Work Text:
It was 3 a.m., that much Colm knew.
He knew it the way a body knows the taste of copper in its mouth after a fight, the way ribs know the difference between bruised and cracked, the way the mind knows the exact shape of exhaustion even while it’s vibrating with leftover adrenaline. A bone-deep certainty. A clock carved into the space behind his eyes.
He should’ve been unconscious. He wanted to be unconscious. He’d been awake so long he felt hollowed out, scraped raw, buzzing with that sleepless, feverish electricity that made him pace instead of collapse.
But instead of pacing, he was sneezing so violently he thought his spine was going to split.
“Gh.. hhH’TSCHH! Fucking shit—”
He slammed both hands over his face too late to smother it. The sneeze ricocheted off the dim kitchen walls, bouncing around the cramped apartment like a sonic grenade. His nose throbbed. His throat burned. His eyes watered.
3 a.m. and he felt like his skull was stuffed with fiberglass insulation.
He sniffed wetly and glared at the box of tissues on the counter, which seemed to be mocking him by existing.
The apartment around him was dark except for the weak yellow light he’d flicked on in the kitchen: as dim as everything else in this rundown place, but it was theirs. Their one-bedroom refuge with peeling linoleum, mismatched charity-shop furniture, and a perpetually rattling heater that Janelle kept whacking with a wrench when it acted up.
Normally, the thought of her made him feel warmer. Tonight it made him feel guilty.
Because she was asleep only a room away: sprawled diagonally across their shared bed like a fallen tree, one arm over her head, the other hanging useless off the side and every time he sneezed, he was terrified he’d wake her.
They’d been working all night for SDN. Another endless shift as members of the Z-Team, the bottom-of-the-barrel “superhero” squad formed out of reformed criminals who were too weird, too messy, or too morally gray to fit the glossy S-tier hero mold. Some days it felt like they weren’t hired so much as scooped up off the pavement and pointed in the general direction of trouble.
“Reformed villains to heroes,” he muttered, voice clogged and bitter. “Makes no fuckin’ sense. PR stunt horseshit.”
He sniffed again. Miserably. Loudly.
And sneezed again.
“Hh.. hhH’TSCHHHH— fuck!”
He half-coughed, half-snarled, grabbing the counter for balance as the sneeze threatened to launch him backward like a recoil blast. Being three-foot-three and perpetually underestimated meant that when his body rebelled, it really went for the jugular.
His knees wobbled. His sinuses screamed. He braced himself on the cold laminate counter and sucked in a shaky breath, trying to quiet down before Janelle stirred.
She’d been dead on her feet when they'd dragged themselves in after the shift. He could still see the faint smudges of exhaustion under her eyes, the way her curls had fallen limp with humidity and sweat. She’d barely made it through the door before collapsing on the bed, boots still on. He’d had to tug them off her feet, her body slack, her breathing heavy. She hadn't even made a joke about him being short enough to topple off while yanking them.
She deserved sleep. Hours of it. An entire week of it.
So he was in the kitchen, freezing, aching, sneezing, and quietly losing his mind.
He stared up at the cabinet where the cold meds were kept.
Too high.
Of course.
He hated that cabinet. He hated its stupid unreachable height. He hated that he needed help or tools or fucking parkour to get to it. He hated that Janelle knew this and had stolen a step stool for him because “I swear to god, Colm, if I catch you trying to scale the counter like a tiny raccoon again—”
At the time, he’d cursed her out.
Now, he dragged the step stool over with a reluctant scrape of wood on tile.
“There,” he muttered at it. “Doing exactly what she wanted. Like a domesticated creature. Like a small disgruntled house gremlin.”
He climbed onto the stool, joints stiff, nose running. The room felt too big and too small at the same time. His breath fogged in front of him. It shouldn't be fogging indoors. Maybe.. he was running a fever.
He reached up and yanked the cabinet open.
On the middle shelf sat a bright-orange bottle with a sticky note slapped to the front.
He grimaced, because of course she’d done that too.
In Janelle’s aggressively neat handwriting:
“TAKE TWO OR I’M STICKING YOU IN A STORAGE CLOSET UNTIL YOU STOP SOUNDING LIKE A DROWNING CAT.” — ♡ Coupè
He stared.
Then rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.
“Love of my goddamn life,” he grumbled. “Insufferable.”
His heart softened even as his nose dripped.
He grabbed the bottle and hopped down from the step stool, landing with a soft thud that jarred his already aching joints. His head swam. For a moment he just leaned against the counter, eyelids fluttering, breath trembling as another sneeze crawled up the back of his nose.
“No. No no— don’t.. d— hH—”
He pinched his nose shut with both hands, entire body going rigid, shaking with the effort not to explode.
It didn’t help.
“HhhH’TSCHFFFFF!”
He barely muffled it into his sleeve in time. His whole torso spasmed with the force. Tears pricked his eyes. He groaned miserably.
If superhero work didn’t kill him, the common cold was sure as hell giving it its best shot.
He fumbled for water, popped open the childproof cap with a surprising amount of venom, and swallowed the chalky pills. They stuck in his throat in the most unpleasant way possible, scraping down like they’d been dipped in sand.
He thumped his chest weakly.
“Ugh.”
His nose dripped again.
He sniffed, grabbed a tissue, and blew until he thought his brain was going to come out. He sagged against the counter, head tipped back, staring up at the stained ceiling.
