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Vegas woke up with a headache and a sore throat and knew pretty much immediately that he was in for it.

Three things were true: (1) Vegas did not get sick that often, (2) when he did it was always awful, and (3) he was very bad at tolerating it.

He was tempted to just roll over and go the fuck back to sleep, but that wasn’t really a viable option. Too much needed to be done, and he needed to be the one to do it. Maybe if this had happened six months ago he could’ve been fine delegating, or just fucking putting it off – maybe. But definitely not now, in the brave new world he was currently living in.

He looked at Pete – still asleep, mouth open and drooling a little onto the pillow, just a smattering of bruises showing on his shoulder over the sheets – and got up to go shower and take some Advil. Then he slunk into the kitchen in robe and slippers to see Macau eating cereal and staring at his phone.

“Morning, Vegas,” Macau said, and then looked up at him and whistled. “Wow, who pissed you off already?”

“Nobody,” Vegas said. “I don’t feel well.”

Macau hooted. “Okay,” he said, “so everyone’s going to piss you off for a while. Is it too late for me to go stay with Kao for the next ten days?”

Vegas shot him a filthy look and poured himself a glass of juice, sipping it slowly. “It wouldn’t get you out of going to class. I’d check.”

Macau rolled his eyes. “Where’s P’Pete?”

“Sleeping,” Vegas said. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to wake himself up. “He’ll probably be up soon.”

“Does he know what he’s in for?” Macau said, like he was about to start laughing. Vegas glared at him harder.

“I’m sick, you little bastard,” he said. “Why don’t you be a good baby brother and do something helpful and productive instead of just giving me shit all the time?”

Macau grinned at him. “I’m gonna tell Pete you were being mean to me.”

“Tell me what?” Pete said, yawning as he wandered into the kitchen. He still looked soft and drowsy and it made Vegas’s heart seize at the same time as it made him want to bite him. To Vegas, he said, “you didn’t wake me up.”

“It’s barely been five minutes,” Vegas said. “I thought I’d let you sleep.”

“Vegas is being mean to me,” Macau said.

“Uh huh,” Pete said, but he sounded distracted. “Are you okay? You look kind of…”

“Hia’s sick,” Macau said. “You should know it’s going to make him about three times as bitchy as usual.”

“Stuff it, brat,” Vegas said. In the face of Pete’s frown, he sighed. “I just have a cold or some shit. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Pete said slowly, giving Macau a sort of quizzical look. Macau shrugged, and Vegas rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said. “As you know very well, I’ve got shit to do, so…”

“If you’re sick maybe you should stay home and rest?” Pete said. Vegas gave him a flat stare.

“I’m meeting with a potential textiles distributor this morning,” he said. “This afternoon I’m going to pin down Nhing on what’s going on with his hall’s financials. Somewhere in the middle I need to talk to Porsche about the fact that one of his people’s got a wandering eye.” At Pete’s expression he said, “somebody’s putting out lures trying to get eyes in the family.”

Pete’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Vegas said. “That’s Porsche’s problem.” But he could let him know there was a problem. He’d sort of been hoping he could figure it out first, but Pran seemed like he was getting dangerously close to flipping, and whatever his feelings on Porsche were these days (he wasn’t sure, most of the time) he liked him enough to keep him informed on this.

“Anyway,” Vegas said, “point is, I’m busy. No rest for the wicked, right?”

“I guess,” Pete said, though he still looked a little skeptical.

“I’ll be fine,” Vegas said, with all the certainty he didn’t have. All he really needed to be, though, was fine enough to power through what he needed to do. As long as he could manage that much it’d be okay.

He made it through everything without issue, and when he got home afterwards he felt like crawling into a hole and dying.

(Porsche, of all the fucking people, had stopped midway through their conversation, frowned, and said, are you okay? You look kind of, accompanied by a gesture of opaque meaning. Vegas had managed not to scowl and said firmly that he was fine, thanks, and was grateful that Pete didn’t contradict him. At least not aloud.)

After dealing with Nhing (who hopefully learned that a change of leadership didn’t mean he could start fucking around with his accounting practices, he was good enough at his job overall that Vegas didn’t want to have to lose him), he made his way back to the house and collapsed onto the nearest couch, head aching, chills setting in, and his throat sore enough that swallowing made him feel like he was about to gag. Pete trailed in after him.

