped from his hand.

Oh, he realized. I have a fever.

“Oop!” Delta dashed and caught him before he could swoon to the floor. Together they sank in a controlled descent as the senior agent muttered, “Easy now, easy..” under his breath. Once they were down, Omicron tucked his head into his knees and tried to fend off the headrush.

Indistinct voices floated around him. He could only catch snippets of conversation — “high grade temperature,” and “want you here by morning” — and he gave up on the rest. Instead, he concentrated on the bracing passes of Delta’s broad hand across the span of his sweaty shoulders. It took longer than he liked, but eventually Omicron raised his head with minimal dizziness. He stared into the weave of the carpet.

“Did she hang up?”

“Yes,” Delta said beside him. “She gave me a list of questions to ask you when you’re feeling a bit better.”

Omicron dropped his head back to his knees. “... is she upset?”

“At your outburst?” Delta asked, and his subordinate cringed. “She’s more worried about you than upset, but you wouldn’t be remiss to apologize when she arrives.”

In the aftermath of his tantrum, clarity pricked him like a thorn. This was as much his fault as it was Anita’s. It was true her virus yielded unexpected results, but by concealing them from her, he’d failed in his responsibility as a teammate. She put her trust in him, and he let her down. There were few things more painful for him than owning his mistakes.

Stewing in his shame, he sniffled and said the only thing he could say. “I’b sorry, sir.”

Delta’s smile grew warm at the edges. “I’m not the one you shouted at, but I’ll accept your apology since you lied to me too.”

God, he wished the ground would just swallow him whole. Omicron folded into an even smaller ball, arms tightening around his shins. The position made his nose run, which required frequent snuffling for maintenance, but he’d rather do that than look Delta in the eye.

“I expect honesty from you, agent. Full stop. Not a single lie moving forward, either directly or by omission. Am I understood?”

Omicron could barely force himself above a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

“Not just about the virus,” his superior continued, “but also your wellbeing. You’ve put so much pressure on yourself, Omicron. I had no idea you were under the impression that this assignment would be your only chance to succeed.”

Without anger as a shield, he’d lost his last defense. Delta’s sympathy felt like a punch in the gut. Even worse, his near constant sniffles were going to make him sneeze. He keenly felt each bead of moisture drip down his stressed passages, then skate back up with every subsequent snatch of air. It was unabating, alluring, and it coaxed little sighs from his lip when he exhaled. He didn’t have to wait long.

“..hh’MMPHssh!!Huh..” Omicron muffled it into his knees, his entire body trembling. Then he hurried to respond before he could be blessed. “-but it’s true, righd?”

“Come again?” Delta asked, and when Omicron spoke it again with more volume, he could hear Delta’s brow furrow just from the way he replied, “No, it’s not true at all. Did someone tell you differently?”

With reluctance, Omicron lifted his head and confirmed with a stuffy mumble. “.. Agent Rho did.”

“Rho!” Delta scoffed, as if he could scold the agent from here. His voice lowered to a grumble, and that told Omicron exactly how Delta felt about Rho. “Don’t listen to them. They enjoy scaring less experienced agents.”

(Here Omicron swore a silent, seething vow that he would exact calculated revenge upon Agent Rho for their transgressions against him. Delta continued, oblivious.)

“A reprehensible practice, but between you and I, head office rarely entertains my complaints on the matter.”

Head office… Fuzzy worries came into focus as Omicron muddled through another lazy, slow-to-arrive sneeze. The fog of it clouded his expression as he tried in vain to soldier on.

“Are you goi’g t-.. hih’KIZSsh!” he bobbed his head, then slitted his eyes open only for them to flutter closed again. “..ehKZSSh’uh!... mmbgh..” 

“Bless you,” said Delta, watching Omicron cup a hand over his nose. “Here, use these.”

Delta held out the tissue box, still half-full with soft paper, and Omicron plucked out several. His breath hitched high, voice heady, as he attempted to relay gratitude. 

“Th-hhah.. ah’NKZSSS’hoo!” He crushed it into the tissues, and then flushed with a fresh layer of chagrin when Delta chuckled.

“Bless you, Omicron, you’re welcome.” He waited for the nose blowing to stop before he continued. “You were saying?... ‘Am I going to’ what?”

Oh, right, his question.. With fever, congestion, and the pledge of sneezes crowding his head, holding onto a thought longer than a few seconds felt next to impossible. “Are you going to ground me?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Delta replied. “Considering your condition, I should say yes, but I’d like Dr. Voster’s opinion first. You’re making progress on this case and I’d hate to halt your momentum prematurely.”

That was fair. Uncontrollable boners and a fever on active duty would probably dissuade any overseeing officer from adapting a ‘push through’ mentality. Especially Delta, since the man had the most heavily bleeding heart Omicron had ever known. It would be up to Anita, then; he couldn’t muster the energy to fret about it right now. They sat together while Omicron tended to his fidgety nose, still side by side on the floor, until Delta made a sound of recollection.

“Speaking of the case, didn’t you mention a development? I interrupted you earlier. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

Ahhhh, dammit, Omicron lamented. I forgot about that too.

Even before Anita threw her wrench, he hadn’t been sure how his date tomorrow would go over with Delta. He’d had plans of carefully breaking the news, laying out the variables and working gradually to the big reveal. But now he could barely remember the basic idea, let alone complex and eloquent details. Wracking his boiling brain did nothing but cost him his opportunity; the meandering tickle of his cold stumbled yet again on sensitive territory.

“-Hah…” It lured a dreading sound from his lips as the urge niggled him. Hadn’t he sneezed enough? His count had to be over a hundred by now, and yet his nose wasn’t satisfied. Overworked as they were, his nasal nerves were as ceaseless in their goals as the virus was. “..hiH-.. ngh..”

Omicron cut his losses. Either he ripped the bandaid off or wasted another ten minutes sneezing while his cold tickled him senseless. He took a moment to steady his breathing before saying, “...She has a hus’BEHSsh’oo!”

It startled them both, barreling out of him freely and with an unfortunate lack of cover. Delta flinched away, visibly caught in the crossfire, and Omicron panicked. Both hands jerked up to cover his nose as a whiplash of shame froze him to the bone. 

“Fuck, I’b so siihH-” Oh god, again? His breath wavered at the top of his throat, almost a whimper, and he was so discombobulated from the first one that he couldn’t prepare for the second. “-ih’GXCHHT!”

It ran roughshod, mostly through his nose, and it scraped his sinuses on the way out. Very unpleasant, but fortunately the tickle had to play second fiddle to the stinging aftermath. Omicron hitched down from the high, hands still cemented to his face for modesty and eyelashes sticking with tears as he threw a glance to his superior.

“b’sorry!” he eked out, and he must have looked truly miserable because Delta’s eyes widened.

“It’s alright, it’s alright!” he said earnestly, with a shake of his head and a consoling pat to Omicron’s back. “I’m not upset, I know that was an accident. Don’t worry about it, hm? Here..”

He fished up the tissue box in offering before politely turning away as Omicron cleaned himself up. The mortification nearly crushed him, but still the junior agent reeled with relief. He could trust his superior at his word that he wasn’t upset; it just wasn’t in Delta’s nature to lie, unless it was for his cover. It took nearly the rest of the box before Omicron deemed himself decent, and even then he pinned a preemptive bushel of tissues around his nose in case another sneeze got away from him. Delta was looking at him with such effusive compassion that Omicron delivered his news without preamble, desperate to change the subject.

“I got invited to a threesome with Josaline and her secret husband,” he said from behind his hands.

Agent Delta was gobsmacked. “Wh- Josaline Jewel has a husband?”

Omicron nodded.

“We have no intel to suggest that at all. Are you sure?”

Omicron nodded again.

There was a bewildered pause, then an even more disbelieving, “And you’ve scheduled a threesome with them?”

For a third time Omicron nodded, bleary-eyed over the edge of his tissues. Beneath his hands, his nostrils spasmed around the shape of a sluggish itch. It stalled out somewhere in his sinuses, too present to dismiss but not yet committed to climax. Don’t tease me, he begged with a slow blink. Either hurry up or go away.

“Omicron,” Delta said, a note of wonder in his voice. “I knew you were talented, but this exceeds expectations. Particularly with the knowledge that you did this while contending with unforeseen complications. Well done.”

His heart fluttered weakly at the praise and Omicron squashed any pleased feelings that arose from it. There would be nothing to celebrate if he couldn’t finish the job.

“Th.. hhagk you, sir.”

“When are you meeting them?”

“T-.. Tihh-..” As he spoke the tickle squiggled like a banner caught in a breeze. He rushed the rest on an exhale — “..t-t’mborrow nhhigh..” — heaved in a huge breath, and then- “IDTZSSH’hoo!!”

“Bless, tomorrow night, hm..” Delta rushed the blessing as well, rubbing his chin with a long sigh. “This does complicate things. I doubt we’ll get a chance like this again, but I’m not granting clearance until Dr. Voster takes a look at you-”

“ht-.. HD’JZSS!uuh..”

“-bless you, because that fever of yours concerns me. That side effect wasn’t listed in the literature and it surprised her to hear that you’ve developed one-”

“.. eh-.. eH’TSCHHOO!”

“-bless you. So better safe than sorry. Your health and safety takes priority over any assignment, Omicron, do try and remember tha-.. oh, bless…?”

“.. h-HDT-!”

Omicron waiting on the cusp of another, eyes rolled skyward and lips parted in desire, still cloaked behind his curtain of tissues. He could feel he had Delta’s undivided attention, which made the tickle shy. It shivered inside him, sending his nostrils into a fit of flaring. Stuttered breaths filled his lungs in tiny bursts, emptying again on uneasy sighs, and he-.. he-!..

.. relaxed, defeated, with a groan. 

“Lost it?” Delta asked, then quirked a smile at Omicron’s moody nose-blow. “I’m sure it’s very disappointing. My condolences.”

Because Delta was being very gracious about all this — Omicron’s dishonesty and careless sneezing — he couldn’t summon up any feelings of exasperation. It helped that he was running on empty, too enervated by his fever to do much more than slump with a nod that made his head gently spin. He waited it out and only when he startled to awareness at a gentle touch on his arm did he realize he’d been falling asleep where he sat. He squinted up at Delta who was now standing, smiling down at him.

“Dr. Voster asked me to collect more data on your condition, but that can wait,” he said, and hauled Omicron to his feet. He guided the smaller man toward the bright fluorescence of their hotel bathroom. “Why don’t you wash up? It might help.”

Too dazed to protest, Omicron stood shivering barefoot on the cold tile in his swim trunks while Delta babbled about this and that. A couple blinks later he was holding a set of sweats from his suitcase, his toiletry bag, and a clean pair of fuzzy socks that wasn’t his. Probably Delta’s. He’d seen the man wear a different pair around the room just last night. Juggling the items and mumbling thank-yous, he nudged the door shut with his foot as Delta stated he’d be going out to grab dinner.

And thus commenced his character assassination. 

Omicron laid to rest and mourned what remained of his dignity. He was, in essence, sick on the job with an unseemly cold and his boss was playing nurse. In other words, a nightmare. Never had any of his coworkers seen him T less than peak health, and he hadn’t bargained on Anita’s monster virus turning him into… this. As he shambled through a shower, pajamas, and then curled up into bed, he hoped in vain that his fever would be bad enough to knock him out before Delta got back. No such luck.

Omicron knew how he could look, especially with fresh, fluffy bedhead and sleeves that drooped over his hands. He could only assume this aesthetic was exacerbated by his glowing red nose and glassy eyes. ‘Cute’ was a moniker he’d take to his grave unfortunately, much as it haunted him. He’d never managed to escape it in any disguise, not for all the leather, fake piercings, or platform boots in the world. 

So when Agent Delta turned around and caught sight of him, snuggled in a poofy duvet clutching the tissue box with a little twitch troubling his nose, Omicron beat him to the punch. “Please don’t patronize me, sir.”

Delta’s smile threatened laughter, but he reigned it in with a polite cough and clear of his throat. “I wasn’t going to, agent. I’m just glad to see you’re more comfortable.”

‘Comfortable’ was a generous word that only got further from the truth as the night wore on. Omicron was treated to dinner in bed, complete with a serving tray borrowed from the staff, and the gesture was enough to obliterate any shred of appetite he had for the hot and sour soup Delta brought him. He just wanted to dissolve into the atmosphere and disappear. What he did manage to eat sprung tears in his eyes and a menacing prickle in his clogged sinuses. He spent most of the meal with a tissue held to flexing, leaky nostrils.

The conversation after dinner was yet another exercise in torture. Omicron would have tried choking down more soup if he’d remembered Delta had orders from Anita to question him about his ‘condition.’

Rationally, Omicron knew he shouldn’t be embarrassed. He had sex on the job now and then, and those wild whims he pursued on his personal time were a cure for boredom more than anything. There was something different about this though, the pleasure he felt from sneezing. It felt intimate, self-generated, and to some extent outside of his control. That he might accidentally get aroused without a purpose, beyond that it simply just felt good, was a thought he couldn’t bare to share with anyone. 

“I find it endearing that you are so bashful about this, considering your line of work,” Delta said, understanding yet undeterred, “but as this pertains directly to your ability to perform on the job, I’m afraid Voster and I are on a need to know basis. I promise it will be quick and painless.”

The unyielding furrow in Delta’s brow told Omicron he wouldn’t escape this discussion, no matter how badly he wanted to avoid it. Maybe by some miracle he’d black out and not remember it after.

