#sick character

[purplebehittindifferent]

I like to think they have no idea what sickness is and thinks they’re dying

[luna-azzurra]

How to Write a Sick Character

╰ Being sick is boring as hell

Nobody tells you that. You think it’s gonna be poetic and tragic and emotionally moving, maybe a few tears on the windowpane and a soft piano soundtrack? painfully Wrong... It’s pacing in a waiting room for two hours to be told to come back next week. It’s reruns of trash TV because your brain fog is so bad you can't even process a podcast. It's Googling "why do my bones hate me" and finding nothing helpful, only vibes. So if you're writing a sick character and every scene is Deep and Heavy and Symbolic, I love you but no. Let them be bored and be over it.

╰ Sickness is basically a toxic relationship with your own body

And wow, the drama is unmatched. One day your character wakes up and thinks, “Maybe today will be normal.” Their body: “Plot twist, bitch.” Now they’re sweating through a hoodie, canceling plans, and pretending they're “just tired” because explaining the truth is somehow more exhausting than the illness itself. Let your character hate their body sometimes and feel betrayed by it. Let them mourn the version of themselves that used to just do things without needing a three day nap after. But also—let them fight for their body, too. Advocate. Adapt. Try again. Because it’s not all despair. Sometimes it’s really freaking brave just to get out of bed and put on pants.

╰ It’s not fuck**g cute

Hollywood loves to write illness like it’s an aesthetic. Clean blankets, sad smiles, a gentle cough. Yeah… no. Sometimes it’s vomit in your hair. It’s medical tape pulling off skin. It’s being too tired to shower but still scrolling through memes like your life depends on it. Give us the gross stuff.

╰ Let them be funny

Sick people are hilarious. Mostly because we have to be. You’ve got two choices when your body is a disaster zone: laugh, or fully unravel. So we joke about our failing organs. We flirt with the nurse while on IV fluids. We name our medical devices. We send memes from the ER.

╰ Sick ≠ broken

Please hear this: your character is not less than. They are not just here to suffer and die and inspire others with their angelic perseverance. They’re a person. Maybe a chaos goblin. Maybe a genius. Maybe a mess. Maybe a lover, a fighter, a giant emotional raccoon with a heating pad. Their illness is part of them, not all of them.

╰ Don’t wrap it up too clean

Recovery isn’t linear. Some illnesses don’t “end.” And that’s okay. You don’t need a miracle cure in the third act. Sometimes strength is just learning to exist in a different way. Sometimes it’s re-learning how to hope. Sometimes it’s finding a new rhythm instead of forcing the old one to work. So yeah—if you’re writing a sick character, you’re doing something important. You’re making space for people whose stories rarely get told with truth and teeth and tenderness. Just promise me you won’t turn them into a symbol. Let them be a person. A funny, scared, strong, exhausted, hopeful person. Like the rest of us.

@katrein05 I Hope This Helps a little... :)

[pocketstories]

Recompense (Gator Tillman x Reader)

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Instead of being arrested, a blind and injured Gator Tillman is hidden on a farm by a kid who thinks fugitives are more interesting than homework. What starts as temporary shelter turns into something dangerously close to family.

TW: Graphic descriptions of injuries, past abuse, abandonment cannon-typical with the Fargo series

Word count: ~3.5k

(Cross-posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78456726/chapters/205683856)

Contents:

Chapter One: Rock Bottom.

Chapter Two: Mole.

Chapter Three: Outed.

Chapter Four: Seen.

Chapter Five: Fever.

Chapter Six: Shape of You.

Chapter Seven: Idle Hands.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

...This is what happens when you outlive your usefulness.

A wry, fruitless thought that seeps in slowly like the snow pressing cold through his clothes.

It soaks through denim, through the thin layers meant for standing, not lying still. Gator Tillman can feel it against his back, melting, refreezing, damp in places that already hurt too much.

His breathing fogs the air in front of his face. He can feel it against his cheeks, damp and warm before the cold steals it away. His arm throbs inside the cast, a deep, nauseating ache that pulses in time with his heartbeat. His head feels wrong. Too light. Too heavy. The bandage over his eyes is stiff, tacky with old blood, pulling uncomfortably every time he shifts his jaw.

The rope around his neck burns when he swallows.

It’s stiff with ice and dirt, fibers biting against skin that’s already raw. He can feel where it rubbed him bloody earlier, where it dragged when he stumbled, where it tightened when he didn’t move fast enough.

Gator stays still at first.

Moving feels like admitting something he isn’t ready to face just yet. The wind scrapes over the field in low, empty gusts, carrying sound with it. Far away, something creaks. Wood, maybe. Or metal. He can’t tell anymore. Everything feels distant, like it’s happening on the other side of glass. His own breathing, too loud, too fast, ragged in a way that makes his chest ache.

He waits.

His eyes throb beneath the bandages. A deep, pulsing pressure that makes his stomach roll. Every heartbeat feels like it echoes behind his face.

Dad’ll come back.

That’s the thought he clings to first. It’s simple. Solid. Familiar.

He just… left to get help. That’s all. He wouldn’t leave me out here. Not like this. Not after everything.

He can’t tell how long he’s been there. Minutes, hours. Time stretches weird when you can’t see. Long enough for the cold to stop being sharp and start being heavy. Long enough for his arm to scream every time he shifts, the rough cast digging into his ribs.

He listens for footsteps. For a voice. For the sound of boots crunching through snow. Anything. He counts breaths instead, like he was taught to do when panic started clawing at his throat.

In.

Out.

In.

He waits longer.

Nothing happens.

The silence starts to feel wrong. Empty and all-consuming. No footsteps. No voice. No shape moving through the sound of wind.

He swallows thickly.

A thought slips in, uninvited.

Whatever purpose you had before, it’s gone.

Gator squeezes his jaw tight, like he can physically hold the memory back.

No. I just… I just need time. That’s all. I can still—

Still what?

The thought trails off, fraying.

He pushes himself upright on one elbow. Pain explodes through him immediately, bright and nauseating. His balance goes sideways, snow giving way beneath his boots, and he stumbles, barely catching himself before he goes down again. His heart slams hard against his ribs, breath coming too fast now, sharp and uneven. He hisses through his teeth, breath stuttering. Snow scrapes under his palm, numb fingers struggling to find purchase.

I can’t just lie here.

I have to prove I'm still useful.

That’s the rule. That’s always been the rule.

Gator drags himself upright, swaying immediately. The rope tugs unpleasantly, catching against his collarbone.

For half a second, his body reacts on instinct—goes still, waiting for the pull to come harder.

The world tilts even though there’s nothing to see. His balance is shot. No horizon, no reference point, just the dizzy lurch of his own body misfiring.

He takes a step. Then another. Each one feels wrong, like the ground keeps shifting when it shouldn’t. The open space around him is suddenly terrifying. Too much room. No walls. No edges. Nothing to anchor himself to.

I can’t see. I can’t see. I CAN'T SEE—

The thought loops, loud and frantic, drowning everything else out.

He turns his head, searching for something. Any change in sound, any difference in the way the wind moves. He nearly trips when the rope catches under his heel, a sharp noise tearing out of his throat before he can stop it, and the humiliation hits sharper than the pain.

He takes another step.

The snow gives way unevenly beneath his boot and he nearly goes down again, barely catching himself. His heart slams against his ribs, panic flaring hot and fast.

His hands shoot out blindly, fingers scraping through empty air until... wood.

Solid. Rough. Real.

He gasps, chest heaving, and lunges forward, pressing himself against it. A wall. Boards. He can feel the grain beneath his palms, splinters catching at his skin. Relief crashes through him so hard it makes his knees weak.

Structure.

Okay. Okay.

Structure means direction. Means shelter. Means something he can follow.

He shuffles along it, shoulder brushing the wood, cast bumping awkwardly. Every few steps he has to stop, lean his forehead against the wall, breathe through the nausea. The bandages are damp now, sticky against his skin. Blood, probably. He can’t tell. Everything smells like iron and cold and dirt.

The ground changes beneath his feet. Less snow. More packed earth. The rope catches on something, tugging hard on his throat, and he stumbles back. His hands fly out to catch himself, palms scraping against rough ground. Pain blooms, white and dizzying. He gasps, the sound tearing out of him, and curls in on himself instinctively.

Underground.

The air is different here. Still. Damp. It smells like soil and rot and something old. The space closes around him immediately, and instead of panic, he feels something like grim comfort. The walls are close enough to touch on both sides. He reaches out, fingers brushing coarse dirt, grooves where tools once dug through earth.

