A/N: aayyy chapter two y'all ! let me know what you think about it in the comments! :D Warning for C.R.'s potty mouth - she doesn't swear too much but there's some profanity here and there
Things go downhill fast after the exchange names. Initials. He'd been healing well so far, but when she lays a hand against his forehead to check his temperature before her shift, she recoils immediately. He's practically as hot as a fucking flame. She whispers. Softly, and with great feeling: what the fuck? She unwraps his bandages, checks his wounds. No signs of infection. What the hell is going on. What the hell has gone wrong. Her shift starts in two hours. She lives an hour away from work. It'll take longer if there's traffic. There's always traffic. She doesn't know what to do. He's burning up, but there's no infection, and she doesn't know what's happening - she doesn't know what to do!
Calm down C.R. You've never gotten anything done when panicking.
Panic subsides to a dull sense of dread at the back of her mind. She runs to the bathroom and turns on the tap, letting cold water fill the bath. No fucking time to get ice just gonna have to keep changing the water. Grabs a thermometer and chucks it on the side of the bathtub. Runs back to the bedroom. Has her arms halfway around him when she pauses. Looks down, considering. She tries to coax him awake. It's difficult - he's unresponsive, whether it's from the fever or nightmares she's uncertain. She decides on the former; he talks when he dreams and so far, he's been mum. She calls his name, shakes his shoulder lightly. No response. She pokes his wound a tad rougher than she knows is comfortable, even through the painkillers. Not her best solution, but it works; O.P. opens his eyes slowly, groaning softly. Kneeling by the bed, she speaks to him softly and gently. Cups his cheek and directs his glassy gaze to hers. Asks him if he thinks he can stand. He leans into her touch.
"Hot," he moans weakly after a pause, as though he struggled to find the word. She wouldn't doubt him if he did. He's struggling to keep his eyes open.
"I know, I know," she soothes, instinctively running a hand through his hair to comfort him - a motion she's adopted from her mother. She keeps her voice soft, traces his cheekbone with her thumb. "You're burning up. I'm going to put you in a cold bath. Can you stand?"
His eyelids flutter close, open, close. He turns, shaking arms moving under his body to push himself off the bed and she moves quickly, supporting his every movement. She helps him sit up, wraps her arms around his torso. Presses a kiss to his temple and whispers praise in his ear whilst his head lolls to her shoulder. His legs makes their sluggish journey to the floor. She holds him firmly and begins to rise. Together they make slow, wobbly progress to the bathroom. His balance is off. He's barely able to stand upright, much less walk forward. He leans on her heavily. She doesn't mind. That he's able to walk at all takes some strain off her muscles. The fact that he's awake alone, takes a huge burden off her mind.
They make it to the bathroom without incident and she guides him down to sit on the edge of the bathtub, manoeuvring herself into the icy water without hesitation, though she flinches and bites back a hiss at its frigidness. A half-assed smack to the tap turns off the water. She turns back to O.P. and slowly guides him into the bath. He cries out weakly when his skin makes contact with the freezing water and tries to pull away. Her heart goes out to him, it really does. But she needs him in the bath, so she holds fast. Kneels up. Whispers words of praise and support into his ears, his hair, his temple. He yields to her care and she slowly, gently, pulls him in, holding his body firmly against hers to prevent him from slipping. Ruthlessly gritting her teeth when they begin to chatter, she berates herself for not having the foresight to do this differently. She doesn't think of alternatives. She can't - the frigid cold has her mind in its unmerciful grasp. Stupid, stupid, so fucking stupid.
She exhales harshly through her nose, trying to pull herself together as best she can. Her arms are solid around O.P.'s chest. His head rests against her clavicle. The heat from his body warms her, and though she's still shivering, her teeth no longer chatter. Now that she thinks of it - now that she can think of it, he's probably the only thing that's going to keep her from hypothermia.
She glances to the side where her phone and gun sit on a stool beside the bathtub. What? Oh, right. She'd meant to take a shower before leaving. She frees a hand, flicks water off it. Checks the time on her phone. Sighs. Glances down at the restless form in her arms. Arm. Bathtub. O.P. is tense, his brow is furrowed, and from his lips spill words that she can't make sense of. She calls work. Lets them know she won't becoming in for her shift. It's shitty that she's calling in so late, but her voice is rough and shaky enough for her to effectively feign sickness. Not that she really needs to, being an independent contractor and shit. Plus her boss likes her. She brings in a shitton of clients. He'll let her off this time at least.
She sets alarms to wake her up, just in case she falls asleep - not that she'll be able to with this cold, and being this vulnerable. Fucking hell - should really have thought this out better. She sets her phone down, puts her arm back around O.P. and waits.
