Summary: POV Lads men wake up in your body, feeling your emotions. And the get to suffer MWAHAHAHAHHA
Pairing: Lads boys x gn reader
Genre: angst (only Zayne gets a pass)
AN: hmm I don't think I did the concept justice but I will return to it
(I do not own these characters + spoilers ahead)
Rafayel:
He has felt it every time. Every single time he brings up his pain, his years spent waiting for you, your abandonment of him, he sees the same pain flicker in your eyes.
Even when you remain unaware of the past, he sees it.
But for the first time, he feels it.
He does not know what timeline this is. Only that he watches himself lying on a bed, next to you.
Your hand, intertwined with his.
"Things will get difficult, and you may want to give up on me, Rafayel," your fingers ghost over his cheek. "Forgive me for bringing you into this trouble. For dragging you into my fate."
Words are not spoken aloud, yet he hears them ring in your mind.
"Forgive me," you whisper into the night. "What this love will cost us… might break your heart."
He watches as you lean over and press a kiss to his forehead.
And then, with a shaking breath, you utter the last of your fading words:
"Should the burden come to weigh on you… let go of this bond and return home."
Rafayel wakes to a thundering sky and rising tides, as if the world itself had shared the same dream.
Xavier:
He watches you stare into the sky.
"Return home, my liege," you whisper, fingers clutched tightly. "Your kingdom, your throne awaits you."
You fold your hands and pray to the stars. And Xavier feels it, the thrum of your power resonating through his heart.
Then, your hand tightens around your sword.
"You should not have bothered, my prince." Your voice is steady, but beneath it lies something fragile. "It was my fate to become the fuel for this world. You should have let fate play its part."
Somehow, you already know the secret he has desperately hidden from you.
"They say the only way to make this right is by giving away what always belonged to the world." Your hand rests over your heart. "Would it bring you back?"
Xavier reels at your thoughts.
"No!" he screams, the sound swallowed by the void. "You must not! There has to be another way!"
But you do not hear him.
You gaze into the mirror, addressing no one and yet, somehow, addressing him.
"If this is a farewell, then it is a poor one, my liege."
Then, finally, your voice softens.
"I hope this brings you back, my prince." You speak to him directly now. "Wherever you are, I hope this end grants me the wish to have you return to Philos."
Zayne:
"He never eats on time!"
The thought rings out loud, startling Zayne.
He watches you march toward him, and takes a moment to process where he is.
Pale. Tired. Are those acne? Has he really been living off vending machine junk?
A rapid-fire string of thoughts follows.
He hears your frustration, your worry, and then he sees it.
The other Zayne, a version of himself, is yanked away from his desk by you.
Were you always this perceptive? How had he never noticed the concern in your eyes?
"Treat me to a second breakfast."
The command is uncompromising. He watches as you march toward his car, not even waiting for a response.
And he sees himself follow.
Or rather, being dragged.
Then, in the rumbling car, he watches as you drive.
And just as you turn to check on him, he sees himself, fast asleep.
With a maneuver that seems life-threatening, you somehow manage to pull a blanket over him, while still driving.
"Foreseer my ass," you scoff.
Your words leave him scrambling before he can even realize them, jolting him awake.
He blinks, now fully alert, staring straight at you. Back in his body.
Sylus:
Despair. Guilt. Unrelenting heartache.
He sees himself fallen at your feet.
And then, he sees your fall.
On your knees, you pull him close, holding him tight, and for the first time, he feels the weight of your helplessness.
"There is no forgiveness," you whisper.
And he realizes—you are alone.
That back then, in that abyss of loss, you were always alone. Unlike him, you never had the hope of return.
Bearing the burden of right and wrong, you were alone in your doom.
He buckles under the weight of it. This grief, he knows it well. He has felt a fragment of it.
But even then, he had known you would return.
But you?
For you, there was nothing.
Nothing but the void of loss.
"It will be alright," he whispers, but his voice is frail, failing to comfort you.
"I will return to you. I am not cross with you. I still love you." He repeats until all but the echo of his voice remains.
Caleb:
He wakes to fire.
The burning home.
The one that became both nightmare and reality.
Flames devour everything, the heat suffocating, the smoke curling into the sky.