“Okay,” Vegas said, “you can say it.”

“Say what?” Pete said. Vegas turned his head slightly to look at him.

“Good,” he said after a moment. “You had your moment, you didn’t take it. Fuck, I hate this already.” He wrapped his arms around himself like that’d smother the shiver and scowled up at the ceiling. “Can you get me a thermometer and some more Advil?”

“Oh,” Pete said. “You mean I can say I told you you should’ve stayed home?”

Vegas turned his scowl on Pete. “You didn’t tell me, you asked a question,” he said, “and I’d still feel shitty if I’d stayed home, I’d just feel shitty and also fallen behind on what I needed to do, so.”

“You said I could say it,” Pete said, but he was going over to the cabinet with the pills in it so Vegas decided against throwing his shoe at him. He closed his eyes instead and waited until Pete came back. He set the pills aside and put the thermometer under his tongue, ignoring Pete’s expression of slight concern.

It was still pretty much normal. Vegas was almost disappointed. At least if he’d started running a fever it’d feel like there was justification for him feeling this lousy.

He took the ibuprofen anyway, though. Maybe it’d help his head.

“So,” Pete said after a moment, hovering awkwardly. Vegas narrowly resisted the urge to snap at him to stop. “Are you…do you need anything?”

“I need to not be sick,” Vegas said irritably. And then, “no, it’s fine. I just hate this.”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “That’s understandable.”

“Of course it’s understandable,” Vegas snapped. “Nobody likes being sick.” Pete said something under his breath that Vegas thought sounded like I see what Macau meant and he narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”

“Nothing, Khun Vegas,” Pete said with an innocent smile that was just asking to get bitten. Vegas rolled his eyes.

“If you’re going to be like that, go make me some tea,” he said. “And then you can kneel on the floor next to me until I tell you you can get up.”

The smile evaporated and Pete’s mouth opened a little, then closed. He swallowed.

“Well?” Vegas said.

“Yeah,” Pete said, voice turning a little rough. “Yeah, okay.”

Vegas leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Good boy,” he said approvingly, feeling a little smug. It didn’t make his head hurt any less, but it was still satisfying.

He wasn’t planning on it, but he ended up drifting off on the couch, Pete’s head leaning against his knee, combing his fingers absently through his hair. His dreams were weird but mostly unmemorable with the exception of one where Porsche was trying to earnestly convince him that Kinn had been replaced by a very lifelike robot and Vegas had to help find him. No matter how much Vegas tried to explain that as far as he was concerned Kinn could get fucked and a robot replacement might be an improvement, Porsche kept telling him he didn’t have a choice.

Despite falling asleep on the couch, Vegas woke up in bed. It took him 30 confused and disoriented seconds to work that out, though, and then to put together that probably Pete had moved him, and the fact that he apparently hadn’t woken up for that was…troubling. Based on the light coming through the windows, it was maybe just after sunset.

He still felt like shit, obviously. Felt more like shit. If he’d been hoping to just sleep it off, that would’ve been a bust, but he hadn’t even meant to fall asleep.

He changed into a t-shirt and sweats and wandered out of the bedroom. Pete and Macau were in the kitchen eating out of takeout containers that Vegas stared at, almost offended.

“Hey, bro,” Macau said in English. “Nice nap?”

“You didn’t wake me up,” Vegas said, to the room at large, though he mostly meant Pete. He rubbed his grainy eyes and swallowed a yawn. “I was going to make dinner.”

“You were sleeping pretty hard,” Pete said. “It seemed like you needed it.”

I didn’t tell you that you could move, either, was what Vegas thought, but he decided to leave that alone. “I have a cold, I’m not an invalid,” he said. His voice sounded scratchy already, a little lower than normal.

“Okay,” Pete said slowly.

“I told you,” Macau said. “Three times as bitchy.”

Vegas decided to ignore that.

“Do you want dinner now?” Pete said, gesturing at the food. Vegas grimaced a little.

“I’m not really hungry,” he said. “Just put any leftovers in the fridge and I’ll grab something…later.” When his appetite hopefully woke up.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t eat something?”

“Feed a cold, starve a fever,” Vegas said in English. Pete stared at him blankly, and Vegas shook his head, grimacing. “Never mind. It’s fine. I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”

He made his way over to the table and sat down, already feeling tired from standing and walking just that far – which didn’t bode well for his prospects. Pete was eyeing him sideways with an expression of faint unease.

