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There's nothing more humbling than getting slammed by a high fever on your first overseas operation after having spent all of your years at the CIA confined within the four walls of Langley's Science and Technology Research Division.
But Ryland supposes he can't exactly be surprised. His body is not used to the international travel, to the jet lag and plunging into extreme climates after having been used to Virginia's cool and gentle spring weather. He's taken his supplements and completed the mandatory medical check-up, which had granted him clearance to be dispatched for the operation, but his immune system must not be happy with him at all.
Still, Ryland has no choice but to suck it up. Especially when he's sort of the new kid on the team. They needed someone from the agency's analyst team with a background in weapons proliferation and molecular biology, which both Ryland has. Unless plans change, the operation remains at surveillance level. They are to gather intel on an underground network potentially developing bionuclear bombs from alien microbes that store massive amounts of energy—a recent discovery by NASA's brightest astronomers. Only a select few government institutions are supposed to be in possession of those samples and the agency isn't quite sure yet how this black market organization got hold of them.
Things you'd only see in science fiction movies, if Ryland could be honest.
He'd be more enthusiastic about this job—and promotion, really—if his health isn't slowly deteriorating. His throat is starting to feel sore, there's this annoying pounding in his head like something's threatening to break free out of his skull, and Islamabad's scorching heat isn't helping his body cool down at all. This dusty apartment they're using as a stakeout location also has terrible air circulation. Ryland feels suffocated and hot all over.
"Are you sick?"
Ryland's heart skips a beat. He looks up from his monitor to meet Courtland Gentry's scrutinizing eyes. Despite already burning from inside and out, Ryland feels an extra tinge of warmth on his cheeks.
"No," he says, though his voice comes out hoarse. He grabs the water bottle on his desk and takes a few large gulps to wash down the phlegm in his throat, avoiding Court's gaze by fixating on the vague stain on the wallpaper to his side.
"Are you sure?" Court asks. Ryland knows Court doesn't believe him, but he's not going to admit defeat that easily.
Especially not to the man who's running the operation. Not to the infamous Sierra Six who, before he became an intelligence officer, was a part of the CIA's Special Activities Center, one of the agency's most elite covert operations division, and did very badass, very dangerous stuff.
Or at least that's what his groupies seem to say.
"I'm sure."
Court lets the silence hang between them, eyes narrowed as if he's waiting for Ryland to break under his hardened gaze. Ryland doesn't want to cave. He doesn't want to look weak in front of the almighty Sierra Six. Not on his first day on the field.
"Fine. If you're sure," is what Court says finally, before stalking off to talk more strategy with the other tech officers from Islamabad Station.
With Court now gone, Ryland heaves a sigh of relief.
It's far from the first time he's spoken to Courtland Gentry, but he doesn't know why the man makes him so nervous sometimes.
"He's not dead, is he?"
Ryland isn't sure who says it. Could be one of the pilots. It should be one of the pilots, because only he and Courtland are flying back to Langley today. He just doesn't care enough to open his eyes to find out, head heavy as it rests against the private jet's plush leather armchair. More muffled voices come. Ryland recognizes Court's to be one of them, saying something to the pilot in response. He vaguely hears his name being mentioned but the rest of the conversation is a blur, like he's listening to them while being submerged in water.
After a few minutes pass, he forces his eyes to open again. Court is now occupying the seat diagonal from him, blue eyes set on Ryland's own.
"You still sure about not being sick?"
"Shut up," comes out of Ryland's mouth before he can think twice. He's too overcome by fatigue and this icky feeling all over his body to care about formalities. Lucky for him, Court finds this amusing. A small tugs at the corner of his lips as he leans back in his seat.
"Is that how you talk to your superior?"
"You're not my superior. You're my neighbor."
Court snorts. Rarely does Ryland ever bring up their living conditions to anyone outside of their agency-subsidized housing. None of his closest colleagues—who also happen to be Sierra Six groupies—knows he's been living next door to Court for the past seven years and have occasionally borrowed sugar from each other. And by that, he means Court has borrowed sugar from him more often than vice versa.
