Work Text:
The apartment they were squatting in was technically abandoned.
The landlord hadn’t been seen in two galactic cycles. The utilities were still mysteriously active (thanks to Silver Wolf rerouting power from a nearby government office), and Kafka liked the vibe. Which meant they were staying until Elio told them to burn it down.
Or until Blade snapped and relocated to a cave.
Whichever came first.
Silver Wolf had been coughing for three days.
Not the delicate, pitiful kind of coughing that earns sympathy, no, this was deeply annoying, stubborn, trying-to-hack-while-hacking-up-a-lung coughing.
The kind that made Blade seriously consider unplugging her entire gaming system just to make her lie down.
He didn’t, of course. Yet.
Instead, he stood in the doorway of the living room, watching her huddled under a hoodie the size of a small tent, face half-glowing from her portable screen, eyes glazed with fever and defiance.
“You look like garbage,” he said flatly.
“I look like this on purpose,” she shot back, voice raspy.
Kafka swept in from the hallway, every inch of her glowing with that infuriating untouchable poise. “Blade, sweetheart, don’t antagonize the plague rat. She’s already half-dead.”
“I’m not—” Silver Wolf wheezed mid-sentence. “—dying.”
Kafka dropped a thermometer on her lap. “Prove it.”
Silver Wolf stared at it like it was a bomb. “This is invasive.”
“It’s digital.”
“It’s judgmental.”
“Use it, or I’m calling Elio and telling him you’re being uncooperative.”
That got her.
Grumbling like a sullen teen, which, in several respects, she still was, Silver Wolf stuffed the thermometer in her mouth and dramatically flopped back onto the couch like she was reenacting a tragic space opera.
Blade walked past them into the kitchen, muttering, “I’ll make tea.”
Kafka raised an eyebrow. “That’s domestic of you.”
“I’m not doing it for her.”
Silver Wolf, mouth full of thermometer, mumbled something that might’ve been liar.
Twenty minutes later.
Silver Wolf had been declared officially feverish. (Kafka won the betting pool, she’d guessed 39.2º exactly.)
The couch was now a nest of blankets, snack wrappers, and portable chargers. Blade returned with a mug and set it down next to her without a word.
Silver Wolf glanced at it. Then him. “Is this poisoned?”
“It’s honey ginger,” Blade said. “Drink it.”
Kafka sat at the edge of the couch, legs crossed like this was a royal visitation. “He even grated the ginger himself. It’s very impressive.”
“I hate ginger.”
“Too bad,” Blade said.
Silver Wolf sniffed the cup, winced, and drank anyway. Then blinked.
“…It’s not terrible.”
“Don’t let that go to your head.”
“You love me,” she said, hoarse but smug.
Kafka smirked. “He tolerates you. That’s more intimate than love, for him.”
Blade looked like he was praying for a meteor to crash through the ceiling.
That night, when Silver Wolf finally passed out, curled under too many layers:
Kafka pulled the blanket up over her shoulder.
“She’s still burning up,” she said softly, brushing damp hair back from the girl’s forehead.
“She’ll be fine,” Blade said, standing nearby with arms folded. But his voice lacked its usual steel.
Kafka gave him a look. “You stayed up.”
“I always do.”
“You stayed up here.”
Blade didn’t answer. Just kept watching the girl breathe.
After a moment, Kafka smiled, not her usual sharp-edged smirk, but something quieter. Gentler.
“We’re not equipped for this, you know.”
“For illness?”
“For... caring.”
Blade looked at the couch, then back to her.
“We’re adapting.”