“If you’re worried about getting sick you don’t have to stick around,” Vegas said, suddenly irritated. Pete sat up, frowning.

“I’m not going to just leave you here when you’re sick.”

“Good,” Macau said, “cause I’m not helping. Whatever he has I don’t want it.”

“I’m going to spit in your juice,” Vegas said to his brother. To Pete, “so what do you look so stressed about?” Talking quickly started to hurt. That was going to be fun.

“I don’t know,” Pete said. “Macau makes it sound pretty ominous.”

Vegas exhaled. “Macau’s dramatic,” he said. “Just don’t freak out if it seems serious. It’s always like that with me.” He filled up a glass of water and sipped it slowly. Fuck, his throat hurt. And also his head, but the throat might be worse, especially for the fact that it made swallowing sort of suck.

More Advil was definitely in order.

“So then how do I know if it’s actually serious,” Pete said.

“I’ll tell you,” Vegas said. When Pete looked dubious he added, “or if I have a fever over 39 for 48 hours.” He coughed, dry, and rubbed his throat absently. “Mostly I’ll probably just sleep a lot.”

“Okay,” Pete said slowly.

“I’ll be bored as shit,” Vegas said. “In some ways that’s the worst of it.”

“Yeah, especially because when you’re bored and can’t do anything you get snippy,” Macau said.

“I don’t get snippy,” Vegas objected. “Ugh. Shut up and leave me alone, I’m sick.”

Pete’s eyebrows twitched a little. Macau just smiled at him. Vegas sighed and leaned back into the chair. “Did you carry me to bed?” he asked Pete.

“Yeah,” Pete said, looking suddenly a little uncertain. Vegas eyed him.

“I’ve decided it’s hot you can do that,” he said, “rather than emasculating.”

“Good?” Pete said. Macau stared at the ceiling and let out a definitely exaggerated groan.

“Eat your dinner,” Vegas told him, and then folded his arms on the table and put his head down on it. Pete patted him on the shoulder and Vegas opened one eye to look at him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Pete said, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah,” Vegas said. “I’m sure.”

The second day was worse.

The first thing he did, waking up feverish and aching and his throat somehow hurting more, was to write Porsche: Unless you want to use me as a biohazard you’re going to have to cancel my meetings.

yeah pete said, Porsche said. no biohazard needed, take it easy and get better

Vegas stared at that until his vision blurred. Sometimes he thought it’d be easier to deal with Porsche if he made it easier to resent him. He did not understand the way his brain worked. Probably for the best.

Then he went back to sleep and didn’t wake up until Pete woke him up, jerking him out of a weird, vivid dream where he was lost in the main family’s house and he could hear Macau yelling for help but he couldn’t figure out where he was and he knew if he didn’t find him soon then he was going to die, only he was bleeding badly and getting weaker with every step.

And also his dad was there, cracking a bull whip against his back and screaming at him, but Vegas couldn’t understand what he was saying and didn’t know what he wanted.

“Where’s Macau,” he said, first thing when Pete shook him awake. Before Pete said anything, he put it together and said, “oh, right,” with an immense sigh of relief. “Weird dreams,” he said, in answer to Pete’s unasked question.

“How’re you feeling,” Pete said.

“Bad,” Vegas said. Pete’s mouth twisted, and Vegas said, “not surprising. Could be like this for…three, four days.”

“Should we check your temperature?” Pete asked. He seemed a little unsure, and Vegas eyed him.

“Did you not have to deal with my insane cousin when he was sick?” Vegas asked. Pete shook his head.

“Not really.”

“Lucky you,” Vegas said. “I bet he’s a bitch about it.” Which he recognized was hypocritical, and Pete didn’t look happy, right, because Pete liked Tankhun for some godforsaken reason. Nobody was perfect. He sighed. “Yeah, probably should check,” he said, “but don’t freak out about it if it’s high.”

It was. Could be worse. 38.4 or thereabouts. “I’ve had worse,” Vegas told Pete. “This always…fucking happens. Stupid overreaction. Fucking–”

He glared at the thermometer. Pete shifted and smiled. “I don’t think it’s the thermometer’s fault,” he said. Vegas turned his glare on Pete, whose eyes widened a little.

“Thank you,” Vegas bit out, “for your input.”