Then, he sees you.
You scrape against the concrete, pulling yourself forward when your body refuses to move.
Your fingers tighten around his locket, and he feels the stab of pain pierce your heart.
"Caleb!" you call weakly, voice cracking, gathering what little strength you have left to scream louder.
You drag yourself forward, until your arms give out.
He sees your skin peeling against the jagged ground. Your blistered nail beds. The blood seeping from fingers that have already lost their nails beneath the heat and debris.
Yet, you keep moving.
"Stop!" he wants to scream. He wills himself to close his eyes, to escape this vision, but it grips him, holds him hostage.
And in this moment of agony, he wants to stop you, wants to pull you away from the fire, but he fails.
He is nothing more than a spectator to your desperate cries.
To your pleas for him and Grandma.
"I am sorry," he begs.
He had let you suffer alone in hopeless grief, had left you to rot in sorrow.
And perhaps this vision, this endless, searing nightmare, was his penance.
"Asmodeus hates being kissed on the face," was a fact that got shared to you early on your visit to the Devildom. It was a shocking one at that, the Avatar of Lust? Doesn't like being kissed on the face? The look of shock on your face prompted the brother to explain that it was because he hated having his beautiful makeup ruined, that he'd simply have no time left in the world if he had to reapply makeup every time someone wanted to kiss him. Plus, he would add, kisses on the lips were far more fun.
Asmodeus, in reality, hated being kissed on the face because it felt too domestic, too loving, too unreachable. It was a secret he would take to his grave, hidden beneath carefully woven lies, because the truth would be far too vulnerable. There was no one who could love the real him, so he'd settle for the physical intimacy that sex had brought, but refuse to indulge in the emotional connection that was associated with soft kisses being peppered on his face. The tender moments that could be shared between true lovers was simply not meant for him, and the quicker he pushed it away the easier it would be to accept. He'd simply stick to having random demons worship his body in other ways. Ways that'd more quickly- but not sufficiently- fill the gaping void in his chest yearning for love. He was the Avatar of Lust, and that's all he'd ever be. And he was okay with that, happy even.
not to be dramatic but i will die if i don’t see more of this au... YOURE MY FAVORITE WRITER NOW PLEASE BEAUTIFUL QUEEN I NEED MORE OF THIS I BEG
you havent been to work for 2 weeks now.
being art's...fuck buddy? girlfriend? whatever you were? it was time consuming. from spending days in bed doing absolutely nothing but talking, or fucking, or cuddling, from him taking you to shopping sprees.
like right now, laying on his chest after a long session of sex is something you have become used to. oddly enough, its rather comforting. the way his hands travel from your ass to your scalp, massaging you while also giving you the outmost amount of GENTLE affection. gentle. gentle affection is something you havent experienced, so this is definitely new.
but you like it, love it even. you subconsciously have started to search for his attention. you tuck your head under his chin, and he rubs your temple. and he noticed it; how you are more open with him...how the relationship has turned into something of convenience to something more...real? raw. "you did so good today, like always," he whispers while rubbing your side, smiling as he sees how sleepy you look.
"such a good girl." he grabs your thigh, hiking it up around his waist so the embrace turns more intimate, passionate. you tuck your face into his neck, forehead pressing against his shoulder.
and when you wake up? he's still there. snoring against your hair, his arms wrapped tightly around you. you go back to sleep, because the position is that comfortable. he has somehow managed to make you feel safe.
but you try to not think about that. after all, this is just sex for him, right? you dont notice the way he looks at you when you're looking away. obviously you're attractive, you're a stripper. but he sees past those lustful features and notices the little details; like how your eyebrows furrow whenever you think too hard, or how you need to constantly adjust your body whenever you're sitting down for too long.
his hands go to your neck, softly stroking it before he tilts your head and kisses you. "good morning," he breathes out, not giving you a chance to answer before he's kissing you again. and a few kisses turn into a sloppy, lazy makeout session.
and inevitably it turns into morning sex. but you like sex with him. he turns every sexual act into a more deeper, intimate one.
which in turn makes you crave for another day in his arms.