He presses his cheek briefly against the wall, grounding himself. The cold seeps into his skin, but the closeness helps. Keeps him from spiraling.

I can do this.

He crawls at first, then staggers to his feet again, one hand sliding along the wall as a guide. The tunnel narrows and widens unpredictably. He misjudges the distance and slams his shoulder into wood, a sharp cry ripping out of him before he can stop it.

“FUCK—”

His voice echoes strangely, swallowed too fast. The sound of it makes his chest tighten.

Everything is too loud.

And too quiet.

He leans there, forehead pressed to the wall, breathing hard.

Blood smears wet and dark against the dirt where his face touches it. He can feel it. Sticky, crusted along his cheek, his nose, his mouth. Tears leak anyway, hot and useless, slipping down skin he can’t wipe clean fast enough. His nose runs. He doesn’t bother trying to stop it.

Don’t cry, he tells himself fiercely. It's pointless. Weak. Stupid. He gets up.

Every scrape of his boot, every ragged breath feels amplified, but there’s nothing else. No voices. No footsteps. No one coming to get him.

His thoughts start to splinter.

Maybe I just need to wait. Dad said—Dad—

He stops walking.

The realization hits slowly, sinking in like cold water.

He left.

Not temporarily. Not as a test. He left him here. Broken. Blind. Bleeding.

Whatever purpose you had before, it’s gone.

Purpose. Usefulness. Love.

They were always the same thing.

Love—

His thoughts derail.

All he can see are bruises blooming under skin. Hear the crack of knuckles. The way Roy Tillman called it discipline.

Love hurts.

The sound that escapes him is small and wrecked and nothing like the man he’s supposed to be. A wet, broken whimper. His shoulders shake, breath coming in jagged pulls that scrape his throat raw.

Can you cry without eyes?

Apparently, yeah.

He sinks down slowly, sliding until he’s crouched against the wall, fingers digging into the dirt like it might hold him together. Everything feels too loud. The rush of his blood, the rasp of his breathing, and too quiet at the same time. No voice. No footsteps. No sign of anyone else in the world.

No one is here to see it.

That thought makes it worse. And somehow… easier.

He curls forward, arms wrapped around himself, shoulders shaking as the sound finally tears loose. Ugly. Uncontrolled. Animal.

When it passes, because eventually it has to, he’s left hollow and trembling, breath rasping in his throat.

He wipes his face with the heel of his hand, smearing blood and tears together, and forces himself to stand.

Waiting didn’t save him.

If he’s going to survive, it won’t be because someone comes back.

He turns, hand dragging along the tunnel wall again, and keeps going.

Cold air hits him first.

Open, biting, sharp enough to sting where his skin is already raw. It rushes over his face, under the bandages, down the back of his neck. Snow presses against his hands when he crawls forward, the texture wrong after dirt, slick, wet, shifting under his palms.

He drags himself out and collapses half in, half out of the opening, chest heaving.

The world feels too big again.

Sound spreads out in all directions, no walls to catch it. Wind rushes over open ground. Something scrapes nearby. Light, rhythmic. A thump. Then another. Snow being thrown, maybe. He can hear it scatter, soft and hollow.

A voice follows.

“Uh… you okay, mister?”

It comes from somewhere ahead of him, just out of reach. Carried lightly on the wind, casual and curious.

Gator goes still.

Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t breathe.

“You stuck?”

The voice moves. He hears it circle, boots scuffing through snow, quick and unbothered. There’s a rhythm to it. Small steps, uneven, like someone who isn’t worried about slipping. Someone playing.

“What’s your name?”

Closer now. To his left, maybe. He turns his head slightly, trying to pin it down, but the sound keeps shifting, refusing to settle.

“Jeez,” the kid adds, conversational. “Don’t tell me you’re blind and mute.”

Gator’s jaw tightens.

Another step closer. Too close.

“I’ma just call ya Mole,” the kid continues, unbothered. “I mean... just look at ya. Blind. Dirty. Just came outta some hole.”

Something ugly twists in Gator’s chest.

Mole.

Small. Burrowing. Something that lives underground. Something you don’t notice until it ruins the yard.

He hates it immediately.

Hates that a stranger, a kid, has named him without asking. Hates that it fits.

What unsettles him more is the tone.

There’s no fear in it.

No hesitation. No sharp intake of breath. No recoil at the blood crusted on his face, the bandages, the rope dragging uselessly behind him. Kids are supposed to be afraid of men like him. Hurt men. Men who smell like iron and dirt and wrongness.

This one isn’t.

The kid sounds… amused.

The voice dips suddenly, closer, like the kid has crouched. Gator stiffens, instinct screaming at him to create distance, and he steps back without thinking—

His heel catches.

The rope.

He goes down hard, breath knocked from his lungs in a sharp, humiliating sound as he hits the snow. Pain flares everywhere at once, white and dizzying, the rope jerking at his throat as it drags behind him.

“Whoa—okay, yeah, don’t do that,” the kid says quickly, suddenly closer. Concern flickers through the words, but it’s still light. Still easy.

Gator grits his teeth, shoving himself up on one arm. “Don’t,” he snaps hoarsely, voice rough from crying and cold and disuse. “Don’t come any closer.”

The kid pauses.

Then, brightly: “Okay! I won’t. I mean—I already did. But I’ll stop now.”

There’s a beat.

“Name's Charlie, by the way,” the kid adds, like this is a normal introduction. “You don’t gotta tell me yours if you don’t want. But it’s kinda rude not to.”

Gator swallows, throat burning. “I’m not tellin’ you my name.”

“Hope ya don’t mind Mole then,” Charlie says easily.

Gator lets out something that might be a laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. It comes out as a huff instead.

"You got a home, mister?"

"No."

“I know a place that’s warm,” Charlie says. “Got blankets. And snacks.”

Gator scoffs weakly. “You shouldn’t be talkin’ to strangers.”

“Too late,” Charlie replies. “You talked back. That makes us acquainted.”

There’s a pause. Snow crunches as Charlie rocks back on his heels.

“I can help you get there,” he adds. “But you gotta play with me later. When you’re not, like… dying.”

That does it.

A real laugh breaks free this time. Short, incredulous, gone as fast as it came. He shakes his head weakly. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Charlie says with ease. “Deal?”

Gator thinks of the cold. The tunnel. The rope dragging behind him. The fact that he can’t even stand on his own right now.

He doesn’t have leverage.

“…Fine,” he mutters. “Deal.”

“Cool. C’mon, Mole.”

Something small brushes Gator’s fingers. Hesitant, then firmer. A hand. Smaller than his. Warm through the cold.

Gator flinches on instinct, breath hitching.

Charlie stills. “Too much?”

Gator swallows hard. The contact feels foreign. Unwelcome and, worse, steady.

“…Just help me up,” he says.

The hand tightens gently around his fingers, tugging him up with surprising confidence.

When he's on his feet, Charlie doesn’t take his hand.

That surprises Gator.

Instead, the kid grips the sleeve of his jacket, fingers bunching the fabric just above his elbow. It’s careful. Intentional. Like Charlie’s decided exactly how much contact is allowed and no more.

“Okay,” Charlie says, cheerful. “Step when I step. Try not to eat snow.”

“Real helpful, kid. Next you wanna tell me the sky’s blue?” Gator mutters.

“See, that tone right there?” Charlie replies without care. “That’s what we call ‘ungrateful.’”

A pause. "And the sky's grey right now, by the way."

Gator huffs.

They start moving.

It’s… bad.

The snow is uneven, drifting in places, packed hard in others. Gator can’t tell where the ground changes until his foot finds it the hard way. The rope drags behind him, snagging on clumps of snow, catching under his heel once and nearly sending him down again.

He stumbles, breath hitching.

“Whoa—hey, hey,” Charlie says, tightening his grip on Gator’s sleeve. “Easy. You walk worse than my baby cousin."

Gator grits his teeth. “Watch it.”

“I am watching it,” Charlie says airily. “You’re the one who can’t.”

That one lands.

Roy's killed for less.

He keeps going anyway, jaw locked, breath coming too fast. Every step feels like a gamble. He hates how much he has to rely on the kid’s grip, how small and steady it feels compared to the rest of him falling apart.

Charlie, meanwhile, does not shut up.

“So,” he says, after about five seconds. “How’d you get stuck in that hole anyway? You fall in or you live there?”

“Neither.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is if you’re askin’.”

Charlie hums thoughtfully. Snow crunches as they move. “Fair. But I’m askin’.”