This was supposed to be heroic life. Redemption. A fresh start.
Instead, he’d spent the night outside in the freezing wind chasing petty thieves and wannabe villains who had less style than a wet sock. Then he’d spent the early morning sneezing like his body was trying to eject his soul.
He rubbed at his burning eyes.
He wanted to go back to bed. He wanted to curl against Janelle, bury his freezing toes against her warm legs, feel her arm drape heavy across him like a protective weight.
But he didn’t want to wake her.
He didn’t want to bring his disgusting germ apocalypse within range of her face.
He didn’t want her to see him like this; shaking, miserable and small in ways that weren’t just physical.
He coughed once, a dry, rasping thing, before he could stop it. Another sneeze threatened. He fought it. Lost.
“HhH’TSCHH!”
This one sent him stumbling forward, grabbing the counter for balance.
“God dammit!”
He slammed his forehead into the cabinet door, defeated.
He needed sleep.
He needed comfort.
He needed—
“Colm…?”
His blood froze.
He turned.
There she was.
Janelle.. Coupè, standing in the doorway to the kitchen in one of his shirts, easily fit into it, curls a lopsided mess, eyes half-open and squinting blearily at him.
She looked like she’d crawled out of a dream and hadn’t quite accepted reality yet.
“…Why’re you up?” she mumbled, rubbing at one eye with the heel of her palm. “And why’re you makin’ war noises at three in the damn morning?”
Colm felt heat rush to his cheeks.
“It’s nothing,” he croaked. “Go back to bed.”
She blinked at him slowly.
Then stepped closer.
Then squinted at him harder.
Her eyebrows pulled together.
“…You’re sick.”
“No I’m not,” he lied immediately, voice breaking halfway through.
“Honey,” she said flatly. “You just sneezed loud enough to shake the foundation.”
He crossed his arms. “It wasn’t that loud.”
“The heater rattled in sympathy.”
He looked away.
“It’s just… allergies.”
“It’s winter.”
“Could be winter allergies.”
“There’s no pollen.”
“Dust then.”
“It rained all day. The air’s clean as shit.”
He scowled, cornered.
She stepped into the kitchen fully, the soft pad of her feet on the tile sounding impossibly gentle compared to his earlier chaos. She approached him with that same calm, tired determination she used when disarming bombs or negotiating with trigger-happy villains.
Except this time the bomb was him, and he didn’t know how to defuse himself.
She lifted a hand and brushed the back of her fingers across his forehead.
Her eyes softened instantly. “Colm,” she breathed, “you’re burning up.”
He stiffened.
He hated being fussed over. Hated feeling helpless. Hated being perceived as weak or fragile. But with her…
It felt different.
It felt worse and better at the same time.
He didn’t answer.
She sighed, gently sliding her hand down to cup his cheek, tilting his head so she could meet his eyes.
“You should’ve woken me.”
“You were dead tired,” he muttered.
“So are you.”
He didn’t respond.
She pressed closer, sliding her arm around his shoulders to steady him without making a big show of it. Her body was warm. Comfortingly warm.
He leaned in before he could stop himself.
She didn’t comment. She just held him upright as he swayed.
“You’re such a stubborn little shit,” she murmured against his hair.
“Don’t call me little,” he mumbled weakly.
“Then stop trying to suffer in silence like a feral raccoon in the vents.”
He huffed, which turned into a cough, which turned into another sneeze barreling through him.
“HhH’TSCHH— fucking..”
She steadied him again. “That’s it,” she said. “Bed. Now.”
He tried to protest.
She didn’t listen.
She guided him: gently but firmly out of the kitchen, down the short hall, and back to the bedroom. She helped him climb into the bed without making him feel like a child. She pulled the blankets up over him, tucking the edges around his body with a tenderness he didn’t know how to accept without feeling wrecked.
She sat beside him, brushing sweat-damp hair back from his forehead.
“You should’ve told me you felt like shit,” she whispered.
“I didn’t wanna bother you.”
“You’re my partner. You’re allowed to bother me.”
His chest tightened.
“‘m sorry.”
She leaned down and kissed his fevered temple.
“Don’t be. Just… let me take care of you.”
He closed his eyes.
She crawled in next to him, her arm sliding around him, pulling him into the warmth of her chest. He curled instinctively into her, small body fitting neatly against her curves like he’d been designed for this contact and this contact alone.
She stroked slow circles on his back.
He melted.
“If you sneeze on me,” she murmured, voice lazy with sleep, “I’m punting you into the sun.”
He huffed a shaky laugh against her collarbone. “No promises.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Her breathing slowed. Deepened.
He felt himself drifting, the meds dulling the ache behind his eyes, her warmth anchoring him to the bed, to her, to the soft dark of the early morning.
For the first time in hours, his body stopped fighting itself.
He felt safe.
He let himself sink.
He let himself sleep.
The next morning was worse. Colm knew it the second consciousness clawed its way up through the sludge inside his skull. He didn’t wake so much as surface, dragged violently upward from fever-sour dreams into a reality that felt just as muddy and cruel.
Every bone in his body felt like it had been replaced with wet cement. His eyelids stuck together. His mouth tasted like a burnt tire. His head throbbed in slow, nauseating pulses that made the room tilt even before he sat up.
