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Malcolm Graves knows he’s durable. He survived horrors most people couldn’t imagine- hell, he escaped the locker. All in all, he could confidently say he wasn’t weak by any means.
And yet, he found himself saddled with a cold.
It was nothing he couldn’t handle, just some sniffles and brain fog here and there- certainly good be worse. Besides, he brought it upon himself after sleeping in wet clothes. It wasn’t the first time they’d had to jump off the docks to escape a job gone awry, and he knew he probably should’ve made an effort to get changed, let his clothes dry, maybe even bathe in some nice warm water. But he'd been in enough of a disgruntled mood that he hadn’t.
Now he was paying the price in the form of a scratchy throat and a headache. He knew as soon as he woke up that something was off- his head was pounding and every breath stung, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t walk off, he told himself. With a groan, he pushed himself out of bed, sluggishly bringing himself to his feet. As soon as he does so his vision swims, darkening at the edges as he stumbles. He grabs the edge of the bed frame to steady himself, waiting for the wave of dizziness to end, which eventually, it does.
Mostly, anyway.
He sways slightly as he tries to walk, distantly remembering he needed to stock up on ammunition today before their next job. Easy enough, it would be a quick errand and not too strenuous, he could be there and back in minutes. Or it would be easy if he didn’t feel horribly overheated, hands shaking as he tries to tie the laces on his boots.
It’s nothing he can’t handle, he thinks as he coughs into his elbow, it’ll pass- hell, maybe the fresh air will do him good. He’s right about to leave when Fate seems to stir awake, looking over to him blearily and asking “Malcolm? Where are you going?”
Graves opens his mouth to respond, trying to speak but somehow he hadn’t anticipated for his voice to come out as an inaudible rasp. He coughs again in an attempt to clear it, wincing at the sting before trying to explain, briefly. “Need ammo, I’ll be back later.” He sees the other’s brows furrow in concern and consciously decides to swallow back the itch in his throat.
“You sound like shit.” Fate responds, point blank, and Graves frankly hadn’t expected such bluntness, eyes widening for a second as he tries to process the words through the haziness in his brain. He musters a chuckle, and takes longer than he’d have liked to respond, his tongue feeling heavier than usual.
“Charming, as usual.” He jokes, and Fate rolls his eyes, looking less tired and now more obviously concerned with a hint of annoyance- but Graves can tell it’s the fond kind, thankfully. He feels bad enough already, he doesn’t need Tobias’ chiding on top of it.
“You know what I meant.” Tobias grumbles, before dragging himself out of bed and marching over to the other man. Without a word, he places the back of his palm against Graves’ forehead, prompting a startled mumble from the man, accompanied by his eyes widening in surprise. The suddenness of it and the very close proximity cause his face to flush, somehow feeling even more overheated than before. “God, you’re really burning up.”
Graves blinks at him for a second, before slapping his hand away- trying to wave off his concerns and turning back to the door. “I’m fine, Tobias. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Before the black haired man can protest, Graves is already halfway out the door.
Halfway being as far as he gets before his body betrays him again, a coughing fit wracking his chest as he stumbles, catching the edge of the door frame in an attempt to keep himself upright. He stays there for a moment, catching his breath, only to be pulled backwards when Fate’s hand wraps around his, pulling him back into their room. In his disoriented state, he simply follows, unsure of if he should, or even can pull away. “You’re not fine.”
Graves wants to argue but his tongue feels like lead in his mouth, his next words mumbled inaudibly as Tobias leads him back to bed. It’s a harder task than expected given Graves’ heavy , wide build- but Tobias’ height helps compensate somewhat, allowing him to support the weight until he can urge Graves to lay back down.
He doesn’t want to do that, until Tobias places him on the bed and he realises how little effort it took him- Graves has never felt more like a rag doll. A frown pulls at his lips, and he sits for a moment, bleary eyed and annoyed- but then again, the bed is warm, and comfortable. He doesn’t protest when Tobias places a hand on his chest and pushes him until his back is against the mattress. If he wasn’t already boiling and cold all at once from head to toe, he might’ve been blushing at that.
But unfortunately for him, his skin is clammy and feverish, and his body is weighed down by a combination of fatigue and achiness. It’s just a cold, he should be able to handle it, he thinks- but it’s worse than usual, and almost as if to prove him right, another cough shakes his frame. Tobias doesn’t even make a jab about his smoking habits like he would ordinarily, this time just looking on in concern as he pulls the covers up over Graves’ body- tucking him in? What is he- a child?