Gator grits his teeth. “It’s called a mineshaft.”

“Ohhh.” Charlie sounds impressed. “Cool. Like treasure?”

“No.”

“Gold?”

“No.”

“Dead bodies?”

Gator stumbles again. “Kid—”

“Kidding! Kidding,” Charlie says quickly. “Mostly.”

They walk a few more steps before Charlie’s curiosity inevitably finds something new.

“What’s this thing?” Charlie asks suddenly.

Something pokes at Gator’s side, light but insistent.

He jerks instinctively. “Don’t touch that.”

“Oop. Sorry.” Charlie pulls back, then pokes again, gentler. “But what is it?”

Gator sighs. “Gun holster.”

There’s a beat.

“…Where’s the gun?”

“Not here.”

“Did you lose it?”

“No.”

“Did someone take it?”

Gator’s mouth twists. “Something like that.”

Charlie seems satisfied with this deeply vague answer. For about three seconds.

“So what happened to your face?”

There it is.

Gator’s steps falter. His grip tightens on the sleeve Charlie’s holding, knuckles aching. He doesn’t answer.

Charlie, undeterred: “Like—are you really blind? Or is this a pirate situation?”

Gator stops walking.

“Enough,” he snaps, voice rough. “You ask too many questions.”

The words come out harsher than intended. Too sharp. Too close to something ugly.

There’s a brief silence.

Then Charlie answers again, unfazed. “Okay. Just curious.”

They start walking again.

A few steps later, Charlie adds, conversational as ever, “You always this cranky, or is it just on days when you’re disfigured?”

... Disfigured.

The word hits sideways. It wasn’t cruel on purpose. Just… honest.

Gator’s breath catches before he can stop it.

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s quieter. “I’m in a lotta pain.”

Charlie’s grip on his sleeve doesn’t loosen. If anything, it steadies.

“Oh,” he says simply. “Shoulda said so sooner.”

“...I’ll kill you, kid.” 

Though his tone is just unserious enough that Charlie grins.

They keep walking.

Snow crunches. The rope drags. Gator’s breathing stays uneven, but the panic ebbs, just a fraction. No one’s yelling. No one’s pulling. No one’s telling him to move faster.

Charlie adjusts his pace without comment, slowing when Gator slows, stopping when he stops.

For someone who won’t shut up...

He’s weirdly good at this.

__~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~____~*~__

The pole shed smells like old wood and hay and cold metal.

Charlie guides him inside carefully, the air changing immediately. Less wind, more stillness. The door creaks shut behind them, muting the outside world. Gator exhales without realizing he was holding his breath.

“Okay,” Charlie says quietly. “Sit here.”

A wooden support beam presses into Gator’s back as Charlie helps him settle against it, easing him down into the hay. It prickles through his clothes, itchy and dry, catching against skin that already feels too sensitive. He grimaces but doesn’t complain.

He’s learned when to keep quiet.

There’s a pause. The kind where Gator expects Charlie to bounce off and start talking again.

Instead,

“Hey,” Charlie says, softer. “Uh. Can I… can I untie you?”

The words hit harder than anything else so far.

Gator’s throat tightens instantly. The rope is still there, a constant burn around his neck, stiff and unforgiving. He hadn’t even realized how badly he wanted it gone until the option is offered.

“…Yeah,” he manages, voice rough. “Yeah. Please.”

Charlie doesn’t rush.

He steps closer, movements careful, like he’s afraid of startling a wild animal. Gator feels small fingers brush his collarbone, then hesitate.

“I’m gonna be real gentle,” Charlie says. “Okay?”

Gator nods, blinking uselessly beneath the bandages.

The rope shifts. Fibers scrape against raw skin and Gator sucks in a sharp breath despite himself.

“Sorry,” Charlie whispers immediately. “I got it. I got it.”

The kid keeps talking while he works, voice light but focused. “My sis says you gotta talk to the patient so they don’t freak out. She did this once for some kittens.”

“Kittens,” Gator echoes faintly.

“Yeah. They got caught in barbed wire by the fence. Real nasty.” Charlie pauses, fingers adjusting. “She took ’em inside and showed me how to cut around it without pulling too much. Said you gotta think about where it hurts already,” Charlie adds thoughtfully. “Not make it worse.”

Gator swallows.

“Those kittens were flea-ridden. Ya got fleas?”

Gator can’t help the hoarse huff of laughter that escapes him.

“You think I’m kiddin’ till you’re itching all over. You got fleas, you sleep outside,” Charlie mutters with a shake of his head, though the smile in his tone betrays him.

The rope loosens a fraction at a time. Each movement sends a sting of pain through his throat.

Charlie’s hands are warm. Surprisingly steady.

“There,” Charlie murmurs. “Almost done.”

The rope finally gives.

It slides free, dropping uselessly into the hay with a soft, final sound.

Gator’s breath shudders out of him, uncontrolled. He lifts a trembling hand to his neck, fingers brushing skin that’s tender and burning and... free.

“Okay,” Charlie says gently. “All untied.”

Gator presses his palm to his throat and laughs weakly. It comes out broken, halfway to a sob.

“…Thanks,” he says, quietly. “Kid.”

Charlie beams. Gator can hear it in his voice. “That was a nasty bugger. Bet you feel like a million bucks— well, minus the rest of ya.”

Charlie leaves him for a moment, footsteps retreating, then returning in short trips.

A heater is set near his feet, humming to life with a low, steady sound. Blankets are draped over his legs, then his shoulders. A pillow is shoved awkwardly under his arm.

Something crinkles as it’s placed into his hand.

“And snacks,” Charlie adds, placing something into Gator’s hand. A crinkly bag.

“Do moles eat trail mix?” he asks seriously.

Gator huffs a quiet, broken laugh before he can stop himself.

Once Gator’s settled, Charlie steps back, voice shifting into something almost authoritative. “Okay. Rules.”

“Figures,” Gator mutters.

“No yelling,” Charlie says, counting on his fingers. "No runnin’ off in the night. We have a deal. No eating the animals."

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” Gator says.

“Good.” Charlie nods, satisfied. “I’ll check on you later.”

Then the kid is gone, the door creaking softly as it closes again.

Silence settles in.

Gator lies there, stiff and aching, blankets too warm and hay too itchy and everything still wrong, but different. The heater hums steadily nearby. Wind rattles faintly against the shed walls.

He doesn’t feel safe.

But he doesn’t feel hunted either.

And finally, Gator lets his eyes stay closed.

And rests.

A/N: Hello, lovely readers! This is the first part in a new series I'm starting for Gator Tillman because I watched the new season of Fargo and boy, does this poor man deserve a better ending. Definitely eventual romance here once Charlie's sister comes into the picture that you can look forward to. I hope people will enjoy this one, definitely painful to read and write at the beginning but it will get better!

-Pocketstories <3

[nancywheelerapolog1st]

let it out, let me in.

[lara croft x reader]

WORD COUNT: 6725

sick!fic, caretaking, fluff, a little angst

you and lara are on an expedition in the jungle… things don’t exactly go as she’d planned.

hello!!! my first time writing for lara<3 also first x reader fic ive written in like 10 years hahaha(im unc💔) played tr for the first time a month ago and then ate up rise and shadow in like two weeks😭 shes soo sexy hehehe i need her in bed with a horrible cold…. anyways… enjoy this lil sickfic that turned somehow into 6k words

Somewhere deep in a South American jungle, you wake up on day four of the trip Lara had planned. She’d been researching an artifact located in some hidden ruins her for months, and the second she decoded the coordinates, she was packing her bags. With great hesitation, she allowed you to accompany her, but only after you’d begged and pleaded the entire time she packed.

So far, the two of you had made good progress, and she said last night that it was probably only a day’s more travel before reaching the ruins.

You turn over, expecting her to be up and reading through the documents she’d picked up or skimming over a map to make sure you were heading the right way. To your surprise, Lara’s still sleeping beside you, her chest rising and falling peacefully. Your brow furrows as you look at her, though, because it’s just so unlike her. Looking up at the sky, you can see it’s still relatively early in the morning, probably about 9:00, and she’s usually up before the sun.

You carefully get up, trying your hardest not to wake her, but she stirs anyway, her eyes fluttering open as she sits up.

You smile at her sleepy face and mussed hair. “Good morning.”

A soft groan. Lara rubs her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Morning.”

This is definitely not the time nor place, but her voice in the morning sends chills up your spine. You bite your lip and force your eyes away. “You sleep okay?”

