Work Text:
In the early morning hours, the apartment was steeped in quiet—just the hum of the fridge and the distant groan of pipes. Javari lay tangled in thin, threadbare sheets, one leg kicked free, his arm draped over his eyes. The air was cold enough to bite, but sleep clung to him like fog.
Then came the knock.
Sharp. Jarring. A fist against wood with no rhythm—just urgency.
Javari bolted upright, heart hammering. His feet hit the floor with a thud, and he reached instinctively for the silver bat propped against the wall beside his bed. The metal was cold in his grip. He cursed under his breath—not for the first time—that he couldn’t afford a gun.
The knock came again. Louder. Then softened. Then stopped.
He moved through the apartment barefoot, the floor gritty beneath his soles. The hallway light flickered overhead as he approached the door, bat raised, body angled to the side. He didn’t stand directly in front of the peephole—just off-center, shoulder pressed to the wall, breath shallow.
He peered through the lens. Nothing.
Then his phone buzzed in his hand, screen lighting up with a single message:
Uno.
Javari dropped the bat and unlocked the door fast, the chain rattling as he yanked it aside.
Uno was slumped against the frame, his body curled inward like he was trying to hold himself together. Rain clung to him in rivulets, soaking through his black tactical jacket. His pale skin was flushed with fever, silver hair matted to his forehead, and his gray eyes—usually sharp—were glazed and unfocused.
Javari dropped the bat. It clattered to the floor, forgotten.
“Ey, Uno,” he muttered, crouching low. “Work with me here, man. You weigh a ton.”
Uno groaned, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. “Your fault,” he rasped, coughing. “Twig.”
Javari hooked an arm under Uno’s shoulder, the other gripping his waist, and staggered backward, dragging him inside. Uno’s boots left wet prints across the tile, his body sagging with each step.
“You’re burning up,” Javari huffed, breath labored. “you sick?”
“Not sick,” Uno mumbled, voice hoarse. “Can’t be. I’m an assassin.”
“Yeah, well, not invincible,” Javari muttered, kicking the door shut with his heel. The slam caused an echo that rang through the small apartment.
He hauled Uno toward the couch—a sagging, faded thing with stuffing poking through the seams—and eased him down. Uno collapsed into it, head lolling back, breath shallow.
Javari crossed to the supply closet, yanked it open, and grabbed two mismatched blankets. One was fleece, the other a scratchy wool. He tossed them over Uno, who groaned and cocooned himself like a sulking child.
“What were you doing before you camped out at my door like a lost puppy?”
“Had a mission,” Uno muttered, voice muffled. “Tuesday.”
“In a thunderstorm?” Javari scoffed, heading to the kitchen. “Right before winter? Nothing says dedication like hypothermia.”
“Don’t laugh,” Uno grumbled, shifting under the blankets. “I’m dying. Not sick.”
Javari stopped turning and walking back to uno before he knelt beside him, eyes scanning Uno’s face. “Any injuries I should know about? Anything that actually says ‘dying’?”
Uno cracked one eye open. “Burning up. Everything’s dizzy.”
“So… a cold.”
“No,” Uno insisted, groaning as he buried deeper into the blankets.
Javari sighed and stood, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, for a top agent, you’re shit at taking care of yourself.”
He moved to the stove, flicked it on, and began chopping vegetables—onions, carrots, whatever was left in the fridge. The knife thunked against the cutting board in a soft rhythm.
Then his phone rang.
He picked it up, voice low. “Yeah?”
“Hey, Java,” came Jinx’s voice—bright and obnoxiously cheerful. “Whatcha doing?”
“Making sure our resident super soldier doesn’t keel over from a cold.”
“I’m dying,” Uno croaked from the couch, followed by a wet, rattling cough.
Jinx snorted. Javari could hear Mina laughing in the background along with the telltale sounds of a party.
“Yeah,” Javari said, glancing over his shoulder at the blanket mound. “I’ll call you back once I convince our clingy assassin that sniffles aren’t fatal.
Javari set the phone down with a quiet clack, the screen dimming as he turned back to the stove. The vegetables slid into the pot with a soft hiss, steam curling upward as he turned the heat down low. The scent of broth began to fill the tiny apartment, warm and earthy, a contrast to the chill clinging to the air.
He crossed the room, bare feet whispering against the tile, and opened the creaky medicine cabinet above the sink. Inside: half-used bandages, expired aspirin, a bottle of cough syrup with the label peeling. He rummaged through it in silence, jaw tight, while behind him Uno shifted under the blankets, curling tighter into himself like a wounded animal.
Finally, after what felt like forever, Javari’s fingers closed around something—NyQuil. Not ideal, but better than nothing.
He grabbed the small plastic medicine cup, rinsed it under the tap, then poured the thick, dark liquid in with care. The smell was sharp, medicinal, clinging to the air like menthol.
Javari walked back over to the couch, crouched beside Uno, and held out the cup.
“Here. Drink this. It’s gonna knock you out, but hey—you’ll feel better.”
Uno grumbled, his hand emerging slowly from the blanket cocoon like he was reaching through fog. He took the cup, downed the medicine in one go, then cringed and handed it back, face scrunching.
“Bitter,” he grumbled.
“It’s medicine. It’s supposed to taste like regret,” Javari said, standing. “Soup’s coming in a hot minute.”
He returned to the kitchen, ladled the soup into a chipped ceramic bowl, steam rising in lazy spirals. The broth shimmered, flecks of herbs floating on the surface. He carried it carefully, fingers curled around the bowl’s rim, but by the time he reached the couch Uno was out cold.
His head had lolled to the side, silver hair damp against the cushion, breath slow and uneven. One arm had slipped free of the blankets, palm open, fingers twitching faintly in sleep.
Javari sighed and lowered himself beside the couch, back against the wall, knees drawn up. He set the bowl on the floor and leaned his head back, watching Uno’s chest rise and fall.
“This fucking idiot,” he murmured, voice barely audible. But his eyes didn’t leave Uno, not for a long time.