Chapter Text
Two days after they got back from the city, disaster struck.
Eiffel had noticed the dry cough the evening before and chalked it up to allergies, a symptom of the coming spring as the air filled with pollen again. It didn’t feel too dire. He didn’t take any medicine, deciding he’d just ride it out for the next few days.
This had been, he realized as he awoke the morning afterwards, a mistake.
His throat felt scratchy, his sinuses clogged and his head heavy with some indeterminate weight. He tried to lift his head to look for a glass of water on his nightstand, but his body revolted against him almost immediately. His head swam as it sank back down onto his pillow.
Eiffel stared up at the white ceiling for a long time, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he had a body. “Shit,” he finally said, and it sounded distinctly stuffed-up.
Okay, so maybe he’d caught something in the city. It was probably just a cold - or, at least, he hoped it was. Anything more would probably give Hilbert an excuse to come and surveil him, and there was no telling what that guy would end up prescribing him. Eiffel shuddered at the thought, or maybe he was already getting cold flashes.
Almost on cue, he broke out into a coughing fit that sounded like death and then some. He sat up a little bit to make sure he didn’t choke on his own tongue or something, and immediately regretted the movement when the room began to spin around him. Were his colds always this awful? There was something clawing at the inside of his throat and he couldn’t stop coughing. He almost expected blood - tuberculosis, wouldn’t that be hilarious - but eventually the coughing subsided and none came. A very small victory.
Once he had steadied himself with a hand on the wall, Eiffel very slowly reached out his other hand to his nightstand. He groped around for a moment, unwilling to move his head or eyes in case it brought on another bout of motion sickness, until he grasped the cool rectangle of his phone. Cool as in much colder than he felt right now, though it usually never felt like that. Was he running a fever? Well, actually, obviously he was.
He wasn’t sure he could handle speaking to anyone right now, since it might just make him cough more, so he unlocked his phone and went straight to his texts. He considered who he trusted most with the information that he was sick. Not Jacobi or Maxwell. Lovelace might take her sweet time actually getting up here. And even through the brain fog, he knew that he was still hopelessly in love with Hera. She couldn’t see him like this.
He tapped on Minkowski’s name. It took a couple tries before he finally opened the text box.
Doug: minkowski
Doug: minkoeski i think im sock
Doug: skck
Doug: SICK
He blinked a few times at his messages and tried to focus a little harder on his keyboard. Was this a normal cold? He couldn’t tell. His arms were beginning to feel a little bit like jelly when Minkowski replied.
Minkowski: Are you actually sick or is this another time where you say you’re sick to get out of a prior commitment
He frowned.
Doug: minkowski pelase
Doug: im suffering here
Doug: i cant move. can u bring me cough medicinr
Doug: maybe some tea
Minkowski: Okay I believe you. I’ll send Hera up
Eiffel’s eyes went wide, which was the wrong decision because a sharp bolt of pain immediately shot through his head. He typed as quickly as he could, biting down on his lip to keep himself from yowling like an injured cat.
Doug: NO MINKWOSKI!
Doug: do NOT send hera please
Doug: the time for jokes is later. minkowski
Doug: minkowski answer
Minkowski: Too late
He stared at his phone screen in abject horror and began to wonder if maybe the light from the phone was making him hurt more. After a moment, he reached back over to his nightstand and set the phone down, resolving to stare back up at the ceiling where there was no evil virtual light.
A single cough escaped his throat, loud and concerning. He sank back down in his bed, almost shivering. That was a fever symptom, right? He couldn’t quite remember. Minkowski could probably tell him. He should have texted Minkowski, but the light from the phone hurt his eyes. Maybe all light hurt his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on something besides how sick he was.
A short time later - maybe seconds or half an hour, he couldn’t be sure - his door creaked open and he managed to open his eyes, squinting out at the figure who was peering in curiously at him. “Laugh it up,” he rasped. Speaking made his throat itch more, and before he could ask the person at the door what they wanted, he was devolving into another hacking fit again.
“Oh, wow,” Hera’s voice said, though he wasn’t sure if he saw her mouth move or not. She slipped into the room and closed the door behind her, skirting around the bed to stand next to his nightstand. She was holding a mug in one hand and a small plastic cup filled with too-bright liquid in another.
“Hera,” Eiffel said when the coughing had subsided, sitting up a little straighter. He ignored the way his head swam when he did, choosing to focus on the features of her face. Those were comforting and familiar, something to hold onto right now. His voice scratched as he spoke, “Hey, baby. Did,” he coughed again, “did Minkowski put you up to this?”