When Steve Harrington’s quiet, PE teacher life literally goes up in flames, he doesn’t expect to be rescued by a hot firefighter, much less his former High School classmate, Eddie Munson. Now his apartment’s ruined, his routine’s wrecked, and his brain won’t stop replaying one very smug smile and raspy voice.
teacher!steve x firefighter!eddie
part I, part II, part III are all here
tw: angst with a happy ending, steve spiraling, deep-seated insecurities, bad coping mechanisms, miscommunication (but they're fixing it!), emotional confrontation, crying, a lot of fluff!!
PART IV
He saw the text notification light up the screen on Sunday morning and ignored it, swiping it away before his brain could fully process the words. An hour later, feeling a phantom buzz in his pocket, he ignored the one that followed, too.
[Today 10:48 AM]
Eddie Munson:
morning, gorgeous.
just saw a kid at the grocery store wearing a full sailor suit and it felt like a Sign from the universe. have a good sunday. talk later?
He worked from home that day, which was a blessing because he felt like a total zombie, just existing. He tried to school his expression whenever Robin was in the room, offering tight, noncommittal smiles that he knew didn't fool her for a second. The way she’d watch him from over the top of her book, laptop and counter, was both comforting and terrifying; she could read him in a way that felt like actually telepathic powers.
To combat the gnawing emptiness, he tried to fill the hours. He took Scoops on a long, meandering walk through the neighborhood, focusing on the rhythm of his own breathing. He forced himself to start one of the critically-acclaimed novels that had been sitting on his Kindle for months, reading the same paragraph four times before giving up. He even considered driving by his apartment to check on the renovation he decided to make, but settled for the update pictures the contractor had sent. The new floors were a warm, pale oak. The walls were being painted a soft, welcoming green. It looked… good.
Like a home.
He should have been happy. He just felt hollow, ridiculously aware of how every single distraction was just a placeholder for the one thing he was trying not to think about: Eddie.
He was on the couch that night, staring blankly at the ceiling, when his phone, lying face down beside him, buzzed again. And again.
[Today 9:20 PM]
Eddie Munson:hey. steve? you okay?
Eddie Munson:look, you're probably busy but when you get a chance, just shoot me a sign of life, please?
Steve didn’t move. He curled into a tighter ball on the sofa, pulling his knees to his chest, and flicked on the TV. The first thing that autoplayed was a quiet movie called Past Lives, which seemed to be extremely heartbreaking. Thankfully, the emotional exhaustion of the day took over, and he drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep, missing ninety percent of the film's emotional core.
He woke up to the sound of a sniffle beside him. Robin was sitting there, eyes glued to the screen, tears streaming down her face. Steve blinked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Can’t believe you’re crying.”
“This is just terrible, okay?” she whispered, wiping at her cheeks.
“I bet it is,” he mumbled. She nudged him playfully with her foot, and he managed a small, genuine smile. In that moment of comfortable quiet, his guard down, he acted on autopilot. picking up his phone, his thumb swiping to unlock it out of pure muscle memory. The last notification was still there, a stark white banner against his dark screen.
[Today 11:20 PM]
Eddie Munson:i don’t want to bother you, but I’m getting the vibe that I did something wrong.If I did, can you just... tell me? i want to fix it.
Steve stared at the screen, a hot, angry frustration welling up in his chest, so sharp it almost made him gasp. That's the problem, he thought, the words a bitter internal scream. You didn't do anything at all
He threw his phone onto the couch cushions as if it were on fire. He untangled himself and stood up abruptly, the movement jerky and unnatural. “Gonna get something from the kitchen,” he announced to the room. “You want anything?”
Robin sniffled again, still looking at the TV’s rolling credits. “Can you grab my tea for me?”
“Sure,” he said, his voice clipped, already walking away.
The small kitchen was a temporary sanctuary. He leaned against the counter, the cool laminate a stark contrast to the heat coiling in his stomach. He just breathed for a moment, focusing on the hum of the refrigerator. He methodically opened the pantry, his eyes scanning the shelves without really seeing anything until they landed on a box of brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts. He hated this type of sugary stuff that felt like tasting plastic. He grabbed them anyway. He filled the kettle, his movements precise and mechanical, and waited for it to boil, the rising steam fogging the window in front of him. He made Robin’s tea, the familiar ritual of it, tea bag, hot water, a splash of milk, grounding him, automatic.