Once they got started, the questions were mercifully clinical: How often are you experiencing unexpected symptoms? Under what circumstances do they arise? Are you experiencing any unexpected symptoms beyond those already identified? And so on. All the while, Omicron dissuaded sneezes with nose rubs, nose blows, and general nose abuse of that nature. Each ticklish surge that scrambled for a foothold he countered with equal obstinacy. Nothing he did would rid him of the itch, so there was no reason to indulge it.

Yes there is, said the steady drip of tension into his abdomen. Feel that? It was a formless need, faint enough to ignore. For now. Given time the drip would form a puddle, then a pond, and eventually an ocean of want churning in the core of him. And it will feel so good to let go. 

Omicron resolutely ignored that feeling. 

When they finished with the questions, he didn’t even realize it was over; he dozed off while Delta prattled on too long about meaningless things, his voice soothing in its familiarity, and awoke with a start minutes or hours later from a soft touch on his elbow. Just Delta, whispering something about acetaminophen, offering pills and a glass of water which Omicron tossed back wordlessly before hurtling headfirst back into sleep.

He surfaced in and out of consciousness throughout the night, plagued by chills, sweats, and the strange dreams only a fever can cook up. Vivid, nonsensical adventures that ranged from confusing to harrowing, until Omicron eventually found himself spelunking. How he ended up in this damp, drippy cavern eluded him, but he remained committed to his single directive: explore. 

It was an odd place, even in a dream. Rather than rough-hewn stone, Omicron walked barefoot on a soft, plush surface that spanned the walls and even the ceiling. Caves were usually quite chilly, but this one was comfortably warm. Steady breezes cut through the humidity, first blowing one way and then the other, ruffling Omicron’s hair at each pass. He staggered when a particularly strong gust dragged him like an undertow and leaned against the wall to keep his balance. This immediately backfired because the wall was unexpectedly slick. With a frictionless glide, he tumbled to the ground.

“Sheesh,” he muttered, planting his palms to push himself up. When he did so, there was a near imperceptible shudder through the cavern. The rhythmic wind stuttered, stopped, then continued with an unsteady edge. He raised arm against a blast of air. “What-..?”

A light caught his eye, and Omicron glanced down to find a nexus of thrumming veins spidering out from his epicenter. They pulsed with a beautiful glow, casting a red hue across his face and illuminating the cave floor with a pink, stained glass iridescence. Curious, he trailed his fingers along the branching paths and watched the veins spread further. Again the cave floor lurched, stronger this time, and the wind around him escalated into trembling, intermittent squalls. For some reason he didn’t feel afraid, only determined.

Omicron clamored to his feet. He approached the wall where the veins began to climb. They pulsed weakly, wanting, and he felt that he needed to help them. Feeling around on his person, he unearthed something from his back pocket: a feather duster. The feathers waved in the strong breeze, plentiful and downy. How he’d managed to fit this in his pocket was dream logic he didn’t question. 

“Let’s see,” he mumbled, and crouched to sweep the instrument along the wall. It seemed to cringe from the sensation, twitching madly as the veins hungrily advanced. 

Omicron kept it up, dusting as much as he could reach even as the cavern began to shiver in earnest and the wind whipped his hair like a storm. But he couldn’t stop. He just had this feeling that if he lit the cavern completely, it would be a magnificent sight. As the paths flourished, they brought with them a gorgeous backlight to the tender, rose-petal surfaces of the cave. Funny, they looked almost inflamed. Irritated by his influence, intolerant of his presence here. The thoughts didn’t deter him. Omicron raised up on his tiptoes to take a swipe at the ceiling and had his feet knocked out from under him when the world tremored in response. The gale sucked inward with authority, and the feather duster was ripped from his hands.

Something was happening. Around him, the veins fanned out on their own and he’d been right: the radiance of the cavern was incredible with it all lit up at once. Beneath him the ground throbbed contentiously, convulsing, hot to the touch, and for the first time, Omicron wondered if he might have done something he shouldn’t have. No longer distracted by his goal, he became aware of a weird sound. Something deep, rumbling beneath him, the desirous moans of uhh.. uHhh.. uHHh-!... growing in volume, pitch, and power. 

And suddenly, he felt the echo of this urge manifest in his nose. Its vigor sprung tears to his eyes and his jaw dropped open, helpless as it consumed him. His gasps and groans synced up to the wild chaos around him, and he could feel the very nerves he squirmed against crying out for mercy. It tickled insufferably, teased to heights he couldn’t believe — and there was only one way down.

I’m inside my own nose? was his first bizarre realization. The second was, I’m going to sneeze.

Omicron opened his eyes, only to snap them closed again. “-HP’BBSZZCHHHOOO!!!-”

He groaned, arching against the mattress, as the sneeze went straight to his dick. Bleary, barely awake, all he could do was coast through a yearning gasp and “HEEHDZJJSSSZH!Nnngghh-!”

Raw relief tingled through him, shimmering through his nose and groin, and autopilot took over. Omicron plunged a hand down his pants and gripped his morning wood, firm and ready to burst. There was enough precum trickling from his slit and staining his boxers that he could smooth his thumb over the head and ignore the slight burn from dry skin friction.

His nostrils flittered in anguish, and his sinuses drummed with an insatiable itch. Please, they implored him. This tickle tortured us all night long. Do something. And Omicron was happy to serve. 

A monumental gasp - “hHHHHIIH!” - heralded an comparatively monstrous sneeze - “EEHDDZZZCHHH’Uh!!-hoohhh..”

This was so much better in bed. A tidal wave of pleasure rushed through him, from his nose to his toes, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He gritted his teeth, bowing his back as he thrust into the grip of his hand. It was just on the edge of too much; Omicron wasn’t normally so sensitive, but he’d woken with every inch of his skin tingling and thought it had to be the fever. 

The tickle flexed deep inside, and Omicron recalled the striking visuals of his dream. Wet, pink walls. Encroaching red veins. Sensitive nerves, shuddery membranes, the way he’d ignorantly worked himself up to this very fit with a bundle of soft, stroking feathers. He could imagine himself doing it again, deliberately this time, sweeping the inside of his nose deftly and thoroughly, tickling and tickling and fighting to keep his eyes open even as the sensation forced them tightly closed. Coaxing a hitching breath. Making him sn-..

“-hoh fuhhck-.. hh!HUH!. UHHZZSSSHH’iu!-ooh!” His heels slipped on the sheets, straining for purchase, as he panted his way up to another. “-igih.. iH’GISSCCHOOO!-hah!!”

Each one got him an inch closer to orgasm. He bobbed over every wave with surety the next one would break over his head and drown him. Omicron snuffled unsteadily, aware his nose was running without the care to wipe it, and began twisting his wrist when he felt his nostrils blow wide in preparation. 

Yes yes yes, he cheered. Let this be the one.

He hitched through a dazed smile, a deceptively dainty hh-hht-htt! that then curled him up with a bed-shaking, “HAH’TSSDCH’UE!..hh’mmngg-!..” 

Omicron’s whole body clenched, tense with the impending release, but before it could come he was hitching again. His dream self dusted away, dauntless with a single-mindedness to make him sneeze. And he’d assuredly succeed, as his real self shuddered through a fit-and-start buildup.

“-hihg..ihh!hhoh.. HHT-!chhhoo..” 

It wouldn’t come, hovering so close to the brink that whenever he breathed into the tickle he sighed out the approximation of its finale. His hand never stopped, the steady pumps easier now that he was wet enough. Through the haze of fever, grogginess, and arousal, Omicron imagined the dutiful brush of that duster against his quivering membranes. He was a thorough man, never one to leave a job half-finished, and he visualized himself venturing deeper, farther, to a cowering patch of nerves hoping to escape torment. The feathers caressed them, velutinous and inviting.

“.. iih!HHhhh..”

Deeper, to the responsive edge of his sinuses, where he trailed the duster along the border with deliberate care. The tickle’s magnitude tripled, aching in its eagerness. His dick pulsed in reply, hot and heavy in his frantic hand. 

“-HIH!..hh..hgIHH-”

Deeper still, to the end of the line, so far inside his nose he’d never hope to get it out. The feathers touched quivering flesh. With a smirk, his dream self stroked so gently, agonizingly slow, barely a tease and yet it tickled him to an unbearable degree. He could feel every fiber of the agitating feathers, the promise they whispered. 

Come on, he said to himself. You know you want to.

Omicron’s gasp cut the air like a knife, inflating his lungs to capacity, before he roared violently into his blankets. “-iihHHHHH-?!..WRRIZZSSSCHH’IIUHHH!!-mmbb!!”

He turned his head into his pillow to moan through his orgasm, stroking through it as a euphoric, tingling balm spread through his sinuses. It lasted longer than he anticipated, a continuous ripple of ecstasy that had him whimpering, panting, trembling. All his muscles relaxed, every part of him sated, and when the aftershocks ebbed Omicron sunk into the sheets, hand still in his pants, to let sleep call him back into its arms. It’s not like he had somewhere to be. What did he have to do this morning..? Vacuum the apartment..? Get groceries..? Cuddle with his cats?.............wait-

OH NO.

Omicron jackknifed into a sitting position, then immediately regretted it when his head spun. He drooped onto an elbow, coughing, heart hammering, and in a panic he scanned the room. Nobody here. No sounds from the bathroom either. The relief was so intense it sent him into another sickening dose of dizziness. He flopped flat to the mattress and tried to steady his breathing.

I didn’t just jack off in front of my superior officer, he assured himself. Everything is fine. He finally slipped his hand out of his pants and wrinkled his sore nose at the stickiness of his skin and underwear. But I have to clean up.

It took a pitifully long time to do so. Shivers wracked him the moment he crawled out of bed, and every step was a wobbly gamble. He forgot spare clothes and had to backtrack, then couldn’t figure out how to clean up without taking a shower he didn’t have the energy for. All the while his head pounded, his throat stung, and eventually the whims of the virus brought him to the brink of feeble, fallout sneezes.

Finally, with his dirty clothes stuffed into the bottom of his suitcase and most of the sweat wiped off his skin, Omicron zombied his way back to the bed and collapsed face down. Some flailing got him purchase on the sheets, mercifully spared from most of his fluids, and at last he was horizontal. Of course the position dutched the congestion to a new angle. It tickled him.

Omicron huffed weakly, wearily, and  ducked under the cover of his blankets. “-iih’KIZSSH!’iuh…” Only the one. He sighed, rubbing the edge of his sheet beneath his fussy nose. Now, maybe he could just….

From the door there was the sound of a keycard clattering, then the latch lifting, and a boisterous pair of voices entered the room. “Honey, I’m home!”

Omicron buried his head under the blankets.

“Anita, he may not be awake..” That one was Delta. “Shouldn’t he rest?”

“The sooner I examine him, the better. Where-?.. ah! There you are.”

Omicron tightened his grip on the blankets, and was right to do so because seconds later there was a tug from the outside. It was hot and stuffy under the covers, hard to breathe, but he’d rather suffocate than deal with Anita Voster right now. She tugged again and he didn’t budge.

“Oho?” she tittered. “Trying to avoid treatment, mm? You should know better, Agent O.”

He remained tense, blinking weakly against a flutterish niggle. His nostrils flared, nervous, and he would have soothed them with a touch of his finger if his hands weren’t occupied. He scrunched his nose instead, squirming it side to side when the tickle didn’t abate. Dr. Voster was on the move, he’d lost track of her-...

“Anddd.. voila!”

Cold air and light entered his cocoon. She’d rounded the bed and flipped the covers up from the back side, which was a dirty move. A chill swept up his spine, prompting a shudder that shivered into a sneeze. 

“h-hhi’hHTSSsh!-hh..” He flinched his knees to his chest, tucking an arm around himself as he threw the other behind him for the covers. “Gih-..ig’IIZSSH!”

“Bless bless you,” she cooed in a playful tone that made him bristle. Her hand cupped his shoulder and pulled. “Now, let me see… oh.”

Her smile dropped away as she looked at him, lips parting in genuine surprise, her manicured eyebrows marching up toward her hairline. She was wearing an obnoxious summery ensemble, no doubt excited to exploit the mission for a few days at the beach. When no reply was forthcoming, Omicron glared at her. The ferocity of it was undercut when a twinge in his nose prompted a squeaky sniffle.

“.. Whad?” he croaked.

“You’ve never looked so pathetic before,” she said in wonder. “And I’ve seen you faint after getting a vaccine booster.”

It was an open secret that he hated injections as much as he hated the dentist, but everyone kindly agreed not to acknowledge it after that one time. He growled his words, snatching the blankets back from her. “The ndeedle was really big and you said you’d dnever mbendtion it againd.”

“Voster,” chided Delta, hands on his hips. “Please refrain from teasing him when he’s not feeling well. He’s under enough stress as it is.”

As infantilizing as it was as a grown man to have another grown man scold somebody on his behalf, Omicron shot her a smug look that she met with an arched brow. 

“Fine,” she sighed, and crossed to his side of the bed. “I guess I’ll cut him some slack. Omicron, sit up a little.”

There would be no getting out of this. Delaying the process would probably get him another lecture from Delta, so Omicron reluctantly shimmied to a half-reclining position, arms crossed to ward off chills as she sat gracefully on his bedside. She crossed a leg at the knee, reached for his face, and cool hands cradled his jaw. He let her move him as she wanted, wrinkling and wriggling his nose to keep it appeased. 

