Work Text:
The common cold should not - in theory – affect clones whose DNA has been specifically engineered to withstand against a multitude of hardships that would be of detriment to the average human; however, perhaps the demands of war and the need for new soldiers has had an impact on the Kaminoan’s quality control.
Which may explain why Tech wakes up in the middle of his sleep cycle with his throat raw and his head stuffed to the point he worries his skull might combust. His bones and joints ache beneath sore muscles and sensitive skin. Miserable feels too mild a term.
It takes some mental preparation, but he manages to roll out of his bunk to stagger over to the med kit and search for anti-inflammatory and decongestant.
Hunter catches him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, “Are you injured?”
“No. I don’t feel so good. I’m sick,” Tech bites out, voice nasally and hoarse.
“Sick,” Hunter echoes, deadpan, as though the word has never been introduced to his vocabulary until this very moment.
“It’s just a minor cold,” Tech clarifies. He rattles off his symptoms, “Aches, congestion, sore throat…”
Hunter takes a measured step back. “Why don’t you go back to bed, and I’ll bring you whatever medications you’re looking for.”
“I am perfectly capable...”
Hunter gives him a look that borders on concern and disgust. “It’s not about capability, Tech. It’s about you touching our medical supplies with your infected hands.”
While the words themselves feel a little...dramatic, the man has a point.
“Fine,” Tech relents, holding up his infected hands in surrender. “I just need an anti-inflammatory and decongestant.”
Hunter nods. “And where’s the disinfectant spray?”
Tech rolls his eyes, but he’s too tired and sore to think of a snarky remark. “You’ll find the cleaning supplies in the bottom drawer of the supply closet.”
Crosshair chooses this exact moment to make an appearance, catching Tech’s words with absolutely no context. “What sort of mess did you make, Hunter? Playing with the armor paint again?”
“It’s not for me. Tech is sick.”
The sniper casts Tech a dirty look. As if Tech chose to get sick. As if this were his idea of a good time. Tech tries his best to match the disdainful expression before announcing, “I’m going back to bed. You had better hope that the air filters are in working order. I would hate for anyone else to fall ill.” He makes sure to force every ounce of sarcasm he possesses into his tone.
Maybe his brothers would finally start to replace simple filters like he asked countless times.
And if they do get sick, maybe they will discover that a little sympathy goes a long way.