He walked back into the living room and handed Robin her mug, then sank into his corner of the sofa, peeling the foil from a Pop-Tart he had no intention of enjoying. They flipped through channels, landing on a rerun of Parks and Recreation, the cheerful, idiotic optimism of the show a grating counterpoint to the hollow ache in Steve's chest. Robin would occasionally make a quiet joke, a comment about the show, and Steve would offer a small, noncommittal hum in response, his eyes fixed on the screen but his mind a million miles away. He felt heavy, weighted down by a sadness so profound it felt like a physical illness.
They were about an hour into their silent vigil when the doorbell rang.
The sudden, sharp sound cut through the room, making them both jump. They exchanged a confused look.
“At this hour?” Steve muttered, his voice raspy. He pushed himself off the couch. “I’ll get it.”
He walked to the door, a vague sense of unease prickling at the back of his neck. He unlocked it and pulled it open, his mind blank, expecting a lost delivery driver or Robin’s neighbor.
Instead, he was met with the tired, worried, confused doe-eyes of Eddie Munson.
He looked rumpled and exhausted in an old band t-shirt and worn-out jeans, his curls a mess, his face etched with concern. Steve’s stomach plummeted, a sickening lurch that left him breathless. His expression immediately hardened, his jaw tightening as he took an involuntary step back.
“Steve.” Eddie’s voice was rough with relief. “Thank God. You’re okay. Sorry for just showing up like this, I… I was worried about you.”
Steve kept his eyes fixed on the floor, on the scuffed toes of Eddie’s boots, refusing to meet that earnest, searching gaze.
From the sofa, Robin’s head snapped up. She saw Eddie, Steve’s rigid back, and her eyes widened, and a look of pure, theatrical surprise crossed her face.
“Oh, would you look at the time,” she announced to the ceiling. She scrambled off the couch, grabbing her hoodie from the back of the chair. Scoops, sensing a walk, immediately started wiggling by the door.
“Robin,” Steve started, a warning in his tone.
“Nope,” she said, her movements brisk and efficient as she grabbed her keys and Scoop's leash. “I’m crashing at Vickie’s. Scoopy’s coming. You two need to talk. Like, with your actual mouths.”
“Rob—”
“Bye!” she chirped, pulling the door open. As she squeezed past a bewildered Eddie, she offered him a quick, tight smile. “Hi, Eddie, good night. Nice shirt.”
“Night, Buckley,” he replied automatically, his eyes never leaving Steve.
Steve was trapped, alone with the man he'd been ghosting for a day and a half.
Eddie just stood there in the doorway, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, the porch light haloing his messy hair.
“So… you saw I’m not dead,” Steve said brightly, already inching toward the door. “Awesome. Thanks for stopping by.”
He started closing it, but Eddie’s hand shot out, palm flat on the frame.
“Wait.”
He didn’t push. Just held it there. “You weren’t answering,” he said quietly.
“I was busy,” Steve lied, folding his arms across his chest, a pathetic shield. “The apartment things are crazy right now and…”
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t believe that,” Eddie said, his voice still gentle but firm now, cutting through Steve’s bullshit. “We’ve always been busy, Steve. I thought… I thought we were good? I had an amazing day with you. I thought you felt the same. But then you... you pulled away. And then the texts today… I don’t understand what happened after yesterday.”
“I think you’re reading into nothing,” Steve said, his voice taking on a cold, sarcastic edge he didn't recognize. “And honestly, we don’t really have anything going on here, so…”
“Nothing?” Eddie’s voice cracked, and he looked genuinely, deeply offended. “We don’t have nothing? I’m honestly just so confused right now.”
“Yeah? Just think about my situation!” Steve finally snapped, the tight wire of frustration inside him finally breaking. He spun around and stalked into the living room, too agitated to stand still, Eddie following a few steps behind him. “Look, Eddie,” Steve said, spinning back around, “it’s okay. If you want to let me down easy, I totally get it. You don’t have to do... this. This whole song and dance. I’m a big kid. I can take it.”
Eddie just stared at him, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “'Let you down easy'? Sorry, but what the hell are you talking about?”