The sly bullying he expected didn’t come. Dr. Voster was professional when she asked, “Any fluctuations in symptoms since last night?”

“Umb.. ndot really..” Omicron sniffed sharply and swallowed. He considered leaving it there, but his promise to Delta wouldn’t let him. He mumbled through the rest and could only hope she understood what it meant. “.. there was an.. idncident this mborning. That I resolved.”

“Gotcha,” she said, and didn’t press. Omicron relaxed under her handling. She took his temperature (101.3°F / 38.5°C), tested his glands, pulled down the edges of his eyelids, and then at last took a cursory glance up his nostrils with a wince. “I didn’t think it was possible to see a sneeze but the inside of your nose looks like one.”

Apt, since he could feel it forming between his eyes. He leaned away out of her grip, and without any tissues in reach, Omicron shook his sleeves over his hands and tucked into them. “hh!MMPSSH!..” 

“Bless you,” chorused the other two. 

He surfaced briefly as the tickle toyed with him, playing his nerves like batons on a xylophone. Every note vibrated, compounding in harmony, cacophonous as it crested, “..aak’KZSCHue!.. hh?..hh..”

“Bless you,” chorused the other two, again. Anita passed over the tissue box but he could barely keep his eyes open and his breath from shaking. She took pity on him as his hitches became jagged, pitching in his upper register, and she held out a few in his direction just as he- heeee-!

“-ick’SSHIEW?!”

It relieved him, but his shoulders flinched to his ears at the embarrassingly high sound. Delta quickly turned away with a hand to his mouth and Dr. Voster snorted unabashedly.

“Bless yew!” she parroted, and he kicked her off the bed. She rolled with the momentum into a smooth dismount before plopping right back where she’d been. “I’m done, I’m done! But you owe me a couple free jabs after yelling at me yesterday, you know.”

Right. His stomach soured at the reminder, and he stared at the blankets with a sleeved swipe under his septum. “.. I’mb sorry about that. I shouldn’d have taken out my frustration on you. Or lied to you in the first place.”

Dr. Voster softened, the lines of her face smoothing into something genuine. “Mm, I’m sorry for my sloppy science. It’s my fault you’ve got such a lousy cold.” 

Omicron never knew what to say after such sentiments. He considered and tossed out several replies, still boring holes into the blankets with his gaze, until she reached up and flicked the tip of his nose. His inhale was a hitch into the next before he flinched down toward his chest. 

“h-h-H’TZssh!” He brought a sleeve to his nose belatedly, throwing a scowl her way. “Whad was that for?!”

“For lying to me about that other thing,” she said, leering over him with a grin. “... Seems like you really are the man-cold type.”

Omicron hurled his pillow at her, which she dodged and Delta caught one-handed when it soared across the room. His firm voice broke up a squabble before it could begin. “Enough, you two.” He fluffed the pillow and returned it to his sheepish subordinate before looking to Anita. “Well?”

“Either his immune system is reacting to the engineered virus, or somehow he’s caught another cold on top of this one,” she said. Both looked to Omicron, who was trying to blow his nose without popping an eardrum. “If it’s the former, the mission can proceed. If it’s the latter, we bench him. That’s my opinion as his physician.”

“I’b righd here,” Omicron grumbled behind a mask of tissues.

Delta ignored him. “How do we know which is the case?”

Dr. Voster reached for the medical bag on the floor by her feet, which Omicron only just now noticed was in her possession. “By administering a test,” she replied, digging through it. When she found what she sought, Anita presented it to Omicron with an apologetic smile. “You’re not going to like it though.”

He thought it was a syringe at first. Before he could react, she peeled open the thin package to show him what was inside. Somehow, it was worse. Delta hissed through his teeth and Omicron hovered a protective hand over his nose.

“No,” he told her, eyes glued to the offending object. “No, no. That’s not going to work.”

Dr. Voster twirled it between her fingers: a wickedly long plastic rod with a cotton tuft on the end. “A nasal swab is the fastest way, O.”

He shook his head, unable to look away from it. The sight alone caused his nose grief as the tickle found inspiration. Omicron did his best not to imagine how it would feel. “Anita, it’s not possible. I-.. I can’t evehhn.. look at- at it withhou..HH!with.. withhHHAH-”

Omicron jammed a finger beneath his nose and shoved the sneeze back inside. He could tell he’d be on a roll if he started, and while he’d literally just cum he was terrified this impending volley would get him going again. If at all possible, even if everyone was aware of the situation, he’d like to avoid erections in front of his fucking coworkers. He held his breath and waited until his pulsing nostrils quieted before letting it all go on a sigh. Pointedly, he avoided looking at the swab.

“Hmmmm,” Dr. Voster mused. “I wonder if we blindfolded you..”

“Trust me,” he said, knuckling his nose. It wasn’t happy he’d ignored its demands. “That’s not going to help.”

“Rather than hold them back, could you try holding them in?” Delta suggested.

“Absolutely not,” Dr. Voster said. “He’s terrible at it, and I wouldn’t recommend it anyway. Not everyone can be as proficient at stifling as you are, sir.”

Delta’s smile weakened, properly chastised, as Voster tilted her head back and pressed her palms on the bed. Her leg bounced in thought. The three of them sat in a contemplative silence broken only by Omicron’s sniffling before Anita slapped her hands to her knees and stood with purpose.

“There’s nothing for it,” she said. “You’ll just have to avoid sneezing.”

“I won’t be able to,” he told her. His cheeks flushed, and the flash of heat mingling with his fever made him tremble with a chill. Stubbornness alone wouldn’t deter her, so he forced out the rest with emphasis. “And it-.. might cause an unexpected symptom.”

That gave her pause, but only briefly. “When exactly did you last experience the culmination of this symptom?”

This was embarrassing. “... approximately ten minutes before you arrived.”

“And would you expect yourself to experience that again so quickly after the last occurance?”

Somehow, he felt miffed on behalf of his refractory period. “.... I guess not.”

“Then even if you sneeze your head off after this, you’ll be fine,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “If for some reason you’re not, it’s not a big deal. Agent Delta and I will just leave the room until it passes.”

I’d rather chew glass, Omicron thought, than have it come to that. The tickle nestled comfortably against his nerves, weighing his eyelids and prompting a reflexive sniffle. Cheeky bastard. He wouldn’t let it win this time. He grated the rough edge of his sleeve under his nostrils and squared his shoulders.

“Fine.” His flinty gaze locked onto the swab, his opponent in this battle. “Let’s do it.”

The other two exchanged a LookTM and preparation shortly followed. Delta announced he’d received a message from cyber security earlier that morning that required follow up, so he left to wire into the agency’s VPN in one of the hotel’s private conference booths. Voster snapped on some gloves and cracked open a fresh tissue box to place at Omicron’s elbow. He begrudgingly unearthed a wad of them to keep ready in his lap. Better safe than sorry.

Anita watched him carefully. “Would you like to get a few out before we start?”

If she was asking, he probably looked sneezy already. Omicron made an effort to sharpen his gaze and settle the tiny, twitching microexpressions that told plainly of a persistent tickle. “No. I want to get it over with.” He sniffled with a flutter of his nostrils. “Quickly.”

To her credit, Anita didn’t dawdle. “I’m administering a nasopharyngeal swab for the best results. If I can’t get enough from one sample, we’ll have to do the other nostril.”

Omicron nodded, tilting his chin when she stabilized him with a hand to his cheek. He blinked hard against a lurching itch as the swab came closer, hovering just in front of his flushed, prone nose.

“I need to rotate it for ten seconds, and then I’ll slowly remove it,” she told him. “Would it help if I counted?”

He flicked his gaze to the ceiling, hands fisted in the sheets over his lap. “Yes.”

“Alright, the count won’t start until I have it in place.” Dr. Voster eased his head back further, giving him a moment to arrange himself against his pillows before she touched the swab to the edge of one nostril. It pulsed, uncertain. “Here we go.”

This wasn’t Omicron’s first time with this particular type of swab. Normally he preferred it because of how deep it reached, so foreign and uncomfortable that a sneeze never crossed his mind. It was the shorter swabs, the ones that remained inside the borders of his persnickety nasal membranes that caused him agony. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he feared? 

A second later that confidence was swiftly and callously dashed.

This cold was unlike any respiratory infection he’d ever had. It was engineered to inflame every cell of his airways, heighten them to such a state of paranoia that the very act of breathing registered as intrusive. This tickle wasn’t a physical thing; his nasal cavity was affected by such sensitivity that it inevitably itched and twitched and worked itself up into mayhem. Sneeze was the answer to every problem, even nonexistent ones. So to have himself in this state and introduce a material object into the mix was an instant and powerful regret.

The swab burned as it was threaded through his sinuses, razing his nerves as it went, and when the tip of it touched the back of his throat he could feel every millimeter of its length. He slammed his eyes shut. There was a brief moment of shock, as if his nose couldn’t quite believe what had happened. Then the swab began to spin.

His nostrils flew wide. “HHHHHHHH-”

“Shit,” muttered Voster. “Stay with me, c’mon, it’s just ten seconds.. Two….”

Just?! his brain screamed, overwhelmed by nasal panic and frantic to sneeze. Oh, he could feel it. An instant and oppressive demand. None of the usual hitching hesitation, just a massive and mandatory release sitting at the shores of his dilated nostrils. He couldn’t even communicate to Voster that it was coming. 

“.. Three, fight it…”

Omicron pinched himself as hard as he dared by digging his thumb into the pressure point of his other hand. It took the edge off the swab’s insidious stimulation and downgraded the sneeze from automatic to imminent. Lungs at capacity, all the air sat at the top. His body wouldn’t let him exhale without irritation-induced force. A pitiful sound escaped, heady and weak without breath behind it.

“-uuhh-”

“I know, we’re halfway, hang in there.. Six..”

God, this was torture. His nose throbbed with need, the insides puffy and convulsing. Please, they cried. It tickles so badly. Too much. We have to! He hovered just on the verge of the inevitable. Grinding harder into the pressure point on his hand dampened the sensation enough to keep it from progressing, but it never diminished. Just waited an inch from the finish line. Another high, helpless whimper trembled his chest.

“-huUH!-”

“Eight.. you’re doing great, Omicron, nine..” The hand on his cheek shifted to brace him firmly. “.. almost done, try to exhale..”

He couldn’t. His lungs wouldn’t let go. All he could do was live on the brink, tears skating down his cheeks and his features frozen in what he knew had to be a ridiculous face. Yearning or dreading, he didn’t know, but his entire expression flinched when the swab retreated. She was slowly pulling it out, still twirling it. He could feel the thin ropes of his control snapping, the dam crumbling, the glass shattering. An urgent, breathy shout slipped out, pure desperation, and it heralded something enormous.

“-HUUHH--!!!”

The swab slithered out of his nose completely, leaving behind a trail of unbearable sensation. “Okay! Y-”

“--HHEZZSSCCCHHHHUUUEE-!” Omicron hurled himself over his own lap, dizzied by the release, and gasped immediately for more. “-hH-HH!IIHZSSSSHH’UUh!!”

More. “-HH’AADZZSSCHH’HOO-!!”

More. “-HEH’DTSSHHH’HAH-!!”

More still. “ohh-.. HD’DIZZSHHHH’HUH!!”

But the relief wouldn’t come. His nose was so angry by the intrusion, it would give no quarter. Big, heaving sneezes weren’t doing the job, so he found himself next encumbered by small ones. They burst out of him in a row, each igniting a furious itch to prompt the next.

“ihDSH!-.. hck’ISSH!.. uh-HH’TZIshh!.. ugh, god-hHIH!” Omicron fought his eyes open through another gush of tears and caught a blurry glimpse of white. Oh right, the tissues. He gathered them up as his gaze rolled skyward, mouth agape and nostrils vast. It took a couple hitches before the tickle caught again. “h-hHT.. idzz..iiH!..mgh.. aH!KZSSCHH!”

He sneezed through his teeth, then belatedly raised the tissues. His eyes fluttered closed as even the soft touch of them pried another sneeze loose. They mounted in power as his nose, fed up with the lingering tickle the swab left behind, puppeteered him through an increasingly vicious fit.

“-h’ETZsh!... huh.. TZSSCH!ue… h-H!...EHPZSH’Iu!!-oohh..”

At last, a wave of pleasure rushed through his veins. It was faint, but after the hellish holdback and punishing sneezes, Omicron welcomed it. The knowledge there would be more spurred him onward; he breathed into the next ticklish swell with hope.

“uh-HHUH-HESZSCHUUE!” Cool prickles swept through his nose, soothing the frazzled nerves even as they clamored for another. Omicron complied. “heh.. HET’JZZSSSCHHOOO!-nngh..”

He shivered as his skin erupted with goosebumps. A warm, wonderful feeling unfurled in his gut. Head spinning, nose twitching, lungs hitching, he knew the end was close. He breathed deeply, relishing the way it tickled all the way down. Then-

“HEH…uh.. hHP’BIZSSSHHIEW!!-oooohhhh..”

Omicron massaged his nose through the tissues with quiet noises of relief until somebody clearing their throat caught his attention. With wet eyes, he raised his head to see Dr. Voster across the room mixing the swab in a vial with some sort of solution. She kept her attention on it as she spoke.

“Feeling better?”

He paused to cough and swallow. The fit left him raspy. “Yeah.”

“Any unexpected symptoms?” she asked. Fuzzy headed, Omicron looked down at his crotch. There was no tent under the covers, and while he felt boneless, he wasn’t turned on.

