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So it was, another week, another set of fights that seemed to consume most of the daytime. After their contracted shifts, however, much of the team took time off. Some went to see movies or played chess with a sincere lack of rule comprehension. Others napped, painted, or took part in a less physical regimen of relaxation. Then, there were those who weren’t entirely off the clock.
Engineer had been one of those. He had been contracted–just like his father, Fred, and his grandfather, Radigan–to continue his research into the evenings. Oh, it paid well, but the last time he’d gotten so much as a wink of sleep was ages ago. Most of his research had pushed his into a cycle of caffeine and delirium. It was unkind to his body and mind, but he justified it with the Conagher name. Would his forefathers have paused to rest on their laurels? How could he succeed if he did not push himself too?
Unfortunately, lack of sleep lead from one thing to another, and before he knew it, he had started to come down with a cold.
It wasn’t the end of the world, of course. He had fielded colds before and continued working through them, but it had been a long time since he’d had one. It seemed to be weighing on her. Would Radigan have stopped for a cold? He asked himself as he looked tiredly at his unmade bed, and concluded that no , he wouldn’t’ve.
Just his luck that Ms. Pauling had called in a full day of contracts. He stood proudly with the remainder of the RED team, all of them preparing to fight. Infecting the others wasn’t much of a concern; not many people bothered his nest while he worked. Still, with the first whack of his wrench, he felt the exhaustion set into his limbs and head, like a sandbag dropped directly on his cranium. He ran one hand up under his helmet, feeling for a temperature, until he heard Soldier gruffly yell, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he called back, trying to hide the hoarseness creeping into his voice, “A-okay here!”
Soldier didn’t seem to think too hard about the response, only giving a thumbs up and running off towards the next control point. That was fortunate, Engie figured, wiping his brow. Heat pulsed against his hand, and had the ground always been this close?
The rest of his teammates seemed to offer suspicious glances and occasionally remarks, a little more concerned than jesting, although occasionally it was difficult to tell. Medic had even offered him a medigun blast, but Engie insisted—oh-so-pigheadedly—that he had all he needed in his dispensers. However, that medicine was better for healing physical injuries than it was for viral infections, and both of them knew it. He tried to hold his shoulders strong, but by the third contract, his head ached to high heaven, and he felt half-convinced he just might keel over sideways.
He laughed about that, cracking a beer and hoping it might dismiss the dizziness. “Ain’t that ridiculous?” he crowed, leaning heavily against his dispenser, “Fallin’ clean over! Ha!”
Unfortunately, as he made his way over to his sentry, he tripped and the loss of balance was enough to send his toppling to the ground with little ability to catch himself or realize what was happening. He was unconscious before he hit the ground. “ Merde ,” came a quiet voice from behind him, but he hardly noticed. It was peaceful, laying beside his machines.
“Ah, so you have awoken,” a voice came beside him, and Engineer jumped at the sound.
He wasn’t on the ground anymore, and the last thing he remembered was standing with his wrench in hand, laughing about the foolishness of unconsciousness… which, it appeared, he had fallen victim to. “Dagnabbit,” he cursed, lightly pounding his good hand into one of his thighs, “Say, where in the hell am I?”
The room was comfortable, although he couldn’t see how fresh the air was with the congestion in his sinuses. It had painted walls, all freshly done, in stark contrast to almost every other location on the base. Besides, this hardly seemed recognizable as a room he’d been in. It wasn’t Medic’s surgery ward or post-op. And it wasn’t his workshop, nor any of the common spaces. That meant it was someone else’s— “Calm down, will you?” the voice came again, and it was smooth and accented, “It does neither of us any good if you intend on fussing about this, mon cher . You passed out apropos to nothing, and it did not seem right to leave you in the field… even if we are on different teams.”
“I guess chivalry ain’t dead,” Engineer scoffed, “I don’t understand why you went and did somethin’ like this, though. Or where I am.”
“You had a high fever, and opponent or not, your team was not attending you,” Spy sat on a small chair only a few feet away from the chaise lounge which the Engineer lay across, bundled up, “You are in my smoking room, in the BLU base. Why did you not tell anyone of your malaise?”
“Ain’t their business,” Engie scoffed, but kept his voice low to avoid worsening his headache, “And it ain’t yours, either, backstabber. I’ve got a job to do.”
Spy rolled his eyes. “And you’re not going to do it in this condition,” he insisted, tucking in the blankets around Engineer, “I am preparing food in the other room, soup au champignons. And tea.”
“I don’t like tea, Spy,” Engie insisted, but Spy put a finger to his lips.
“Surely it is superior to that concoction you call ‘coffee’, if you are anything at all like our Engineer,” Spy wore a wry smile, and Engineer couldn’t help but find himself both frustrated and amused. For someone who was so frequently his battlefield adversary, Spy also offered a certain kindness about him. “You will have tea, and the soup. When is the last time you had a full night of sleep?”
Engineer thought about that, turning the question over in his head like a Rubik’s Cube. His hesitation appeared to be Spy’s delight, and he heard the all-too familiar snort-laugh accompanied by, “Oh, restless. Very well; you will receive a full night of sleep tonight.”
“Well, now, Spy,” Engineer tried to protest, but he was tired and slowed his babbling.
Spy rose. “Relax, and I’ll bring you dinner,” he murmured, sliding off one glove to place a bare hand on Engie’s forehead, “Just checking your temperature, mon chou chou . You are safe here.”
Engie’s tool belt was sitting on the far side of the bed. Spy had done wonders to try and make him comfortable in the room, complete with offering multiple pillows to prop his head up to about three—three? Engineer counted a second time, just to make sure—blankets wound around his trembling body. His hat and goggles lay beside the tool belt, and he certainly had been comfortable. Spy’s footsteps came around the corner. He had put on a small apron, and in his hands were the soup, a steaming mug of tea, and a small bottle of what appeared to be medicine. “Spy, y’know, you didn’t have to–” Engineer faltered as Spy placed the items on the metal side table.
“Of course I know that,” Spy scoffed at him, “Who do you take me for? Scout?”
Engie took the spoon hesitantly, bringing it to his lips. “You didn’t tell me you knew how to cook,” he pointed out, his words soft and slow as he spoke between sips.
“You are far too busy trying to eradicate me to ask,” Spy observed, and Engineer shrugged, half-guilty and half-delirious with exhaustion and illness.
The soup was good, warm, even. As he drank and spoke to Spy for one of the first times, he found himself strangely comforted, something that was rarely offered by his own team. Far too busy taking care of everyone else, and hauling ass while he worked. Still, the simple comfort was nigh appreciated, even when Spy had cleared the dishes and remained. He bade him a sweet goodnight, and Engineer didn’t question the kiss on his forehead as he nodded off to sleep. It certainly wasn’t something Radigan or Fred would’ve done.
Maybe he’d imagined it.