Title: Bites and Pieces
Author: lena7142
Genre: Mild H/C, humor, teamfic
Warnings/spoilers: none
A/N: Written for the "bites" square of my hc-bingo card over on LJ. Many thanks to Faye Dartmouth for the beta.
Summary: Spies are used to dealing with bugs, but not usually the buzzing, flying kind. A mission in the jungle leads to misery abounding for the ODS...
-o-
"Michael."
Michael doesn't look back.
"Michael."
He keeps his eyes fixed on the muddy path, ignoring the voice behind him, along with the sweat and the heat and whine of insects surrounding them.
"Michael!"
He hears Casey groan, and Michael finally takes a deep breath. "What is it, Collins?" he asks, not breaking stride. They have another mile and a half, at least, before they reach the road.
"Do we have any bug spray left?" Billy asks.
Michael sighs. "No. We used the last of it this morning."
Casey snorts. "We'd have more if a certain someone hadn't all but bathed himself in DEET yesterday," he adds, pointedly.
Billy huffs. "I was getting eaten alive!"
"We all hate the bugs, Billy," Michael snaps back, because he's hot and itchy and not really in the mood to babysit his teammate. "Just deal with it, okay?"
Billy falls silent, but Michael can all but hear him pouting behind him.
Then the mumbling starts. "Eaten bloody alive... miserable little buggers..."
The next mile and a half are the longest of Michael's life.
-o-
They're finally back in civilization by nightfall. The mission is complete a full day ahead of schedule, so they'll be waiting for a bit before their flight leaves. Michael books them into a small hotel - nice enough, but within an acceptable budget parameter. When the man at the desk hands them folded bug nets, Michael sees Billy's eyes widen in horror.
"He recommends we hang them over the beds while we sleep," Casey translates, and he looks vaguely amused at the Scot's distress.
"They're in the hotel?" Billy says in a strangled squawk.
"Just be glad you have a net tonight," Michael points out. Roughing it in the jungle the night before was an experience none of them would be eager to repeat again soon.
Billy accepts his net with a look so mournful, it's almost funny. "I'm going to be an empty husk by the time we get back to the States. The wee little bastards will suck me dry."
Casey snorts. "Please."
Billy fixes him with a look. "You'll miss me when I'm dead and gone from malaria."
"I dunno, we might enjoy the peace and quiet," Michael says with a wink, taking the keys. "Come on."
Billy may have been in the back of the line when they were trekking through the woods, but he springs to the front when they get to their room, all but sprinting for the shower. Michael and Casey set about hanging the nets over their beds - cots, really - though Michael is happy to note that the room's insect population appears to be limited to a handful of moths and a few beetles on the wall next to the window, whose edges have been covered in tape.
Billy emerges from the bathroom sometime later, towelling off his hair, clad shamelessly in nothing but his shorts as he makes his way over to his bed and flops on it face first.
Looking at Billy's bare back, Michael feels a sudden bit of sympathy.
Because Billy may have had a point about being eaten alive. His skin is dotted with red spots, some inflamed, some bleeding slightly, covering the flesh of his arms, his neck, his calves, and even his torso. He rather looks like he has chicken pox.
"Malaria," Billy moans into his pillow. "I'm going to die."
"We made sure you had your booster vaccine this time," Michael points out.
"Though you'll want to hang that net up before you continue with your moping," Casey says with a sniff as he steals into the bathroom. Michael reflects that there probably won't be any hot water left when it's his turn, though given the stifling heat, a cold shower doesn't sound half bad.
"The itching alone is going to drive me mad," Billy whines. "I feel like I'm going to claw my way out of my bloody skin-"
"Just tough it out a while longer. We'll see if there's any Benadryl or something in the city tomorrow," Michael offers, because it's really all he can say.
Billy makes a whimpering sound, and Michael begins to feel a little itchy himself.
-o-
Hiking through the jungle for two days was exhausting. By rights, all three of them should be fast asleep, dead to the world in beds that are, if not exactly comfortable, at least adequate.
Michael is tired.
But he's also awake.