“Tobias you don’t gotta baby me.” He mumbles, voice catching in his throat, the words sounding more like a croak than a complaint. The other man seems to ignore him- either that or he hadn’t heard, continuing to fret over him- taking off his boots, placing them by the bed, pulling the quilt to cover his body. His hands, usually calm and careful, are flitting around anxiously in an uncharacteristic display as he responds.
“I’m not babying you, I’m making sure you don’t make yourself any worse.” He clarifies, finally finished with his initial task and looking down at the other almost smugly. Graves knows if he really wanted to, he could get up- but Tobias had done a good job wrapping him up. Everything is warm and soft and safe, and his eyes, limbs- they’re all too heavy, and he feels his eyelids flutter as he tries to tune in to his partner’s words. “I’ll fetch your bullets, and you can stay and rest.”
If Graves’ throat wasn’t irritated and stinging he might’ve corrected him that he needs shells- but he trusts Tobias to at least know which is which upon appearance. Admittedly- he doesn’t understand why the other would bother with all of this. He’s had worse than a cold before, and been fine! Sure- it wasn’t the same as getting shot, or sliced open, or what have you- but he’d be fine.
His first thought is that him being ill is inconvenient- for both him and Tobias. It makes sense the other would want to have it done with as fast as possible, especially with their upcoming jobs needing them at their best. Either that or Tobias wants to use this later on to get something out of Graves- making him owe him. Probably something minimal, like the next round of drinks- but the thought still leaves Graves irritated.
He doesn’t like feeling like dead weight- figuratively and physically, especially when all he can really do is wait for it to be over. It would be more tolerable if he weren’t alone, left to his own thoughts as he lay aching and sweating in bed. The room is quiet save for his breathing- loud and through his mouth thanks to his nose being entirely blocked- it’s too quiet and he decides he doesn’t like it.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to be alone with his mind for long, his eyes feeling just as heavy as the rest of him. His eyelids flutter as they strain to stay open, struggling against his exhaustion. He doesn’t want to sleep- after all, he just woke up, but then again, with his body so lethargic, and all alone, it’s not like there’s much else to do to pass the time.
Disgruntled, he rolls onto his side slowly, curling in on himself. He’s too cold but he’s also too hot- the feeling progressively getting worse, like being in a pot of steadily boiling water. At least if he’s asleep he won’t have to deal with it, he thinks, letting his eyes close and hoping he’ll feel better when he wakes up.
★
Tobias wouldn’t say he’s overly worried but he definitely feels underprepared for this. Injuries were one thing- he was handy enough with a needle and thread, and bandaging wasn’t exactly difficult in the first place, they weren’t as much of a problem, but illness was another matter.
He knows Graves is a tough guy but this seems like a little more than an average cold or sniffles- not deadly just not something that he can be sure the other can shake off in a day or two, at least not without actual medicine- a rarity in this area of Bilgewater. Getting Graves’ ammunition had been easy enough aside from some initial confusion when he’d asked for bullets at first- but it was over with quickly enough that he figured he could make another stop.
Bilgewater’s markets were unsurprisingly not the nicest in Runeterra. Most of what you’d find for a decent price was fish, and more fish, oh- and don’t forget: fish. But for higher prices, there were imported goods. All mundane things anywhere else- varied meats, fruits, and vegetables- but more expensive than one would expect. Thankfully, Fate had no shortage of money- and more importantly: he could haggle like his life depended on it.
So as he returns from his errands, he finds himself carrying various ingredients for a recipe he hasn’t found himself making in a long time. Not that it was particularly difficult, but he simply hadn’t found the need for it. He and Graves didn’t find the time to cook for themselves very often, always on the run, always looking for their next job- but with Graves out of commission for the time being- Tobias figured he had time.
He couldn’t magically fix whatever illness was plaguing his partner- he’s no healer, but he could try to lift his spirits, and sometimes the way to do that involves vegetables, chicken, and warm broth. He feels almost apprehensive at the thought of making anything for Malcolm- he’s more than a little rusty and the last thing the other needs is food poisoning- but it’s worth a try, as long as it’s cooked thoroughly it should at least be something nutritious he can keep down.