“We slept in,” she says, and you can’t tell if she appreciates the extra sleep or if she’s irritated by it. “We should get going.”

You nod and she rises to her feet, swaying a bit before quickly correcting her balance. She packs her bag in silence and you tilt your head, deep in thought. Lara doesn’t seem to be in a necessarily bad mood, but it’s certainly not a good one. Her shoulder might be bothering her from her fall yesterday.

Suddenly, she turns around and looks at you, catching you staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, but you know she doesn’t believe you.

“You’re staring at me.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a smile. “Hard not to.”

Lara gives you a flat look. “Are you coming?” She asks, slipping on her backpack, “or are you going to watch me walk away, too?”

You ignore her comment, frowning as she rolls her shoulder with a slight grimace. “Are you okay?”

“A bit sore, but I’ll manage,” she smiles softly at your concern. “Come on, love.”

So you trail behind her, wading through knee-high grass and brush. After what feels like miles of walking, she leads you to a dilapidated bridge that makes your stomach turn. It’s barely connected to the rope on one side, the boards rickety and swaying in the slight breeze. You look down, a huge mistake, and your breath hitches at the distance between where you stand and the fast-flowing river beneath you. One wrong move—

“Don’t look down,” Lara chides gently, taking your hand. Her voice is still a little raspy, deep in a way that usually doesn’t last a few minutes past waking up. It makes you look at her but she clears her throat quietly and steps forward.

She drops your hand and instructs you to wait there as she tests the stability of the bridge. The wood creaks terribly under her feet and Lara turns back to you, about to give you the signal to follow when a board gives out, snapping loudly and she nearly falls.

“Shit!”

You gasp, watching helplessly as her hands struggle to find purchase, but she does, and yanks herself back up. She takes a breath and looks back to you, shaken. “I’m alright,” she calls, despite her unsteady voice. “Come on.”

Every muscle in your body tightens and you swallow thickly. Fear paralyzes you, but her reassuring little smile leaves you no choice but to follow.

Carefully, agonizingly slowly, you step onto the wood, grimacing at the groan it makes under your boot. You keep your eyes glued to Lara and she watches you, almost looking proud.

Somehow, a miracle, maybe, you both safely cross and you hug her tightly. She drops her head onto your shoulder with a deep breath.

You speak lowly, afraid to shatter the peace and stillness of this moment, and tell her you love her. You mean it.

She inhales to speak, but quickly turns away, giving a few polite coughs into her arm.

You hand her the canteen and watch her take a sip. She whispers it back before returning the water to her lips.

Her hand swipes across her mouth, removing the droplets that lingered. You realize you’re staring again, so you look past her at the lush jungle that awaits you.

Lara coughs softly and meets your eyes. You’re about to ask her if she’s alright, but she speaks first. “Ready?”

You shake your head and the two of you share a smile, she squeezes your hand before sighing and beginning to walk towards the jungle.

After walking through a mile of nothing but trees, something catches Lara’s eye.

It’s a small cave with water flowing out of its mouth, its entrance half covered by vines, overgrown and thick.

You try to hide your hesitation. You don’t like the dark or tight spaces but you’d rather be with her than alone. So, with a nervous swallow, you follow behind her.

The ceiling is low, so you end up crouching, but it lengthens out as the cave expands into a vast center with multiple paths divided on both sides of the river.

Lara’s about to guide you down the path furthest on the left when a loose stone rolls somewhere to your right and your head snaps in that direction, as does Lara’s.

A large mountain lion, or some kind of big cat, stalks from the shadows lining the wall. It hisses, bares its’ teeth, and without thinking, Lara steps in front of you, inserting herself between you and the animal.

“Lara!” You whisper, your jaw dropping as she steadies her weapon.

“Stay behind me,” she breathes, and with two ear-piercing shots, it falls to the floor.

You share an exhale, a quiet breath of relief. Her hands shake as she holsters the gun, but she’s quick to guide you forward.

You look away as Lara drops to a crouch and begins to skin the animal. You follow her through the cave in silence, save for a few sniffles that pique your concern.

She discovers a small black box with an old knife inside. It has intricate carvings and Lara shares a little history excerpt with you.

You listen intently, then frown when she turns to the side and stifles a sneeze into her wrist. A hoarse apology follows and you bless her quietly.

“You sound a little stuffy.”

Lara sniffs, a wet sound. “I’m alright.”

She’s quiet after that and you’re not sure if you’ve offended her. She doesn’t speak again until you’re both out of the cave, the sunlight beating down on you once again. After the dreary darkness of the cave, the cold lingering in the shadows, the afternoon sunshine is welcome.

It was welcome, at least, it was an hour ago. Now, the heat and humidity hits you at full force, pressing down into the air in a suffocating way. Not only are you both caked in mud and bits of plants, but a thick layer of sweat covers your skin, your tank top sticking to your back.

As Lara continues a few steps in front of you, also glistening from sweat, you watch her stagger. She trips over a large protruding root of a tree, and you hurriedly rush to catch her before she goes falling to the ground.

You make it, barely, just in time to grab the strap of her backpack to keep her steady. “Shit,” you sigh softly in relief. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she breathes shakily, and steps forward to continue. “Thanks.”

Before she can walk away, you grab her shoulder. “Hey.”

Still not meeting your eyes, Lara inhales, and your tongue almost forms the words to ask her what’s wrong by the time she twists to the side. Silently, she sneezes toward the ground.

“Bless you,” you murmur at the same time she apologzes in a whisper.

“I’m okay,” she mumbles as she finally looks at you, a faint blush on her cheeks. Like she already knew what you were going to ask. Her voice betrays her, though, breaking. “Lost my footing.”

She clears her throat and sniffs softly, turning away. “Just a bit further, then we’ll take a break.”

You sigh. She said that thirty minutes ago.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

After another hour or two, after getting covered in mud, swimming through a giant river, avoiding piranhas, navigating tight spaces and holding your breath for far longer than you’d ever thought possible, you resurface onto land and begin to dry off. It’s quick, with the sun beating down on you, and your whole body screams to sit for a minute.

Lara notices, or feels the same way, you’re not sure, but shows you to a secluded spot amongst the trees, a small clearing perfectly shaded underneath thick leaves.

She sits roughly onto the wet dirt. The tree bark is rough, scratches against her exposed shoulders.

Lara pulls her knees to her chest, backpack sat at her feet. She fiddles absentmindedly with the zipper as you look at her in concern.

Her eyes meet yours, and her lip quirks into a small smile before she scoots a bit to make room for you to sit beside her.

You crawl next to her, your thighs touching, but you wish to be closer. She’s thinking, busying her hands like she always does when she’s deep in thought and you wish she would just talk to you, tell you every thought that swirls around in her beautiful mind.

You lay a hand on her thigh and her eyes flick to yours, her fingers still feeling the grooves of the zipper. “What are you thinking about?”

She hums softly, her expression conflicted for a moment before she turns away to sneeze. Straightening, Lara turns back to you and clears her throat softly. “Nothing.”

You hum, too, not buying that at all. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

A sigh leaves you before you ask her if she’s okay.

Lara sighs, too, heavily. Suddenly, you can feel the irritation radiating from her. “I’m fine.”

You question her, a mistake, but she doesn’t seem very fine. You can’t help but notice her obvious decline since this morning. Her coughs have gotten a little more frequent, punctuated by increasingly tired sneezes and wet sniffles.

“I’m fine,” she repeats, her tone clipped. “Even if I wasn’t…” there’s a brief pause, and when she continues, it’s softer, almost private, like she’s telling herself, “I have to keep going.”

You’re at a loss for words. She’s suddenly grumpy, her mood changed instantly, but her stubbornness remains unwavering. As you think of what to say, Lara rises to her feet, dusting dirt from her pants.

“Finished?” She asks, not unkindly. “I’d like to get there tomorrow. We had a good pace going, but sleeping in set us back a few hours.”

Silently, you stand up and follow her back onto the path. Traversing through endless jungle terrain, through dark, vast caves, you notice, with a note of sadness, that Lara’s not checking over her shoulder for you as often. She’s not even telling you facts about the monuments you stumble across, just traces her fingers over the stone and mumbles to herself.

Another hour passes of briskly walking in tense silence, and you’re struggling to keep up with her. At some point, she’d picked up her pace and you’ve had to maintain a light jog just to keep up. You’re not sure if she’s moving so quickly just to spite you, but you’re getting tired of being slapped by branches and plants that she’d stopped holding for you. You try to break the ice.

“Lara?” You call softly. She says nothing, doesn’t even turn your way, so you say her name again in case she didn’t hear.