He felt hungover, drugged, and vaguely poisoned, like he’d downed a full bottle of spoiled whiskey and then let someone hit him in the face with the bottle afterwards.
Honestly, it felt like he’d snorted something he’d found behind a dumpster, something left behind by Victor after one of his “I swear it’s for hero work” coke benders on some gross-ass Z-Team mission gone sideways. Except Colm knew even that would probably feel better than this boiling, sticky misery pressed beneath his skin.
…And Janelle would absolutely launch him into the sun if he ever touched Victor’s stash, so he guessed he’d stick with fever and death.
He groaned low in his throat, a growl more than a sound, rolling onto his side. Every joint protested. His nose throbbed. His throat felt like sandpaper dipped in acid had been dragged across it while he slept. The blankets were twisted around his legs like he’d fought a demon in his sleep and lost. He was sweaty and freezing, hot and cold at the same exact time, which felt like a personal insult.
He blinked blearily toward the doorway, squinting because the faint morning light slicing into the room from the blinds felt like someone was shining a police spotlight directly into his corneas.
He wanted to die. Or at least stop existing for a few hours.
But he was still him. Still stubborn. Still the kind of idiot who insisted on getting up even when his body was screaming ‘lie down, you absolute gremlin’. So he shifted, pushed himself upright with arms that trembled like noodles, and immediately regretted it when a wave of dizziness crashed over him, violent and disorienting. His vision went white at the edges. His ears rang. He swallowed hard, tasting the burn of fever at the back of his throat.
He huffed weakly, dragging one hand across his face in a miserable smear. His skin felt too hot under his palm, like his fever was trying to burn its way out. His hair stuck to his forehead. He sniffed, instantly regretted it and coughed out a noise that sounded like a dying engine trying to start.
He hated this. Hated feeling weak, slow, pathetic. Hated every second of being sick. And of every symptom he despised, he despised the scratchy throat most.
If he could punch one part of his immune system in the face, it would be whatever bastard molecule was responsible for making his throat feel like this. Being Irish, he was built for cold, wind, rain, and bullshit not for this.
But no amount of internal ranting changed the fact that he felt like garbage that had been set on fire, run over, and then set on fire again.
Still, he stood. Or tried to.
He staggered to his feet, wobbling like a drunk toddler learning balance for the first time. His legs felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. And yet he shuffled out of the bedroom because if he stayed in bed any longer, he might start screaming.
The apartment outside the bedroom door was quiet, still soaked in early morning gray. The air smelled faintly of coffee, which meant one thing: Janelle was awake.
And that alone kept him moving, dragging himself forward. He followed the scent like a half-dead bloodhound. His steps were soft but clumsy, his bare feet sticking slightly to the cold floor. His breath rasped in his chest. His nose dripped again, traitorous. He sniffed. Bad idea. Pain flared behind his eyes.
He emerged into the living room-kitchen hybrid and blinked groggily around. It took a full three seconds for his brain to register Janelle leaning against the counter, holding two mugs: one in each hand, staring at him with the exact expression of someone watching a zombie crawl out of a shallow grave. Her curls were brushed back messily, loose strands sticking out like electricity had kissed them. She wore lose trousers and one of his shirts this time, sleeves rolled sloppily. Her eyes were alert but soft, exhausted but steady.
“Jesus Christ,” she said, voice low and warm with concern hidden under sarcasm. “You look like you fought a garbage truck and lost.”
Colm sniffed again. “Feel… worse,” he croaked, voice hoarse enough to be classified as a threat.
She was at his side immediately, handing him a mug before he could even think to argue. It was warm. Blessedly warm. Coffee with just enough cream to take the bitterness down, exactly how he drank it. He wrapped both hands around it like it was life support. He didn’t trust himself to speak again yet, his voice might actually fall apart and die.
The second mug she set down on the counter, then she pressed two cold meds into his free hand without ceremony. He raised the coffee to his lips and took a shaky sip. It felt like heaven sliding down his throat, cutting through the razor edges with warm balm.
“Sit,” she ordered simply.
He didn’t have the strength to pretend he had independence. He shuffled toward the sofa and collapsed onto it like gravity had just remembered he existed. The cushions swallowed him. His bones sighed in relief. He let his head drop back and closed his eyes for a moment as the exhaustion swelled around him.
Janelle moved around the living room quietly, grabbing the blanket draped over the back of the sofa and tossing it onto him. He pulled it up without comment. She sat beside him, close enough that their bodies brushed.
“We’ve got work in a few hours,” she said, her voice gentle but edged with reality. “Z-Team briefing. Probably another patrol shift tonight.”
He made a noise. A long, miserable groan, like something dying in a cave. His head lolled sideways until it rested against her shoulder. She didn’t move away. She let him lean, let him soak up her warmth like she was the only heating system in the building.
“You’re not going tonight,” she added after a beat, tone firm, absolute. “I’ll tell them you’re sick.”
He tried to summon the energy to argue. He managed a halfhearted grunt.
“They’ll survive one night without you punching petty thieves in the spine,” she said, brushing her thumb against the side of his arm. “You’re staying home.”
Another grunt. Slightly more annoyed. But he didn’t pull away. His head stayed firmly planted on her shoulder.
She huffed out a soft laugh. “Don’t even try. You can barely stand.”
He mumbled something unintelligible. It could have been agreement. It could have been defiance. Hard to tell.
“Drink your coffee,” she said, nudging the bottom of the mug with her knuckle.