“I’m just joking,” Pete said. Vegas groaned a little as the muscles of his thighs cramped and grimaced.

“Yeah, I know,” he said irritably. “It’s just – annoying. Not you. Being sick. It’s pathetic.”

Pete’s expression relaxed. “It happens to everybody.”

“Yeah, but not everyone’s so weak about handling it,” Vegas said, his voice rising a little, only that felt like something scratching the inside of his throat and that made him want to gag. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to break something. He wanted to curl up under the blankets and tell Pete to go away and not look at him until he was properly himself again.

He wanted Pete to stroke his hair and put cold washcloths on his forehead and make sympathetic noises the way he vaguely remembered his mom doing when he was a kid, and no one after that.

“Fuck,” he said weakly, putting a hand over his eyes, his voice wobbling.

“Hey,” Pete said, awkwardly, but he did shift onto the bed and start rubbing his shoulder. “You’re not weak.”

“Thanks, Pete,” Vegas said wearily. “That’s nice of you to say. Do we have any bananas? My throat hurts like a bitch.”

Pete hopped to his feet. “I don’t know, but I’ll check,” he said, “and I can run out and get some if you want.”

Practically wagging his tail, Vegas thought, but that was a little unkind. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “That’d be nice.”

That about set the pattern for the rest of the day. He dragged himself out of bed only to end up falling asleep again on the couch and having another weird and unpleasant dream where he kept trying to kiss Pete but Pete kept slipping away from him, smiling his nervous smile. He managed to catch him eventually but then Pete said, “no, Vegas, I don’t want this,” and turned into several hedgehogs scattering into the bushes, the safehouse at his back.

After that one he got up, found Pete eating noodles in the kitchen, and grabbed his sleeve. “I love you,” he said fervently. Pete blinked twice.

“Thank you?” he said, and then shook himself, ears turning a little red, and murmured, “love you too, Vegas.”

Vegas relaxed and sat down, because his knees were starting to feel wobbly. “I dreamed you transformed into hedgehogs,” he said. Pete’s face turned incredulous.

“I turned into a hedgehog?”

“No,” Vegas said. “Hedgehogs, plural. There were, like, ten of them. And then all the hedgehog Petes ran off.”

“Hedgehog Petes,” Pete said, and laughed. Vegas gave him a baleful look because it wasn’t funny, except how he could sort of recognize that it was. Pete poked his shoulder, which hurt more than it should’ve. “You’re the hedgehog, not me.”

“But you’re my pet,” Vegas said, tipping over and planting his face in Pete’s collarbone. He felt Pete shiver a little, but his arms came right up and wrapped around Vegas’s shoulders, so that hadn’t been a mistake.

For the remainder of the afternoon Pete didn’t leave him alone for more than a half an hour. He kept checking on him and asking him what he wanted. It was getting a little annoying until Vegas figured out that he didn’t know what he was supposed to do in this situation and wanted – like a restless collie – to have a job.

Eventually Vegas told him they should watch a movie, which at least was something to do that was less boring than sleeping, even if Vegas spent half of it zoned out anyways and barely tracking the plot. Macau came home after school and took one look at him.

“You look so disgusting right now,” he said. Pete frowned but Vegas just flipped him off.

“So’s your face,” he said. Weak, but it made Macau laugh. He was trying not to talk too much.

“How’s he been,” he said to Pete. “Bitten your head off yet?”

“No,” Pete said. “I think he’s too tired for head-biting.”

“Show you too tired,” Vegas said, and turned his head to bite Pete’s neck. Pete gasped and shuddered, trying to push him off.

“Hands above the waist in public spaces, assholes,” Macau said. “P’Pete, want anything?”

“No,” Pete said, his voice taking a moment to steady. “I’m okay. Want to watch with us?”

“Sure,” Macau said, to Vegas’s faint, half-asleep surprise. “Give me a minute to drop my stuff off. And I’m keeping my distance from the plague rat.”

“I’m going to sell you to One Direction,” Vegas mumbled.

He must’ve drifted off again, because the next thing he was aware of was Pete and Macau talking over his head in low voices. “‒be fine,” Pete was saying. “Probably a bad flu or something.”

“It just sort of reminds me of…” Macau trailed off.

“I know,” Pete said. His hand tightened around Vegas’s shoulders; he wondered if he was aware of it. “But it’s not like that. He’ll be better in a couple days.”

