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One morning, a few months after... everything, Adam Jensen wakes up coughing.
It's an unfamiliar sensation. Or, well, not entirely - it's become an unfamiliar sensation. But he remembers from the days before the augs - he'd never been one to get ill often or badly (and he knows exactly why, now), but sometimes a cold or flu had hit him.
That's what this feels like. The cough, the faint headache creeping behind his eyes, the slight sniffle.
But it can't be that. Because he has the Sentinel now, along with his pre-existing resistance to illness. He doesn't get ill.
So he ignores it, takes an ineffective paracetamol for the headache, and goes to work.
Despite what happened - Panchaea, the Aug Incident, the way he'd chosen to blame it on the Humanity Front - Sarif Industries is largely the same. Sarif had managed to come out of the whole mess well enough, especially when he'd been able to point at Tai Yong Medical's biochips as the ones vulnerable to the Humanity Front's supposed attack. Their stock had crashed; Sarif's star had only risen.
Adam spends most of the day in his office, and by the end of the day he's exhausted. He ignores that. It happens, sometimes, the weight of it all becoming just a little too much. Sleep will fix it.
The next morning, the cough is worse. The sniffle has turned into a fullblown runny nose. And the headache is persistent, throbbing in his skull.
But Adam Jensen doesn't get ill.
So he grits his teeth, takes painkillers, and goes to work.
He avoids other people deliberately today - he doesn't have the energy to deal with it, the looks even the older staff give him when they think he's not looking, the way the newer hires talk about him when he's barely even out of earshot. Sure, he could report them to Sarif or HR, but what would be the point? He usually just ignores it.
Pritchard comes to his office once to talk about some security issue or another. It's late in the afternoon, what little impact the painkillers had has worn off, and all Adam wants is to go home and sleep.
Pritchard hangs around for longer than is really needed, giving Adam odd, sidelong glances, eyes narrowed as though he's trying to figure something out. Eventually Adam snaps, both metaphorically and literally - tells Pritchard to get out, is ruder than he should be even for their usual banter and sniping. Pritchard storms out, and Adam takes a moment to just... rest his pounding head on his metal forearms.
A hour or two later, he stirs and realises he's fallen asleep on his desk. Nobody's noticed, luckily, and it's the end of the day, and he feels even worse, so he gathers his things and goes back to his apartment.
It's Friday. He can sleep in tomorrow, assuming it's not a bad night and he escapes with only minimal nightmares. Take the weekend to rest, and whatever this is will go away. Adam is certain of it. He's probably just... overworked.
Except on Saturday morning, he wakes up drenched in sweat, and everything hurts.
Adam almost panics. It's too familiar, too much like the times he woke up in the hospital, after the augs - but it's not quite the same. Because it's his own bed, his own apartment, and the pain is different.
It's centred in his skin, he realises after a moment of lying still. His skin hurts - not just his remaining natural skin, but somehow his augs, too, and they don't even have skin. It's - he shifts, and the blanket brushing against his arm sends pain shivering up it.
This is nowhere near the worst pain Adam's ever experienced. In the grand scheme of things, it's mild, impossibly so.
But it feels wrong, so deeply wrong, and his head is pounding and he can't stop shaking and sniffling and his throat and mouth feel like they're on fire, and Adam panics.
He doesn't even realise what he's doing til he hears Pritchard's voice over the infolink.
"Jensen. Why are you calling me on a Saturday. Saturday evening, at that. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps not all of us are shut-ins?"
The familiarity of Pritchard's voice, his snippy tone, is a comfort. Adam swallows, winces when it hurts.
"I - something's wrong," he says, and it's lucky he's subvocalising as he always does with the infolink, because as he speaks he realises he wouldn't be able to raise his voice above a whisper.
"What do you mean?" Pritchard's voice sharpens, shifts to something more like the businesslike attitude he uses when Adam's on a mission. "Jensen, where are you?"
"My apartment," he manages, and wishes he had the energy to get up and get himself some water. But it's not just the pain, he's so tired as well, and it feels like even lifting his arm is an insurmountable barrier. He'll have to at some point, though. Not just for water; he needs to piss, and he needs to at least try and eat, because if his energy levels get too low and the augs can't power themselves, he's only going to feel worse. "It's... augs. Maybe."
"Maybe?" Pritchard snaps, clearly irritated. "Jensen, I am not your personal mechanic -"
"Please," Adam cuts him off, feeling miserable and humiliated and pathetic. But something is wrong, and he doesn't know what, and Pritchard's more likely to be able to figure it out. To fix it.
There's a long silence. Adam wonders if Pritchard has disconnected.
Then, a sigh.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Pritchard says. "And you will be making this up to me if you aren't at least on death's door, Jensen. I had plans." Then he cuts the connection, and Adam's alone.