There’s no response again, not even a pause in her swift steps.

“Lara!” Your voice raises to be heard over the sound of twigs snapping and the grass under your feet rustling.

“What?” she says pointedly, the word thick with blooming congestion.

“Can you slow down for a second?”

“Keep up,” she huffs between wet coughs. “We’ve still got daylight.” She’s very hoarse now, barely a fragment of her actual voice.

You gasp softly, shocked by how husky and deep her voice has gotten in just a few hours, and wonder if that’s why she’s been so quiet.

Lara turns around to face you, and when she meets your eyes, there’s a waver in her sharp demeanor, but only for a moment. Your hand, autonomous, goes to her cheek on its own accord. You caress her face and use the proximity to study her— she’s pale, her nose flushed an irritated pink, and dark circles cling to her the delicate skin under her watery eyes.

She shudders under your touch but quickly stiffens, the mask slipping back in place as quickly as it fell.

“Lara,” you murmur, concern laced delicately into your tone. “Let’s take a break.”

“I’m alright,” she smiles weakly. It’s probably meant to console you, placate you into believing that she really is alright, but it just looks tired, sickly, and it makes you sad. A little mad, too, actually, because she would never let you act this way, obviously brooding and sick. She’s been moping around, sniffling and pretending that everything’s fine when she’s only been getting worse as the day slips away.

“Bullshit,” you mutter, raising your hand to her forehead and press it there before she can bat it away. Your fingers meet the warm skin of her forehead and concern settles in your chest. “You feel warm.”

Lara’s smile dissolves into a subtle scowl and she pulls away. “It’s hot.” She clears her throat and turns around. “Let’s keep moving. We’ll stop for the night soon.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The sun is getting low now, the sky a brilliant combination of pink and orange. Darkness will soon settle over the land, yet Lara’s still trekking on, sniffling frequently. Her soft sneezes also permeate the silence between you two, along with the chirping of insects and birds.

You continue walking until it’s dark out, and by now you’re definitely wanting to retire for the night, your feet ache with every step, blisters forming on your heels. You can feel a few itchy spots from where bugs have bitten you and multiple cuts sting across your upper body and legs.

“It’s getting dark,” you mumble, mostly to yourself because you know she’s still cross, hasn’t really acknowledged your presence since the last conversation you’d had. You can definitely understand why Lara’s irritable, she’s definitely miserable, if her panting, congested breaths are anything to go by. So you’re trying not to take her behavior personally, but it is starting to prove difficult.

She ignores you, like she’s done for the better part of half the day. Instead, Lara shines her flashlight to illuminate the ground under her feet and continues on.

You stop, waiting for her to notice and she does, of course she heard your footsteps halt suddenly, but Lara walks a few steps further before turning around. “Are you alright?”

You don’t move. “I’ve been asking you that all day.”

“I’ve told you that I’m fine.”

Hot frustration bubbles in your chest. Yes— despite her runny nose, low-grade fever, and all of her other symptoms she’s dead-set on ignoring, Lara insists she’s fine. You’re sick of it.

“Lara,” you sigh.

Her brows crease slightly. “What?”

“Can you stop?”

She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. You wonder if it’s to warm herself up, considering she’s shaking just standing there. “Stop what?” she asks, her voice congested and so telling of how ill she is.

“Come on,” you say, not meaning to sound so exasperated. “Stop pretending.”

She looks like she wants to interject, probably to reiterate just how fine she is, her brows still furrowed in irritation. You continue on, not letting her continue this charade or walking any longer. “It’s still warm out here and you’re shivering!”

Lara scoffs and you finally step forward, walking up to her. Up close like this, you can really see how tired she is, the flush on her cheeks and dark circles under her eyes worse than earlier. She’s a little sweaty and definitely dirty and a little shaky and you absolutely ache to hold her until she’s well. You put a hand on her jaw, touch soft, gentle. “Let’s just stop for the night. Please?”

Lara sighs heavily, seemingly debating something, arguing with herself. “Okay,” she breathes, and with that, she sags, like the mask had gotten too heavy to bear anymore. She gives you a weak smile, the slightest, cutest quirk of her lip. “Sit down,” Lara says lowly, “I’ll go find us something to eat.”

“I got it,” you move your hand to her shoulder.

She looks at you and suddenly she looks exhausted, even more so than she did a second ago. She’s been steadily getting worse throughout the day, but she hasn’t complained once. Your heart clenches for her, how she feels like she can’t even take a break when she’s clearly not well.

You lean in and press a kiss to her warm, dirty cheek. “You sit.”

Her eyes close at your touch and she leans into it for a moment, looking like she could fall asleep standing up with your hand on her face. After a few seconds, with a soft sigh, she pulls away. Lara looks at you, her expression more serious. “I’ll get the fire started then.”

You want to fight her, say you’ll do that, too, but you can see the hardened look in her eyes. She aches to be helpful and productive and you know that, her fierce determination never wavering, even when she was obviously coming down with something.

So give her a nod and a last squeeze of her hand before turning around back towards the jungle you came from.

Leaving the clearing, your eyes scan for movement in the sudden darkness. The thick trees seem to have soaked up the last of the evening sun, leaving you with no light and a slight sense of fear. Twigs snap in your direction and your heart races for a moment before your brain stops buffering and clicks on the flashlight attached to your chest.

You roll your eyes at your own foolishness, easily spotting the woodland creatures with the newfound light. A chunky rabbit hops by your feet and you ready your bow and arrow.

Your mind continues playing back your earlier conversations with Lara as your fingers situate the arrow. It’s only now that you’re alone that you realize she hadn’t been moving so fast to spite you, or because she was angry with you, but to get you as far ahead as possible. Maybe she knew she was sick all along, and knew that if she admitted it, you’d have made her stop and rest. Maybe she knew that she wouldn’t be able to make good progress in the days to come.

The arrow goes through its neck and you sigh softly, feeling guilt for killing the small animal. But… Lara needs to eat something, and you’re hungry, too. Sorry, little guy.

You pick up the rabbit and retrieve the arrow, then turn around to make your way back to Lara.

At the campsite, you see Lara sitting in front of the fire. She’s holding her shaky hands in front of the flames, trying to warm up, though the sweat on her forehead shines in the light.

“I got this,” you announce, holding up the rabbit. “It’s not much, but…”

Rough, crunchy coughs seize her chest and you cringe sympathetically at the sound. “Look at you,” she says, voice hoarse and breaking. It sounds painful. “Good job, sweetheart.”

Your initial fawning at the praise is replaced with concern for how horrible she’s sounding. You shush her softly. “Your voice, baby, don’t talk.”

She coughs again. “I could do for a cup of tea right now.”

A quiet laugh escapes you. That was probably the closest she’d get to admitting she was sick. “Yeah? I’ll make you tea the second we get home.”

Lara laughs a little, too, then shifts uncomfortably. “I’m… sorry…” she whispers, “about earlier.”

“Babe.” You discard the rabbit at her feet and sit beside her, your knees touching. “It’s okay.”

Her lips press together, and she looks upset and a little guilty. “It’s not.”

“It is,” you wrap an arm around her waist and hug her. “I know you don’t feel good,” she slumps against you, her skin warm. You press a kiss to her hair and pull away just enough to look her in the eye. “It’s okay.”

She opens her mouth, but you lean in and kiss her softly, effectively stopping her from weakening her voice further. Lara pulls back quickly, her mouth parted slightly.

You already know the words about to spill from her lips, so you kiss her again. “I don’t care,” you mumble against her mouth.

A blush, different than fever, spreads over Lara’s cheeks. In truth, you really don’t care if she’s sick. You can’t think of any reason you’d ever not kiss her.

Your lips trail down to her neck and you suck a spot on her collarbone. She moans quietly, then coughs, and you pull away with a wry smile. “Wait,” she whines stuffily.

Though you’d love nothing more than to ravish her here, make her gasp and moan and make her feel so good she forgets all about her fever, make her come until she cries, you think it’s for the best that she eat and get some sleep. “I’ll make it up to you,” you promise with a final kiss to her chapped lips.

She whines again, pouting playfully. Then, Lara bends down and picks up the rabbit. Your hand moves to grab it from her, but she holds it closer to herself and kindly insists it will be faster if she does it. You let her to keep her happy, let her feel useful like you know she wants to. At least she’s sitting down, conserving energy.

You try not to look as she skins the animal, making expert cuts, and soon she sets it over the fire. She sniffles as the flames crackle, you wish for the thousandth time that you could take this illness away from her.