Steve let out a bitter, ironic laugh. “C’mon, Munson. We held hands. We talked. We kissed. And… nothing else. I know what that means.”
Eddie looked genuinely, completely lost, his face a mask of bewilderment. “Okay, yes, but…”
“You said you wanted to wait!” Steve’s voice cracked with a week’s worth of humiliation he couldn’t hide anymore. “You said it on the first day, at the bar, that you wanted to do it at the right time!”
“Yeah. I did,” Eddie said, stepping closer, his hands held up in a placating gesture. “I was trying to… be respectful. I was trying to give you space, not… not be that guy. I didn’t want to just…”
“And you changed your mind! And that’s fine. Really!” Steve’s words were coming faster now, tumbling over each other. “I just... I don't think we need to keep postponing the end of this with... with cute words, or romantic gestures, or... or pity.”
Eddie just stared at him, his face a mask of pure, stunned disbelief. "Pity?" he finally whispered. "Are you... kidding me?" he answered, sharp with shock, and Steve flinched.
Eddie noticed it instantly, and his whole posture deflated, his voice softening again, though it was still shaking with disbelief. "Pity? Steve, you're the smartest, prettiest, and somehow hottest guy I've ever seen in my life. I am... I am so spectacularly unlucky in relationships, but I never... I never wanted to send the wrong message about wanting you. I want you all the time. Isn’t that clear enough?"
Steve was stunned silent, his expression one of total disbelief.
Eddie's shoulders slumped, anger now replaced by an intense sincerity. "I just... I didn't, I don’t want to blow this. I really, really like you. I don't want this to just be... casual sex. Because I know that’s not... it's not meaningful. And you... you're such an interesting, incredible person, you deserve way more than that. Honestly, I want to know you, completely, as an adult. I thought you knew that. I want a full relationship."
“You say that, and I get it” Steve’s voice choked, and he turned his face away, but Eddie was closer now. “But you... you always pull away. Every time we’re almost... I thought... I thought you didn't want me. That way. I thought there was... something wrong with me.” He said that last part so low, it was barely a whisper.
Eddie’s hand cupped his face, his thumb brushing Steve’s cheek. “Hey. Look at me. Please.” Steve reluctantly met his gaze. “There is nothing ever wrong with you, okay? I am... I'm terrified. I’m terrified of losing the chance to make you happy. ‘Cause I used to have this ridiculous crush on you, back at school. It was honestly pathetic. I thought I'd never see you again, and then... a thousand years later, a building is on fire, and you're there, and you're single, you’re at the bar, and you're gay, and you... you like me?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I needed to make this... make sense. I needed a foundation the physical intimacy. Which... which I am so all in for, Steve. But I don't just want that with you. I don't want you to ever think that I'm only into you for the sex.”
Steve stared at him, choked up, and despite biting his cheek, one stupid, hot tear escaped and tracked down his face. Eddie's expression softened instantly, his thumb catching it.
Steve took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ve just... I've never had this before.”
“What?” Eddie whispered.
Steve let out a wet, broken laugh. “Honesty? I don't know. Someone liking me for me?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Eddie breathed, his own eyes shining. “You’re in for a surprise, ‘cause I’m in love with just about everything about you.”
Steve was speechless. And a little ashamed of crying. He didn’t know what to say, so he just... lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Eddie’s middle, burying his face in his neck. He felt Eddie's arms come up, holding him just as tightly.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie choked out, his voice thick. “I’m sorry I wasn't clearer with you.”
Steve pulled back just enough to look at him. “No, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For being... uh. Like this.”
“Like what? Perfect?” Eddie offered, a small, watery smile on his face.
Steve laughed, wiping his eyes. “I should have been honest about what I was thinking. More open. You... you deserve someone who can meet all this... this caring that you do.”
“Steve.” Eddie said, his hands still on Steve's shoulders, his grip grounding. “We've known each other for... what? A month? And you're the first person who willingly put himself in a weird, noisy rock bar in a sketchy neighborhood, just... for me. You think I don't feel taken care of by you?” He smiled, a soft, genuine thing that made the last of the tension in Steve’s chest finally, finally dissolve.
They were still wrapped up in each other, the air between them suddenly clear, the silence no longer heavy but full of everything that had just been said.