The gentle buzzing of insects is largely muted by the soft drone of the ceiling fan, though occasionally a larger bug thumps against the outside of the window, startling him. The netting brushes against him on the breeze, and the sensation of the sheer cloth moving unexpectedly makes his skin crawl after so many hours of swatting at mosquitoes.
But the worst offender against sleep is Billy, who tosses and turns, twisting and moving every few minutes, unable to find any sort of peace or comfort. At one point, he quietly whimpers, and Michel is torn between pity and wanting to strangle him.
Apparently, so is Casey. When, in the early hours, Michael hears the other man get up, he worries for a moment he'll have to forcibly restrain him from smothering Collins with a pillow. But instead, Casey gets dressed in the dark, then heads for the door.
"Where are you going?" Michael whispers.
"Out," Casey answers, as if that's sufficient. But before Michael can press the issue further, the door clicks shut.
After a moment's deliberation, Michael steals Casey's pillow. With one cushion on either side of his head, his arms wrapped up and around them to drown out the sounds of Billy's misery, he tries desperately to sleep...
-o-
When the door clicks open, Michael is mostly asleep, dreaming of running through the streets of Montmartre with Fay, trying to catch red balloons for some reason. The sound, however, jolts him awake, and he finds himself reaching for something - anything - with which to defend himself against an intruder -
"It's me," Casey announces. Michael blinks, vision focusing. The sun isn't up yet, but there's a graying light filtering in the window. Pulling aside the netting, he can see Casey more clearly. "Where've you been?" he whispers, not sure if Billy has finally dropped off to sleep.
Billy's bed rustles; if the Scot had dozed off, he seems to have roused now.
"Beating down the door of every pharmacist and apothecary for a good three square miles," Casey grumbles. He pulls something out of a paper bag and tosses it at Billy. "Catch."
Billy untangles himself from the nets and the sheets, looking confused. "What is it?"
"A local brand-name zinc carbonate compound," Casey answers. "Or as you would probably know it, Calamine Lotion."
There's a moment's silence.
"Casey Malick," Billy says after a moment, voice quavering, "I could kiss you right now."
"Don't," Casey quickly snaps. "You're not my type."
"I'm here with Billy on this one," Michael says, smirking. "How the hell did you find lotion at this hour?"
"With persistence and criminal threatening," Casey says, kicking off his shoes and pants and crawling back under his net. "I needed my beauty sleep. And I felt sorry for the kid."
"Sorry enough to help me lotion up my back?" Billy asks, and in the half-light, Michael can see the white flash of the Scot's grin.
"Don't push it," Casey mumbles, nestling back under the sheets.
-o-
They sleep in. When Michael finally drags himself out of bed, still a bit tired and more than a little stiff, it's nearing noon. Casey is lying languidly in bed, and it's hard to tell if he's still sleeping or meditating. Billy is snoring softly, and when Michael checks on him, he chuckles slightly at the swaths of dried pink lotion covering the Scot's skin.
He goes out and gets them breakfast, wondering if any of the grumpy faces in the market are the product of a rude awaking in the wee hours from a man on a mission to find anti-itch cream. Casey is up and about and doing yoga when he returns, but they have to shake Billy and throw a shoe at him to wake him up and get him to put some pants on.
"Leave it alone," Michael admonishes when he catches Billy scratching at his ankle.
Billy pouts. "You're never getting me out into the sodding jungle again," he says.
"It's your own fault for not wearing more protective clothing," Casey remarks, inspecting a piece of fruit.
"It was a hundred bloody degrees Fahrenheit!" Billy protests. "Michael wasn't swaddled up either, and they didn't devour him!"
Michael smirks. "I guess that bugs can just be added to the list of things that find you irresistible, Billy."
Billy scowls. Casey chuckles. Michael eats his breakfast.
That night, they board the red-eye flight back home. "Just promise me," Billy says at the terminal, looking Michael in the eyes. "Just promise me, no more jungles."
Michael shrugs. "Sure."
Billy brightens. "Really?"
Michael raises an eyebrow as his boarding number is called. "We're spies; we lie for a living. How many promises have you known me to actually keep?"
And no matter how many times Michael sees Billy's jaw drop open in horror, it never stops being just a little bit funny.
-o-