“Yeah,” Macau said, perking up a little. “And then he’ll be a real pain in the ass because he won’t be sleeping all the time.”

Brat, Vegas thought fondly, and let himself fall back into cloudy, unpleasant nightmares, but at least these ones he didn’t remember.

It seemed unfair that he could spend most of the day sleeping because he was exhausted and then spend half the night awake and miserable but still exhausted. His sore throat was making him nauseated, and the aches were bad enough they woke him up when he did manage to doze off. He sucked on a lozenge that helped a little, and medication at least made it so he could sleep for part of the night.

Vegas felt a little better in the morning, though the only thing he could muster interest in eating was a smoothie. He snapped at Macau and Pete and then felt bad about it. Laid on the couch like a useless lump and tried to read, but it was hard to focus and his headache kept coming back. All he really wanted to do was sleep.

His dreams hadn’t gotten any better, either.

He was lying on his back, cold concrete underneath him with Pete pinning him down, furious, beautiful. His head was spinning and he wondered vaguely if Pete had given him a concussion. He wondered if he’d live long enough for it to matter.

“Vegas,” Pete said, pressing the barrel of his gun under Vegas’s chin; he tipped his head back, because if Pete was going to kill him, he’d probably done something to deserve it.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s okay, go ahead.”

“What?” Pete said, but now he wasn’t holding a gun, was just looking at Vegas with his forehead crinkled up. Vegas blinked hazily at him.

“Where’s your gun,” he said.

“Um – over there,” Pete said, with a gesture somewhere that clearly wasn’t on his person. Vegas frowned. His whole body hurt and he was too hot; he tried pushing off the blankets but he must’ve already done it because there weren’t any blankets left.

“How’re you gonna shoot me with it over there,” Vegas said. Pete’s face did something like Vegas had just punched him, and then he looked mad, so he’d fucked something up again and he didn’t even know what it was.

“I’m not,” Pete said, before Vegas could ask. “Here,” and he stuck something – oh, a thermometer – under Vegas’s tongue. He started to spit it out, then remembered that he shouldn’t. He was so hot and his whole body hurt.

It beeped. Pete took it back and frowned at it. Vegas tried to figure out what was going on without getting very far.

“What’s happening, Pete,” he said, giving up on getting it on his own.

“You’re sick,” Pete said. “Really sick, which Macau says is normal for you but – 39.5 celsius,” he said over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Vegas said. “That sounds…right. Can I have some…something?”

“Some something?” Pete said blankly. Vegas made a face.

“Yeah,” he said, unable to elaborate on what he meant. “You know.”

“I don’t,” Pete said. And then, “why would I shoot you?”

“I don’t know,” Vegas said. “It’d be okay, though. If anybody’s gonna, it’d be better if it was you.”

Pete’s face went blank. He opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. “We can talk about that later,” he said, which sounded sort of ominous but Vegas didn’t have the focus to really hang onto it. “Drink some water.”

“Okay,” Vegas said. He sat up and had to close his eyes when his head spun in a slow, almost lazy circle. Pete gave him a bottle of water and he drank about half of it – turned out he was thirsty, he hadn’t really noticed, though swallowing still made him feel like he was going to gag – and then started shivering. He quickly pulled the blankets he must’ve kicked off before back over himself and huddled under them.

“Do you want anything?” Pete asked. He sounded awkward, unsure of himself, and Vegas frowned, trying to figure out why. “Soup, or…”

“What’s wrong,” Vegas said. He was very tired, but he didn’t want to go back to sleep without figuring out what was bothering Pete. The idea made him nervous.

“What? Nothing,” Pete said. “Nothing’s wrong, I’m good.” Vegas frowned harder.

“I brought the whole bottle,” said Macau’s voice, and for a bizarre moment Vegas thought but Macau’s with Papa before he remembered this wasn’t the safehouse and his Papa was dead, which he’d known a minute ago but somehow forgotten. “Hey, hia! I’m sorry you feel like shit but I don’t want to get sick so I’m going to stay out here.”

Pete walked away over to Macau. (Vegas did not reach to try to stop him, even though he wanted to.) He came back somehow both quickly and after a long time. “You’ll get sick,” Vegas told him, and Pete gave him a weird look.

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t get sick a lot.”

“I can handle it,” Vegas said. “You don’t have to.”