“I love you too, you know?” Steve whispered, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them, quiet and a little shaky, but true.
Eddie’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, a sharp, relieved breath escaping him. When he opened them again, his smile was blinding. He leaned in and kissed Steve again, slow and deep and sure, a kiss that wasn’t a question or a statement, but a mutual agreement.
When they parted, Eddie rested his forehead against Steve’s, his grin still wide. “So, boyfriend,” he murmured, the word landing in the quiet space between them, feeling both ridiculously new and perfectly right. “What do you want to do now?”
Steve let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe we should make, like, a mandatory checklist for conflict resolution?”
That got a real laugh out of Eddie, a bright, happy sound that filled the small apartment. “First item on the list: we should always talk more,” Eddie murmured, his thumbs brushing gently over Steve's cheekbones, still damp from his tears.
“Yeah… I think we need that,” Steve agreed, his voice soft.
Eddie smiled and pulled him into a hug, this one tighter, more secure, before leaning in for another kiss that tasted of salt and overwhelming relief.
They stood like that for a long time, just holding each other in the middle of Robin's living room, the quiet hum of the TV a distant backdrop. Eventually, Eddie leaned back, though he didn't let go, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“So, is Vickie real, or did Robin just invent a person so she could make a dramatic exit?”
Steve giggled, the sound light and real. “She’s real. Lives in the apartment downstairs. Robin is completely head-over-heels for her.” He paused, his expression turning slightly conspiratorial. “But Vickie has a boyfriend.”
Eddie’s face contorted in disgust. “Ew. I hate him. I hope they break up.”
“I wish for it every single day,” Steve said with dead-serious sincerity.
They both burst out laughing, the shared, silly sentiment feeling more intimate than anything that had happened all night. The heavy atmosphere had finally, truly lifted.
“Hey,” Steve said, pulling away slightly. “You want one of Robin’s sodas or something?”
Eddie’s smile was soft and easy. “Yeah, why not?”
part IV is here!
NOTES:
so we finally got to the end of our story, the next part is oficially the LAST and works just like an epilogue, we're getting some rated R content but I swear it's only these cuties being in love from now on. thank you thank you for your support, kind words and suggestions!!! I have some other steddie stories that I'm planning to post after this one. next update will probably arrive on Monday or Tuesday, but you can talk to me here, on twitter @eddiesmaster too :)
Following your Alfred mourns Jason and makes an extra plate post, I have to request Alfie finally having an angry but finally home Jason back in his kitchen.
how dare you try and put fluff on the perfectly delicious serving of angst I gave you. Has no one ever taught you table manners, you fucking heathen—
Alfred takes special care in that last plate. He’s already made everyone else’s—Bruce, Barbara, Dick, Tim, Steph and Cass are all already there—but everyone is silent as they watch Alfred work on the last place setting. It’s almost as if they’re waiting for the chair behind it to go empty, for it to all have been a dream—but no. Jason walks in, a hesitant swagger to his step, and for a moment everything is perfect.
Then Jason frowns, taking stock of the entire table, and says, “Ya got the wrong number of plates, Alfie.”
Alfred, going still, examines the table and finds nothing wrong with it. For half a second, he wonders if this is a dream. If he had imagined this, and right now was the second where it turned from a dream to a nightmare, from a wish to reality.
Jason huffs, walks into the kitchen, and retrieves one more plate, adding it to the table. Then, ignoring Alfred’s wide-eyed muttered protests, shoves the butler into it.
“There ya go,” Jason says, and sits down in his own spot with a satisfied grin.
Alfred, just happy to see the smile on his grandson’s face, doesn’t protest again—and he pours both himself and Jason healing cups of orange juice.
Part 1 of me torturing Ryland w/ illness. Part 2 switches to first-person POV because it's easier to write lol. ~1.8k words.
I got ready for bed early tonight. After the awkward meeting with Lokken, I just wanted the day to be over. I don’t know why it bothered me so much.
Luckily for me, that was the last social interaction on my schedule. Stratt hadn’t called me since then, only texted to ask how the meeting went. I just answered that everything was on track to be completed by tomorrow, which was true. She didn’t need the details of why it wasn’t done today.