He did, taking small sips. The bitter warmth cut through the fog in his skull enough that he could open his eyes again. The room still spun a little. But she kept him upright.
He sniffed again; wet, congested, miserable and wrinkled his face into a scowl of pure hatred for his own sinuses. His nose throbbed violently in response. Janelle reached over and tapped his thigh.
“Tissues,” she reminded.
He grunted, grabbed the box one-handed, and honked into one like a dying goose. She patted his back sympathetically, then flinched at the sound.
“Christ,” she muttered. “Your skull probably rattled.”
“Feel like it did,” he rasped.
“Yeah, I can tell.”
He slumped deeper into the sofa, letting his body sink and dissolve into the cushions. The fever-sweat stuck his shirt to his chest. He felt disgusting, exhausted, and borderline delirious. But Janelle’s hand stayed on him, grounding him.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The apartment hummed softly: the fridge, the old heater rattling somewhere in the walls, distant traffic outside. The warmth of the mug seeped into his palms. Her steady breathing soothed the pounding in his head.
He thought he might fall asleep again right there, sitting up.
Then another sneeze hit him with the subtlety of a brick through a window.
“Hhh.. hhH’TSHCHHH!” He barely got the mug onto the table in time. His body curled forward with the force, whole frame shaking. Janelle steadied him instinctively, hand on his back.
“Okay,” she declared with serious authority. “You’re absolutely not going to work.”
He wheezed. “Didn’t… say I was.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Didn’t think anything.” He rubbed his burning eyes. “Brain’s empty.”
“Good,” she said, brushing hair from his forehead. “Keep it that way. Less room for dumb ideas.”
He made a halfhearted attempt to glare at her. It came out more like a pout. She smiled faintly, brushing her thumb along his cheekbone.
“You’re miserable,” she murmured.
“No shit,” he muttered.
“You’re also kinda cute like this.”
He blinked at her through fever-glossy eyes. “Don’t.”
She laughed; soft, tired and unbelievably fond. “Okay, okay.”
He curled into her side, sniffling miserably. She adjusted the blanket around him, pulled him in closer, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, ignoring the fever heat radiating off him.
“You’re gonna rest,” she said softly. “You’re gonna hydrate. And you’re gonna let me take care of you.”
He didn’t have the energy to argue. Didn’t have the stubbornness today to fight her on it. He just burrowed closer, letting her warmth melt into him.
“Fine,” he whispered.
She smiled into his hair. “Good.”
He shivered once, then stilled. The room dimmed around him. The fever pulsed like a distant drum. The coffee cooled on the table. Janelle’s hand rubbed slow, gentle circles across his shoulder.
And as the morning sunlight crept higher through the blinds, he finally let himself drift: not awake, not asleep, suspended between the two, held safely against her.
Colm barely processed waking up midday, brain swimming up through sludge that felt like it had been poured down his throat and set to cure overnight. His head throbbed in thick, pulsing beats that didn’t feel like a normal headache but more like someone inside his skull was slamming a hammer against the bone trying to get out. The apartment was too bright even with the curtains half-drawn, stabbing into his retinas, making him wince and curse under his breath.
His limbs felt gummy, sticky, like they’d been dipped in cold syrup and left to dry. When he finally dragged his gaze toward the coffee table, he saw Janelle was gone, of course she was.
The empty, warm indentation on the sofa pillow told him she’d been there recently. And the neat little note, the stupidly fancy handwriting of hers, the way she curled letters like someone who’d actually paid attention in primary school instead of fleeing the building the way he had… yeah, that confirmed it.
Beside the note sat another dosage of meds.
And a glass of water, fogged over with condensation, droplets rolling lazily down its side in slow, fat streaks. Ice must’ve been in it earlier. Melted now. Probably melted ages ago. He had no idea how long he’d been passed out.
The room still felt warm, thick with the heat of midday sun, but the glass was chilly enough when he touched it that it made his fingertips prickle. The note was predictable, her tone a mixture of stern and affectionate, nothing flowery:
Be back tonight. Someone might swing by to check on you. Take the meds.
Short. Bossy. Exactly like her. He groaned, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes until sparks danced behind his eyelids. He wasn’t sure what was worse, the dizziness that hit every time he moved his head too fast or the miserable soreness of his throat, raw and grainy like he’d swallowed sandpaper for sport. Even breathing felt like dragging cold air over flayed skin.
He was still squinting through the blur of the note when he heard it: the low, mechanical hum of the fridge opening, followed by the faint clatter of something shifting inside.
The apartment was small enough that every sound felt like it vibrated directly against his skull. For a moment his muddled, fever-stewed brain thought he was hallucinating because Janelle said someone might come by but hadn’t said when, and he definitely didn’t remember giving anyone a spare key. His fogged eyes lifted slowly over the back of the couch, and then— then came the voice.
A dull, monotone grunt shaped into something resembling words. “Oh. You’re alive.” Sonar. Victor. Whatever the hell he preferred that day.
Colm blinked at him, the gesture slow and uneven like his eyelids had weights attached. There he was: the bat hybrid, manbat, walking echolocation machine, whatever label fit best. Hair or fur.. whatever it was: messy, eyes half-dead, his posture slouched like he hadn’t fully woken up either. Or maybe that was just how he existed.