Ryland finds it strange. The man is barely home, and yet he finds time to cook up whatever it is that requires that much sugar whenever he's back from missions. It's not like Ryland has a problem with it. He always gives Court a cup whenever he asks. He doesn't want to be a bad neighbor. It's just... strange, thinking about him baking.
A mental image of Courtland Gentry in an apron briefly flashes in his mind and he's not sure why that picture stirs something inside his belly.
He's pulled out of his neighborly daydreams when he suddenly notices Court leaning forward and reaching toward him.
"What are you—"
"Buckling you into your seat. We're about to take off."
Court tugs at the belt, securing it tightly around Ryland's waist. Ryland swallows thickly at the proximity, but that only reminds him how much doing so still hurts. He's so out of it that he hadn't even realized they've taxied off the runaway and that airplane engines are now at full blast.
Once they are at cruising altitude, Court unfastens his own seatbelt and gets up from his seat. He returns from the small galley at the back of the plane with a glass of water and one pill that he offers to Ryland in his open palm. Ryland eyes it suspiciously.
"My mother told me to not accept pills from strange men."
Court chuckles. He doesn't bat an eye at the 'strange men'. "It'll help with the fever."
Knowing he's just going to suffer for the rest of the plane ride, Ryland accepts the offering. He swallows the pill and returns the empty glass back to Court, who disposes of it in the galley before returning to his seat.
They're going to be up in the air for a while. He tells Court to wake him up at their stop-over to refuel and tries to get as comfortable as he can. But even with the more premium seats, it's not exactly a comfy bed in a five-star hotel.
Before he slips into oblivion, he swears he feels a blanket being draped over his exhausted body.
The next time Ryland opens his eyes and actually comes to his senses, he's no longer inside the private jet.
It takes a few seconds and a couple of blinks to get his vision to focus, but there's no mistaking the sight of his familiar living room ceiling. He quickly figures out that he's home and that he apparently fell asleep on the couch, but how and when did he even get off the plane?
Ryland groans, groggily sitting up and pushing the thin blanket off of his body (that he also doesn't remember getting from his room). One glance at darkness out of his window tells him that it's well past the evening, which makes no sense. He left Islamabad at 9 A.M. It would have been the afternoon when his plane touched down in Virginia.
"How… how did I get here?" he croaks, still disoriented.
"I carried you."
Ryland whips his head toward the direction of the voice only to find Courtland Gentry is standing in his kitchen. Not expecting anyone else in his home, he's unable to stifle the small shriek he lets out, clutching the blanket to his chest as if he has something to hide. Doesn't know why he does it. It's not like he's naked.
"Did you break into my apartment?!"
Court doesn't seem to be fazed by this whole ordeal, despite the fact that he's only been inside Ryland's apartment only once a few years ago, when Ryland's sink had been acting up and Court was apparently pretty handy with a wrench.
(He looked good fixing things too, but that's something Ryland refused to address then.)
"You were fast asleep. I tried to wake you up multiple times but you were out cold. What was I supposed to do? Leave you in front of your door?"
"That still doesn't answer my question of you breaking into my apartment."
"Your keys were in your pocket."
Ryland groans and buries his face in his hands. Court had carried him. Carried him! And he probably had to do it twice. Once to bring Ryland down from the plane, and the second time to bring Ryland up to his apartment.
"This is so embarrassing—"
"Everyone gets sick," Court cuts him off. "No need to be embarrassed about it."
Ryland lifts his head to look at the man in his kitchen again. "Even you?"
"Sure. I once got Malaria while on an operation in Laos. Had to sleep out on the grass camouflaged by leaves while waiting for my rescue. Top 10 worst days of my life."
"You have nine more 'worst days of your life'?"
Instead of answering, Court only smiles and looks down. He then brings over a glass of water and paper bowl of what looks like chicken soup and sets them on the coffee table. Ryland's appetite is far from recovered, but his mouth waters the second the savory aroma hits his senses. He now remembers waking up briefly on the flight to have a couple of bites of the sandwich Court got from the galley, but it had only made him more nauseous. He must've not eaten anything again since then.
