7
"Sir...?"
Martin ignored the quiet voice over the throbbing of his head, trying to edge himself back into the deeper side of unconsciousness. It was dark and quiet, peaceful, over there...
"Martin?"
But, apparently, he wasn't meant to have any moment of peace.
"Martin."
"What..." he slurred, unsticking his tongue from the top of his mouth. His mouth was dry. He wanted something to drink, something warm, that would chase away the chills clinging to his body.
"Time for another dose of medicine."
Martin wasn't sure why Douglas was insistent on giving him medicine, or really how it was going to help, but he knew that he needed it, nonetheless. He placed a hand on the mattress, trying to prop himself up. The world spun violently. His stomach flipped and he barely managed to prevent getting sick on the bed. The floor, however, wasn't so fortunate.
"Okay, maybe we won't be having any medicine," Douglas replied shortly.
"Dou-" Martin tried, but he gagged again and slapped a hand over his mouth. Bile was burning the back of his throat and he just didn't want to be bloody sick again-
"Come on," Douglas was saying. "Come on, Martin," he repeating, grabbing Martin's shoulder and hauling him out of bed.
With much stumbling and some ashamed tears on Martin's behalf, Douglas managed to get him into the bathroom before he could get sick again, but he did allow himself to be sick again once he was safely in front of the toilet.
"I'm not sure if it's just a common fever you have, Martin," Douglas mused. His tone was offhand, again, like the pilot of MJN wasn't vomiting up his lungs in front of him. "Maybe it's the flu. Have you been feeling unwell?"
Martin shook his head weakly. "N-No-no," he muttered, shivering hard.
"Well, you would have had an incubation period, most likely," Douglas muttered. "Hm... Oh, are you cold?" he asked.
"F-F-Freez-zing," Martin stammered, swallowing. No sarcastic remark. He wanted to give Douglas a sarcastic remark but he was so damn tired and so sick-
A coat was placed over his shoulders. Martin paused in his sniveling to glance at the fabric, realizing that it was Douglas' coat.
"I believe that we're going to have to stay here a little longer than we first thought..." Douglas was saying. "Carolyn won't be pleased."
"No... W-We can go b-back," Martin stammered, trying to stand.
Douglas placed his hand on Martin's shoulder, preventing him from moving. "No. You're already ill enough. We don't need to put you in the air when you're this sick. If we weren't in this virtually run-down place, I could take you to a hospital and everything would be solved rather quickly..."
Did Douglas really sound... nervous? Worried? No... No, no, no. Martin had to be hearing him wrong.
"It's just... a f-fever," Martin muttered, dislodging Douglas' hand and standing shakily. His legs went out from under him. Douglas caught him.
And that was the moment that Martin decided that he just didn't care anymore.
"It's not a fever," Douglas ground out, and arms were wrapped around Martin's shivering body. They were tight and comforting, protective, and Martin was simply chuffed to have someone there to hold him up when he couldn't do it himself. He slumped against Douglas' chest, letting his eyes flutter shut. "I'm almost positive that it's the flu. You need to get more medicine and you're going to have to drink something."
Martin muttered something, something that he had meant to come out as It won't stay down, but it came out as an indecipherable mumble. He was too tired to be faintly annoyed with himself.
Douglas, however, seemed to understand. "I don't care if it comes back up. You need to try. Getting dehydrated will only make it worse."
"No, thanks..." he mumbled.
"Not asking," Douglas replied. "Prepare yourself."
Martin had half the notion to say for what when he was suddenly whisked off his feet. His stomach lurched and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly.
Douglas had stopped moving, and Martin could feel eyes on him.
"However sick you may be, Martin, if you vomit on me, I will never speak to you again," Douglas said seriously.
Martin actually laughed weakly in response.
It seemed to be a good enough response for Douglas because the co-pilot carried him back into the bedroom, laying him carefully onto the bed.
Martin immediately fumbled for the blankets, well, blanket, drawing it over his head. It was pulled away almost immediately.
"If you want to do stupid things when you're alone and sick, be my guest. When you're with me, you're not going to do stupid things. Covering your head when you're already so hot is a stupid thing." Douglas glared down at him, but it didn't hold the usual annoyance or anger that it should have. "Besides, I didn't tell you to lay down. You need to drink, and take medicine."
"When..." Martin started weakly, clearing his throat. "When did you get so bossy...?" he mumbled, attempting to sit up slightly.
"When I felt your forehead. You're entirely too hot." He handed Martin the glass of water from before. "Sip at this. If you feel like getting sick..." He waved his hand towards the bin.
"I don't wanna..." Martin muttered, staring at the trembling surface of the water in the glass.
"Martin."
With a weary huff, he took a small sip. The water felt good against his throat. Chased away the sick taste in his mouth. He took another sip. Douglas was watching him closely; Martin glanced up over the brim of the glass.
"Good?"
"I think..." Martin murmured, taking another drink.
"Good." Douglas grabbed the bottle of paracetamol and popped the top. "Two pills. Go back to sleep. I'll fight your fever like I'm your own personal white blood cell."
Martin frowned at him as he placed the pills on his tongue, chasing them down with the water. "I think I sh-should appreciate the sentiment, but that was v-very rather odd, Douglas."
"Maybe the fever's going to my brain..." Douglas muttered in reply.
"How could it... It's my-my fever..." Martin mumbled.
"Because I'm the one who has to take care of you, as usual."
As usual.
Any trace of humour that Martin had been clinging to disappeared. Now it was just back to the-
"Of course, it is the co-pilot's job to take care of the pilot..." Douglas continued. "So, I suppose I don't mind so much." Martin glanced back at him. "Where would MJN be without its pilot?"
It took Martin a few seconds to work through that. He decided it was another moment where he couldn't tell if Douglas was making fun of him or not. So, he said nothing, just watching Douglas warily.
"... If you keep giving me those puppy dog eyes, I'm going to start giving you kibble instead of paracetamol."
He blinked, feeling his ears go warm again. Puppy dog eyes... How did he- Was he really- The sickness was getting to him...! He placed an arm over his eyes, trying to not be embarrassed.
But puppy dog eyes? He didn't have puppy dog eyes. He couldn't make puppy dog eyes. He just... pathetic. He was pathetic, but not sad puppy. Unless sad puppy and pathetic were the same things. Actually, they probably were-
"To be fair, Martin, those puppy eyes would melt the heart of any woman. Perhaps you should-"
Martin rolled onto his side, pressing his hand over his free ear. Dating advice... He didn't want dating advice from Douglas. He didn't want dating advice at all, because they had long since learned that he literally couldn't date.
Literally.
Although...
... he had never tried using puppy eyes on a girl before-
Jeez, Martin, go to sleep!
Feeling vaguely more embarrassed than when he'd gone on the vomiting spree, Martin ducked his head and tried to get some sleep.
So, if there are still followers following this story, here's another chapter! :D Some more humour, because every Cabin Pressure fic needs humour, eh?
I would love to hear your thoughts! Thank you!