Victor was holding a yogurt cup: one of Janelle’s nice ones, the fancy Greek bullshit she always claimed had “actual flavour” —spoon already in his mouth.
Colm let out something between a groan and a laugh, though “laugh” was generous. More like air escaping a punctured balloon. “Raided your fridge,” Victor muttered with zero shame, dropping the empty spoon back into the cup. “Coupè said it was fine. Didn’t think you’d actually be awake to complain.” His voice always sounded like he’d rather be unconscious, or underground, or maybe six feet under and sleeping peacefully in the dirt.
Colm wanted to tell him to piss off. Or say thanks. Or say something witty. Or at least open his mouth. But he simply didn’t have the energy, his body sinking deeper into the sofa cushions like gravity had decided to personally smother him today.
Victor didn’t ask permission before coming around the couch and flopping onto the seat beside him. The sofa groaned underneath the added weight, the old springs inside making a choking metallic sound. Victor sat like someone who didn’t understand human couches weren’t actually designed to be tackled.
Colm swayed with the impact, the world tilting just slightly enough to make bile creep up the back of his throat before settling again. “You look like death,” Victor commented blandly, tearing open the yogurt’s plastic lid the rest of the way. “Like. Not even good death. Like roadkill on a hot day.”
Colm sniffed, instantly regretting it as his sinuses screamed. “Thanks,” he rasped, voice shredded. “You’re a fuckin’ poet.”
Victor shrugged one thin shoulder. “I try.” He didn’t, but whatever.
Colm glanced at him sideways, trying to make sense of the manbat’s appearance. His dark hair stuck up in uneven tufts like he’d been electrocuted. One ear twitched independently, the leathery membrane folding slightly at the tip. His wings; folded tight, rustled against the backrest. He smelled faintly like stale coffee and someone else’s cigarettes, the scent of the SDN office baked into his clothes. Colm tried to sit up straighter, but the movement made his legs feel like melting wax.
The Irish man sucked in a rattling breath, pressing a knuckle beneath his nose as if it would do anything to stop the constant sting and pressure threatening another sneeze.
Victor’s eyes flicked toward him. He didn’t say “bless you” when the sneeze inevitably shattered through Colm’s chest like a shotgun blast. He just grimaced and nudged a tissue box toward him. “You sound contagious,” he droned. “Should’ve stayed home.”
“I am home,” Colm snapped weakly before blowing his nose loud enough that Victor winced and leaned away. The tissue disintegrated slightly from the sheer force, and Colm wanted to bury himself in the cushions out of embarrassment. His head thumped back against the sofa’s supportive dent, vision swimming.
Victor took another spoonful of yogurt. “Didn’t say you weren’t. Just meant.. should’ve stayed home yesterday.”
Colm let his eyes fall half-shut. He didn’t want to think about yesterday. The cold. The damp. The alley that smelled like piss and rain-soaked garbage. The sneezing fits that had nearly knocked him off a fire escape mid-mission. The way he’d tried to hide it from Janelle until she eventually threatened to knock him out and drag him home herself. The fact that he was short enough that even criminals felt awkward about hitting him because it felt like punching a child.
“Not my fault,” Colm muttered hoarsely, the words clinging to the rawness of his throat. “Z-Team doesn’t give sick days.”
“Z-Team barely gives bathroom breaks,” Victor agreed dryly. “It’s like working for a cult except without the free robes.”
Colm snorted again, which made his nose flare painfully, which made him wince harder. “Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned. “Kill me.”
“Too much paperwork,” Victor deadpanned. “Plus Coupè would actually punt me if I let you die while babysitting.”
Colm blinked, heat creeping into his cheeks; not fever heat, embarrassment heat at the realisation Victor was here specifically because Janelle asked him to be. To check on him. To sit with him. To keep him alive long enough for her to get home.
“Don’t need babysittin’,” Colm muttered stubbornly. “You sure?” Victor asked, mid-spoonful. “Because earlier you tried to stand up and immediately listed sideways like a boat with one oar.”
“Did not.”
“Did.”
Colm rubbed a hand over his face, trying to hide the flush. His cheeks were already warm with fever, but this was different. He hated looking weak. Hated it even more in front of coworkers, ex-villains, whatever they were. People who were dangerous enough that looking pathetic in front of them should’ve been risky. But Victor didn’t judge. He barely emoted.
The bat hybrid just scooted down lower into the sofa, wings shifting as he made himself comfortable, and said, “Move closer, you’re hogging the soft cushion.”
“This whole sofa is soft.”
“Not this part.”
“You’re insane.”
“Move.”
Colm shoved himself an inch away, sluggish and annoyed. Victor immediately occupied the space like a smug housecat. The manbat let out a long sigh, then glanced at Colm again. “You’re burning up.”
“Fever,” Colm grunted.
“Yeah, I figured.” The room fell into a thick, heavy quiet aside from Colm’s occasional coughing, which sounded like someone dragging gravel across metal. Victor stayed seated, finishing his yogurt in contemplative silence.
Minutes passed, or maybe longer. Time dripped by slowly, molasses-thick. At some point Victor got up. Not abruptly, but in a rolling motion like someone unfolding and headed back to the fridge. “Want something?” he asked flatly, standing in the cold blue glow.
“Water? Food? Electrolytes? Something people consume so they don’t die?”
“Janelle left meds,” Colm said instead of answering.
“Did you take them?”
“Was gettin’ there.”
