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“Stop that,” Mick grunts and cracks one eye open, just enough so that he can slap Ray’s hand away from the man’s hip. He’s been scratching non-stop for at least… a fucking long time, by Mick’s precise measurements, and it’s damn annoying when one’s trying to sleep.
“Mmmhhh,” Haircut mumbles in response and shifts, face pressing into Mick’s shoulder, and his fingers twitch, probably trying to resume the horrible scratching. “Bug bite.”
Under normal circumstances, with the limited knowledge of Ray’s sleepy, languid morning routines, Mick woudn’t be worried about the slurred words. But Raymond’s forehead is burning even through the fabric of Mick’s pajamas, and that can’t be a good sign.
“Yeah right,” Mick grumbles and twists away from Haircut, trying not to dislodge the guy because the Waverider beds were not built for two grown, considerably large men. He presses the back of his knuckles against Ray’s forehead, the way Mick’s mother used to, and yeah, okay, that’s definitely not healthy. Ray mumbles and scratches at his thigh again, glancing at Mick with half-lidded, glassy eyes. Mick scowls and unceremoniously yanks the guy’s shirt up and his pants down – Ray mumbles ‘mmmmokay’ and goes all pliant and inviting.
Moron.
“Bug bite my ass,” Mick huffs as he looks down at the angry red spots covering Raymond’s skin. Even as he watches, Ray’s fingers curl a little and attempt to scratch at his skin. Mick grabs his wrist and tries to also grab his attention, but Haircut looks pretty out of it. No wonder, with a fever like that.
“Told you not to get too close to those kids last week,” he snaps, and Ray nuzzles the pillow, probably chasing the feeling of the cool part against his heated skin.
“Mick. They were orphans,” he says, like that’s an actual argument, and Mick fucking told him so, but no. Nobody listens to Mick. It’s a thing on this damn ship.
“And this,” he jabs his finger against Raymond’s thigh, and then his hip, and then his chest, “this is chickenpox, you idiot.”
Raymond blinks up at him, all adorable and confused and very obviously sick.
“What…?”
“I’m gonna get you some water. And some pills. Be right back.”
Mick climbs out of the bed, escaping the needy grabby hands that try to pull him back down into the inviting warmth.
“Don’t fucking scratch, you hear me?!”
When he comes back twenty minutes later with a handful of pills, a bottle of water and some instructions from Gideon (because Mick knows a lot but he’s no damn doctor), he’s pretty sure that Raymond did not, in fact, hear.
However, he looks a little more aware after he downs a few pills and half the water, and he stares up at Mick sheepishly, like he wants to apologize for falling ill.Well, maybe he should, because it’s his own damn fault, but Mick can’t hold it against him, not really. Not even when he starts speaking crap.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he tells Mick, who gives him an incredulous stare. “I mean… I’m contagious. You know. I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I got it when I was seven, like every normal person should,” Mick huffs, but he sits down on the bed and pulls a small tube of cream from the pocket of his pajamas (Jax tried to comment on those once. Once.).
“Take your shirt off.”
“Now?” Raymond blinks, and there’s something about his wide-eyed look that just makes Mick sigh.
“Not for that, Haircut. The spots. This’ll help the itch,” he holds up the cream and Raymond, finally, obeys.
When he’s covered in tiny white streaks like some sort of war paint, down his arms and up his legs, across his chest and a couple swipes around his nose, Mick makes him drink the rest of the water and promises to come back with breakfast. That’s when Raymond gives him another guilty look and smiles, in that way that Mick finds absolutely unbearable because he just knows he won’t be able to say no to whatever ridiculous thing comes out of that pretty mouth.
“I… kind of told everyone I’d make breakfast? And then… lunches. For the mission.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Mick huffs, and walks away before he’s asked to draw faces on omelets.
…
Turns out ketchup faces are completely unnecessary, because the eggs burn anyway. Who knew the 22nd century cookers were so aggressive? Or that replicated eggs were so sensitive. One or the other – Mick is determined to delegate the blame.