“Okay,” Pete said after a moment. “Take these.”

He took the pills.

“When do I call a doctor?” Pete asked him. Vegas blinked at him, trying to focus on the question. It seemed like it ought to have a simple answer. He couldn’t think what the simple answer was, though.

“I’ll let you know,” he decided eventually.

“Okay,” Pete said. He still sounded sort of dubious. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Vegas said. “I’m sure. I’m just…tired. And I hate this.”

He must’ve fallen asleep for a second or something, because it seemed like he blinked and Pete was in the middle of saying something. It took a second to properly process the sounds he was making as words again.

“‒want anything?”

“Uh–” Vegas searched himself, trying to figure out if he did want anything. He felt sticky and sweaty and gross. “A bath,” he said. “A bath sounds nice.”

Pete looked relieved. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll run one.” He paused. “Hot or cold?”

A hot bath sounded like hell. But he was pretty sure a cold one would just leave him shivery and…cold. “Lukewarm,” he said. “A little on the warm side. Are you joining me?” He gave Pete a lopsided smile.

“Ew,” said Macau, from the doorway where he was apparently still hovering. Vegas turned his gaze on him and noticed that he looked worried.

“What are you, five,” he said. Macau grimaced at him but he relaxed. “What time is it,” Vegas asked, realizing that he had no idea.

“Early afternoon,” Pete said. Vegas frowned.

“Felt like longer,” he said. Pete gave him a look that was even more worried than Macau’s.

“I’ll be back,” he said, and went out. Vegas dropped his head back with a sigh.

“You look awful,” Macau said, still from the doorway. The worry was back.

“Thanks,” Vegas said. His eyelids felt so heavy.

“No, I mean…” He heard Macau shift. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sick,” Vegas said. “So no. But I’m not gonna die about it.”

“Don’t say that,” Macau said, almost snappish. “It’s not – you could.”

“Worrywart,” Vegas said in English.

“Get better,” Macau said like an order, also in English, and stalked away.

He almost fell asleep in the bath twice. Pete didn’t join him but he did drift in and out checking on him. It felt good, but afterwards his wet hair made him cold again and it felt like he’d run ten miles, or something a lot harder than taking a fucking bath. He’d be madder about it if he didn’t feel so pathetically awful.

Pete patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said. Vegas leaned toward him and put his head on his shoulder.

“Can you make it okay now,” he said, his voice blurry.

“Um,” Pete said. “No?”

Vegas sighed, but somehow that triggered the irritation in his throat and he coughed, which made it worse, so he coughed again, and it felt like it took a while to stop. His headache was back.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Pete. Pete’s eyebrows furrowed.

“For coughing?”

“No, for…” He felt stupid. His head all messed up. Was it usually this bad? It’d been a while. “Everything else,” he said finally.

Pete glanced away. Just a quick dart of his eyes away from Vegas’s, but he still did it. “You already apologized,” Pete said. “A couple times.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Vegas,” Pete interrupted, sounding a lot less patient. “Stop it. You’re too sick to go on a guilt trip right now, and I’m not going to shoot you. We’ve gone over that already, remember?”

Oh. Right. Holding Pete’s gun to his chest and daring him to fire. “That’s good,” he said. “Are you pissed at me?” Pete smiled at him, the one Vegas didn’t like.

“No, Vegas, I’m not pissed at you. Everything’s okay, all right? Just…rest.”

He could do that, at least. He might be a failure at a lot of things but especially right now, sleeping he could do like a pro. He felt Pete leave, easing his head down to the pillow, and wanted to tell him to stay, but he fell asleep before he could actually say the words.

He woke up and Pete was gone.

Not just not in the room but gone. Everyone was gone. He was by himself and he felt awful, it felt like he was dying, his head was in a vice and his throat hurt so bad he wanted to cry, and everyone had left. It was the middle of the night and Macau and Pete had both gone away somewhere else without him and they were never coming back.

Vegas tore his way free of the sheets, his heart hammering, breathing short. He half-fell out of bed, hauled himself more or less upright, and immediately started shivering. The air felt freezing on his sweaty skin. He grabbed the nearest blanket, wrapped it around himself like a cape, and stumbled out into the hall. He had to figure out where they’d gone and – and go after them? He could barely stand without leaning on the wall, pathetically weak and shaky, and what would be the point anyway, if they’d left him then…

Why did everyone always leave?