“Yes,” Hera said haltingly, though he couldn’t understand why. She set down the mug on his nightstand and leaned forward, placing the back of her hand on his forehead. Her hand was cool to the touch, and despite how cold he felt, Eiffel had to keep himself from leaning into it.
She pulled her hand away. “You’re d-definitely running a fever.” Eiffel frowned.
“Just a bit of a cough,” he lied.
“Uh-huh. And your other s-symptoms?” Eiffel suspected if she had glasses on, she’d be giving him a condescending look over the rims right now. Maybe she got that from Maxwell.
He scoffed. “When did you go back for your grad program, Doc Brown?”
“Mmm,” she said, pretending to note something down on a notepad. “Well, it c-can’t be that bad if you’re still referencing B-Back to the Future.”
Eiffel gave her a slow, easy smile, though he doubted he could give her any other kind of smile right now. He nodded towards the nightstand. “What’s in the mug?”
“T-tea. But not before you drink this.” She thrust the plastic cup towards him. It was one of those small medicine dosage cups, the kind that was always filled with the same neon-orange liquid that tasted so bitter it made you forget about coughing.
He sighed and took it from her. “It’s like the world’s worst shot,” he mumbled.
“Come on, Doug. You’ll feel less t-terrible after.”
Unfortunately, and as always, Hera was right. Eiffel took a deep breath for courage, then threw back the medicine. It tasted like rust and chemicals and sugar all at the same time, but it did soothe his throat a little bit. He was at least grateful for that.
Hera took the cup from him and handed him the mug - “C-careful, it’s hot,” she told him seriously - then sat down on the edge of his bed and looked at him. Studied him, actually.
“What?” he asked, between sips of the tea. In contrast to the medicine, it tasted natural and earthy. He considered asking Hera what flavor it was, but he knew that no matter what she said, it wouldn’t make any sense to him. He wasn’t big on tea.
Hera smiled. “Nothing.” She watched him for a few more moments, then added, “You just look awful.”
“Jeez, thanks, Hera.” Eiffel set down the tea on his nightstand and frowned at her. “You really know how to kick a guy when he’s down.” His pillow felt unnaturally soft. He was feeling a little less cold now.
“Sorry, sorry,” she laughed, holding up her hands. “I’m just a little c-concerned.” Her eyes flickered over his face again, something unreadable in her expression between her eyes and in the curves of her mouth.
Eiffel felt drowsy. “You should probably g-get some more sleep,” she advised. It was like she could read his mind.
“You’d tell me if you could read my mind, right, Hera?” he asked. His hands missed the warmth of the mug of tea.
She laughed again, even though it was a serious question. “Sure, Doug. I’d t-tell you.”
Eiffel sank down into his pillow and gave her a small smile. The sun was filtering through his blinds, but the light felt less annoying now, more like a companion than anything. He felt warm and tired, like a small animal that had crawled into a cave in the middle of winter to sleep. It was a nice feeling. I should get sick more often, he thought. He certainly wouldn’t be opposed to more visits from Hera like this, though he suspected he’d feel incredibly self-conscious when he woke up with a clearer head. But she wasn’t judging him; at least, it didn’t seem like she was. She’d seen him at far worse than this and still stuck by him. How wonderful of a human being did she have to be?
“You’re lovely,” he mumbled. He was barely even aware he was saying the words (honestly, he thought he’d just thought them) until Hera reacted, her smile widening. If Eiffel had been at least ten percent more lucid, he would have backpedaled. But not here.
“Get some r-rest, Doug,” Hera said, standing up from the bed. He instantly missed her weight on the mattress, the indication that she was there with him. Sleep pulled temptingly at his eyelids.
Before he could drift off, though, Hera stepped over to his nightstand again. She paused there for long enough that Eiffel almost asked her if she needed anything from him, but just then she leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.
It was a small, short kiss, barely more than a brush of her lips against a spot right before his hairline. It was more of a symbol than anything, Eiffel figured, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. A signal that she cared about him, that she was sorry he was sick, that she hoped he would feel better soon. But it was a kiss nonetheless, a dreamlike one that almost made the world and Eiffel’s fever melt away entirely for a brief moment.
She straightened back up and gave him a small smile, one he barely saw through his rapidly closing eyes. If he felt better and had the courage, he would have gotten up and kissed her back the way he’d wanted to for months. But right now, he wasn’t in any sort of state to do so. He could barely even sort through his feelings and thoughts on what had just happened, much less conjure up a smile for her.
His fever was back. He wanted Hera to kiss him again. Did she mean it in a friend way or not? Where was she going? He wished she would stay.
And, with the afterimage of Hera’s face still burned behind his eyelids, Eiffel fell into a deep, fever-ridden sleep.