She doesn’t eat much, and neither do you. She continues to soak up the warmth from the fire until she’s fighting to keep her eyes open. You extinguish the flames, ash smoldering in its place and leaving you in a blanket of darkness.

When she lays down, it’s obvious that it’s harder for her to breathe. She tucks her head into the crook of your neck, then jerks away to cough. She doesn’t settle back against you, probably so she wouldn’t have to keep moving away. Her coughs are more frequent now, heavier. After this fit leaves her particularly winded, she sags into your side with wheezing breaths.

“Poor baby,” you murmur, brushing hair from her face. “You sound awful.”

Suddenly, Lara shuffles away, remembering with a heavy feeling of shame that germs exist, she’s definitely contagious and she doesn’t want you to feel this way too. You already miss the pressure of her body against yours.

“What are you doing?” You ask, sitting up.

“I don’t want—” she cuts herself off with another set of coughs, harsh, hacking— “to get you sick.”

As if you weren’t going to get sick from having her tongue in your mouth. “Honey,” you wrap your arms around her and pull her back against your chest. “c’mere.”

Her head rests on your shoulder so she can cough away from you. You switch between rubbing gentle circles between her shoulder blades and patting her back when her coughs get intense. You pat her arm and she scoots off so you can sit up to pass her the water.

Lara sits up and takes a few sips of the water before looking back to you apologetically. “Sorry.”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “Sorry for what, baby?”

She averts her eyes, visibly shameful.

“You’re okay.” You assure her and gasp softly, remembering you’d brought something that might actually prove useful. Digging in your bag, Lara watches you curiously with an amused quirk of her lip.

From your bag, you grab the book of natural herbal remedies you’d bought for a camping trip a few years ago and flip it open, skimming through the pages.

“What are you doing?” Lara asks, leaning over to see the book.

“Gonna make tea,” you mutter, concentrating on the passage in front of you. You’d definitely seen a few of these herbs on your expedition today, so you’re more than confident you can find something to help her.

She inhales softly but is otherwise quiet, and after a few seconds of silence, you look up to see her smiling softly at you, her eyes damp. “You’re so sweet, love,” she says, voice thick with illness and emotion. “Thank you.”

You smile back and lean forward to press a kiss to her lips. “Be right back.”

Again, back in the jungle, tendrils of fear swirl in your stomach. You can hear animals snorting, bugs chirping, twigs snapping and leaves rustling, all natural sounds, but in the dark, it’s definitely unsettling. Your flashlight illuminates the plant life and you crouch down to inspect the surrounding succulents.

It takes you only a few minutes to find what you need; some medicinal herbs for mucus, sore throat and inflammation. You walk back to camp and the fire’s light once again shines throughout the clearing. While you were gone, Lara revived the fire and left a small tin of water boiling.

You know she’s a bit of a British snob about tea and you warn her it may not be up to her standards taste-wise, but it should help her feel better enough to get some sleep. She just shakes her head and thanks you quietly, leans heavily into your side as your arm drapes around her shoulders.

The tea steeps for a few minutes before it’s cool enough for her to drink. She honors you by offering the first sip and you take a small mouthful of the hot drink. Tasting the herbs on your tongue, your nose crinkles. It definitely tastes like plants, but there’s a nice minty aftertaste.

Lara takes a careful sip and smiles as she brings the cup down from her mouth. “It’s not bad,” she coughs to clear her throat. “Thank you.”

About halfway through the drink, you can hear she’s already starting to sound less horrible, her breaths easier, a little less congested. She takes another few polite sips before setting it down.

You sit in front of the fire together for another few minutes before Lara’s almost asleep against you. “Hey,” you whisper into her hair. “Lay down.”

She shifts, mumbling sleepily but blinks awake, soft brown eyes on you as you put out the flames.

You lay down beside her and she crawls into your arms, shivering. You lay this way for a while before you can feel yourself starting to fall asleep.

A soft sneeze startles you, your eyes shooting open as you gasp. “Bless you,” you murmur, putting a hand on her thigh as she sits up beside you to tend to her nose.

“Th-thank you,” she whispers between hitching breaths, her wrist pressed to her flushed nose. A sharp inhale, then she twists away from you slightly, sneezing again.

“Bless you, Lara, here—” you sit up, quickly pulling a small cloth from your bag and handing it to her.

She takes the rag and promptly sneezes into it, keeping it close to her face. A second passes, then she politely blows her nose. When Lara removes the cloth, she gives a cautious sniff. “Thank you,” she murmurs, blushing softly. “Excuse me.”

You smile at her manners, even sick like this, she’s still proper, and you think it’s so cute. You lay down and open your arms for her, she crawls right in, resting her head under your chin. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep, warm and as comfortable as you can be laying on the ground.

Lara lays awake, and after what she thinks is about thirty minutes, finds herself uncomfortably warm. She figures you’ve long been asleep and presses an apologetic kiss to your neck before turning around, her back to you.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The first time you wake, you blearily open your eyes to pitch blackness. In the back of your mind, you think you couldn’t have been asleep for very long. Sleep calls to you, and you almost drift back off, but you become suddenly very aware of a faint trembling behind you.

You shift, turning around and your heart breaks, sympathy bubbling in your chest. Lara’s definitely feverish, you discover the heat radiating off of her skin after brushing damp hair from her eyes. You feel so awful and helpless, hate that all you can do is wet a ratty cloth you’d found and drape it across her forehead.

She shifts at the new cold sensation, whimpering in her sleep. You kiss her head and rub her back, aching to make her more comfortable, wishing you could take her fever for yourself and give her even a glimpse of relief.

You hardly sleep, too worried that she’ll get worse and you won’t be able to help. Trying to rationalize with yourself doesn’t work, you know she’s probably going to be fine, she’s just got the flu or something, but it’s not like you can get a thermometer or real medicine to help. In the middle of the jungle, you’re completely alone, and that fact is comforting and terrifying.

After the second time you wake to check on her, you don’t go back to sleep again, choosing instead to hold her and make sure she’s okay.

You’ve rewet the cloth probably five times now, and after watching her sleep for a while, you look up. The night sky’s clouds part, revealing the sun peeking through, beginning to light the sky.

Awake, tired, you lay stiffly on the ground beside Lara. You can’t say you got more than a few hours of sleep, but you don’t mind at all— you’re happy to care for her in normal circumstances, but something about her fever flushed cheeks and sleepy whimpers really stir something protective inside of you.

You watch her sleep for a little longer until her eyelids flutter open and she wakes with a sniffle. Lara blinks, then seems surprised to find you awake.

“Morning,” she murmurs sleepily, her voice barely a whisper as she removes the cloth from her head.

“How are you feeling?” You lay a hand on her cheek and she struggles to keep her eyes open at your cool, soothing touch.

Lara’s quiet, taking a second to evaluate her symptoms. She closes her eyes and focuses on her body, then groans softly. There’s still a vague ache in her throat, her head pounds worse than it did yesterday, her body aching and weak just lying here. Stupidly, naively, maybe, a small part of her had hoped that she’d be better in the morning, miraculously recovered and healthy. It seems, unfortunately, that is not the case.

Briefly, she thinks of saving face, telling you she’s okay and ready to move, to find the hidden city and get this artifact and get the fuck out of here. But it’s obvious you’re too observant for that, replacing “good morning” with a question of how she’s feeling. She tries to sit up, but slumps back to the ground. Her chest rises in a shallow breath before seizing with a cough.

“Not well…” she says. It’s definitely not ideal, but it’s honest and you’re proud of her. “But I can keep going.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should,” you say, tone gentle but stern. “It’ll be okay if you rest for a little longer.”

Wordlessly, Lara lays back down and you can’t believe that actually worked. Her eyes stay trained on yours, scrutinizing you and she tilts her head. “Did I keep you up?”

“No, baby,” you say softly as you smooth back hair from her face.

“Do you think—” she coughs lightly, her voice a little more clear— “I can’t tell that you didn’t sleep?”

You feel your face heat up and you look away, tearing your eyes from the brown ones bearing into you. You’re caught between not wanting to lie and not wanting to make her feel bad.

“Sweetheart,” she murmurs. Her hand, a bit clammy, comes to your chin and turns your face back to hers. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say quickly, hoping the guilt hasn’t already set in. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A small smile pulls at her lips. “Of course you did,” she moves her hand to your cheek, caressing your face. “My love.”