When he arrives back at their temporary accommodation- he finds Graves asleep. It’s not a surprise in the slightest given how fatigued he’d seemed that morning- Tobias only hopes it’ll do him some good. He can’t help but shake his head fondly as he thinks about it- he’d been so worried but at the end of the day, this could’ve likely been avoided if Malcolm hadn’t insisted on sleeping in wet clothes. How he even managed that was a mystery- it can’t have been comfortable, but regardless- he’d somehow drifted off like that, and was paying the price.
Fate places the bag of ingredients in the kitchen, followed by fishing out Graves’ ammunition to put on his bedside table. Now that he’s closer, he looks over to the other man- noticing a slight flush to his otherwise content face. He frowns at the sight, reaching out to brush his forehead with the backs of his fingers. He’s careful not to wake the other, it’s rare to see Graves sleeping so heavily, which makes sense given he’s rarely so ill. Either way- his brows are unfurrowed, expression relaxed, and peaceful- unphased by his partner’s touch.
The black haired man assesses that Graves is warm- probably too warm, but it doesn’t seem as bad as it had earlier that morning. He’s not entirely sure how to help with a fever, the last time he’d had someone care for him while sick was when he was too young to really remember anything more than muffled words and careful touches, soft and safe and veiled with nostalgia. He briefly reminisces on the warmth, before shaking his head free of the thoughts- there’s no use dwelling on the past when Graves is sick now.
And so he hurries over to the kitchen- well, calling it a kitchen is generous- but what matters is it’s spacious and equipped enough that he can start a fire and boil some water. He sighs as he tries to remember the recipe, rolling up his sleeves and getting ready to make do with what he has- for Graves’ sake, of course. It’s thankfully easy to get into it once he knows what he’s doing, humming to himself as he chops up vegetables, and watching the broth simmer- enjoying the smell and thinking back to how much he’d liked it as a child.
It’s odd to realise the position he’s in now, caring for Graves in the same way his family used to for him. He supposes it’s just strange having someone to care for- not that he thinks Graves incapable, he’s just not used to being concerned for others. He wouldn’t say Graves is stupid by any means but he does wish sometimes that the other would be careful with himself- he’s reckless in a way that makes it seem like he has no value for his well-being and while Fate doesn’t mean to be a mother-hen, it’s worrying just how much he treats himself as disposable.
Hopefully showcasing concern now can prove otherwise to him, he thinks, because as much as he’d started to enjoy the task at hand- fretting over a bedridden Graves is not an experience he’d like to repeat anytime soon.
★
Graves isn’t sure how long he’s been asleep for but he wakes up, bleary-eyed, and sore, to the faint smell of something good. He can’t tell what exactly it is thanks to his nose still being quite blocked up, so his eyes have to do the work for him, first looking to Fate’s empty bed, then following around the room until he spots the man, standing over a makeshift stove, watching something, and stirring occasionally.
He rubs his eyes, hoping to clear his vision of the lingering blurriness, and continues to examine the sight, unsure of what he’s seeing. Obviously Tobias has been cooking- that much I’d obvious, but what and why is unknown to him. While he feels less overheated than before, his mind is still foggy- struggling to keep up as he swallows dryly. He’d almost forgotten he was ill- which explains a lot, really.
In the midst of his thinking, he’d not realised how much he’d been staring- half-lidded, tired eyes fixed on Fate. The black haired man- perceptive as ever, can just tell Graves is staring, something in the back of his mind picking up on the feeling of eyes burning into him and alerting him that Graves is awake. He directs his attention away from the cooking pot, and over to the other man, eyes meeting as he tries to assess if Graves’ face looks any less flushed and sweaty from here- which thankfully, it does. It’s relieving to see he looks better, but a sudden coughing fit, puncturing the silence tells them he’s not entirely free of the cold just yet.
But luckily, Tobias has something to help with that.
It wasn’t a magical cure-all but it was warm, nutritious, and hopefully quite tasty. He’d tried some himself and had immediately felt nostalgia wash over him, the dish having tasted just like he remembered, though he has no way to know if it’ll be to Graves’ liking. Regardless, he fills a bowl and marches over to the other, spoon in hand.
The brown haired man looks confused at first, presumably still disoriented thanks to having slept for as long as he had, but then he notices the bowl, almost seeming to perk up just a little. He opens his mouth to speak but the words are croaked, and scratchy, leaving Fate barely able to make out the words “What did you make?”