The alarm wakes her up. She looks at it blearily, not bothering to shake water off her arm when she blindly taps her phone to turn it off. So much for not being able to fall asleep. A long, drawn out sigh escapes her. She rubs her eyes with her free hand, blinking a few times to clear the haze from her vision. The bathroom is patterned with stripes of shadows and rays of light. A warm beam illuminates the pale face tucked under her chin. O.P. is motionless, save for the rise and fall of his chest. He mumbles something that sounds like "Omega post". She hears a "autonomous" and "organisms" as well. She thinks she catches a "siebrtrn". Sibertron? Cyburtren? She shakes her head.
The water, she notices now that she's more awake, is warmer. O.P.'s body is still hot, but he's not burning up as badly as before. She feels around for the thermometer. Checks his temperature once it's in her grasp. Yeah, 38.9. She sighs quietly, relieved. Thank the fucking Lord, she thinks, putting the thermometer aside and running her fingers through his hair, muttering a quiet prayer into the tangled locks. His organs aren't going to be frying in his body at the very least. Still, he's not out of the woods yet. She worries for him. Reaching down behind her, she gropes around for the bath plug, pulling it out when her fingers find it. She lets the water drain till there's around a quarter of it left, then seals the bath again and turns on the tap. Counts the seconds, minutes that pass whilst the tub fills, squirming when she's assaulted, once again, by cold water. O.P. mumbles, fidgeting slightly as well, but doesn't stir from his slumber. For a moment she envies him, but quickly decides that no, she really doesn't. When the bath is full again, she turns off the tap, adjusts her hold on him and leans back against the tub. She worries for him all through the night.
It's around six in the morning, when her twelth fuckin' alarm goes off, when his fever breaks. She wakes up at the alarm, and slaps her phone until it's silenced. O.P.'s feeling a lot cooler now. He's mumbling incoherently, dreaming. She checks his temperature to be certain, nearly crying in relief when she sees it's a solid 37.5 degrees - well in the safe zone. She allows herself a few moments of relief. Presses a kiss into his mussed hair and his temple, and relaxes against the back of the tub for a minute.
Moment of relaxation over, she sits up and tries to coax O.P. awake - calls his name, shakes him a little. Prods his wound. No good. He's out. She sighs.
It takes a fair bit of effort to get out of the tub without slipping, or letting O.P. fall. She takes extra care when navigating the bathroom floor. No need for her to trip or stumble and drop him, breaking his stitches. That would be disastrous. She sets him down on the toilet, and couches for a moment. She feels a little tired. Her head drops. Fuck. She shakes her head sharply, slapping her cheeks in an attempt to banish sleep from her mind, and tries to wake O.P. up again. Nope, he's dead to the world. She sighs again. Makes sure he's not slipping off the toilet, then pads into the bedroom. First, she grabs the first aid kit sitting on the floor beside the bed. Then, she grabs a bunch of towels and a fresh set of clothes for both of them. Great. Time to work.
O.P.'s breath hitches slightly as she dries him off, but he doesn't stir. She moves slowly, pinching herself hard enough to leave a mark in her flesh when sleep creeps back into her mind. She's hit with an absurd sense of deja vu when she pulls his clothes off, and fails to bite back her snickers. Hopefully he's got a sense of timing and won't wake up until she's done, otherwise things are gonna get awkward. For him. She removes his bandages, checking his wounds to see if they got wet. Surprisingly none did. She's not about to complain. Thank god for miracles. She puts on fresh bandages and pulls clothes over his body. Now it's her turn.
She strips as quickly as she can manage, eager to be dry, and towels off before pulling on her fresh set of clothes. The soaked clothes and wet towels, she dumps in the laundry basket, the bandages, in the bin.
A thread of surprise weaves through her muddled thoughts, at how much of a struggle it is to get O.P. back to the bed. Her steps aren't certain. She nearly stumbles once, twice. Her pace is sluggish. Come to think of it, she hasn't had proper sleep in almost twenty hours - just short, fitful naps. She's exhausted.
She makes it to the bed. Miraculously manages to gently lower O.P. down instead of dropping him. Heaves his legs over the side of the bed. Pushes him towards the centre. She pulls the covers over him, blindly trying to him in. Extended pauses punctuate her slow movements. She stares vacantly at band logo on his t-shirt, body hovering over his, arms on the verge of giving out. Ah… she knows what that is… A.C.D.—
She's asleep before her head hits his chest.
A/N: love it? hate it? let me know in a review! (I hope you enjoyed it though *sweats*)