Victor rolled his eyes so dramatically his whole head tilted. “You’re hopeless.” But he grabbed the meds container from the table, handed it over, and even took the time to refill the glass with fresh cold water, ice clinking softly. When he placed it down, condensation immediately began forming along the outside, clear beads racing down to the coaster. Colm swallowed the pills with effort, each gulp dragging painfully down his inflamed throat.
Victor dropped back onto the sofa beside him, closer this time, shoulder brushing his. “You look worse now than when I got here,” he commented.
“Everything hurts,” Colm muttered, letting his head fall back. “Everything feels…floaty.”
“Floaty bad or floaty good?”
“Floaty fuckin’ awful.”
“Good. Wanted to check.” Victor wasn’t comforting by nature, but his presence wasn’t unwelcome. His voice.. even when monotone, felt grounding. And despite the wings, he radiated warmth like a heated blanket, the kind that felt safe in a way Colm didn’t want to admit. The Irish man shivered once, teeth clicking together. Victor hesitated, then unfolded one wing just slightly so it draped behind Colm: not touching, just acting as a barrier against the draft.
“You’re cold,” the hybrid murmured. “Fevers do that.”
“Shut up,” Colm whispered, exhausted. Victor hummed, noncommittal.
Colm let his eyes drift shut. Not fully asleep, his body was too miserable for that but enough to feel like he was sinking deeper into the sofa, the cushions swallowing him slowly. He heard Victor breathe, steady and even, the faint rustle of leathery wing membranes shifting. He felt the pressure behind his eyes building again, the familiar pre-sneeze burn, and tried to will it away. It didn’t work. He pitched forward with another violent sneeze that nearly launched him off the couch.
Victor didn’t flinch but did offer another tissue box, this one retrieved from god-knows-where. “You’re disgusting,” He observed plainly. “You’re eatin’ Janelle’s yogurt without askin’,” Colm shot back, voice cracking. “Touché.” Silence settled again, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Time stretched. His fever pulsed in waves. His breathing crackled. Sweat beaded at his temples despite the chill across his skin.
Victor stayed. He didn’t talk much, thank go, but he didn’t leave either. Every now and then he’d check if Colm was still conscious, poking him with the end of the spoon handle. Once he even pushed his hair back off his forehead with a mild frown. “You’re shaking,” he said. “I’m fine,” Colm insisted. Then shivered again.
“You’re not.”
“Fuck off.”
“No.” The banter was weak, sluggish, but it kept him present.
Eventually, Victor shifted, scooting closer so their shoulders fully pressed together. His wing wrapped lightly around Colm’s back; not suffocating, not engulfing, just resting there like a heavy, warm blanket someone had casually thrown over him. Colm stiffened for a second, then sagged, the heat seeping into him, easing the trembling in his muscles.
“Don’t make it weird,” Victor warned, cheeks slightly red. “Not makin’ it weird,” Colm muttered. “Good.” Victor paused. “You’re really not gonna puke, right?”
“Not unless you keep talkin’.”
“Fair.”
The fever dragged on. The afternoon light shifted to late-day dim. Shadows stretched across the apartment, long and warped. The hum of distant sirens drifted through the window. Colm’s breathing slowed, steadier now, though still rough. Victor’s wing stayed around him the entire time. At some point the bat hybrid muttered, “You really do look like shit.” Colm managed a hoarse laugh. “Feel like it.”
“When Coupè gets back,” Victor said, tone lazy but with a hint of threat, “she’s gonna skin you alive for not resting properly.”
“Probably.”
“Good. I want to watch.”
Colm leaned his head sideways until it rested heavily against Victor’s shoulder. He didn’t mean to do it. Didn’t remember choosing to do it. But once he did, Victor didn’t move away. Didn’t comment. Didn’t complain. He just stayed there, warm and solid in a way the room wasn’t. A low rumble rose from Victor’s chest; maybe a hum, maybe something bats did when they were content. It vibrated faintly against Colm’s temple and soothed something raw inside him.
He drifted. Half asleep, half delirious. And Victor stayed. Watching. Complaining occasionally. But never leaving.
Victor eventually shifted; awkward, fidgety, wings rustling like old tarp in the wind and the movement dragged Colm violently back toward consciousness. His eyelids fluttered, the world rushing in too fast, too loud, like someone had shoved his head underwater and yanked him out all at once. His skull throbbed with a pulsing ache that felt alive, chewing at the inside of his forehead. His throat scraped raw with every breath. And the bastard next to him was moving.
Colm groaned, the sound ragged, slurred with exhaustion and lingering fever. “Would ya stop fuckin’ movin’?” he snapped, or tried to. It came out more like a dying crow. “Yer warm. Like a fuckin’ blanket. ‘S the only good thing happenin’ t’me right now.”
Victor blinked at him from where he’d shifted, his posture stiff like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to relax around another human being. His wings twitched, the leathery membranes whispering against each other. He stared with that blank, tired face he always had, as if facial muscles were too much effort. “You’re clingy when you’re dying,” He said in his usual deadpan. “Didn’t know that about you.”
“Not clingy,” Colm mumbled, sinking deeper into the couch. “Jus’ cold. And tired. And everything hurts.”
“That sounds like clingy.”
“Go to hell.”