“Ndo.”

“Great!” Dr. Voster chirped. “In other good news, I got enough particulate matter on the first try that we won’t have to do it again.” She continued her work, but glanced over to shoot him a smile. “Bless you a dozen, by the way.”

“Thagks,” he huffed, then collapsed back onto the mattress with the solace of a job finished. 

It took a few minutes for him to clean himself up, and as he got his wits about him, he was appreciative that Voster kept herself busy so he could tend to his nose without scrutiny. His pleasant haze dissipated and Omicron realized he was totally spent. His head hurt, as did his throat, and his abs were aching. Once he was huddled under the covers, Anita swung by with a bottle of water and hushed instructions to take another fever reducer, which he did without complaint.

Some time passed. He didn’t know how much. One moment he was nodding off to the tinkling the whirs of Voster’s on-the-go mini-laboratory, and the next he was startling awake to a door opening. For a split second he forgot where he was, what was happening, but then a hand smoothed over his hair. 

“Just Delta,” came Anita’s voice. Tension left his sore muscles and he melted back into the mattress. For once his nose took pity on him, smoldering with a widespread ticklish sensation he could chase away by pinch-rubbing the sides of his nostrils.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to wake you!” was Delta’s contrite greeting. Omicron cracked open dry eyes to see the man coming around the bedside, eyebrows turned up in dismay. “Sorry, Omicron.”

“S’fide,” he replied, voice creaking, and he had to turn his head into the pillow to cough. Fuck, felt like he’d swallowed a sword and left it there.

“Goodness, you sound terrible.” Delta turned anxious eyes to Dr. Voster, who was leaning a hip against her makeshift workstation at the desk by their balcony doors. “Did you get the results?”

“Yep,” she said, cheerfully brandishing the culture sample. “No secondary infection. He’s just having a pronounced immune response to the engineered strain.” Here, she smirked at the Omicron-shaped lump on the bed. “And being very dramatic about it.”

Delta caught the pillow lobbed in her direction before it could knock any lab equipment over. He arranged it back on the bed, then passed his hand over Omicron’s brow. The smaller man let him, closing his eyes as the cool touch moved to his cheek, to his neck, then glided to his shoulder to offer a reassuring pat.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Please be honest.”

Omicron thought of the mission. It didn’t escape him that Dr. Voster confirmed he wasn’t actually sick. His body thought he was, but with proper symptom management he could see this assignment to the end. Josaline would probably love seeing him like this; hopefully her husband would too. 

“Ndot great,” he admitted, and Delta’s puppy-dog expression ramped up tenfold. Omicron rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. “I’b ndot dying, sir. If I get someb rest, I’ll be ready for tomborrow.”

The fact that he’d said all this without even sitting up likely undercut his claims, but Omicron truly believed it. When the time came, he’d rally. He always did. Delta considered him for a long moment before plopping down onto the other bed with a dejected bounce.

“Even if that’s the case, the situation has changed,” he said, lacing his fingers together between his knees. “I got word from Ops that there were attempted hacks into multiple independent identification networks for a ‘Nicolas Foster.’”

Omicron struggled up onto his elbows. 

.. So, they were onto him. At the very least, they were wary of his cover. This wasn’t entirely unexpected. At the agency they explored every outcome, including this one. Josaline Jewel was a suspected cyber criminal. She was rich enough, powerful enough, smart enough to avoid the law. They’d chased her for years. This outcome wasn’t unexpected, but it still ripped a hole through Omicron’s sails.

All this work, he thought, blinking away a sting behind his eyes. For nothing? Because I wasn’t good enough?

“Don’t despair,” Delta commanded. “The hacks left traces and the cyber team is on it. It’s possible they’ll identify a source, and if they do, we can hack them back. This is a victory.”

It didn’t feel like one. Omicron slouched against the headboard, sniffling and sniffling as he compartmentalized any emotions he felt on the matter. Hopefully the others would attribute it to his cold. He nodded at Delta’s words, casting around for his tissue box. He’d knocked it off the bed at some point. Anita silently fetched it from the floor. 

“Intel also shows that they have not left the resort,” Delta continued, gaze glued to Omicron as the man piled tissues under his nostrils. “This suggests they either found nothing dubious in your cover, which I doubt, or…” 

Here, Delta paused and gave his subordinate a little ‘go on’ wave. Omicron flushed, but did as he was told. One big, trembling breath and then a gurgling nose blow. As always, it was much louder than he wanted and yet again he asked himself what unspeakable deed he’d done to deserve this level of karmic retribution. His nose didn’t feel refreshed afterward; rather, it was peeved. He wrinkled the bridge against a dull, undulating tickle.

“Or?” he prompted.

“Or.. they know you’re not who you say you are, but want to meet with you anyway.”

.. Could they be that horny? Omicron mused, swatching the length of his forefinger back and forth beneath restless nostrils. He recalled his time with Josaline by the pool. Yes, probably.

Sniffling, he asked, “Does this chhh..change anything?” 

“They didn’t hack our network directly, so they have no idea what your true identity is or who you work for,” Delta said. “But the nature of the encounter will be unpredictable.”

Red-rimmed eyes tightened at the corners and he gave up on the finger method in favor of tissues. He spoke as he gathered them, his voice wavering into breathier territory as the tickle took shape.

“I c-.. cahhn.. hh..handle unpredict-t.. tahbBBZZSH!” He caught it one handed, not bothering to open his eyes as he lowered the tissues just enough to continue as he contended with an encore. “.. I can handle that.. hhah..” A sharp sniffle. “.. but I doubt they’d t-.. they’d tehh.. hih!PPZSH’uh!.. nguh, tell mbe adythi’g..”

“Well about that, bless you, we need them occupied and away from electronics if we attempt a hack.”

Omicron squinted over his tissues. “So I’d be..”

“A distraction, yes.”

The original mission was to extract incriminating information from the target, but considering the new variables at play, this new directive would be just as effective. Honestly, with this cold, Omicron wasn’t sure he could finesse a subtle interrogation with stellar results. Acting as smoke and mirrors for the cyber team, however.. 

“..hh!uhh.. hHT-”

That, he could definitely do.

“-DZSSh’oo!”

/tbc!

Next up, the big date!! ♨️ Apologies to anyone who was hoping for the threesome this chapter 😅 Had to indulge my rabid desire for hurt/comfort lol. A big huge thank you to anyone reading who’s stuck around!! My next update might be a little slow because of work stuff, but hoping to have it up in a decent time frame. See you soon! 🥰

He’d weathered ship-tossing storms and spent months in a tin can hundreds of feet beneath the ocean — he could stand in the spotlighted gaze of two dozen judgemental strangers for just one night! 

Delta’s hands stayed welded to the counter, which was getting warm beneath his clammy skin. 

Yes, it would be unpleasant, but then it would be over. All he had to do was leave the bathroom. And maybe he would have, if not for the sudden clattering above his head. Delta glanced up, then stumbled out of the way just as the ceiling grate above him banged open. 

Something human-shaped tumbled out and landed in a teetering crouch. Impressive, considering they were wearing heels and a floor-length satin gown with a slit up to the thigh. In one hand they held a strange, complicated looking device jerryrigged with scotch tape and exposed wiring. In the other was a bottle of champagne. 

Delta gaped, wide-eyed and speechless, as the figure fluidly rose to their feet. They had a lanky build, with long arms and legs that looked deceptively fragile. Fine, silky hair swished in a shaggy bob around their sharp chin. Wispy bangs grazed their eyebrows and framed bronzed cheekbones. Narrow lips were lined with gloss; beneath long eyelashes were eyes the color of a storm.

“Wow, they should fix the hinges on that one, almost busted my ass,” they complained. Then they turned and brandished the champagne bottle. “Open this wouldja?”

Bewildered, Delta took the bottle and cracked the cap. It was still slick with condensation, chilled to the touch. He held it out and the stranger took it, knocking back a long swig and chasing it with a satisfied sigh. Then they offered it back to him.

“Here, dude,” they said. When Delta just stood there, uncomprehending, they wiggled the bottle temptingly. “C’monnn, I got it for you. You’re the new Delta, right?”

Delta nodded, and then figured he should actually say something. “Yes..” His eyes trailed up to the open grate. “Are you.. also in Field Intelligence?”

“Junior Agent Rho. They initiated me a couple months back.” After flashing a cocksure grin, they shoved the champagne bottle at him again. “They didn’t have the good stuff at my shindig, so I came prepared.”

Despite Rho’s shocking introduction and his reluctance to drink anything bubbly, Delta acquiesced. He’d need some liquid courage to get through the rest of the evening. Plus, it would be rude to refuse a gift.

He drank, hyper conscious of his lips touching the place Rho’s did. The liquid popped on his tongue, carbonated and sweet, cool and refreshing. When he swallowed, it sparkled all the way down. First in his throat, then higher — reaching up and up to the back of his nose where it fizzed. 

Rho winked. “Pretty good, right?”

Delta blinked at them muzzily, becoming drunk on a familiar urge; as he feared, the champagne was going to make him sneeze. He nodded his head with a sharp sniff, offering the bottle back and bringing his wrist to his nose.

“Yes, thank you,” he said quickly, headily, then flipped his hand around to pinch his widening nostrils shut. “..hpt!”

It was a blip of sound — a gulp of air caged in his throat, suppressed in his sinuses. Unfortunately it didn’t dismiss the glimmering tickle still lingering in the farthest reaches. Rho snorted.

“Sorry, excuse me,” Delta said, with another deep sniff and a helpless chuckle. “I don’t usually drink champagne.”

“I can guess why,” they replied, sipping another pull of champagne. “Should’ve grabbed beer instead, huh?”

Before Delta could reply his lungs snagged. He pinned his nose shut between his palms — “..hHpt!” — and quaked in place. His words came out in a sniffling sigh. “Ndo, it’s fine. I appreciate the gesture.”

Then some conscious thought caught up with him. He narrowed his eyes at Rho, keeping his hands hovering at chin height. “.. How did you know I was in here?”

Rho tossed their hair. “I’m a spy, dude. I did some spying. Obviously.”

“Why not just come in through the door..?”

There was a pause while Rho visibly conjured and discarded a few different responses. Delta tried to track their expression, but his eyelids were getting heavy. The tickle continued crackling high up inside his nose, bottled there because he wouldn’t let it out. He could feel his nostrils twinging, and preemptively pinched them shut.

“Okay fine, you got me,” huffed Rho as they thunked the champagne bottle onto the bathroom counter. “I was on my way to the party and wasn’t expecting the vent to be loose. Couldn’t avoid the fall with my hands full. I didn’t actually know you were in here, so lucky break on my part.”

“Whhh..” Delta shut his eyes tightly and shuddered. “— HHpt’ch!”  Even as the swell of the tickle receded, he could feel it bubbling up another attempt. He kept his nose pinched. “Why were you id the vendts?”

“Well, why were you giving yourself a pep talk in the bathroom?” they countered, then sliced a smirk at him. “Big tough Navy man like you feeling shy?”

It didn’t surprise him they knew of his background, considering it was plastered for all to see in the induction ceremony programs. What did surprise him was the champagne bottle being lobbed at him. Delta scrambled to catch it before it could break on the floor. His sigh of relief stirred up the fizzy sensation sloshing in his sinuses and he couldn’t get his hand up fast enough.

“-mMPXT!-huh..”

It squeaked past his lips and nostrils, barely contained, and while it had the benefit of scraping away any lingering tickles it also shoved forward some gathering congestion. He sniffled wildly, rushing a wrist to his nose, and couldn’t cobble together a reply before Rho beat him to it.

“That’s why I brought you alcohol,” they told him. “For the nerves.”

They gave him a double thumbs up, and then with one impressive leap, hooked their hands over the edges of the hole in the ceiling to haul themself up through it. Their bare arms flexed, muscles shifting under skin, and Delta quickly averted his eyes to avoid an eyeful up their dress.

“I’ll see you at the party later.” Their voice echoed in the duct. “Bottoms up, dude!”

They reached and snapped the grate shut. With that, they were gone.

What a bizarre encounter, Delta thought. In the silence, a soft ticking noise drew his attention to the bathroom counter. On the gleaming surface sat Rho’s strange device. The one with all the tape and wires. Did they forget it..?

The ticking became ominous as seconds went by. Surely they wouldn’t leave something dangerous in here.. He crept closer, and jumped when nozzles shot out from the device on all sides. It beeped cheerfully at him. Delta’s eyes widened, just before Rho’s gift went off like a malfunctioning sprinkler.

Then the bathroom door opened, and Agent Lambda discovered his mentee splattered head to toe in paint, standing in the middle of color-streaked ceramic, holding an illicit bottle of champagne and stuttering through attempts to explain how this situation had come to be.

--- 2. 😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️

Because of Rho’s prank, both of them were relegated to organizing storage on the basement floor. Delta’s first month in the program would be stacking musty boxes and digitizing crumbling handwritten files he could barely read. He struggled to find the same amusement in their punishment that Rho did.

“It was a little bit funny,” they insisted.

“Some might disagree,” he insisted back, clinging to his patience. Funny was hardly a consolation prize when they’d spent the last several days they’d spent in a dusty, cobwebbed hell. It was warehouse-like and labyrinthian, annoying to navigate with all the junk strewn about. “The results certainly aren’t ideal.”

“Worth it,” Rho said, from somewhere behind boxes to his left. Delta didn’t have to see their face in the dank, bare-lightbulbed glow to know they were grinning. He could hear it. “It gets boring around here.”