You blush again at her attention before she pulls back and shifts, making room for you to lie beside her. You can take a hint, luckily, so you crawl next to her, and she settles against you instantly. Her skin is hot against yours, her breath coming in congested little puffs, warm against your neck.

You stay this way for a few minutes before you can feel her breathing start to even out, but she’s trying to force herself to stay awake. You kiss her on the head. “Don’t fight it, Lara. Get some sleep.”

She falls asleep, and you make sure she’s really out before you feel comfortable letting yourself take a little nap too. You hope she feels better when she wakes, but something tells you she’ll only be worse.

You startle awake, patting the empty ground beside you, your heart pounding in your chest. Your eyes shoot open, darting around to look for Lara, and… you fight the urge to roll your eyes at her, sitting up, a tattered old map in her hands. She’s mumbling quietly, probably trying to work out where to go next, when she notices you’re awake. “Morning,” she says quietly, giving you a cheeky smile.

“Lara. Why didn’t you wake me up?” Your voice is thick with sleep and Lara gives you a soft smile.

“You looked like you needed the sleep.”

You huff, as if she doesn’t need the sleep herself, you wonder how long she’s been awake, if she’d even be honest if you asked her. Rising to her feet, Lara holds out her hand for you and you accept it.

She insists she’s okay and ready to go, but you’re hesitant. She’s still shaky and pale, but she does feel a little less warm than she did earlier…

You agree only under the condition that she’ll let you know if she feels worse, make her promise she won’t try to minimize her pain or act like she’s okay if she’s not.

So, your journey begins in mid morning, resuming your previous path through the jungle. You and Lara walk side by side and you’re more than ready to catch her if she falls over, which could prove to be a real possibility as she teeters unsteadily beside you.

You continue deeper into the treeline and Lara doesn’t speak, but you can hear how badly she’s struggling to breathe. The air is damp, humid and sticky, and it’s a little hard for you to breathe. You can’t imagine trying to gasp for this wet air through congested lungs.

Her cough comes back with vengeance, and you regard her worriedly. You suspect the flush on her cheeks is from more than just the exertion of walking, but the return of her fever. Maybe it never left, you thought, just laid dormant in her bones, waiting.

Though she hasn’t complained or mentioned it at all, you know her head hurts from the semi-permanent crease in her eyebrows, the slight downpull of her lips. She’s still wheezing quietly and your heart aches for her, you can’t imagine how badly she’s feeling. But you know it must be awful when she actually agrees to rest. “Wanna sit down for a minute?”

She nods, wiping sweat from her face. You take her by the hand and guide her to a shady spot underneath some thick trees. Lara plops down and takes a deep breath, hugging her knees to her chest.

“How are you feeling?” You ask, worried, handing her the canteen.

Her hand shakes as she holds it, tightens her grip to take a small sip. “Worse, actually.”

You frown. God, you feel so bad. She looks so sick and tired and you wish she was at home, in your bed, warm and clean from a shower and medicine in her system. You wonder why she didn’t say anything earlier, but you don’t press.

“But I’m okay,” Lara sniffs and looks away sheepishly, sets the water down beside her. “Don’t worry about me, love.”

“I always worry about you…” you watch her as she twists the end of a strap on her bag around her finger. “Do you want to eat?”

Her lip curls in distaste. She’s pale, you’ve never seen her so washed out, and you can see how dizzy she is as she sways softly sitting down. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Not really…”

“Wanna try to lay down?” You ask, crouching down in front of her to check her temperature.

Her eyes flutter closed and she leans into your hand. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep,” she mutters.

“That’s okay,” you kiss her temple. You’re not sure she’ll have any trouble falling asleep, as she’s practically there just sitting up. “Even if you don’t sleep, you need to rest.”

Taking a seat on the ground beside her, you pat your lap, inviting her to lay her head on your thighs.

Lara accepts and her eyes close immediately, her pained grimace fading as your fingers circle her temples with gentle pressure. “Is your head hurting?” you ask, hoping she doesn’t try to dismiss your question or change the subject.

Her lip turns, the faintest ghost of a smile and huffs a small, congested breath that almost sounds amused. “Everything’s hurting.”

To your surprise, and concern, she’s so feverishly delusional that she’s smiling admitting she feels so poorly. At least she’s smiling, which you suppose is something. You massage downwards, underneath her eyes and rub her sinuses gently. A soft moan slips past her lips. “Fuck,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

You swallow harshly, your throat suddenly dry. “Of course,” you whisper back, voice unsteady. You don’t mean to be a little turned on by her pleasured moans, but she has that effect on you.

You continue to apply gentle pressure across her face before your fingers make their way to her hair and start playing with the long strands of her ponytail. Though unbrushed and unwashed, her hair is beautiful, thick and soft and your favorite shade of brown, besides her eyes.

You rake your fingers through her hair for a long time, the repetitive soothing motion lulling her into relaxation, boneless and heavy as she lays against you.

She’s fighting sleep, looking up at you with misty, needy eyes. She looks so soft and, oh, you love it when she’s vulnerable and open like this. So often Lara is independent, stoic almost to a fault. She doesn’t complain, nor does she like to let people in, see her in a state like this, and you’re so lucky to be able to baby her. You bend down and press your lips to her forehead, then her cheeks before pecking her lips.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel good, baby.”

She hums sleepily. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

You smile, wide and lovestruck. “Me too. Get some sleep.”

[jemily-s-wife]

Acts of Service

Summary: Dana's sick at work, Cassie watches over her. Word Count: 2k a/n: who is ready for sick Dana! I am not a doctor, the medical stuff is inaccurate its fine just ignore that.

Pairing: Cassie McKay x Dana Evans tags: sickfic | Dana Evans needs a hug | protective Cassie McKay | secret relationship | established relationship cross posted to ao3

Dana and Cassie never talked outright about their relationship on shift. They were very careful to keep it professional, sticking to the firm boundaries that they had set when they realized whatever they were doing was more than just casual sex. They had filled out the HR paperwork, discussed the basics with their individual bosses, and assured everyone that their relationship would not affect their work. It hadn't and Dana was proud of that. She'd worked very hard for her reputation and intended to maintain it no matter what. So, shifts were strictly work. They didn't flirt, didn't banter, didn't go make out in closets (unlike some people).

Every so often though, if one of them was having a particularly hard shift, they would leave each other things. Little tokens of appreciation that couldn't be taken out of context or blown out of proportion. An extra pen, a coffee, a little snack, anything to show that they were thinking about the other. Finding random trinkets on her work station had become one of the highlights of Dana's day, and this one was no different.

She had woken up with a particularly bad headache and a tickle in the back of her throat both that she had chalked up to dehydration. She'd swallowed a few Advil for the headache and headed out the door as usual, mentally prepared for a rough shift. There was snow in the forecast and for whatever reason the most mundane cases always decided they needed to brave the snow to get their minor aches and pains checked out. They clogged the waiting room and made it much harder to deal with actual emergencies. Then of course they'd yell at her and her nurses for it, as if there was anything they could do for stupidity.

Nevertheless, she arrived her usual half hour early and went through shift change with Lena who made a rather unnecessary comment about her appearance.

"You alright? You look wrecked," the insult concern from her fellow charge nurse caught Dana completely by surprise. She'd rolled out of bed a little late and had less time to put herself together but she didn't think she looked that bad. She brushed it off with a glare and a gruff "i'm fine" that was taken with a raised eyebrow and slight shake of Lena's head. Handover proved to be the easiest part of the day. Somehow night shift had gotten by relatively unscathed and had moved most of their boarders up to their respective awaiting hospital beds.

Dana could only pray that the same would be the same for the day, but that prayer was quickly shattered by a GSW to the upper right chest. The man had been dumped in the ambulance bay and was brought in barely breathing. She'd jumped on the trauma with Dr. Robby and Mel, but he was too far gone. They ran the code, tried to stop the bleeding, but the bullet tore through his heart. Time of death, 7:05. Too early for dying.

The first gift of the day arrived immediately after the GSW victim. A breakfast sandwich sat perfectly wrapped, untouched, by her keyboard with a steaming cup of coffee sitting beside it. Dana really wasn't sure how Cassie knew her order but it had been right every time. Sure enough, it was perfect. Dana took a big bite of the sandwich and gulped down half of the coffee, she wasn't sure when she'd get a chance to eat again and wanted to take advantage of it while she could. That annoying scratchy feeling that she'd noticed when she first woke was still there, but it had morphed into something closer to pain. Not quite there yet, but suspicious. Something to keep an eye on.