Victor snorted; a soft, brief, amused puff of air that barely counted as laughter but was probably the closest the manbat ever got. He looked down at Colm, who was wrapped halfway in a blanket and halfway in Victor’s wing like some pathetic burrito of snot, sweat, and misery. The Irish man’s hair stuck up in too many directions, sweat plastering pieces to his forehead. His nose was raw from tissues. His eyes were half-lidded, red and glossy. A mess.
Victor poked him in the forehead. “Hey.”
“Don’,” Colm warned, though it had no weight. “Hurts.”
“Everything hurts,” Victor echoed mockingly. “Yeah, you’ve said.” Then, without warning, the bat hybrid leaned an elbow casually on the back of the couch. “You want a bump?”
Colm blinked at him. The words floated into his fever-muddled brain like they’d been dropped through fog. “A… what.” Victor raised a brow. “A bump. Y’know.” He pantomimed tapping a finger against his nose. “Coke. Dust. Glass of morning motivation. Party powder. Something from the goodie stash.” He said it like he was offering him a breath mint. “Might make you feel better than those shitty meds you’ve been taking. They’re clearly doing nothing.”
Colm stared dumbly for several seconds. His brain tried to process the suggestion, failed, rebooted, and tried again. “Are.. are y’serious?” he croaked. “Mate, ‘m sick. Not… fuckin’—”
Victor shrugged. “It’s medicinal if you think about it. And I need my fix anyway.”
“Yer fuckin’ disgusting,” Colm muttered.
“You’re warm and stealing my personal space,” Victor countered without missing a beat. “And I’m still letting you.” Colm pointed a shaky finger at him. “Because y’like me.”
“Debatable.”
“Fuck you.”
“You wish.”
Victor reached into an inner pocket of his jacket, rummaging around with the same casualness as someone searching for chapstick. Meanwhile Colm just groaned and shoved a fist under his nose to stop the next threatening sneeze, his whole face scrunching up like a glitching animatronic. He sniffed hard, too hard and instantly regretted it as his sinuses throbbed like overinflated balloons.
“Christ,” he rasped. “Think my fuckin’ head’s gonna explode.”
“The bump’ll help,” Victor said, as if he were offering medical advice. “Maybe not with the fever. Or the sneezing. Or the coughing. Or how pathetic you look. But maybe with the whole ‘feeling like garbage’ thing.”
“Janelle’ll kill us.”
“If we clean up before she gets home she won’t know.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re miserable,” Victor retorted, finally pulling out a small, battered vial with the casual flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “Now are you in or out?” Colm hesitated, mostly because he couldn’t lift his head without feeling like his skull was sliding sideways off his spine. Fever fuzzed his thoughts, made everything swim. Morality? Consequences? Logic? None of those bastards were online right now. And honestly.. his body hurt. Everything burned or ached or throbbed or felt like it had been beaten with hammers.
“Who’s gonna turn down a free hit?” he muttered. “Exactly,” Victor said, pleased.
“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“Never said that,” Colm grumbled.
“Didn’t have to. It was implied.”
Victor moved with unhurried precision, shifting his wing enough to free one arm while keeping the rest draped behind the sofa. The leathery surface slid across the cushions with a soft hiss. He unscrewed the vial and tapped out a careful line on the coffee table, using an old store rewards card as a guide. Colm blinked slowly, watching the gesture through bleary eyes. The apartment felt like it was tilting again, not in a pleasant way, but like it was gently trying to dump him off the planet.
“If I pass out,” Colm warned, “not carryin’ me to bed.”
“Oh, trust me,” Victor replied, “I am absolutely leaving you wherever you fall.”
“Asshole.”
“Mm-hm.” The line shimmered faintly under the dim light. Colm wiped his nose on his sleeve; disgusting, yes, but he didn’t have the strength to reach for a tissue and leaned forward, elbows trembling. Victor grabbed the back of his shirt to steady him. “Don’t faceplant,” he deadpanned. “Would ruin the table.” Colm glared weakly. “Yer bedside manner’s shite.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Clearly.”
“Hurry up.”
Colm lowered his face, breath hitching. For a moment he thought he might sneeze directly onto the drugs, which would have been humiliating and also probably deadly depending on Victor’s reaction. The urge subsided. He inhaled sharply through one nostril.
The burn hit immediately: raw, chemical, electric fire shooting up his sinus cavity and straight into the center of his skull. He jerked back with a pained sound, hand clamping over his nose. “Fff fucking hell that burns.”
“Yeah,” Victor said calmly, already prepping a line for himself. “That’s how you know it’s real.”
“Feel like I just snorted bleach.”
“Ah, then it’s good stuff.”
“Yer fuckin’ insane.”
“Yeeep.”
Colm coughed into his fist, the sting in his nose spreading like wildfire. Tears prickled in his eyes, partly from the burn, partly from how utterly miserable he already was. His throat felt like sandpaper wrapped in barbed wire. His chest rattled every time he breathed. But despite all of that.. despite how wrecked he felt, the drug began threading quick, buzzy warmth through his bloodstream. Not comfort exactly. More like being picked up by the scruff of his mind and shaken awake.
Victor took his own bump, sniffling sharply and leaning back with a quiet exhale, eyelids drooping in a way that looked too relaxed for someone who usually carried perpetual tension in their shoulders. “There we go,” he muttered. “Much better.” Colm slumped sideways, letting his head tip back against the sofa. His fever still throbbed beneath his skin, hot and restless, but the fog in his mind loosened a little. His limbs still felt heavy, but the ache dulled somewhat; morphed into something easier to ignore. He sniffed again, wincing at the soreness in his nose. “Can’t believe I just did that,”
“You’re welcome.”