Delta grunted as he hauled another box out of the pile, squinting at the label scrawled in faded permanent marker. It either said ATTACHÉ CASES or MȂCHÉ FACES, which were two very different things in regards to categories. He sighed, and watched his breath kick up a plume of dust.

“I doubt being an agent is boring.”

“It is when you’re in training.” Rho’s voice had moved, coming from somewhere higher up. “It’s a lot of doing stuff like this, believe it or not.”

“Maybe our superiors are hoping to teach us discipline by-” Delta glanced over and caught sight of them sitting at least fifteen feet off the ground, perched on top of a mountain of boxes. “Rho!”

They leaned back on their palms and swung their legs with a smile. “Yeah?”

“That’s dangerous!” he scolded, searching in the low light for a foothold. He’d only known Rho for a week and that was enough to surmise they’d try a stupid stunt on a whim. “Get down, please. Carefully.”

“You wanna catch me?”

“I fear you’ll injure us both.” Delta walked to the other side of the box pyramid and found the path they’d taken — a procession of disturbed dust and dents in cardboard. “Stay there. I’m coming up.”

“Eh, don’t bother,” they said, and shoved a loose box with their foot. It tumbled down the side and landed with a dull thud on the concrete floor. Debris exploded in a miniature mushroom cloud. “I found what I was looking for.”

Delta waved a hand to try and clear the air, eyes watering and voice choked. “Could you please-” He paused to cough into his elbow, ducking away. “-refrain from kicking the packages? You might have broken something. Or blown us up. There were bottles of diethyl ether in one of these, remember.”

The finest particles of dust sprinkled into Delta’s sinuses. While he wasn’t strictly allergic, there were large enough quantities down here to make his nose itch. Turning away toward shadow, he lifted the collar of his shirt to scrub his nostrils and septum. It was far cleaner than his hands at this point.

“Relax, boy scout,” Rho griped, picking their way back down their precarious stairway. “I checked the label first. I’m not an idiot.”

Debatable, but as usual, Delta refrained from remarking that aloud.

Rho clambered to the floor and cracked open the box. From it, they fished out a moth-eaten wig that might have at one time been blonde. With glee, they announced, “Disguises!”

Specks danced in the yellowed light, and Delta wrinkled his nose at the reminder of all the similar specks floating around in his nasal passages. He’d been breathing this filth for nearly a week. Every night he blew his nose and cringed at the color it yielded.

Someone did a terrible job of storing these, he thought, watching Rho unearth garments reduced to rags. It made his skin crawl to think about wearing something like that, seeing the state of it. “Rho…”

He shouldn’t have said anything. They clocked the tone of his voice, his reluctance to get anywhere near the clothes, and became infinitely more interested in him than any treasure they could find in the box. From its depths they unraveled a decaying knitted cardigan, discolored with age and caked in dust. 

“Aw, Delta, don’t you wanna try one on? It would really fit your ‘suburb dad’ aesthetic.”

“I’ll pass,” he said, tensed to run if they came after him with it. Delta would have assumed his fellow trainee was above such buffoonery, if he wasn’t already a victim of one such prank — the prank that landed them here, no less. 

Rho slowly stood, dangling the cardigan with a look of pure delight. Bits of debris fluffed off of it and drifted to the floor.

“Rho.” He held up a hand, like he might use to caution an overly rambunctious dog ready to steamroll him. “Whatever you’re about to do, don’t-”

Cackling, Rho leapt for him, and the chase was on. The result was a complete disaster. They knocked over boxes, disordered their completed piles, kicked up a monstrous amount of filth, and in the end Delta lost track of Rho in the gloom and got lassoed by the cardigan.

It didn’t hurt, given the softness of the garment, but it did foof a revolting amount of dust into his face. The surprise attack, regrettably, made him breathe in. He kept his mouth shut, but that meant the air had only one place to go: Delta sucked up a noseful. Deep.

The sensation made him cough, and he flung the cardigan to the floor before he could afflict himself further. He felt the hazy touch of the powder farther up than any irritant should be permitted to go. His nostrils ticked irregularly, aware of a ticklish invasion and uncomfortable with it. His watering eyes welled shut.

“h-h-H-” He hitched helplessly, unable to stop, and reached up to pinch his nose just before the sneeze could crest. “-hpt!” It was a pulse of sound, tightly contained, and it rebounded immediately. “-nhPT!..-huh..” 

He cracked his eyes open, blinking through tears, stomach sinking with the knowledge that he wouldn’t get any of this out of his nose if he kept stifling. His nostrils fought him, twitching against his fingers in rebellion as he paced his breath carefully through parted lips.

Rho strolled up and fetched the cardigan off the ground. “Dude, did you actually snort dust off this thing?”

Yes, he did. He could feel it. Even without air, the debris stuck to sensitive nasal membranes and teased the urge to sneeze right out of him. He kept an iron grip on his nose even as his eyelids fluttered shut yet again. Gritting his teeth, he shook in place with a “-NDT!..hh..” and then a more desperate “..h-hH-NDTch!”

“Do you always sneeze like that?” asked Rho, very unhelpfully. Delta ignored them and began digging around his pants pockets with his free hand. “Why do you hold them in? I just let mine rip.”

I’m not surprised, he thought. It would be very in character for Rho to sneeze willy-nilly with no regard for volume or personal space. Delta, on the other hand, preferred discretion. In most circumstances he could manage this with resounding success, but inhaling a cardigan’s worth of dust straight into his sinuses was not most circumstances.

Panicked by the onslaught, his nose decreed anarchy. Rapidly accumulating moisture was dammed only by the pinch of his nostrils. Worse, flushing out the irritants triggered a desperate need to sneeze. And worse still, of course his handkerchief was in the one pocket he couldn’t reach. Weighing the risks, there was only one choice:

He switched hands. 

In the split second he let go of his nose, his nostrils flew wide. His expression collapsed entirely, weak to the urge, and while he was well-practiced in stifling he was abysmal at holding back entirely. There was no way he could stop it. Spinning away from Rho, he made the rookie mistake of letting his lungs loudly inflate — “huUH!” — and his subsequent attempt at damage control was poorly executed. “GXKT’shuh!”

It was nasal. And squelched. And productive. This is why he carried a handkerchief. His respiratory system seemed a little stunned after that one, buying him time to gather the soft cloth up to his face. Loathe as he was to do this in front of company, there was no alternative. Delta took a big breath, prepared to blow, and was blindsided by a sneeze that was waiting for ammo. It tingled down the length of his nose with no preamble and all he had time to do was smother himself with the handkerchief as he jerked into it.

“WHFFhhuh!” He didn’t have a particularly effective sneeze, so often one wasn’t enough to satisfy. Delta didn’t dare breathe, just let the feeling recede and build. “WHFF!..” .. Recede, and build. “WHHFF-!..” Recede, and build, and build-.. “h-h-WHFFSSshuh!”

Behind him, Rho whistled. Delta, through great mental fortitude, ignored them and carefully blew his nose. 

Doing it too strenuously popped his ears (sensitive eustachian tubes), so he took his time. First the left, then the right, then both, and after indulgently itching his nostrils with the fabric he performed a test sniff. There was nothing left to blow out, but he still felt a twinge of something fluttering up there.

He balled up his handkerchief into a fist. Straightened his shirt. Turned on his heel with a forced smile. “You’ll have to excuse me, I.. what?”

Rho was just standing there, idly twisting the cardigan with their fingers, staring at him. Delta peered at them in the darkness.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” they chuckled. They tried and failed not to smile. Shuffling on their feet, they tossed an awkward wave in his direction. “You’re just.. so proper. It’s cute.”

The words lit something in his chest, warm like a campfire, and Delta couldn’t think of a reply. His mind was blank. All he could think about was their smile, and how it looked against the soft light and shadow of this quiet, private place under the floorboards.

“And sorry about this,” they said, brandishing the cardigan. To their credit, they did seem genuinely contrite. “I didn’t know you were gonna snort it.”

“Neither did I,” he muttered. He sniffed at the memory, and instantly regretted it when that lagging tickle twitched high in his sinuses. It snagged his breath in little sips, a staggered “h-huh-” that brought the handkerchief back to hover just over his nose. 

When the sensation stalled, rather than be caught unaware he breathed deeply and purposefully through flared nostrils. The tickle waved wildly, a flag in a storm, and he pinched through the cloth. “-hpxT!uh..”

“Hah. Bless you.”

He waited, uncertain if he was done, before letting out his breath on a long sigh with another mindful wipe of his nose. “Thangk you.”

“.. Are you mad?”

Normally, Delta would insist no, of course not. But when he caught Rho’s playful gaze, the mischievous twinkle in their eyes visible even here in the dark, he found he couldn’t. He wanted to be honest.

“A little,” he admitted, and watched their grin grow like they were proud of it. Lifting his chin, he indicated the mess of boxes they’d knocked over in their chase. “And to make it up to me you’re going to fix all this.”

Rho groaned, performative and dramatic, dragging their feet and bemoaning their plight as they wallowed through the task. But as Delta endured their theatrics, intermittently sniffling and scrubbing his nose, he couldn’t deny he was a little endeared by them too.

--- 3. 🪶🪶🪶

Because they were the two freshest faces on the force, Delta spent unavoidable and copious amounts of time with Rho. He regarded his relationship with his fellow trainee first as a necessary evil, and then after some weeks, as an advantageous professional partnership. 

It didn’t cross his mind that it could become more. Not until one deceptively typical afternoon.

It was meant to be a straightforward covert ops simulation: Rho would attend a social event and extract information from a target. They would then relay that information to Delta, who was quietly infiltrating the property from an alternate entrance. Little did they know the lesson was actually about adaptation under high pressure circumstances — unexpected problems arose immediately, and came to a climax once Delta was inside the building. 

His comms cut out and enforcements were waiting. Guards overwhelmed him. They cuffed his hands behind his back, zip tied his ankles, gagged him with duct tape, and bound him with rope to a wooden chair. Then they left him there.

It took less than fifteen minutes for Rho to find him.

“Oh my god, seriously?” they hissed, reaching under their skirt to snatch the pocketknife taped to their thigh. “This is where you’ve been?”

Delta made noise through the gag, but Rho ignored him in favor of slicing the ropes and zip ties. They took advantage of his silence to complain.

“Wasted all that time this morning lecturing me about discretion and then you go and get yourself caught by Lambda and his goons. You’re so lame.”

I’m lame? Delta muffled through the tape, eyeing them up and down. They were in faux leather boots and a cheap flapper dress, complete with an old hollywood feather hat and boa. Rho narrowed their eyes at him.

“It was a costume party, you ding dong.” They paused and raised a brow with a little smirk, mirroring his once-over with a wink. “You know, you don’t look so bad yourself, all tied up.”

This wasn’t the first time they’d bantered with him like this, and Delta willed himself not to blush. Rho was just trying to get a rise out of him. They always were.

Sound broke the tension. Commotion from downstairs. Drumming footsteps. Guards. 

In the time Delta had been held hostage, he’d scanned his surroundings and prepared for this eventuality. Humming to get Rho’s attention, he nodded toward the wall across the room. They followed his gaze, then nodded in turn. Delta stood at the same time Rho grabbed his chair. With a grunt, they threw it with all their might at a nearby window. It crashed through the glass, and the thunder of footsteps doubled. Delta jogged for the wall. Rho joined at his heels.

This was an old building, built sturdily but worn down by training exercises involving physical altercations and at times heavy artillery. Between two wooden boards was a loose nail, a natural hinge that could swing aside and allow passage. Since Delta’s hands were still cuffed, Rho eased it open and carefully replaced it once they got inside the wall. It was a very tight fit, the two of them caged by crusty wood and the smell of mildew. Rho was crushed against him. Their bodies pressed from knee to neck.

The plan worked for a little while. Rho’s distraction with the window prompted forces to split off and investigate. Agent Lambda barked orders, demanding every nook and cranny of the room be searched. Rho and Delta stood sightless in the cramped dark. It would be a waiting game.

Which sounded easy, until Delta breathed in. It was then that he realized Rho’s stupid disguise was an issue. The feathers of their boa fluttered around his nostrils. Some of the tiniest, lightest wisps curled just inside. 

He snorted in reflex. Rho jabbed him in the stomach, a warning. Delta couldn’t lift his head because of the support beam above him. Breathing through his mouth wasn’t possible through the gag. His swimmer’s lungs could hold breath for a couple minutes at a time, but it wasn’t a sustainable strategy. Eventually, he had to breathe again. And when he did, the feathers wavered.

By the third breath they ventured deeper, and by the fifth they felt stuck there. Even the exhales were torture, dragging the fibers down the length of his nasal membranes only to bring them back up on the inhale. His breath began to tremble, faster in and out, and it hastened the need to sneeze. He struggled to keep his eyes open. His chest jumped with another sniff, swiftly becoming a sniffle as his nose started to run in attempts to soothe the itch.

Rho clocked the problem just as Delta filled his lungs with air, filled his nose with feathers, with one long, shaky sniff. Then — “xxT!!hhh..”

Hands free and gagged, it was the best he could do. But not good enough. Rho pinching his hip only delayed the inevitable. He sniffled fitfully, tiny little puffs of air that aggravated the feathers and teased his nose.

“-mxXT!sh..” When the feathers remained inside, still stroking away to the rhythm of his breath, he flinched from the assault. “mGXT’!!sh-..” Not done. It tickled too much, it-.. “GXTish’NN!”

