Work Text:
In hindsight, bringing Gregory along had been a mistake. Not that he wasn’t a skilled marksman; he was, and he was the only one with proficient enough English to take full advantage of the English-to-Indonesian travel dictionary they had (they’re not exactly printing French-to-Indonesian dictionaries in droves, anyways.) He’d come down with a fever almost immediately after they’d set up camp deep in the Harapan rainforest, which was not particularly ideal for the nature of the mission they were on. They carried basic first aid items, like bandages and antiseptic, but there wasn’t much someone could do for a fever aside from wait it out.
The moon’s placement in the sky above them tells them both it’s nearing 1 o’clock in the morning, but time is redundant at this point because they have been awake for 44 hours (or 50, or 60, who even knows at this point, it doesn’t matter) and Mole’s watch battery ran out and neither of them spoke enough Indonesian to get it fixed. It’s alright , Gregory had chimed, we can use the position of the sun to determine relatively when it’s midday or midnight! Not wanting a fight, Mole just huffed and said okay. It would have to do them good in the meantime.
Posted up sat upon a wide tree stump, overlooked by some gently swaying tree branches, there’s a slight chill in the air. It’s muggy, and the ground below their feet is damp. Not anything they haven’t dealt with before, and far from the worst conditions they’ve worked in. As a matter of fact, it’s rather nice. Ambient, if anything. Quiet. Humid as all hell, but it beat the bitter cold of Siberia and the blistering heat of Tuvalu in August.
All they had for light was a fire they'd lit a few hours ago after the sun had gone down. They didn't need the heat, but it was technically more fuel conservative than using flashlights.
Speaking of heat: it would be a whole hell of a lot easier to enjoy himself if he wasn’t sitting back-to-back with a complete furnace of a man. Every few minutes, Mole would feel a slight pressure on his back, like Gregory was fighting back and forth with his consciousness.
“Go lay in ze tent,” Mole says finally. “You are only ‘urting yourself.”
“...I’m fine,” Gregory says after a beat. “Can’t we just sit here? Surely it can’t be too much longer. We’ll sit here, wait for correspondence, and then go wherever they tell us.”
“Neither of us know when zat will be,” Mole sighs, fidgeting with his gun. He cocks it, uncocks it, then cocks it again. His hands itched for a cigarette, but the air was too damp for it. Maybe he should get into chaw. “We’ve already been out ‘ere for…” Mole looks at his dead watch, remembers, and then looks up at the sky. “...‘owever many hours now; it could be days until anyzing ‘appens. I will wake you if I need you.”
“I am not going anywhere!” Gregory gasps, his energy doubling suddenly. “I am staying right here, and we are seeing this through to the end, and, if I leave, I just know something is going to happen to you, and I won’t be here to protect you!”
“Cherí,” Mole tuts, turning so he can slip a hand around Gregory’s waist. “Ze zings you are worrying about, it was almost 20 years ago, non? Nothing is going to ‘appen to me. Ze only reason anyzing ‘appened to me zen was because of zat fat idiot.”
“I’m the one who sent them with you to begin with,” Gregory mutters, looking thoroughly defeated. “I can’t let that happen to you again.”
“Nothing has ever ‘appened to me in 20 years, non?” Mole attempts to reassure Gregory, his hand moving up to tenderly caress Gregory’s forehead. His fingers trace his hairline, discreetly trying to get some gauge on his temperature without him noticing. Gregory sighs, leaning into the touch. “I don’t zink you could protect anyzing in your condition right now. You’re very sick. Lay down, mon cher. You don’t ‘ave to sleep if you don’t want to, and you can leave ze tent open.”
Gregory pouts, his resolution wearing thin. “I am not going into that tent alone,” He maintains, folding his arms.
“Well, too bad,” Mole says. “I need to stay out ‘ere.”
“Then I am not moving an inch.”
Mole sighs. He thinks on it for a moment, then pulls his shirt over his head in one quick movement. “Zen you will sleep ‘here.”
“What are you on about?”
Mole drapes his shirt at his feet, covering up the damp earth underneath. He points. “On your knees.”
“O-Oh my,” Gregory stammers, standing up with trepidation and getting onto his knees before Mole, sitting on top of his shirt. Mole knew he’d never hear the end of it if he messed up Gregory’s pants, hence the shirt.
“Lay your ‘ead on my lap.”
“Mole,” Gregory drops his shoulders incredulously, tilting his head.
“It is okay,” Mole says, interrupting. Truthfully, with Gregory being as sick as he is at the moment, he wasn’t about to send him to sleep alone in the tent. Gregory was a stubborn bitch and he will refuse to sleep alone, especially when he’s sick. “It is not ideal, but you won’t ‘ave to leave my side, and it is better zan laying in ze dirt.”
Wordlessly, and with a certain languor about him, Gregory settles his arms on Mole’s lap and glances up at him. “What if I fall?”
“Zen I will find a new stump to sit on without a bitch at my feet,” Mole deadpans gruffly. “Do you really zink I would let you fall? I’ve got you. Lay your ‘ead down; try to sleep.”
Gregory gives in, finally resting his head in the crook of his arms. Bored, Mole runs his fingers through his tired fiancé’s hair, one hand resting near Gregory’s shoulder to keep him secure, and the other moving lower to rub his upper back, stroking slow little circles into his back to hopefully lull him into some kind of rhythm. If all went well, he’d fall asleep.
He’d probably wake up with the neck pain from Hell, and Mole probably wouldn’t be able to use his legs for a bit if he let Gregory sleep like this for long— so Mole decides that once his legs fall asleep he’s carrying Gregory to the tent and fully ignoring his protests.