By the time Pritchard arrives, he's at least managed to drag himself out of bed. He pissed, tried to get dressed, gave up, and now he's curled up on the sofa wishing he'd remembered to get a glass of water and wishing he'd brought his blanket. He's still sweating, but he's so cold. Shivering, even though it shouldn't be that cold in his apartment and the augs should handle his body temperature. And Adam still hurts, skin and the surfaces of his augs burning every time they brush against something.
When Pritchard raps sharply on the door, Adam lifts his head, but can't muster the energy to do much more. He tries to call out, to tell Pritchard the code, but he can't, his voice refusing to go any louder than a hoarse whisper and a sensation like a knife in his throat when he tries.
It's Pritchard, though, so he doesn't need the code. A few minutes of knocking later, there's a muffled curse outside, then the beep of his security system unlocking.
"Jensen," Pritchard says, "what the hell -" He cuts himself off. A moment later, he's standing by the sofa, staring at Adam.
Pritchard looks... good. In a way that Adam wishes he felt well enough to appreciate. Tight black jeans, a tank top he wouldn't ever be seen in at work that reveals far more tattoos than Adam would ever have guessed. He's even wearing eyeliner. He really did have plans.
In comparison, Adam knows he must look a wreck. Curled up on the sofa in only his underwear, shaking and damp with sweat at the same time, eyeshields down.
"What's going on, Jensen?" Pritchard's voice is the tiniest bit softer now, his eyes flicking over Adam, taking him all in. "I thought there was a problem with your augs."
"Must be," Adam says through the infolink, subvocalising entirely rather than trying to force anything audible. "I was fine. And then I wasn't."
Pritchard starts a little when the infolink activates, then frowns.
"Is there a reason you're using the infolink when I'm standing right here?" he asks - aloud, not through the infolink.
Rather than reply, Adam drags a too-heavy hand up to gesture vaguely at his throat, then lets it drop limply back onto the couch.
"You've lost your voice," Pritchard says, and Adam nods. "What about the other symptoms? Walk me through them, if you want me to troubleshoot."
So Adam does, via the infolink and slow, minimally-worded sentences. He can see the irritation on Pritchard's face, knows it would be easier if he could go into more detail - but it feels like just this is sucking every bit of energy from him, worse even than when he's completely drained his biocells, and he can't. Adam tells Pritchard the timeline - waking up and the symptoms getting worse every day, and finally today, when he'd woken up hardly able to move and hurting.
At that, Pritchard's brow furrows. He looks almost worried.
"Hold still," he says after Adam's done. It's not like Adam could do anything else, but he nods a little.
Then Pritchard reaches out and puts a hand on Adam's forehead.
It should hurt. He should flinch away.
But Pritchard is firm enough in his touch that it doesn't trigger the spiking pain in his skin, and his hand is so cold on a forehead Adam hadn't realised was overheating until now. He nearly whimpers, catches himself pressing into Pritchard's touch and can't bring himself to stop.
"You're burning up," Pritchard says after a moment. He goes to draw back, and Adam can't stop himself - his hand flashes up, more energy than he's had in days, and grabs Pritchard's wrist. Holds him there.
Pritchard raises an eyebrow, and lets him.
"You're sick, Jensen," he says. "I could check your diagnostics, but I don't think I need to. The Sentinel is excellent, yes, but it's by no means perfect. And from the literature I've read, the Sentinel being so good at fending off disease is exactly what makes it so much worse when something does get through." He sighs. "That said, you aren't going to die. It's just a cold, Jensen, nothing life-threatening." Unspoken: nothing you needed me for. Pritchard pulls his hand away, and Adam doesn't stop him this time. He picks up the bag he'd abandoned on the floor. He's going to leave.
Adam swallows. It hurts. And to his miserable, ashamed horror, he can feel tears welling, a prickling behind his eyes, a tremble in his lip.
It's just a cold. He's being pathetic. He's a fucking adult; he should be able to cope with this.
But he still can't stop the first sob spilling past his lips.
He muffles the rest, curls in on himself and presses the back of his hand to his face, but it's too late. Pritchard turns sharply back to him.
"Jensen?" He sounds alarmed. Then there's a hand on Adam's shoulder, impossibly cool, firm enough that it doesn't hurt too much. He follows its guidance, lets Pritchard tilt him back til he can see Pritchard's face again.
Pritchard looks genuinely worried now. Fuck. Adam should never have said anything, never dragged him here. They're coworkers, coworkers who don't even get along most of the time, and now he's sobbing like a child because he doesn't want Pritchard to leave him? Fuck, Adam is pathetic.
"Sorry," he tries to choke out past the sobs, and cringes at the pain and the way it comes out as more of a wheeze than a word. Pritchard purses his lips, and Adam feels even worse.
"Don't apologise," he says abruptly, and then he sighs. "Right. Well. I suppose you don't have anything that amounts to a useful first-aid kit here, do you?"
Adam stares at him, confused.