His blood flashed cold in his veins. There had been a touch of voice in that last one, enough that Rho froze beside him. Beyond the wall, activity shifted attention. Closer than before. Delta held his breath in an attempt to waylay any further urges, but a bead of moisture coasted down the length of his nasal passage and tickled nearly as much as the feathers did. He snuffled reflexively, stimulated the feathers which in turn stimulated him, gently but powerfully, compounding that growing pressure deep in his nose.

Oh no, oh no, chanted his panicked inner monologue. At every disadvantage, this next sneeze wouldn’t be quiet. No hands. No means to duck his head to muffle it. His eyes began to roll shut. His nostrils flared round. No-!

Fingers pinched his nose in a firm grip. Delta spared a second to register the touch before he shook in place with a suppressed mpt! that stayed bottled up in his chest. His nostrils flexed against their binds, just as his wrists chaffed against the cuffs. The feathers remained trapped in his nose. 

Unable to breathe and tense from the proximity of Rho’s hand on his face, Delta hovered in a sneezy limbo. He still felt he had to sneeze, a silent alarm flashing at the back of his mind. Sweat stung his eyes. Seconds ticked by — he counted to 78 before the sounds of rustling in the room dimmed, and was over 100 when his lungs started to burn. All the while, his nose unbearably itched. 

Around 110, Rho finally let go. 

Oxygen took precedence over everything else; he snuffled up a deep breath. The feathers shivered inside him, and he shivered in reply. His exhale was a sneeze. “MPXT!!shnn!”

It was entirely through his nose, and he was too dazed to be embarrassed by it. Delta panted through sniffles, cringing through the torture of it but unable to stop with his lungs starved. He was breathing his way up to another big release when Rho ripped the tape off his mouth. Pain grappled briefly with reflex. Jaw dropping open, blinking glassily, nostrils twitching restlessly, Delta finally gasped.

“HEHshuh!!”

Miserably uncontrolled and completely uncovered. Vigorous enough that a bit of sawdust trickled down around them. Heat erupted across his cheeks and down his neck. He tried to jerk a hand up to his nose, but forgot he was still cuffed. He could do nothing but sniffle, which did nothing but tickle, and soon enough he was tripping his way through another hitching buildup.

“..uh-hh!.. HEH-xxstchh!”

At this point, trying to stifle was almost louder than just letting them come naturally. Movement drew his attention, and he was barely able to open his eyes before the feathers slithered out of his nose. It snagged his breath with another desperate need to sneeze, but without further stimulation, the urge festered. He was trapped in its embrace for a solid few seconds, long enough to be led out from their hideaway and into the open air of the room. 

“hh-.. HAHksschh!”

It burst out of him, exclamatory, and while not terribly loud it still made him wince. At the very least, it finally took care of the itch. Something soft touched his face and he leaned away, squinting open wet eyes to find Rho there holding his handkerchief. They must have snuck it out of his tactical belt. They clicked their tongue at him.

“Just hold still, dude,” they said, taking hold of his chin. There was a smile tugging at the corner of their mouth. “You’re kind of a mess.”

Delta was sure Rho could feel the furious blush blazing under his skin. Could hear how hard his heart was pounding as they carefully wiped his nose. His stomach swirled with a mix of mortification and disbelief, but underneath that was a desperate yearning. Something unspeakable. He swallowed down the nonsense that threatened to burst out of him.

They polished off his nose with a gentle pinch and slipped the handkerchief back into his pouch. It felt even more intimate, somehow, to feel them tug on the zipper. Rho moved behind him to start picking the lock on the cuffs, and he cleared his throat, at a loss of what to say other than, “I’m.. sorry about that. Thank you.”

“No worries,” they said, their voice drifting up to his ears as he stared at the shattered glass on the floor. When they spoke again, their voice was quiet, nearly a whisper. “What are friends for, right?”

It should have been a relief, but it wasn’t.

“Right,” he agreed, his heart sinking. “Friends.”

--- 4. 💧💧💧

It took months to admit it, but Delta realized he didn’t want to be friends with Rho. He wanted something else, and didn’t know how to ask for it. Didn’t know if they wanted it too.

Sometimes, he wondered. Every time they reached into his back pocket to fish something out for him. Each article of clothing they “borrowed” without any intention of returning to him. How close they stood to him. How much they smiled at him. When they called him a doof or shoved him or (once when they were a little drunk) jumped on his back demanding to be carried. These things made him wonder, but he couldn’t be sure, and it would be selfish to ask for more than what he already had.

All that said, it was extremely difficult to remember this when Rho was wearing a bikini.

That morning, Agent Lambda told his junior agents to grab their swim gear and report to the campus pool. It wasn’t unusual. They both regularly exercised here, practiced scuba diving here, and once performed an emergency simulation of escaping a car while it sank beneath the water. They did all this in regulation, full coverage swimskin bathing suits. Like the one Delta was wearing right now, where he stood stiffly at the edge of the pool with his goggles and towel.

He knew diddly squat about bikinis. In fact, he didn’t know much of anything right now. All he knew was that Rho looked stunning in emerald green, and the delicate, fiddly strings that kept the garment attached lacked structural integrity. The suit accentuated the jagged angles of their body, the flat slope of their chest, the curve of their hips…

Delta found something interesting on the ceiling to look at instead.

Agent Lambda lifted his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose with a long, defeated sigh. “Rho. Why?”

“Couldn’t find my other suit, boss. Was either this or nothing at all.”

Delta swallowed, throat dry. They’re joking. Of course they’re joking. They’d never show up without clothes on..

Lambda, as always, tried to usher past Rho’s shenanigans. “Just get in the damn pool. And if that thing comes off, I’m writing you up.”

“C’mon, Agent Lambda,” Rho sounded imperious. Delta could imagine them cocking a hip, smirking as they said, “Isn’t that a little unfair?”

“Nope. I’d write up Delta too if he showed up in a speedo and gave us an eyefull-”

“Sir!” Delta cheeped, mortified. Lambda continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“-not that he ever would, since he’s the good kid. Now, both of you, in. Surprise endurance inspection.”

Delta got in the pool, grateful it was a little cold. He needed it, after that exchange. He took his time stretching, breathing, clearing his mind, and preparing himself for a rigorous swim. Endurance tests weren’t easy, especially with Lambda, who tended to push his trainees until they were on the verge of collapse.

“Feeling strong today, dude?”

He glanced to his left, and the sight of Rho in a wet bikini was much worse than a dry one. They’d left their hair down too, hanging limp and dripping around their cheeks and in their eyes. They reached up to push strands out of the way; Delta followed the length of their arm with his eyes. Water skated down their skin, back into the pool where he could see the wobbly outline of their body.

“Del?”

His head snapped up, aware he’d been staring and desperate to pretend he hadn’t been. “No!.. Er, I mean, yes. You’re looking great. Feeling great. Me, I’m feeling. Strong, I mean. Yes.”

It was a miracle he was doing this well, honestly, so he tried not to berate himself for sounding utterly imbecilic. Rho didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his response pleased them. He could tell because they chewed the corner of their lip into half a smile. 

“Good, because I’m gonna give you a run for your money, Mr. Navy Man.”

You already are, he thought, staring at their forehead to keep his eyes from wandering. I’ve been running.

Lambda blew his whistle. “Line up, kids,” he said, and continued as his trainees got into position. “Catch-up drills. 50 meters, four sets. 15 seconds rest. Go.”

Gradually they fell into the rhythm of the drills. The warm-up transitioned into a grueling main set. Swimming taxed the entire body — muscles burning, heart pounding, head throbbing, Delta focused on nothing but the next sprint. Lambda stepped out halfway to take a call, probably from another agent. During a rest, arms resting on the side of the pool as Delta tried in vain to catch his breath, Rho swam up beside him.

“What set are you on?” they gasped.

“Five,” he gasped back.

“Shit.” Rho splashed him, and he turned his head to avoid the spray. “How are you always faster than me?”

“Some might call it skill,” he teased, and watched the way the water lifted the fine strands of their hair when they sank beneath it. Beautiful. 

Rho popped back up for an attempt at a surprise splash. He caught their hands, grinning. They grinned back. Shortly after that, training devolved into a splash fight and eventually a chase. 

Underwater, Rho was otherworldly. Their hair danced around their shoulders and cheeks, long limbs graceful as they kicked and dug their way forward. Delta took it slow, in no hurry to end it, and only a little ashamed as he dragged his gaze over every inch of their body. They glanced back at him then, and whatever they saw on his face drove their teeth to their lower lip. Curved their gorgeous lips into a smile. Little bubbles escaped their nose and floated to the surface. 

Something in him, bowing for weeks under pressure, snapped.

Delta sped up. Swimming seriously now, he caught them by the ankle. Rho didn’t try to shake him free, a challenge in their storm-grey eyes. He passed hand over hand up the length of their leg to hook his palm around their waist and pull them close. But he missed, and snagged one of those fiddly little strings by mistake. 

Momentum tore it clean off, and then Rho was bare from the waist down.

They glanced back at him in shock. Delta stared back helplessly, still holding the bikini bottoms, until reality slammed into him like a train. He sucked in a sharp breath — a terrible thing to do while under water. Liquid poured into his airways. He broke the surface spluttering, chest aching, sinuses on fire, blind and deaf to everything but the instinctive urge to cough himself dry.

Rho popped up moments later to escort him to the wall, latching his hand to the edge so he could hang there and hack up a lung. They gave him some patronizing pats on the back. “Isn’t not breathing water, like, the first thing they teach you in the Navy?”

He couldn’t breathe well enough to reply. All he could feel, besides the burn of chlorine through his nostrils and throat, was the weight of their fingers ghosting up and down the line of his back. He wished his suit wasn’t in the way. Through streaming tears, he caught sight of their soft expression. Something fond. Something real. Involuntarily, he choked and snorted water from his nose.

Rho laughed at him, smoothing their hand up his neck and into his wet hair to scrub their fingers through it. “You’re the uncoolest guy I’ve ever met.”

Is that a bad thing? he wanted to ask, but the wicked burn in his sinuses stole his breath away. Another sniffle confirmed there was still water in there, strongly and chemically scented, and starting to tickle. Tightly and hoarsely, he said, “I’mb so sorry, I-.. thatd was uh-hh!”

The sneeze surged while his guard was down, weak and lightheaded from coughing so much. “-xXTssh!” Habit saved him, and he was able to lift a hand out of the water to cradle his nose, waiting for the rest as he battled to speak. “Was ad accide-hhXT!uh.. accidendt.” He sniffled thickly, wincing from the sting, and convulsed again. “EXTsch!”

Rho slanted him a smirk and pushed some of his hair off his forehead, arranging it how they wanted. He let them. 

“I know.” Heedless of his sneezing, they trailed their hand down the side of his head to his cheek. It was a spot of striking warmth against the tepid water. “You’re not the kind of person who’d do that on purpose.”

He sipped in a breath behind his hand, trying in vain to hold their gaze. Usually chlorine didn’t bother him, but then again, he didn’t usually snort it up his nasal cavity. His eyes folded shut as the prickling intensified. Their thumb brushed the edge of one twitching nostril. It flared wide, and he ducked his head to crush his nose in a firm grip.

“-ept!.. hdt!uh- h’NT!..huh..” A one, two, three punch — dizzying, when he was already winded. 

“Bless, bless, bless,” Rho chuckled, and patted his cheek for his attention. When he looked, they nodded toward his other hand. Trapped in his grip where he clung to the pool edge was Rho’s bikini bottoms.

Overwhelmed, Delta spoke his mind: “Oh. Fuck.”

At this Rho broke into laughter that echoed in the room. Through a confusing miasma of arousal and chagrin, Delta felt proud to be the source of it. They got control of themself and pinched his cheek, wrinkling their nose with the force of their smile.

“Didn’t know you knew such a naughty word, boy scout.”

He passed over their bathing suit, staring carefully at the pool wall as they let go of him to shimmy back into the garment and tie the strings. What if I offered to help? he thought, and then mentally slapped himself. That’s insane. What is wrong with me?

Stuck in his thoughts, he didn’t notice another sneeze creeping up on him until the tickle flared like a flash bomb. He snapped his head down with a splash of water when it leapt out of him. “HEHShh!!”

Rho jumped, treading water and still fussing with bikini strings. “Whoa, bless you!”

“Oy!” barked Lambda. They jumped apart from one another as their superior marched up to the edge of the pool, eyes narrowed, a stern frown beneath his bushy mustache. “If you’ve got the energy to chat, you’ve got the energy to swim. Start over. 10 sets. Go.”

The agent blew his whistle, a shrill scream of fury, and Delta took off from the wall. He glanced back over his shoulder at Rho, mouthing off to Lambda as they tried to finish tying their bikini, and wondered what might have happened if they had the pool all to themselves.

--- 5. 🤧🤧🤧

Under only two specific circumstances would Delta allow himself to sneeze freely:

When afflicted by his allergies — the sneezes would come hard, fast, harsh, and in such numbers that eventually he’d become exhausted trying to suppress them.

When he was ill — he suffered from extreme congestion that clogged his ears and sinuses, to the point that it was painful to do anything but sneeze uninhibited.

He took great care to avoid both, but over a year into the agency program, one finally got him. 