I’d avoided seeing anyone at dinner by going to the cafeteria early and taking my food to-go. The takeout box sat half-empty in my trash can, along with a dozen wadded up tissues. I wasn’t in the mood to eat. I could barely taste the food because my nose was completely blocked up. Blowing my nose didn’t seem to make a difference, but that didn’t stop me from trying.
The next step after dinner was to get ready for bed. I liked to shower early, then take my time going over notes, reviewing work, and preparing for tomorrow. So I grabbed my clothes and headed for the bathroom.
It was a difficult process to initiate because I was freezing, and stripping down didn’t help. But once I turned on the hot water, the steam from the shower worked its magic. It was the first time all day that I felt like I could actually breathe. It dislodged whatever was stuck up there and made my nose run, which was a welcome change of pace. I blew my nose and let the running water wash everything away.
While my congestion finally improved, the stupid tickle in my nose only seemed to worsen with each passing hour. The movement through my nostrils might have made it worse.
I sneezed harshly without warning, grimacing as it tore through my throat. It was rare that I’d get away with just one sneeze when I was sick. I assumed the inflammation from my body fighting the virus made everything more sensitive, including my nose.
I braced a hand on the slick shower wall to steady myself. The water pelted my back as my chin angled up with each hitching breath. I forced my eyes open to look at the fluorescent light on the ceiling, a reliable way for me to push a sneeze over the edge. “HIEHH’tscheww!” I stayed like that, bent over with my other hand on my knee, waiting for more. There’s no way I’d be let off that easily. “Heh… hhh–” God, please, I begged silently. “HEH’dzchhh!-IEHSHHH’uh!”
My head spun as I fought back the urge to sneeze again. I took deep breaths to stay focused and upright. Slipping and falling in the shower on a military ship filled with world-class geniuses would be a terrible way to go.
That took a lot more energy than I expected. I rinsed off and reached for a towel to dry myself off.
As I dried my hair, I could feel the itching in my nose swell again. Maybe the sudden absence of the water’s warmth triggered something. With a gasp, I pressed my face into the towel. “HH’mCHHhh!” I came up for air before diving back down. “Heh-HIEh'DSHHEW!”
I moaned into the towel, then blew my nose into it. Okay, definitely not going to dry myself off with that anymore. Whatever. I was dry enough. I pulled on my sweats and t-shirt, then finished the look off with a freebie sweatshirt from my middle school. I trudged back to my room, grateful not to run into anyone on the way.
The room didn't have its own thermostat, and I was way too cold for whatever temperature they kept our section of the ship. Honestly, it could have been twenty-five degrees Celsius in here, and I'd still be shaking with chills. Being sick distorts your ability to estimate temperature.
I wanted to crawl into bed and curl into a ball beneath the covers. But I settled for throwing the blanket around my shoulders and bundling up at my desk. In order to stay “on track,” as I told Stratt, I would have to actually review the equipment tonight.
It was difficult. I used a green Pilot G2 pen, my go-to for grading student papers, and left notes in the margins. Each time I coughed, it shifted something in my sinuses, and my nose would start trickling again. I was too congested to sniff it back. Every few minutes, I'd yank another tissue from the box, give an unproductive blow, then toss it into the trash can. My success rate steadily declined as the tissue pile on the floor grew.
That was future Ryland’s problem. For now, I had to devote my energy to reading. At least it was kind of interesting. I’d only read about some of these machines before and never had the privilege of using them. DuBois was going to be a very lucky biologist to have free reign in a lab filled with this kind of stuff. Assuming humanity lived long enough for the project to reach that point.
I zoned out, staring at the blank wall for a minute. It could have been longer, I honestly had no idea how time was passing. It wasn’t until I felt the snot drip to the edge of my lip that I came back to reality, grabbing a tissue to wipe it away from my chafed nose and blow again.
Maybe the blowing was a mistake. “HYIEH’kshhh! Hehhh-heh…” They always did this to me, and it drove me insane! I just wanted to sneeze, for goodness’ sake. I kept the tissue over my nose, waiting.
“HAH-EH’dzCHH! Eehh…ihtshh!” I coughed and blew my nose into yet another tissue. And missed the trash can yet another time. With a shake of my head, I returned my attention back to the papers in front of me.