Dana caught a flash of red hair in the corner of her eye and turned to see Cassie moving quickly through the department, determined expression her face and her favorite worn sweatshirt over her scrubs. She wasn't sure when she'd get the chance to talk to Cassie, Robby had stuck her in chairs again, but seeing the resident was enough. They'd planned to drive home together, Cassie didn't have Harrison and Dana wanted to have a nice dinner and curl up on the couch with her favorite doctor.

Unfortunately, Dana's prediction for the day had proven to be right. The waiting room was overflowing with (mostly) menial injuries, coughs that didn't actually need a doctor, illnesses that would go away if given time. Trauma after trauma flew through the doors, never giving her a break. Two STEMIs, a severe hypothermia case, several children who had consumed chemicals, and a pileup on the freeway to top it all off. Dana barely got a chance to breathe, standing in the middle of the chaos as she shouted orders and tried to keep everybody alive. Her throat was burning at this point and her muscles had begun to ache. The pounding in her head had returned in full force and much to her dismay her nose was running. She was regretting getting up at all.

The second gift came around 2PM. A few cough drops, paper cup with two Tylenol, and a bottle of cold water that had obviously just been pulled from the fridge. Great, so her illness was noticeable. It was hard to hide the hoarseness of her voice but she was hoping that could be chalked up to all of the shouting that she had been doing. If the woman who'd barely had eyes on her all day had noticed that she wasn't doing amazing it was probably clear to everyone else. Sometimes she thought the worst part about working in healthcare was that it was difficult to hide it from her coworkers.

She threw back the pills, chasing them with a small sip of water. The coolness soothed her throat for a moment, but it wasn't enough. Dana practically collapsed into her chair and pulled up her charts, popping one of the cough drops into her mouth as she typed away. She was already exhausted and still had five hours left in her shift. There was some little part of her that was encouraging her to call Lena and ask for her to take over but Dana wasn't at that point yet. She was just a little achy and tired, that was not a big deal. she could handle it.

The looks from her coworkers continued as the day went on, people getting more bold as she got obviously more run down.

She felt the fever set in around 4, the third gift followed shortly after. It was bigger than anything Cassie had left her before. Cassie's favorite sweatshirt lay draped over the back of her chair, warm looking and inviting. Dana glanced around the hub, checking to see if any of her nurses had seen. Perlah stood at her own computer clicking away, she seemed far to interested on the screen.

A shiver tore through Dana and she looked back to the sweatshirt, trying to decide if it was worth it. Their relationship wasn't exactly a closely guarded secret, but this wasn't exactly subtle. Everyone knew this was Cassie's sweatshirt, she wore it nearly every cold day, it was a staple of her wardrobe. But Dana was cold and her own thin jacket wasn't doing it anymore. If Cassie was offering it she obviously knew the risks, this was her saying that she was okay with it.

Dana pulled the heavy sweatshirt on and zipped it up, immediately feeling warmer. It smelled like Cassie, it felt like Cassie. Safe and cozy, a barrier to the outside world. She didn't miss Perlah glancing over at her or the look from Robby, but she ignored them. There was no use denying that she was sick, but she wood not be fielding questions about her relationship. She had a department to run and lives to save.

The next few hours blurred together. Dana sniffled and sneezed and blew her nose nearly constantly, her voice got weaker but she continued to shout instructions. Her throat felt like she had been force fed fiberglass and the cough drops weren't helping at all anymore. The medicine she'd taken earlier was not touching the fever but the slightly too big sweatshirt wrapped tightly around her was helping with the chill. Being wrapped in Cassie's arms would be preferred but this was a reasonable substitute.

By 6PM, Dana was wiped. She was speaking in husky whispers and congestion muddled her words. There was truly no hiding it, she was sick and miserable. Princess had all but completely taken over for her, relaying Dana's orders across the ED in a voice that everyone could hear and understand. She was incredibly tempted to go lay down in the break room and just let the other woman take over, but she know how uncomfortable Princess was taking on the job and didn't want to give her that extra stress.

If asked, Dana could not recall that last hour. She was so fully wrapped in her own illness that she had completely switched to autopilot. She went through the motions, practiced and perfect. The woman was incredibly good at her job, she didn't need to focus to be able to preform her everyday functions. Shift change was easy enough, Princess took over handoff considering her lack of voice while she took care of redistributing patients to the oncoming doctors.

"Hey D. Ready to get out of here?" The voice floated through the haze of Dana's fever, a blessed relief from the all consuming discomfort that would not let her think of anything else. She glanced over to the clock, relief settling in her stomach.

7PM. She did it. She survived. Dana sniffled and swiped her knuckles under her nose, momentarily forgetting that she was wearing Cassie's sweatshirt. She cringed at the action and pulled her hand away, looking up guiltily at the doctor.

"I'll wash it," she croaked. It didn't come out as she'd hoped, she managed the word "wash" but the rest was lost. She was regretting pushing so hard against the laryngitis, she knew that shouting through it would only make to worse. Dana hadn't intended to take a sick day over this but it was beginning to look more and more like she wouldn't get a choice.

Cassie reached across the space and pressed the back of her hand to Dana's forehead and the charge nurse didn't pull away. It was inevitable and frankly she was just glad it was Cassie's hand rather than a thermometer checking her temperature. Cassie hummed sadly and pushed a few stray blonde hairs out of Dana's eyes before withdrawing.

"Don't worry about that right now baby. Lets get you home, there's a warm bath calling your name," Cassie's expression was one of pure adoration, something that she was usually much less open with. She began to gather Dana's things, effortlessly grabbing the nurses bag and slinging it over her shoulder without a second thought. Dana watched her work with tired eyes knowing full well that she wouldn't win that argument.

"C'mon you, up," Dana pulled herself up from the chair, a dramatic groan escaping her lips as blood rushed to her head. She swayed violently and Cassie hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her tight to her side. A part of Dana told her that this was a surefire way to out them as a couple (if the sweatshirt hadn't already done that for her) but she just couldn't bring herself to care.

Dana was right, being wrapped in Cassie's arms was far better than the article of clothing. She let her head fall onto the residents shoulder, ignoring the blatant stares following the two of them out of the Emergency Department. Cassie pressed a kiss to the top of Dana's head and tossed a smile in Robby's direction. The expression on his face was enough to make Dana let out a raspy laugh that quickly morphed into a fit of heavy coughs.

"Feel better, Dana," Robby offered, giving her a kind smile. She nodded and laid her head back against Cassie's shoulder soaking in the warmth of her partner. The gifts of the day swirled through her head as they walked, Dana's weight almost fully supported by Cassie. The more she considered the more that she realized she would not have been able to make it through the day without McKay. Dana would never be able to express how grateful she was for the other woman, but when she felt better she would try.

[sicktember]

The Official Sicktember 2024 Prompts List

Event FAQ Text Post [Link to Post]

2024 Prompt-Based Resources [Link to Post]

Past Prompts Text Post [Link to Post]

How to Submit Content for promotion [Link to Post]

Sicktember 2024 AO3 Collection [Link]

Announcements [Link to #Event Notice]

** Text Version of the 2024 Prompts Can be Found Below.

“I’m not hungover, I’m just sick” (Or vise versa)

Too Much of a Good Thing/Overindulgence

Campus/Con Crud

“Great. I Got a Cold for My Birthday.”

Rogue Organ (tonsils, spleen, appendix, gall bladder ect…)

Dizziness/Vertigo

Borrowed Hoodie

“The closest doctor is probably hours away from here!”

Overdramatic Patient/Caretaker 

The Sniffles ™ 

Medieval Treatment

“You’re not fine, you’re throwing up/coughing up a lung”

Mononucleosis

Clean Sheets/Fresh Pajamas

"Who decided __ is ‘sick people food?’"

Toxin/Poison

Brain Fog/Spaced Out 

“My body is one big ache”

Hypochondriac Tendencies 

Medication Bribery

Anaphylactic Response

“You didn’t use my cup, did you?”

Under a Spell

 Tales From the Waiting Room

Summer Flu

Heart Condition/Cardiac Arrest

“This is non-negotiable"

Pulling a ‘Ferris Bueller’

Sick on a Road Trip

Past Prompt of Your Choice! 

Alts

Hospital Bed

“I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

First Aid Kit

Flushed Cheeks

Doctor's Note

[jeminirising]

just some old sketches i’m gonna leave right here… 🥰

[disastercomingfaster]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

The one where Mira is a hopeless softy when one of her girls is sick, but Mira doesn't realize that Rumi is one of her girls until now.

edited by my beautiful girlfriend @puppy-danvers2016