It started as an itch in his throat that crept to the back of his nose, where it now lived. Like all his colds did, it pounded pressure against his ear drums and seeped into the sensitive spaces beneath his eyes. Doctors said it was those damn eustachian tubes, making him prone to ear infections or sinus infections and often turning one into the other if he wasn’t careful. Colds made him miserable. He couldn’t work through them, and hated to be seen struggling with one when so many people could carry on as if they didn’t notice they were sick.

So when he woke up with aching ears and a throbbing headache, Delta called in a landmark occasion: a sick day. 

Agent Lambda, floored by the news, asked him if he needed anything. Delta would rather eat literal garbage than allow his superior officer within a mile of him when he wasn’t well. He declined, and he suffered silently for the better part of a day, until somebody broke into his apartment.

“I’m not breaking in, Del, you gave me a key,” Rho tutted, unloading an armful of groceries onto the kitchen counter. They wore sweatpants and one of his own hoodies, made of washed-worn cotton and stamped with a naval emblem. “Say thank you like a normal person.”

“Thagk you..” Delta refused to retreat and lock himself in his bedroom like a coward, so he stayed standing in his fuzzy socks and wool sweater, arms crossed, locking his muscles so he didn’t shiver. At the risk of being rude, he mumbled, “You cad just leave it there ad go.”

Rho guffawed. “Yeah, nice try. I’m not going anywhere.” 

They dumped everything haphazardly out of the bags, and while Delta twitched with the urge to organize it, he didn’t want to get anywhere near them. He couldn’t breathe at all through his nose, but still his itchy sinuses managed to drag him kicking and screaming toward a sneeze. It built slowly, infinitely, bigger and bigger. He hitched each time like it would come, even as it continued to grow.

“..hh.. hhuh-..” Delta lifted a hand to hover at the tip of his nose. “.. uhh-hh.. hHH!” He remembered at the last minute not to pinch, and flinched for his elbow. “EHTSShhuu!”

“Ooh, big sneeze!” chirped Rho.

It swung a hammer to his ears and head — a pulse of pain that dimmed as soon as it appeared. Barely to breathe, contending with inner ear troubles, Delta was so grateful he wasn’t prone to multiples when he was sick. He blinked open swollen eyes to find Rho much closer than he last saw them; they stood in front of him, reaching for his face. 

Delta deflected their hand with a forearm. “You deed to go,” he croaked. “You’ll get sick.”

They melted into a syrupy smile. “Mmm, well, you better buckle up for a hell of a needy patient. I’m talking five-star meals, hot stone massages, wrapping me up in blankets, waiting on me hand and foot...” They looked him up and down. “I know you’re into that shit.”

Already flushed with a low-grade fever, maybe Rho wouldn’t notice him blushing. He covered his face anyway. “... Shud up.”

With some heavy-handed coaxing and man-handling, Rho corralled him to the couch and got him bundled up in a quilt. They shoved a thermometer under his tongue before he could protest. They moved around his apartment with confidence, muttering as they slammed cupboards and checked the fridge; they’d been here before, usually just before or just after training sessions. It was the first time they’d visited for a reason outside of work.

He closed his eyes and breathed quietly through his mouth. Suddenly, there was beeping. The thermometer slipped from his lips. “Mmm,” Rho hummed, assessing. “Not great, but could be worse. How are you feeling?”

Horrible. 

The relentless post-nasal drip was a barbed coating all the way down his throat. His sinuses were so tender it hurt to blow his nose. His ears were muffled, impossible to pop no matter what he did. He’d been floating in a disconnected haze since he woke up, lonely and miserable, wishing as he always did that somebody was here to take care of him. Now that someone was, he had no idea what to do. Couldn’t make himself say it.

In the silence, Rho crouched to sit on the coffee table across from him. They cupped his cheek and brushed a thumb over the puffy skin beneath his eye, pausing when he winced. “Hey,” they said. Their voice sounded muted and so far away. They skimmed their hand up to cradle the side of his head instead, and he opened his eyes. 

Rho was right there in front of him. With him. “It’s okay,” they said. “You can tell me.”

Delta trembled through a thick swallow. Hesitantly, he leaned into their hand. “I feel awful.”

Rho made a noise of sympathy. They scrubbed long, clever fingers through his unkempt heir. “We’ll have to do something about that, then.”

We. Such a small word shouldn’t reassure him so much. They kept petting him, and Delta kept letting them. It might have gone on all afternoon if he hadn’t felt the twinge in his nose. He felt it coming a mile away — a compounding, tickling necessity to which he’d have to submit. Aching and weak, his sinuses could only occasionally muster the strength for defense measures. Because of this, the sneeze was loaded like a trebuchet. Laboriously. Impatiently.

Delta slowly leaned away as his expression weakened. The sensation waxed and waned for long seconds, gathering its strength. He dragged preparatory breaths into his diaphragm, unable to fully exhale before another lancing tickle made him hitch to another high.

“..uhh..” He wrapped the quilt over one hand. “..h-huh..” Lifted his elbow to hover just in front of his trembling nose. His nostrils flexed and held wide. “..hUHH-” Delta sat back, certain it was coming, and blinked teary eyes open when it didn’t come right away. It smoldered, holding him frozen in expectation, before swinging out of him with force.

“HEHDZSShhuu!”

Pain thumped through his head and he groaned, cradling his forehead in one hand. He only looked up when Rho tapped his shoulder to offer him tissues. Delta shook his head, exhausted at the idea of it. Blowing at this stage never yielded results and always hurt. Rho gave him a grimacing smile.

“Yeahhh, trust me, you need them.”

A twitch of his nose alerted him to the slick feeling on his upper lip, and Delta snatched the tissues with more energy than he’d had all day. His nose was so stuffy he couldn’t even feel it when it started to run. That was so embarrassing.

“Ugh, sorry,” he groaned, pinch-wiping his nose until it felt dry. “That was gross.”

“Don’t sweat it, you’re sick,” Rho replied with another couple pets through his hair. They liked doing that, he noticed. “And BLESS you, that was huge. Can’t hold ‘em in today, huh?”

“Ndo,” he sighed. He demonstrated with a sniffle that did absolutely nothing. Just made him direct a couple coughs toward his lap. “Hurts.”

Rho crooned at him, prompting a flush to spread to his ears as they joined him on the couch to hug him close. “Ohh, poor thing. We’ll fix it.”

We. It shot fire through him. Lit him up with a terrifying sort of hope he wanted to ignore but couldn’t. His hands shook as he clutched the tissue tight between them. Then Delta leaned back to look them in the eye. “You.. don’d have to.”

Still with their arms draped loosely over his shoulders, Rho blinked at him. No grins or smirks this time. Just a soft question: “What if I want to?”

Delta’s gaze dipped to their mouth to watch them ask it. It’s okay, they’d said to him. You can tell me. Words he’d guarded for months poured from his heart and past his lips before he could stop them.

“What if I want you to want to?”

Rho bit their lip, a smile slowly growing. Their arms snaked tighter around his neck. Rho’s face got closer and closer as their undertow dragged him off the safety of the shore. “Then I guess we both want the same thing.”

We.

Delta took the plunge. Cast aside the doubt, the fear, and dove headfirst into the tide. He closed the distance and pressed his lips to theirs. Rho tugged him down, down, down into the depths. Tongue in their mouth. Fingers through their silky hair. Their body underneath him as he pressed into the couch. Rho’s nails dug into his back, pricking like electricity. Their legs wrapped around him like a vice. The breath from their nose puffed across his face as they both gradually lost their breath — well, no, it was just Delta actually.

He broke free of the kiss with a gasp. His heart was pounding in his ears. It felt like the room was spinning as he blinked spots from his eyes. He hadn’t been able to breathe at all, but hadn’t wanted to stop. Rho peppered little kisses across his jaw. They said something, their voice just a droning noise as the pressure in his ears shifted.

“Sorry, whad?” he panted. He squinted down at them, trying to focus.

“I said, let’s raincheck,” they repeated. They ran both hands over his trembling shoulders, soothing and reassuring. “We’ll pick this up again when you’re feeling better, yeah?”

Delta willed down the childish urge to throw a tantrum over this. He’d been dreaming about it for ages, and now they had to stop because he couldn’t breathe through his nose. Completely unfair. He dropped his forehead to their chest with a sigh, and Rho chuckled. They wrapped all four limbs around him to hug him close.

“You know I’m right.”

He nodded, still breathing heavily. As minutes ticked by, they arranged themselves into a more comfortable position. Rho hiked up to the edge of the couch while Delta stayed limp between their legs with his head pillowed on their stomach. He drifted to cool hands scritching his scalp and might have fallen asleep entirely if not for the slow dawning urge to sneeze.

It took so long to come that he didn’t bother moving. His nose prickled uncertainly, an undulating sensation that echoed from no specific location. Rho paused when they felt the first of many snags in his breath. Eventually he propped his elbows on either side of their legs to pick his head up and wait. Rho watched him with a little smile.

“Do they always take this long?”

“Whed I’b sick, yehhHH..” Delta gasped through a surge, nostrils twitch-twitching at the powerful sensation. But then he let it out on a groan when it didn’t commit. “.. ungh, yes.”

Rho leaned over to snatch a few tissues from the box and passed them over. He arranged them in the prayer of his hands as he blinked through breath-catching hitches, eyelids fluttering and lips trembling. When it finally did come, he hitched up to the peak — “huhh-uUH-HHH!” — and dangled there for what felt like eons before the rush of sensation washed through him.

“HAHDZSSSHhuh!”

He shook himself, Rho, and the couch with the violence of it, and it was a sucker punch to his sore system. There was a worrisome second when his nose prickled and he feared he might do it again, but the feeling died off as he rubbed his nose to stillness with the tissues.

“Gosh, sorry,” he coughed, piling the tissue with the others on the edge of the table. “Thad was loud.”

“You’re fine, bless you,” Rho said, watching him cringe and wince his way through a sniffle. With a pat to his head, they declared, “All right, let me up. It’s time to get you on the mend.”

Delta flopped down on top of them before they could make much progress, and stayed dead weight even as they started huffing and shoving. “This is actually helpi’g a lot. Mbaybe you should just stay here.”

“Solid strategy, but I’m not falling for it,” Rho grunted, wiggling under him. Clearly they didn’t want to be rough while he was sick. Delta was betting on it, since they weren’t going to make much progress without shoving him off the couch.

And even after several minutes when they actually did push him onto the floor, Delta laid there on the carpet while Rho stomped off to the kitchen and thought to himself: Worth it.

--- +1 💊💊💊

The following Sunday, Delta tried to stir soup without spilling. The limpet attached to his back was making it difficult. For as weak as they claimed to be, Rho’s arms were iron bands around his waist while they scrubbed a tickly nose between his shoulder blades.

“I’b dying,” they bleated in a pitiful voice, laden with congestion and sore from coughing. “I’b dyiggggg…”

“I promise you’re not,” Delta replied, then jolted when they snaked their cold hands up under his shirt and poked him.

“Stop endjoying mby misery, you sadist.”

Delta tongued his cheek to try and stop smiling. He hadn’t stopped since he arrived this morning and Rho met him at the door, draped in a blanket and acting clingy. He couldn’t help it; they were very cute, and as they surmised last week, he adored taking care of people he loved.

.. Liked. He meant liked.

Rho sniffled near his ear and crushed their nose to his back, rubbing back and forth. He could hear the wet state of their nostrils and sighed. “Do you need a tissue?”

“Ndo,” they breathed, then coughed. Delta put the spoon down.

He reached to loop his hands around their wrists and pried their grip just enough to spin around so they were face to face. The red-rims around their eyes, the pink splotch across their damp nose, their unruly bed head — the picture made his heart pinch. 

“You should wipe your nose,” he suggested gently. Rho leaned against him, groaning.

“Too tired,” they whined. “Do it for mbe agaid..”

With a huff, Delta unearthed a handkerchief from his back pocket. This wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that they made this request of him. He tilted their chin up on the tips of his fingers and meticulously blotted the spots beneath their nostrils. When he held the cloth there, they screwed their eyes shut and blew into it. He should find it disgusting, but he couldn’t because it was Rho.

After he finished he pocketed the handkerchief and took a moment to stare. Sometimes it made his stomach flutter just to look at them. Rho looked back, blinking blearily and wrinkling their nose with a sniff. As Delta watched, those lovely eyes fluttered shut. Their sleek lips parted. Their head tilted back by little increments, and then they snapped forward to release — completely uncovered — a patently obnoxious sneeze across his chest.

“EEEYISH’hoooyy!!..”

Delta flinched. It also wasn’t the first time that had happened, but so help him it better be the last because he had to draw the line somewhere. “Rho!”

“Ugh, sorry, whatever, why do you care, I caught this shitty cold fromb you,” they griped, sleeving beneath their nose to wipe up the mess and then latching back onto him before he could get away. They fixed him with a squinty glare. “Ndow, bless mbe.”

After a long and fond battle of wills, he knew he couldn’t deny them. His arms wrapped around them, bringing them back close to his chest. “Bless you,” he murmured into their hair. Rho melted into him with a stuffy sigh.

He squeezed. They squeezed back.

“You could,” Anita replied, gaze never straying from her book, “but if he wakes up to you mother-henning him, he’s going to be pissed.”

“I know,” he sighed, and sat back down on the cushy seat to stare forlornly at the Omicron-shaped pile of blankets through the glass of the balcony doors. “I’m just concerned. He’s been sleeping for ages.”

“He had a long night.”

“He was still feverish when he went to bed.”

“And his fever was down this morning.”