I was just starting on the last page when I heard a light knocking on my door. It was unusual to have one of Stratt’s gophers chasing after me this late at night, and Stratt could have called me directly if something was urgent. I stood slowly from the desk, shedding my blanket, and shuffled to the door.
When I cracked it open, I was surprised by who I saw standing in the hall. “Dr. Lokken?”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Not at all,” I managed. “Come in.” I stumbled over the words. It didn’t help that my stuffiness turned the sentence into something closer to “ndot at all, cub ind.”
I pulled the door open all the way and she stepped in. Her eyes surveyed my room, landing on the tissue graveyard. Great. Now she got to see how messy I was. I swear I’m tidier when I’m not sick.
“Did you need the papers back?” I asked quickly, nodding to my desk to redirect her attention. “I’m almost done.”
“That’s not necessary, it can wait until tomorrow. You are clearly ill,” she said.
Should I be offended? “Uh, I’m surviving.” I pulled my sweatshirt up over my mouth and muffled an unproductive cough.
"I stopped by the infirmary," she continued, opening her bag and reaching in.
“You… what?”
“Fever reducer, decongestant, syrup for your throat.” She listed the medicines’ purposes as she set them on my desk. The first two were nondescript pill bottles, and the last was a dark glass bottle with a bright red label. “You looked miserable this afternoon. These should help.”
I was at a complete loss for words. “You didn’t have to do that.”
I picked one of the medications up. I don’t know why I tried to read the label. It was in Chinese. I don’t speak Chinese. I’d just have to keep track of which bottle is which.
“Fever reducer,” she repeated, gesturing to the bottle in my hand. “One every six hours. Same for the decongestant. You can take the syrup as needed.”
“Wow, thank you.” I took the pill and swallowed it dry, grimacing. I hadn’t even thought to look for drugs on this aircraft carrier. I should have known better. Maybe the fever reducer would help me think more clearly.
“You are up late for somebody who is so sick.”
“I was working,” I said. I reached for the dark bottle and untwisted the cap, sniffing tentatively at the dark molasses-like substance. Not bad. I recapped it and set it back down, making a mental note to bring a spoon back from the cafeteria.
“You can work tomorrow.”
I opened my mouth to argue. She was the one who asked for the file back tomorrow.
But the lingering tickle in my nose grew unbearably strong in an instant, and I barely had time to register the assault on my nose. I ducked my head into the crook of my elbow. “Hih’pTCHh! Heh’YIESHhh!” There was no use trying to hold these in, so I redirected my efforts to containment. I sniffled against the sweatshirt, hoping my nose wouldn’t come away from it dripping.
“Dr. Grace,” she said firmly. “You need sleep.”
Keeping my arm against my nose, I blinked, trying to get a sentence out. “Heh… buh-uhh… but I need–”
I did my best to turn away from her as the last sneeze exploded out of me. “HAH-EHSCHIEW!” I stumbled sideways, almost running into my desk. Before I could lose my balance, her hand caught my free arm.
I sniffled hard, choking back a cough at the force, and let my arm drop once it was safe. I completely forgot what I was going to say.
When I finally looked at her through bleary eyes, she looked at the floor, her eyes not meeting mine. “Come on,” she said, turning her attention towards my bed.
I don’t know why, but I allowed her to herd me. I was beyond the point of worrying about how embarrassing it was to be utterly destroyed by a small cold. Plus, Lokken being weirdly nice was throwing me off. I guess it made sense for her to make sure I'm taking care of myself. It was in the team's best interest that I recover as soon as possible. Any delays in the timeline put the Project at risk, even something as small as a science teacher missing a lesson or reviewing some equipment.
I sat on the edge of the bed, unable to suppress a shiver as I touched the cold mattress.
She picked up my blanket off the floor from where it had slid from my chair. I laid down, deducing that this would likely be her next demand if I didn't. I swear, if she tucked me in…
Fortunately, she just laid the covers on top. I held the edges and pulled it around myself tightly, eager to get warm. She brought the medications to the small nightstand next to me, along with a bottle of water placed within arm’s reach. “Don’t forget to take these when you wake up.”
“You got it,” I mumbled, already being lulled to sleep.
The last thing I remembered was the light switching off and the door latching shut.
