Chapter Seventy One: Undercover Caring

Disclaimer: I do not own Eyeshield 21.

Song Playing: The Plauges

Theme 57: Fever

True patheticness, Mamori decided, was having to warm up your own soup when your teeth were chattering and your head felt like it was stuffed past capacity with your own snot.

With her thick winter blanket draped heavily over her shoulders she wanted nothing more than to call her mother. Not even a full year away from home and she was ready to go crying home because she was sick. If she didn't feel so bad she might have been embarrassed by that fact. But standing in three pairs of socks with toes that felt like they were little ice cubes stuck to her feet significantly toned down any shame she might have felt.

Plopping down on her futon she closed her eyes. She'd just sit down for a minute. Just while the soup was heating up. Just a minute...

The smell of burning soup wasn't exactly a new thing for Hiruma. He had burned his fair share of meals before opting for instant noodles and whatever was left over from football practice. What was cause for concern was who was burning the soup.

Locking the door behind him, he quickly ditched his shoes in the entryway and strode into the kitchen. With a flick of his wrist he turned off the burner. Then, just to be safe, he removed the pot of what could only be described as sludge at this point to the cooler backburner. Now that the fire hazard had been taken care of he could focus on more important things.

Things like how one woman could snore so very loud.

When his manager hadn't shown up for class he had been surprised, but as extensive as his social network was there were still gaps. It was possible that there was a family emergency or doctor's appointment that his information web hadn't managed to catch. When he overheard her twitchy friends mention that she hadn't been feeling well he figured it wasn't a big deal. She was probably just being her usual overly cautious self and decided keep her germs to herself. He could appreciate that. In his expert opinion sick people were best kept at the other end of a ten foot pole. When she failed to show up at practice without so much as a courtesy call or text message he knew something was horribly wrong.

If his subordinates and teammates noticed that his usual agitation skyrocketed to apocalyptic proportions they wisely kept their mouths shut. Likewise when he abruptly ended practice half an hour early due to what he referred to as their complete lack of fundamental skills coupled with the intelligence of dirt they didn't feel ashamed. Instead they felt relieved as they hobbled their way to the showers.

Despite it being the middle of rush hour the passengers on Hiruma's train car gave him a wide berth.

Not that he noticed. He was too busy growing towards volcanic rage that was definitely not concern or worry or panic. After his fourth increasingly frustrated, not fearful, voicemail he finally resorted to leaving a much softer pleading message on her rarely used landline. By the time he was storming up the stairs to her apartment he had already sent a slew of texts and two additional messages on her cell phone. All included more profanity than was strictly necessary along with an undercurrent of anxiety that all his fine acting couldn't completely cover up.

The smell of smoked soup vaulted his fear and frustration over the edge into ridiculousness.

Which is why he felt so stupid standing in her bedroom doorway. As far as he could tell she hadn't so much as twitched an eyelid at his less than graceful invasion of her home. Though he couldn't blame her for her lack of vigilance, she really did look like hell. Her face was all flushed. Her hair all wet and matted to her head. Plus she kept making this unnerving rattling sound every time she took a breath. He wasn't sure which was more unsettling: not knowing what had happened to her or finding her all sickly looking.

That was a lie. He knew without a doubt which was worse.

Only now that he knew she was safe and sound, he couldn't leave her like this. He was in full support of his public image as a monstrous devil and if any one of his minions found out what he was about to do, he'd lose all his terrifying credibility. But she looked so pathetic lying there. He had to do something.

Right. First things first.

Creeping further into her stuffy room, it didn't take him long to locate her phone. Plucking it off the dresser he browsed through her text and call history. He couldn't hold back the wince once he was confronted with the reality of just how many times he had tried to contact her in a twenty minute span. If word got out he'd never be able to rebuild his reputation back to its former glory. Good thing she'd never know. Quickly he deleted all evidence that he had ever tried to contact her with the exception of an early angry text that would only fuel his standing as a fearsome slave driving demon.

Then, with great care, he placed her phone in its original position and backed out of the room. Making sure he shut the door gently behind him. Second things second. He returned to the kitchen where he filled up the sink with hot water and threw the sludge pot into its soapy depths. He wasn't sure if the pot was even salvageable but he'd worry about it later. Now that was taken of, he had no idea what to do next. As a general rule he avoided sick people like they, well, like they had the plague. But he did know someone who could help.

He just didn't like it.

A horrible wet wracking cough startled him out of indecision. He dug out his phone and dialed a familiar, though rarely used, number. After three rings the receiver finally picked up, "Hello?"

He closed his eyes and braced himself, "Hey Kaasan."

When Mamori woke up it was with extreme protest and the niggling sensation that she had forgotten something very important. As of right now she figured it couldn't have been too pressing. Now all she wanted to do was fall back asleep. However her bladder and her desert dry throat told you she couldn't do that until she made a quick detour.

Her quick detour felt like the blasted Iditarod Race. She might as well have been a baby deer for as well as her legs worked. It took a shamefully long time to stagger her way to the rest room. Then it took an embarrassing amount of time to do her business and limp her way into the kitchen where she struggled through drinking a glass of water that felt like shattered glass. At this point she noticed the pot of soup on the stove. Did she make soup? She couldn't remember. But she must have. Recently too, since it was still warm. She help herself to a spoonful before deciding against any more. Apparently her sense of taste had gone, which was too bad. It really looked delicious. Strange though. This looked like her pot but not somehow. She shook her head and regretted it immediately.

She must be sicker than she thought.

Her drooping eyes fell onto a bottle of medicine and a glass of water. Odd. She didn't remember doing that either. She really was sicker than she though. No use worrying about it now. With that she downed her dose and chased it with a glass of water before collapsing back into her bed in a miserable heap.

Four days later she had perked up considerably. She had taken a shower and had felt better, a sure sign that she was on the mend. When she had forced herself to bathe two days before the result had been less than pleasant. Instead of feeling nice and clean like she had hoped she had felt like a drowned diseased rat. Now she had energy though her appetite didn't take much more that toast to appease it. Plopping down in a chair she checked her phone. She had several voicemails from several friends with varying levels of concern about her not showing up to class along with a couple of texts. They were mostly along the same lines as the voicemails with the exception of one angry looking one from Hiruma wondering why she had missed practice.

She felt her eye twitch in anticipation of the headache he was going to be when she came back.

With a sigh she stood back up, might as well get started on with the day. Before anything else she wanted to wash out her sickly bed sheets and pajamas. She was on her way to the bedroom when a blinking light caught her attention. Upon closer examination she was surprised to find that it was her landline answering machine. She tried to remember if she had ever received a message on it and she found she came up blank. Tentatively she pressed the playback button.

What followed was an incredibly sweet message left by a voice that she'd recognize anywhere. It wasn't very long. Less than the minute and he didn't say much but his tone- she didn't know his voice was capable of being so-so- she couldn't come up with an appropriate word for it. He sounded concerned, genuinely worried for her well-being as he questioned her whereabouts but there was something more to it that she couldn't quite put her finger on. This went on for a bit until he finished by asking, not only asking but asking nicely, if she would call him back as soon as she got this message. Then nothing. The answering machine beeped and gave her the options of repeating, deleting, or saving it.

Feeling unexplainably pleased she hesitated for a moment before pressing the save button.