“I would prefer something that will not taste like coal,” the Professor walks in, wrinkling his snooty academic nose on the charred mess that should’ve been fluffy and golden. Mick scowls at him and then slaps a plate down in front of the man.
“You’d prefer toast,” he informs Stein, and it must transfer through the Firestorm bond because when Jax appears a minute later, he doesn’t even comment, just obediently picks a toast off the pile and sits down.
“Where’s Ray?” Sara asks with a scowl as she sits down next to Jax and eyes Mick with suspicion. He delivers a bowl of oatmeal that looks alright to him, if a bit too clumpy, but it must not be her preferred breakfast meal because she gives it one glance and turns her sharp eyes back to him.
“Chickenpox,” Mick grunts, and Jax with Stein give him identical, half-amused, half-horrified looks. Sara just raises an eyebrow.
“How?”
“Orphanage, last week.”
“Ah. How’s he doing?”
“Spotty,” Mick smirks and replicates some more food.
Early bird gets the worm, or in this case, the less burned toast – Amaya learns her lesson when she arrives ten minutes later and eyes the two bits of charcoal left on the plate. Mick sets down a plate of bacon, because one can’t go wrong with that-
“What the hell is this?!”
Mick scowls at them all, collectively, and then selectively just at Jax.
“Bacon.”
“It’s swimming in grease!”
“Won’t kill you,” Mick snaps, then demonstrates by neatly picking up a slice and sticking it in his mouth. Okay, so it’s a bit more chewy than it should be. But fat is good for people. It’s pure energy. Or something.
They all stare at the heaping plate for a while. Amaya, without a word, touches her amulet and a glowy outline of a shark envelops her for a second before she reaches for the bacon.
Nate, at least, seems perfectly okay with just coffee.
…
“Do we seriously get Pop-Tarts for lunch?!”
“Next time pack your own.”
“These aren’t even toast- put the gun away, Mick!”
“Then stop whining and eat.”
…
“Just so you know, Raymond’s much better at this.”
Mick frowns at Stein, who has been hovering over Mick’s shoulder while he wrapped the bandage around Jax’s wound.
“He still got his arm, I’d say I’m plenty good,” Mick huffs, and Stein snorts.
“You could’ve been nicer about it.”
Two days later, while Raymond’s still busy being in isolation and furtively scratching everywhere, Mick slaps a handful of cartoon cat band-aids onto Stein’s cut-up cheek and pushes a stolen 1953 lollipop into the man’s hand.
“That nice enough for you?”
Stein’s offended glare (two inches above a cat band-aid) is sufficient vindication for Mick to get through the rest of the day.
…
“We only need to ask him one question. Come on.”
“Over your dead body,” Mick snarls and crosses his arms over his chest, glaring Nate down. The historian refuses to back off; he’s grown some steel balls along with the steel skin, and Mick can respect that, but he’ll be damned if he lets anyone disturb Raymond’s sleep.
“You really wanna go there?” Nate huffs and puffs and turns all shiny.
Mick just glares. “Try me, Pretty.”
That, at least, leaves Nate spluttering about fidelity and known relationships, which Mick doesn’t quite get, but a stammering steel statue doing its best to impersonate a windmill is entertaining enough, so he lets it pass.
“No, seriously, we need Ray,” Jax tries, half an hour later – they probably thought Mick wouldn’t stand guard at Raymond’s door for so long. They were wrong.
“You can fix things, and the Professor’s a scientist, merge and figure it out,” he grunts and ignores Jax’s complaints about there being ‘more than one kind of scientist, Mick, are you serious’.
He is. And Haircut’s gonna have his beauty sleep if it’s the last thing Mick does
…
Ray’s definitely glad when the spots are mostly gone and so is his fever. It takes a bit of sweet-talking to persuade Mick that he’s well enough to walk around the ship, but he finally manages the feat. He’s thinking waffles, or maybe pancakes, as a way of saying sorry to the team - Ray might not have heard much about how the week went without him, but Mick’s frown every time he asked about the team, or a meal, spoke volumes on its own.
However, Ray really doesn’t expect a round of applause, cheering and even a tear or two as he enters the kitchen.