“Didn’t thank you.”
“You implied it.”
“I fuckin’ did not.”
“You did.”
“Shut up.”
“No.” Victor’s wing shifted again, settling back around him like an unwilling blanket attempting to escape but failing. The extra heat wrapped around Colm’s chilled body, soothing the fever shivers curling under his skin. “Still stupid,” Colm murmured. “Still feel terrible.”
“Yeah,” Victor responded casually. “But you feel terrible faster now.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“Doesn’t make it worse either.”
“Debatable.”
“Yuuup.”
Colm dropped his head against Victor’s shoulder again without meaning to. The manbat stiffened for half a second, then relaxed with a sigh. “If you drool on me,” Victor warned, “I’ll throw you off the balcony.”
“Don’ have the energy to drool,” Colm muttered.
“Good.”
Minutes passed in strange, fever-heavy silence. The apartment hummed with the sound of the fridge motor kicking on. A car honked outside. Somewhere down the hall, someone yelled about rent. Meanwhile, Colm’s heart pounded lightly; not painfully, just faster while the warmth of Victor’s body and the lingering buzz of the bump blended with the deep ache of illness. “Why’re you even here?” He murmured eventually, voice scratchy.
“Told you. Coupè made me.”
“Could’ve said no.”
“Could’ve,” Victor agreed, tracing idle circles on the arm of the couch with a claw-tipped finger. “Didn’t.”
“Why?”
Victor rolled his eyes. “Because you’re small and pathetic and you get sick like a wet Victorian orphan and someone’s gotta make sure you don’t choke on your own mucus.”
“Poetic,” Colm muttered. “Shut up,” Victor repeated, but softer.
Colm sniffed again, groaning. “Fuck me, my nose is killin’ me.”
“Yeah. You sound like a dying vacuum cleaner.”
“Yer so supportive.”
“I know.” Victor shifted slightly, adjusting his wing so the thicker part draped across Colm’s legs. “Better?”
“...yeah.”
“Good.” Another long beat passed. Colm’s eyelids drooped but didn’t close. It was the coke, keeping him half-wired despite the exhaustion dragging him down like an undertow. “We’re cleanin’ this up before she gets home,” Colm muttered without opening his eyes. “I’m not gettin’ murdered for this.”
“I’ll clean it,” Victor said. “No mess.”
“Good.”
“But if she asks why your pupils look like saucers, that’s your problem.”
“She won’t notice.”
“She’ll absolutely notice.”
“Then yer takin’ the fall with me.”
“Not a chance.”
“Yer a bastard.”
“Mmhmm.”
Colm coughed, chest rattling, then sank lower into the couch. The fever swelled again: hot, liquid ans suffocating but the drug dulled the edges, giving him a thin buffer to breathe through. His limbs didn’t ache quite as sharply. His head still hurt, but in a different way. A more bearable one.
Victor nudged him lightly with one elbow. “Hey. Don’t pass out again yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because if you do it with your head like that you’re gonna wake up with your neck locked and Janelle’s gonna yell at me for not fixing it.”
“Fix it?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“I’d lift your head.”
“Oh.” Pause. “Do it now then.”
“No.”
“C’mon.”
“No.”
“Yer fuckin’ useless.”
“And yet,” Victor replied, tapping a claw lightly against Colm’s forehead, “you’re using me as a pillow.”
“Because you’re warm.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love me.”
“Shut the hell up.”
Colm snorted a laugh that immediately devolved into coughing. Victor rubbed circles on his back: not affectionate, more practical, like burping a baby goat. But the gesture grounded Colm, stopping him from slipping into dizzy panic as his lungs fought themselves.
His breathing steadied eventually, though each inhale scraped his throat painfully. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, sticky and cold. “Everything spins when I close m’eyes,” he murmured. “Don’t close them then,” Victor answered simply. “Simple solution.”
“Yer a dick.”
“Yep.” But Victor shifted again, pulling Colm closer, his wing tightening snug around him like a makeshift cocoon. “You’ll be fine,” he muttered. “Just don’t die while I’m here.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Colm said weakly. “Good.” A few minutes passed. Victor didn’t move. Colm’s breathing got softer, shallower, but stayed even. The fever pressed heavily against him like a weighted blanket made of lava. Then Victor spoke again; quiet, almost too soft for his usual tone. “...You’re safe. Just sleep if you need to.” Colm hummed, barely conscious. “Warm…”
“Don’t get used to it,” Victor said quickly, almost embarrassed.
“’S nice…”
“Shut up.”
“Warm…”
“Oh my god.” But Victor didn’t release him. Didn’t shift away. Didn’t complain again. He just stayed there, wing wrapped around the fevered Irish man, the room dim and hazy, the hum of the fridge the only sound between them. And when Colm finally drifted: half dreaming, half fever floating… Victor let him, sitting guard in silence like a reluctant, coke-dusted gargoyle. They stayed like that until footsteps approached the door hours later.
Only then did Victor whisper, “Shit. Cleanup. Now.”
But it was too late. Janelle was already unlocking the door. And Victor’s wing was still wrapped around her boyfriend like a goddamn comfort blanket.