"You don't have to nurse me back to health, Court." Ryland can't imagine the state he's in right now. He must have sweated a lot while asleep because he feels sticky and gross, and he doesn't know what type of unruly mess his hair has taken shape in.
Court sits down on the empty space beside Ryland. "No, but it's the least I could do. May I?"
Ryland nods before his brain comprehends what Court is asking permission for. The next thing he knows, the back of Court's tattooed palm is now pressed against his forehead. Ryland's whole body freezes. He forgets how to breathe for all of the five seconds Court spends feeling Ryland's warm skin.
"I think your fever has gone down, but a compress wouldn't hurt. Eat this and drink some water while I get it ready."
Court leaves his side to rummage through Ryland's kitchen drawers once again. In the meantime, Ryland does exactly what Court told him to do. He picks up the warm paper bowl and takes small sips of the soup then finishes the glass of water, all while ignoring how his forehead still tingles with the ghost of Court's touch.
But then he starts subtly glancing in the direction of the kitchen, where Court is now standing with his back facing him as he rinses a wet towel over the sink. Ryland's eyes fixate on how his white shirt stretches across his broad back, how his biceps bulge against the tight sleeve. Healed scars peek out from under the fabric and stretch down toward his elbow. It's not the first time Ryland's noticed them but he's refrained from asking every time they run into each other, not wanting to overstep his boundaries. Still, he wonders how Court got them, if he'll ever tell Ryland their story, or let Ryland touch—
Ryland quickly looks away, embarrassed at the shameless thought. What is wrong with him?
He clears his throat and sits up straighter once Court returns to the couch with a lukewarm towel. Ryland presses it to his forehead and keeps it there, sighing as he leans against the backrest.
"I guess it's only fair that you nurse me back to health after all the sugar you've taken from me."
Court frowns. "What?"
"You always ask me for sugar. Once a month, at least. Do you like to bake or something?"
At this, recognition seems to flash across Court's face, but there's almost a surprised, panicky look to it. Ryland catches it from the way he briefly averts Ryland's gaze and bites his lip before he deflects the sugar thing by asking, "How are you feeling?"
"Hmm. Better." He could do with a little less pounding in his head, but it's not as bad as yesterday.
"Do you want to move to your room?"
"Wow. At least buy me dinner first."
"Okay. When are you free?"
Ryland blinks. "I was joking…."
"I wasn't."
Ryland lets his compress drop to his lap, frozen in shock. He's waiting for something to tell him that this is just one of his fever-induced dreams, for him to wake up and realize that he's still back in Islamabad, sleeping on top of that rock hard mattress in that stuffy apartment.
"You… you're asking me out?"
For a split second, Court actually looks bashful. "I didn't want to spring it on you like this, and I couldn't really ask you while we were working, but I'm here now. Might as well." Court shrugs. "No pressure. If you say no, it doesn't have to be weird."
But after he says all of that, he reaches forward and wraps his fingers around Ryland's wrist, bringing Ryland's hand up to his face and making him press the towel against his forehead again.
Ryland blushes. He sniffs and looks away, fixates on the empty glass sitting on top of the coffee table, then says, "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah. Buy me dinner or whatever."
Not much else is said after that. Ryland turns on the TV to fill the silence and pulls his legs up to the couch, his toes just about brushing Court's thigh. Court doesn't move. While the man has kept his eyes trained on the TV for the next few minutes that pass, Ryland has a feeling he's not really paying attention. Every time Ryland would sneak a glance at him he's always rubbing over his beard, corners of his lips quirked up in a small smile. Small enough that Ryland thinks he's trying to fight it off.
He has a nice smile, Ryland thinks. Makes him look kind of sweet. Like sugar.
"Hey, what did you really need all that sugar for?" Ryland asks. Court never did give him a definite answer the first time.
"I'll tell you over dinner."