On the suggestion of the lovely bachaboska, without whom there would be no fic, I've switched to Marcus' POV for this bit here. He's even worse to write than Esca is. Especially when he's sick and feverish. Damn. But I'm hoping he will move things along. Maybe. Whatever.

Marcus woke up alone the next morning, and for a moment he wondered why he was surprised about that. Then his leg cramped beneath him and he curled up to knead at it savagely, swearing, and felt phantom fingers against it, much more skilled and gentle than his own –

The events of the night before swam back at him in lurid detail, making him flush. Then he felt like a pussy for being embarrassed. And then his leg hurt too much to feel anything more than pain.

As Marcus moved his other hand to clutch his leg, he felt something hard and metallic in his fingers. Esca's knife. His promise to return. He'd been holding onto it all night, and it was sweaty now, leaving lines imprinted in his palm. Marcus slid it onto the bedside table, next to his alarm clock and the small wooden eagle figurine that he'd had since he was a kid.

And now he could focus in earnest on the pain in his leg. Shit, not a good idea.

Marcus curled into himself tighter, thinking that it had never been this bad, not since he'd gotten the wound in the first place – roadside bomb in front of his vehicle; lucky his leg had been saved at all – and then feeling the skin of his forehead against his forearm as he realized why his thoughts had been disjointed and fuzzy behind all the stabbing pain. He had a fever, and it was already pretty bad.

Probing with ginger, but deliberate fingers, he brushed along the shrapnel wound in his leg. It was puffy and might be bleeding – or was that puss? – and he hadn't been lying to Esca; he'd hit it pretty hard last night, on the rooftop of Luxembourg Hotel. Claudio had been pissed about the incident in the alley, had specifically asked to be his opponent just to fuck him up, and aimed for the leg, too. Something had obviously split open; something had been infected.

Growling and shaking his head, as if that would get rid of the fuzziness in his brain, he rolled out of bed and tried to stand. A combination of weak legs and a constantly-moving floor sent him to the ground again. Groaning, he struggled to one knee, then heaved himself back up, leaning heavily against the nightstand. Bracing his entire body against the wall, he shuffled awkwardly towards the bathroom. There was medicine in there, and disinfectant for just this moment.

Well, no, not this moment – his cheerful recovery doctors had told him to disinfect the wound the minute it reopened and then call them. But a) Marcus was obviously a bit late, and b) He really could not afford the "consultation fee" a call to his doctors might incur. Would incur. Not to mention the trip to the hospital that would entail, and the tests and whiteness and machines –

Whiteness. That was the last thing that Marcus saw before he felt himself hit the tiles of the bathroom floor. He didn't get up.


In fact, he was flat on his back again when he woke up. Actually, wakefulness was a generous description. His eyes didn't open more than slits, and all he saw was the lights of his bathroom – bedroom – where was he?

He was in bed. He was in bed with the only two blankets in the apartment tucked in almost to his ears and his leg wasn't hurting nearly so abominably, though it stung with alcohol and antiseptic. But Marcus was shaking so hard he thought his limbs would fly off his body and his chest would burst open and then he was unconscious again.

Marcus didn't understand the words that were assaulting his ears but they were bitten out like curses, and then he recognized something –

"It hasn't gone down yet – fuck - need to get you to a hospital or something –"

And Marcus reached out with a numb hand and flopped it in the direction of the tight muttering.

"No hosp'tal," he croaked around a dry throat. It was a hundred degrees, a thousand, he was going to burn up. "Med'cine in … in th' bathroom."

"Marcus."

The voice sounded like a reproach, and for some reason it struck Marcus as funny. He almost laughed. He didn't, though – too tired. He felt himself being hefted into a half-sitting position by an arm behind his back, a plastic cup being fumbled, cursed at, and pressed to his lips, and he passed out soon after he felt the burn of grape-flavoured fever reducer hit the back of his throat.


The third time that Marcus woke up was the first time that he'd been actually coherent. He knew the fever had broken – he was clammy and sweaty but he wasn't shaking and he could think clearly – but he was still hot.

Oh.

That was why.

He wasn't alone in bed, that was the explanation. There was a warm, solid body next to him, debauched in sleep and limbs splayed awkwardly on top of the sheet – an arm had fallen almost protectively around Marcus' waist.

"…Esca…?" Marcus whispered. He coughed at the sound; his throat was painful in its dryness. Esca didn't stir. Groaning and feeling absurdly weak, Marcus tried to push himself upright, to go try to find a glass of water. Sliding out from under the sheets, he saw his leg injury had been bandaged tightly. The dressing looked fresh, and it was dry now. That was probably a good thing. Fucking Claudio couldn't kill him, anyway.

"Fucking finally, you're awake," muttered Esca sleepily, and Marcus turned to face him, taking in eyes dark with nighttime and sleep-touseled hair. "What're you doing, trying to get up?"

Marcus hadn't actually gotten much further than sliding his legs off the edge of the bed, and that in itself made him feel sick to his empty stomach. He shrugged. "Going to get water."

"I'll do it," Esca told him shortly, and, groaning with the vestiges of disturbed rest, rolled out of bed and padded to the kitchen. He was shirtless and wearing a pair of Marcus' oversized sweatpants, hanging inappropriately low on his waist. Marcus didn't mind. He didn't feel much more than a pleased curiosity.

Esca padded back with a coffee mug full of tap water, which Marcus drank greedily before asking. "What are you doing here?"

This wasn't the first time he asked that question, Marcus remembered. He also remembered that he hadn't gotten a straight answer the first time.

"You said 'do this again tomorrow', and your door was unlocked." Esca shrugged. "Do you need anything else?"

Marcus shook his head wordlessly, then, realizing that was a bad idea, just sank back onto the bed. He still felt oddly woozy, and the conundrum that was this man was not making his head feel any better. He was desperately tired.

Marcus heard Esca sigh, and the clink of the mug being set on his bedside table. Then there was the depression of the mattress as Esca climbed in the other side, he on top of the sheets, Marcus below.

The edges of sleep were groping for Marcus now, but he stubbornly tried to work something more than casual dismissal from Esca's lips.

"Why did you stay?" he mumbled, half into his pillow. His eyes were closed, but he felt Esca staring at him.

"You had collapsed on your bathroom floor. I … I wasn't going to just leave." The tone of his voice sounded pleading almost, sad.

"But you came to get fucked?" Marcus prodded, half-teasing, wincing and knowing that his natural filter was almost obliterated by exhaustion and illness. He barely heard Esca's reply, as close to oblivion as he was.

"…I'm not going to fuck you again until I get tested, Marcus."

Vaguely, that seemed important to Marcus.

"… I don't have an STD…" he mumbled. "Promise."

There was a long pause, and the back of Marcus' head told him that maybe the issue was resolved, and he could finally drop off to sleep –

"I'm a prostitute, Marcus."

"Oh."

Even that wasn't enough to keep Marcus awake.

"Don't be," he told Esca. "I don't want you to." Because it was true. "You can live here with me instead."

And then he fell asleep, letting out an amused snort at the look on Esca's face.