“Vegas? What’re you doing?”

Vegas blinked the welling tears out of his eyes and looked at Pete, who was standing right there holding a mug, his expression going quickly from confusion to alarm. “Are you okay?”

“You didn’t leave,” Vegas said.

“I didn’t – what?” Pete looked around like he was seeking help, or maybe just like he was looking for a place to put down his mug.

“I thought you left,” Vegas said, beginning to feel a little bit stupid, but not really any less like he was going to start crying.

“I didn’t,” Pete said. “I – hang on, I need to put this down somewhere.”

“Okay,” Vegas said, and sat down, because his legs felt like they might give out on him if he didn’t. Pete looked down at him, opened his mouth, closed it, and said, “be right back.”

Vegas’s tongue felt huge. He wondered if his throat would hurt less if he cut it.

Pete came back and held out a hand. “Let me help you up?”

Vegas looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “I really thought you left,” he said. “You and Macau. I thought you both left me alone.” He swallowed to try to hold back the tears but that just reminded him how bad his throat was hurting, and he was sick and exhausted and it all just felt like more than he could handle right now.

“Hey, it’s okay, everything’s okay,” Pete said, sounding a little frantic. “Vegas, I’m right here, I didn’t go anywhere.”

Vegas was thinking but you could and you will and you should and why haven’t you all at once and what came out of his mouth was, “but why will could,” which made absolutely no sense. He sniffed, feeling rotten and pathetic. And gross.

“Um,” Pete said, and then shook himself and said, “come on, you should get back in bed.” He put his (nice, cool) hand on Vegas’s forehead and frowned. “You feel really hot,” he said.

“Yeah,” Vegas said.

Pete frowned harder. He crouched down, slid an arm around Vegas’s back, and lifted him up to his feet even though Vegas hardly helped at all, because Pete was very strong and could deadlift Vegas’s entire bodyweight if not more.

“Where were you going?” Pete asked, moving them both down the hallway back toward the bedroom. “If you thought you were by yourself…”

“I don’t know,” Vegas said miserably. “Why are you up in the middle of the night?”

“It’s not the middle of the night. But,” Pete said, then blew out a breath and muttered something inaudible. Then he said, “I’m not going anywhere. And neither is Macau.”

“Good,” Vegas said. “That’s good. I think it might kill me if you left.” Pete tripped a little, or seemed to, but when Vegas glanced at him he seemed steady enough. Realizing what he’d said wrong, Vegas said, “not actually, it’d be fine, I’d be okay, if you…”

“Shut up, Vegas,” Pete said, unexpectedly harsh. Vegas shut up, stinging a little. Pete sat him down on the bed and turned around almost immediately, saying, “I’m getting the thermometer again.”

Don’t go, Vegas wanted to say, but this time he managed to not.

When Pete came back he said, “you can go wherever you want,” his voice hoarse and wet. Pete looked at him, thermometer in one hand, and slumped.

“I know I can,” he said quietly, but in a way that sort of made Vegas think he didn’t know, or that he was talking about something else.

He let it go, though. He’d make sure Pete understood later.

Pete came back with the thermometer and stuck it under his tongue again; when it beeped he looked at the number and frowned.

“Well,” Pete said, “it’s not worse.”

“That’s good,” Vegas said. He closed his eyes.

“If it’s still this bad tomorrow I’m taking you to a doctor,” Pete said, shifting like he was planting his feet for a fight.

“Okay,” Vegas said. He wanted Pete to stay but if he asked now he’d probably feel like he had to, so he just turned on his side and closed his eyes. He huddled under the blankets, trying to convince himself that Pete would still be around when Vegas woke up and he wouldn’t be alone for real.

Vegas remembered that night in fits and starts.

He remembered snarling at Pete to go back to your masters, you’re not getting anything from me, do you think I don’t know you’re here to spy on me for them? and the look on Pete’s face, and he did leave but it wasn’t a relief. He remembered standing in his uncle’s study next to his father’s dead body, a gun pointed at his face, and he put a bullet right through his eye, and Kinn shot Vegas in the throat. Pete kept trying to tell him something while he was bleeding out but he couldn’t parse what it was. He remembered a gun in his hands and someone trying very carefully to take it away from him. What are you doing, Vegas, give it to me, okay, I don’t think you should have that right now.