The thermometer read 99°F / 37.2°C when they silently pointed the laser sight at Omicron’s forehead (the only part of him exposed from beneath the sheets) a few hours ago. Elevated, but technically within healthy parameters and much better than the night before. Anita suspected it was the last of the virus exiting his system. 

“I’ve never seen him like that,” Delta muttered, fiddling with his empty coffee mug. “His loss of composure with you on the phone was unexpected, but last night.. last night, he was just so..”

Delta struggled to articulate what Anita could have told him. She’d known Omicron since his first day at the agency, and had seen him through all kinds of illnesses and injuries. He was a notorious handful, but given time the man inevitably crumbled under his own pressure — what lay beneath his prickly defenses was soft, weepy, and sought comfort. It was pure kryptonite for the kind-hearted nurturers of the world. 

Unlucky for Omicron that he’d shown it to Delta, who would (in the most kind-hearted and nurturing way) never let him forget it.

“Well behaved?” Anita finally finished the sentence for him, aiming for tact. “I know what you mean.”

Delta sighed again and braced his elbows to his knees, cradling his head in his hands. “He’s going to give me grey hair.”

Anita sighed back. “He gives everyone grey hair, sir,” she said as she flipped another page of her book. “Still, he’s a professional. You can trust him to know his limits.”

From her periphery she saw Delta eye her dubiously and she couldn’t blame him; on this very assignment he’d neglected to admit to the unintended and compromising side effects of her virus. Well, she’d done what she could to defend his competence. Hopefully he could cobble together the rest of his reputation on his own.

As if summoned by their gossip, a familiar sound drifted to them from the crack in the balcony doors.

“-mmfzsh!”

Muffled by the sheets, but unmistakably the overplayed soundtrack of this mission: Omicron sneezing. If he was sneezing, then he was awake; if he was awake, then unless he was still feeling rotten, he’d be grumpy. Based on her previous experiences, the odds weren’t in their favor. Anita resigned herself to a difficult patient.

“-ehTZSHoo!”

A glance over her shoulder to the room found Omicron with his back to the balcony, bathrobe dipping off one bare shoulder, sitting on the edge of the bed. His head tilted in increments, accompanied by gasps they couldn’t hear, with a helpless, snarling expression they couldn’t see. Or maybe a twitchy smile, as he was prone to nowadays. They all waited as he teetered on the edge of a breath, taunt, before hurling himself over his knees.

“-DZSSCH!..” Wrenching, unrelieved, characteristically harsh for this cold. “..h-..hEH-...EH’BZSSH-!” 

He sniffled wildly, announcing another with an expectant HEH! before his breath whisked away from him uncommitted. Omicron groaned, one of his arms routing to his face. Anita suspected he was bullying his nose with the rough cuff of his bathrobe. The bed creaked as he stood up; both she and Delta quickly turned back around to occupy themselves with the balcony view as shuffling steps carried Omicron further into the room. The bathroom door shut behind him.

During the half hour he spent under steaming hot spray, Anita repeatedly reminded Delta not to immediately smother him and so of course the moment Omicron stepped out on the balcony, hair still damp and nose gleaming pink, the senior agent swooped down on him.

“Agent Omicron!” he crowed in greeting. Anita could see the split-second flash in Omicron’s eyes when he considered diving back into the hotel room to escape, but he was too slow. Delta clapped hands on his shoulders. “The man of the hour! Let me have a look at you. How are you feeling?”

Omicron squinted up at him, as if staring into the sun. “I’m fine, sir.”

To his credit, he did sound better. Congestion weighed down the resonance of his words without impacting his consonants, which indicated inflammation rather than mucus buildup. That boded well for her concerns about a secondary sinus infection. His voice was scratchy, but she put that down to his extracurriculars last night over any complications of his cold.

“Glad to hear it,” came Delta’s warm reply. He scrutinized his junior unabashedly as Omicron stood in an awkward parade rest, averting his eyes and shifting on his feet. “And glad to see it. You look much better than you did last night.”

Predictably, Omicron tensed at the reminder of last night. His jaw tightened. 

“I.. apologize for any unprofessional behavior on my part, sir,” he mumbled, stilted and formal. “I wasn’t.. that is, I didn’t expect the distraction to be so draining and I should have-”

“Omicron.” Delta squeezed his arms, smiling down into Omicron’s eyes with overflowing sympathy. “You have nothing to apologize for. In fact, I am very proud of you for leaning on Dr. Voster and I for support. I know vulnerability is difficult for you, so its significance does not escape me.”

Anita watched Omicron briefly preen from the praise, then get torpedoed by Delta’s ‘vulnerability’ comment. He flushed up to his ears, cheeks glowing as red as his nose when it wrinkled with a scowl. A beat too late he realized his expression and tried to rearrange it into something more appropriately grateful, but Delta only chuckled.

“Come,” he said, turning to nudge Omicron toward the glass-top table awash with a spread of confections and finger-foods they room-serviced earlier. “You can give me your debrief over lunch.”

Anita joined them at the table, treating herself to a helping of pasta salad as Omicron recounted the pertinent details of his reconnaissance last night. He spoke crisply, concisely, efficient and professional as he ever was. As she watched him, however, she noted the occasional glimpses of his lingering cold: breathing covertly through his mouth, clearing his throat occasionally, and most damning, the way he tucked his index finger beneath fluttering nostrils. He seemed to have regained his ability to stave off urges somewhat, which was a good sign. 

When Delta finished sharing the accomplishments of their crypto team and briefly left the table to update HQ on a secure line, Anita shuffled her chair closer to Omicron. He regarded her warily in his periphery.

“How’s your nose doing?”

Omicron sniffled at the reminder, but wasn’t immediately overtaken by that preceding, faraway look. Anita took this as a positive sign, and was further reassured to hear him say, “It still tickles, but not nearly as badly as before.”

She slipped her otoscope from the pocket of her slacks, to his glaring dismay. “Let me see.”

“No!” he squawked, shoulders up to his ears. “I’m eating. Leave me alone.”

“Come on, it’ll only take a second.” She moved toward him, and he leaned away. When she tried again, she met the same resistance. It was like trying to feed a child a spoonful of peas. “Seriously, O?”

Omicron snatched up his salad and stood, making his escape with a snide utterance, “I’ve had enough of you meddling with my nose, thanks so much- mmff!” 

He bumped chest first into an unmovable, smiling Delta standing sentry at the balcony threshold, holding the agency STU as he waited for the line to connect. Thus Omicron was summarily frog-marched back to the table, quietly fuming, and subjected to Anita’s ‘manhandling’ as he would put it.

 She coaxed him to lift his chin as she first checked his glands, then used her otoscope for a peek up his nose. What she saw didn’t surprise her. His membranes were swollen and rashed red with reactivity, the pure definition of irritation. She suspected he’d be recovering from his symptoms for the rest of the week. There was a faint, anxious voice at the back of her mind imploring her to keep an eye on him. Given the unpredictable results of the spray, he might face lingering side effects. A stone sunk in her stomach at the thought.

“Still inflamed,” she confirmed as she leaned away, “but that should reduce by the weekend. I’d like to give you another exam on Monday to make sure you’re over it.”

Omicron scrubbed a finger beneath his nose, lingering against his septum as his eyes narrowed. “You’re making too much of it.”

“Well, apparently I didn’t make enough of it at the start, so excuse me for being thorough.” 

Anita tried not to kick herself for not grounding Omicron after that first powerful sneezing spell the day after his infection. Omicron would get his commendation, Anita got valuable data for her continued bio studies, and neither of them would get more than a slap on the wrist for their carelessness. Still, as she watched Omicron blink in irritation and then in distraction, saw his nostrils flutter against the edge of his finger, heard his breath snag, Anita couldn’t help but feel responsible for it.

He caught her looking at him, sparing her a withering glare as his eyes rolled closed. Cutting his losses with the finger strategy, he instead snatched up a napkin off the table. The urge overwhelmed him before he could use it.

“hck’GIZSShu-!”

His eyelids raised to half-mast, lips still parted as his nostrils pulsed subtly with want of another. It was slow to come, and Anita could only imagine the havoc unfolding in the depths of Omicron’s irritated nose. He shut his eyes to concentrate, the fitful twitches of his nostrils growing more pronounced as he dragged in a watery snuffle to egg it on. His eyebrows pinched together, perhaps in response to what tickled him. Anita thought he might lose it again when suddenly his chest lifted-

“hHI’GZZSSHoo!” Omicron pitched forward into his napkin, tilting his head back after for another cutting gasp, “-hhhH!..KZSSHHOO!-uhghh..”

Omicron braced an elbow on the table’s edge as he massaged his nose through the fabric; an air of tired relief hung around him as he muddled through the clean-up. He blew himself dry, itched his nostrils into submission, and then slumped back in his chair. 

“.. Bless you,” Anita offered. 

Omicron took one look at her and scoffed. “Don’t tell mbe you actually feel guilty about this.”

Anita routed her attention to her meal, pushing food around on her plate. She hadn’t said it in so many words, between all the teasing barbs and their collective focus on the mission, but.. “I’m allowed.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the distant sound of crashing waves. Soft wasn’t really their dynamic, not outside of specific circumstances, so it was a surprise to feel Omicron’s hand rest on top of her own. He stilled her fidgeting, her fork clattering onto her plate when she braved eye contact. He was as serious as he ever was, dark eyes looking brighter in the sunlight before he slanted her a smile. It was a rare expression for him; not entirely gentle but genuine, seldom worn unless he was faking it.

“I’d do it all again, just like this,” he told her. “No regrets.”

“If I’d given you the appropriate dose, you wouldn’t have suffered so much,” she replied quietly.

He snorted, the sound bottled up in his throat from the lingering congestion. His smile grew. “The dose was fine. I’b ndot sure I would’ve endticed Josaline without it. And trust mbe, the only ‘sufferi’g’ I experienced was Delta’s incessant blessings.”

Anita would never admit it because it just wasn’t their style, but his assurances did soothe that fretting voice inside her. Just a little bit. They shared in this soft moment, dragging it out until she felt the self-conscious twitch of Omicron’s fingers over hers and watched him avert his gaze.

Refusing to let him be the first to break the spell, Anita slipped her hand from beneath his own to raise her palm to his forehead, affecting a look of concern. “Are you sure you’re feeling better? You’re being so sweet.”

Omicron’s smile sharpened to a smirk before he dropped it entirely, leaning away from her touch and tucking back into his lunch. “Yes, mby mistake. You’re the worst doctor I’ve ever mbet and I’b suing for mbalpractice.”

“Sorry, what was that? Balpractice?”

Making fun of his stuffy voice was a little below the belt, and Omicron didn’t pull his punches either. He flicked his fork and nailed her in the cheek with a cherry tomato. It got salad dressing on her nice, airy blouse so she snatched up a bread roll with the intention of force feeding it to him when Delta swept back onto the balcony.

“I have great news!” he announced, clapping his hands together and smiling at the two of them. Anita rerouted the roll to her own mouth and ignored Omicron’s smugness. Delta continued, “Headquarters is so pleased with our progress that they’re giving us the rest of the week off. Our resort stay has been extended to the weekend!”

Anita hadn’t had a proper vacation in months, if not over a year, and they could do much worse than an all-star tropical resort. Before she let her excitement get away from her, she clarified, “All expenses paid?”

“Indeed!” chirped Delta.

Omicron was suspicious, as always, and raised an eyebrow over his salad. “.. That’s ndo smball expense. They’re really that happy about the case? It’s ndot like we caught the targets red-handed.”

“No, but we made significant strides for intelligence on this matter,” replied Delta, and then after a moment enduring Omicron’s stare, he sheepishly added, “and I did tell them you needed more time to recover.”

Omicron stood from the table, affronted. “I do ndot!”

Anita tugged him back down to his seat, hissing at him. “If it gets us paid time off at a resort, O, you absolutely do.”

“I’mb the picture of health!” he insisted, glaring between his team members. Anita watched his nostrils flare and he rushed his finger beneath them. He fixed his appeal on Delta, and belatedly remembered to watch his tone. “Sir, I implore you, please indform HQ I’mb ready for mby ndext assignmbent.”

“Omicron,” tutted Delta, hands on his hips. “You need rest. Not only to physically recover, but to take care of your spirit. Emotional wellbeing is just as important. There is more to life than your work. Take this opportunity to relax.”

“But, s-hhir-”

“I won’t repeat myself, agent.”

Caught between his ire and insubordination, Omicron struggled to find an opening. His nose thwarted him before he could achieve any real progress. Once again, his finger trick failed him and he was forced to jerk away from the table with a ticklish,

“-iihTSSHu!”

“Bless you,” said Delta.

Omicron fought to open his eyes, a wet glare just barely out of his reach, before flinching hard enough to rattle his chair. “-iyehDZZSSHoo!”

Delta winced. “Ooh, bless you.”

“hh-..hH’DSSsh!” 

“Bless you!”

“St-hh..” Omicron couldn’t open his eyes, and steadying his voice wasn’t working so well for him either. “Plhheease.. h-HEH!..ugh, please stop siHH!” He grimaced, tickled beyond speech, and trembled through another sneeze. “HIDZZSShoo!”

“Bless you, Omicron,” Delta said, oblivious and aching with sympathy. “I’m sure the sneezing will stop soon. Here, let me get you some tissues, one moment.”

Anita left the two of them to it, Omicron’s helpless sneezing and Delta’s effusive attempts to assist him fading to the background as she cracked open the resort guidebook to plan her vacation itinerary.

✨ THE END ✨