"Painkillers, Jensen," Pritchard explains. "Ones that will go along with the Sentinel, preferably. Then we can see about the rest."
Adam mutely directs Pritchard towards the bathroom, and tries not to whimper when it means Pritchard takes his hand away. Fuck.
Pritchard returns with the first aid kit in hand, frowning.
"All you have here is paracetamol," he says. "I know there are medications that the Sentinel won't process immediately. Do you not have any?"
Adam stares dumbly at him. He hadn't processed what Pritchard had said the first time.
There are painkillers that the Sentinel won't immediately sweep away?
He hadn't known. Nobody had given him any. Nobody had even offered.
Pritchard must take his silence as a negative.
"Well. Paracetamol should help bring your temperature down, at least. Have you had anything today?" Adam shakes his head, and Pritchard fetches a glass of water, helps Adam take the tablets. His hand is in Adam's greasy, damp hair, supporting his head even as he puts the tablets in Adam's mouth with the other, swatting away Adam's clumsy attempt to grab them - he'd assumed it would be a step too far for Pritchard. Hadn't even considered that he might...
Adam realises, belatedly, that he's crying again. Just from the feeling of Pritchard's hand in his hair, thumb making the occasional firm, soothing stroke along the back of his skull, holding the glass of water for him with a gentleness - a kindness - Adam didn't think was possible for anyone to direct at him. Much less Francis Pritchard. There's no sobbing this time, thankfully, just tears trickling slowly down his face.
Pritchard sighs, setting the glass aside.
"What are we going to do with you," he mutters. It sounds more fond than irritated.
Adam should say something, he thinks. Question what this means, why Pritchard is doing this for him, when he'd expected Pritchard to just leave.
But he doesn't have the energy. And he doesn't want to risk Pritchard changing his mind.
The medication doesn't do much, but it takes the edge off. The water probably helps, too.
"This can't be comfortable," Pritchard says after a moment. "Let's, ah. Get you into the shower, I suppose. It will help bring down your temperature as well."
Adam's a little uneasy about that - he doesn't know exactly what's going on here, between the two of them, but he does know that he doesn't want Pritchard to undress him. That seems a step too far, somehow.
"You can, ah, leave the boxers on," Pritchard adds quickly, as though he'd read Adam's mind. Is that a blush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks pink? "Can you walk?"
That's an easy answer. Adam shakes his head. He's still not sure how he'd even gotten to the couch.
"Don't freak out on me, Jensen," Pritchard says warningly. Then one of his arms slides under Adam's back, and the other hooks under his knees, and the next thing Adam knows, he's weightless, hanging in the air. Pritchard's carrying him, somehow, a hundred and eighty pounds of metal and flesh, and Pritchard barely batted an eyelid. What the fuck.
"You need muscle to ride a bike, don't look so shocked," Pritchard says, and makes his way towards the bathroom. It's an odd sensation, being carried. Adam doesn't think he's experienced it since he was a child. It should feel disorienting, unsafe, but it feels the exact opposite - maybe just because it's Pritchard.
His skin hurts where Pritchard's touching him, though. Carrying him like this, Pritchard can't be as careful about how or where he touches Adam. It's overwhelming, and Adam closes his eyes and tries to endure it. Then Pritchard's tipping him gently onto his feet, and Adam staggers, catches himself on the porcelain of the sink, makes a thin, distressed noise when he feels it crack beneath his fingers.
"Easy." Pritchard's voice is soft. "You're fine, Jensen. Come on, shower. It'll help."
The shower's not really big enough for both of them, but Adam half-hopes Pritchard will get in with him anyway. He doesn't. It makes sense, obviously, he's still dressed. But Adam's not in the mood for things that make sense, and as he shivers under the cool water that Pritchard won't let him turn up as hot as he'd like, that hurt little animal part of his brain that's been howling this whole time can't help but feel abandoned.
When he gets out of the shower, Pritchard's standing there with a towel, and Adam realises he's crying silently again. He lets Pritchard wrap him in the towel, pulling it tightly around him. It burns against his skin, and he can hear a faint, soft whimper. Oh. It's him.
Pritchard guides him through the bedroom, reaches for sweatpants he must have gotten out of Adam's drawers at some point. Adam - can't. They're perfectly good sweats, he wears them often enough, but they're stiff. Scratchy. It doesn't normally matter, with his augmented legs. But today...
Adam shakes his head. Pritchard glances at him, frowns, and then silently holds up different pairs of sweatpants until Adam nods. Then Pritchard helps him into them, waiting patiently every time Adam flinches or stumbles, and half-carries him back to the couch. Adam feels like he's just run a fucking marathon.
Pritchard leaves again, and Adam's too exhausted now to even be miserable about it. He comes back a moment later, anyway, with a cold, damp cloth that he presses to Adam's forehead.
"Thank you," Adam tries to whisper, overwhelmed all over again. Pritchard shakes his head.
"Rest, Jensen," he says. "Just... rest."