And he dreamt. Or maybe it wasn’t a dream, but a memory (the two concepts were very close to each other, anyways).
“Okay, wait,” Eiffel frowned, yanking his earbud out. “How could you say that about Weezer? Have you ever even seen a guitar, Hera?”
She frowned back. “I kn-know what a guitar is.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Hera pulled out her earbud with a sigh, leaning across the aisle to place it on his desk. Here in the very back of their English class, they could get away with just about anything during work time, provided Mrs. Simmons never decided she wanted to get up and walk around the room (which she never did). It wasn’t like they had anything better to be doing, anyways - Hera had already finished her essay, days in advance, and Eiffel was planning on writing it all in the night before the deadline.
The second semester always got tedious about halfway through, especially now that they were in eighth grade and due for high school in just a few months. Eiffel, in particular, didn’t really see a point in doing his work anymore. So he and Hera leapt on any chance to slack off, up to and including digging out his old, nearly broken earbuds and listening to the songs he had downloaded with her.
She was not taking very well to his music taste.
“Well, whatever.” Eiffel leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “What do you even like? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you listen to music. Like, ever.”
Hera gave him a look he didn’t exactly understand. There was something calculating in her eyes, like she was trying to discern if he was worthy enough to hear whatever it was she had on her playlists. Eiffel glanced up to make sure their teacher was still at her desk, and when he looked back at Hera, she was holding out her hand to him.
“Earbuds,” she said, pointing at the cord he still had plugged into his phone.
Eiffel grinned at her. “Alright!” He pulled the connector out of the phone and handed it to her, putting the right earbud in his ear. “I’m excited. Finally, I get to hear what music you like. What will it be?” He asked himself as she scrolled through her phone. “The Beatles? Red Hot Chili Peppers? I heard Childish Gambino just released a-”
He was cut off by a sudden boom of string instruments playing dramatic chords in his right ear. He furrowed his brow at Hera, but she had the left earbud in peacefully, and she gave Eiffel an expectant smile as he looked up.
The string instruments continued, becoming more and more frantic and joined by lower notes that drawled on throughout the song. Eiffel held her gaze as it continued, waiting for an explanation of some kind. Was this classical music? Who the hell listened to classical music for fun?
“What is this?” He asked as the music lulled a little, then began to build again. Still, though, he didn’t take out the earbud. He was curious, maybe even enjoying it a little.
“Beethoven’s fifth in C m-minor,” Hera answered like she was reading it off an encyclopedia page. “Composed somewhere b-between 1804 and 1808.”
Eiffel blinked at her. “And you actually listen to this?”
“Of c-course I do. Beethoven is one of the best composers of all t-time.” As if to prove her point, the music exploded into a fantastical barrage of strings again, and she smiled. “I’ve been listening to classical m-music since I was, like, two m-months old.”
“That explains it,” Eiffel muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
They spent the rest of the song in silence. Eiffel was still baffled as to how someone could listen to music like this regularly. There were no words, no punchy drum beats or guitar riffs. It didn’t make any sense - but then again, neither did a lot of things about Hera. He supposed he didn’t really mind.
The song ended with a few more dramatic notes that lead into absolute silence. Eiffel pulled out his half of the earbuds and stared down at it for a moment, as if it had betrayed him by playing the song.
“So?” Hera leaned forward. “What did you think?”
Eiffel frowned at the earbud, then at her. He did have to admit it was a good song, one he wanted to listen to again. Even if it was unlike anything he’d ever heard before.
“Play it again,” he told her.
Eiffel came back into a semblance of consciousness, treading right on the line between awake and asleep. He kept his eyes shut in case Hera was still there. At the thought of her, the kiss from earlier came rushing back - how long ago had that been? Had it even been real in the first place? Maybe he’d dreamt it up, and believed it to be real in actual fever-dream fashion.
He wanted to tell her about the memory. He wanted to remind her about Beethoven’s fifth, about how he knew it was still one of her favorite songs. How he thought it was cool and only a little dorky that she actually listened to classical music regularly. He wanted to tell her he ended each of his radio broadcasts with a classical song for a reason - it had always been for her, never his audience of people who came for the 2000s rock. She was the only audience member that really mattered, anyways.
Being around Hera, he’d realized over the past few months, was a lot like that memory. Like listening to Beethoven for the very first time. Her presence was musical in a way he couldn’t articulate - all he knew was that he wanted to hear the song over and over and over again. It was a wonder everyone didn’t fall in love with her.
The tea on his nightstand was probably cold by now.
Eiffel rolled over, feeling much too hot again, and buried his face into his pillow. His last thought before he fell back asleep was that he wished he was listening to Beethoven right now.