Fate shrugs, unsure of what to really call it. He knows it has a name but the last he heard that was decades ago, leading him to say “Something simple- it’s warm, it’ll do you good.” He insists, sitting at the end of Graves’ bed, with the bowl carefully held in his lap. He takes a spoonful from it and Graves looks puzzled, then he watches Fate reach it out towards him and the confusion quickly becomes embarrassment.
He frowns deeply and his face reddens with what Fate recognises as humiliation rather than the feverishness from before. He doesn’t just look flustered- he looks angry, and Fate feels his expression waver with worry and guilt. Maybe trying to spoon-feed him wasn’t the best move, he supposes. He hadn’t had any ill intentions, but Graves of course, didn’t know that, gritting out, roughly. “I can feed myself.”
The lack of dignity is what upsets him most, sick of being stripped of it and most prevalently- sick of being sick, though he knows he only has himself to blame. The idea of Fate carefully placing the spoon to his lips leaves him tied up in knots, and he’s not sure why- chalking it up to the fact that he doesn't need that. He’s a grown man! And he’s had much worse than this. The last time he’d been so sick was in a Zaun back-alley, with an infected bullet wound in his side, and years of malnutrition against him, not that Fate would know.
So in a show of defiance, he pushes himself into an upright position, groaning as his joints pop and body aches, his entire being feeling like one big, bruise. He bites back a groan, not wanting to make himself seem even more incapable- or worse, like a burden, and reaches out for the bowl, not noticing the other’s dejected expression as he carefully hands it over. He looks down at the contents to see a thin broth, speckles with green herbs- noodles, chicken, carrots and the like pool at the bottom of the bowl, and now that it’s closer, even though his blocked sinuses Graves can tell it smells great.
He takes the spoon from Fate and quickly shoves it into his mouth, immediately gasping thanks to having underestimated the heat of it. He winces as he swallows, the hot liquid not exactly soothing to his irritated throat- but the taste lingering on his tongue is delicious. Tobias can’t help but chuckle at that, shaking his head fondly.
“Doing a fine job, I see.” He jabs, a smug smile pulling at his lips. Ordinarily that sight might annoy Graves but he can’t find it in himself to be angry. He’s not sure if it’s thanks to the illness taking his energy or just because Fate took the time to cook for him, but regardless he responds not with irritation, but simple gratitude.
“Thank you…” He mutters, swallowing back a cough as the words irritate his throat further on their way out. “For doing all of this.” He clarifies, feeling somewhat surprised that he had. He supposes it’s no different to when Tobias patched up his wounds or fixes holes in his clothes after a particularly rough job but for some reason he hadn’t expected a warm, home cooked meal from him- especially not one that was so nice. He takes another spoonful, feeling the broth warm him from the inside out, and tries to shove back the wave of emotion that threatens to sweep him under.
It’s been a long time since he’d had anyone care for him while ill- since anyone had cooked like this for him, or tucked him in, doted on him with such concern and care. It almost brings tears to his eyes- he only just manages to blink them back, not wanting to let on just how much something simple as a bowl of broth could affect him.
“Well somebody has to look out for you.” Fate responds, and Graves rolls his eyes more out of fondness than any meaningful annoyance- he gets the point, no more sleeping in wet clothes, fair enough. It takes a moment for the words to sink in and he realises Fate is the one who looks out for him, and suddenly he starts to feel overheated all over again. “Are you okay? You look flushed.” Fate pipes up, tone shifting to concern as he reaches to feel Graves’ forehead. Graves almost leans in to the touch in the midst of his hazy, borderline delirious state- but restrains himself, gently pushing Fate’s hand away with a grunt.
“I’m fine- don’t worry your pretty little head about me.” He retorts, and almost as if to prove him wrong, a cough catches in his throat. He holds the broth tightly in fear that the shaking of his frame may cause it to spill, feeling almost embarrassed by the poor timing. He hurriedly spoons more of the broth into his mouth to soothe the fresh stinging, prompting the other man to shake his head.
“Slow down, the last thing we need is you choking as well.” He instructs, though he still finds himself feeling almost prideful at seeing Graves eat so eagerly. In an uncharacteristically timid display he asks, quietly. “Do you like it? I can cook it again sometime…though hopefully not when you’re sick.”
“Sounds good to me.” Graves agrees through a mouthful of noodles, appearing satisfied despite the gravelly tone to his voice. Despite the lingering redness on his cheeks, Fate thinks- much to his relief- he’s looking much better already.