He remembered being in the hospital, drifting half aware, his chest aching, wondering if he was going to die and thinking maybe it’d be fine. I think I’m pretty fucked up, he remembered saying. The inside of his throat felt like ground meat, and then he threw up because swallowing hurt so bad, which made it feel worse.

He was in the hospital. He hated this hospital. Pete was sitting next to him and he looked like shit, which was also familiar.

“Pete,” he said. His voice sounded wrecked. Pete jerked up from his slump and smiled.

“Vegas?” he said, sounding somewhat cautious, and in the muddle of his memories he could understand why. His face heated.

“Was I sort of a jackass to you?” he asked. Pete didn’t actually say yes, but he didn’t have to. “I’m sorry,” Vegas said. Pete shook his head a little jerkily.

“It’s fine,” he said. “You weren’t…making a lot of sense. Generally. I should’ve made you come earlier. Apparently you have strep throat, so you’re on antibiotics now. For that and the infection in your tonsils you were starting to get. ”

There was, Vegas realized, an IV in his arm. So that was…indicative.

“Oh,” he said, feeling a little stupid. Pete’s smile fell away, his mouth twisting a little.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I didn’t know that,” Vegas said defensively. “I really do always feel awful when I get sick, so I just figured…” Pete was never going to believe him. He was going to end up getting dragged to a doctor every time he so much as sniffled.

“Well,” Pete said, “you should be fine now. With the antibiotics you should’ve gotten days ago. But you’re supposed to stay here until your…something goes down, white blood cell count, maybe? ”

“You look like you need a nap,” Vegas said. Pete gave him a tired sort of stare. “What?”

“I don’t like being back here,” Pete said after a couple moments. “With you asleep – unconscious – in a hospital bed. It’s not exactly…” He trailed off and shrugged, a little awkwardly.

Vegas supposed if his memories of the last time he’d been in this place weren’t exactly good ones, Pete’s might be worse. Pete had been awake for more of it.

“Come here,” he said, shifting over to make room on the bed. Pete hesitated, and Vegas frowned at him. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“You’re not very threatening right now,” Pete said, but he climbed onto the bed. Vegas pulled his head down to his chest and the rest of Pete followed, curling up next to him with one arm over his waist.

“Are you going to catch it from me?” Vegas asked belatedly.

“Maybe,” Pete said. “If I start feeling sick I’ll actually come to the doctor about it. Same with Macau.”

Yeah. He was never going to live this down.

He couldn’t really mind. There was something a little nice about having someone actually worried about him.

He ran his fingers into Pete’s hair. He still felt weak and wrung-out and shitty, but at least he knew where he was, and when he was, and when he wasn’t.

“They’re not my masters,” Pete mumbled, muffled in his chest. “You are. Just you.”

“I know,” Vegas said, moving his hand down to squeeze the back of Pete’s neck. Pete turned his face more into Vegas’s body.

“Good,” he said. “As long as you know.”

Between the antibiotics and the IV, Vegas was back home within 24 hours, which made a significant difference in Pete’s level of anxiety. He still had to deal with Pete and Macau hovering like he might drop dead if someone wasn’t watching him, no matter how much he insisted that he really did feel better. Exhausted, and weak, and still sort of achy, but nothing like it’d been before.

It was kind of nice, though. Maybe. A little. Having somebody worry about him. Having Pete worry about him; Macau worried more than Vegas wanted him to. Always had.

Maybe two days later, Vegas woke up to find Pete already awake and staring at the ceiling, mouth set in an unhappy little frown.

“Baby?” he said, trying to suppress the uneasy jump in his stomach. Pete turned his head to look at Vegas, sandy-eyed.

“I have a headache,” Pete said. “And my throat hurts.”

Vegas’s mouth twitched a little but he kept himself from smiling. He was still relieved, though.

“Guess we’d better get you tested,” he said. Pete’s frown deepened.

“Or I could just stay home and feel awful for a few days and not do anything about it,” he said.

“Nope,” Vegas said, leaning over and kissing Pete’s forehead. He couldn’t resist adding, “if you’re a good boy at the vet I’ll give you a treat.”

Pete put a hand over his eyes and groaned. “I don’t get sick,” he said. “I wasn’t just saying that. Not since I was a kid, I never…I have stuff to do.” Vegas kissed his fingers, too.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you.”