Original Drive: A Sci-Fi Romance - COMPLETE - Jan 8, 2022

[starpollen]

I don’t know what it is with me and cars lately.  Maybe because I haven’t driven one in nearly 5 years, or maybe because I had a plot bunny about a hired driver and then couldn’t decide which direction to take it. So, naturally, I wrote 2 stories. The first one ended up being the loooong ‘Uber Allergic’ fic.  This is the other one. Hope you enjoy! 

Explanations might be helpful:

Lifers = people who make a career working for the Agency

Dots = apprentices desiring a life-long career with the Agency, not always successfully

T’s = temporaries, needing the money but not wanting the life, expendable

This is a futuristic world of telekinetic and psychogenic technology. High-class criminals employ a special Agency that caters to their needs.  Vehicles for hire from this Agency are called ferries. A driver is called a ferryman. Our protagonist is a T-level ferryman who is about to get in over his head… 

 

Part 1 - Asher

I never got a call like this.  Usually it was a Lifer, or sometimes one of the Dots.  Not one of us T’s - we were usually given the cargo deliveries, or sometimes transferring a ferry vehicle from point A to point B.  But, then again, I had been with the Agency off and on for almost six years.  Each time I thought I was getting out, something in my life would crash and burn and I would end up getting pulled back in.  I suppose it was just a matter of time before I was made a Dot, probably not by choice. 

The thought made me… uneasy.

When I’d left the juvenile detention system at 21 I’d taken the tip from an older kid and connected with the Agency out of desperation.  The money was good, at the time.  But here I was, a 27 year-old man with no career plans, no education.  The last six years stretched out empty behind me and I still didn’t have my shit together.  

That’s right, Asher Maddox.  You’re a real prize.

Pulling slowly up to the large gated entry, I ‘nudged’ with my cortical and the sleek sedan-style ferry came to a smooth stop.  Swiping my right wrist in a C motion triggered the suspended control panel, lighting up the interior like a Christmas tree.  It was still displaying the file I had opened when I got in to make the drive.

A man’s face stared through me.  

Jagged cuts skittered across his face like lightning, starting at the ruin that had been his left ear and ending just short of his nose.  His hair had been shaved completely off, including his eyebrows, so there was no telling what color it would be. His eyes were so dark brown they were almost black. The left eye was obviously a cyber: its iris slightly smaller than the right, eerily perfect.  Between the lightning strikes, raised whips of burns tangled together, twisting the left corner of his mouth, reminiscent of ivy suffocating a wall.

And that’s what his right eye was.  A wall. 

Hard and blank, cold even in the fixed likeness projected from the dash. 

Thorn, Keane R. 

That was all I got when I downloaded the file to the ferry’s main frame.  A face.  A name.  An address most of us pretended didn’t exist. 

Sisak Province Penitentiary.

A swish of my wrist to the left closed the file, plunging the interior into darkness.  It was coming up on two marks past midnight, and there was no moon.  

I didn’t know whether I was supposed to get out or not.  There had been no further instructions, simply the pickup and dropoff addresses and a time, along with his file.  If you could call a face and a name a ‘file…’  Sisak Province Penitentiary was known for housing the kind of criminals who didn’t simply rob or rape or murder.  No.  These were the spies, the assassins.  Hackers. The kind who could topple governments, ignite global wars, famines… all with a few keystrokes.

In a world full of Bad People, these were Abominations. 

While I sat dithering between opening the door and staying put, there was a sudden knock on the back window.  I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Turning, I could see the form of a man waiting, though I could only get a general outline from chest to wrists. I ‘nudged’ my cortical and the back door slid open, the titanium panel disappearing smoothly into the frame of the door in front of it.  From the outside it would have looked like it retracted into nothing. 

The night was dark enough that I couldn’t clearly see his face, to know if he was the right person I was supposed to ferry.  “M-Mr. Th--”

“Keane.” 

That one word, barely rasped, was like wind creaking through a hollow tree.

The man climbed in and the door immediately slid closed behind him. From the outside there would have been no seam, no handles on the exterior of the ferry: just one gleaming panel.

I realized too late that I hadn’t been the one to ‘nudge’ it closed.  I could feel his - Keane’s - presence in the back seat like a blast of icy wind, a pressure in my mind that was frighteningly strong.

“Okay…” I mumbled under my breath.  Guess I had the right guy, after all.

I decided then and there that I needed to get the hell away from this job. Permanently. I didn’t want any more calls like this ever again, to be trapped in such close proximity with someone this powerful. This dangerous. 

The engine thrummed to life, and the ferry started moving forward.  Without my permission.

“Do you wanna get up here and drive?” I barked out in a sudden fit of anger.  That’s what happened to me when I got flustered or fearful: my temper flared, usually with dire consequences… 

“No.” 

That sandpaper voice, barely there.  But I ‘felt’ control of the ferry return to me, as lightly as if someone had tossed me a set of keys. 

Who the hell was this guy??...

It took a lot of psychogenic power for someone to be able to do what he just did, not only taking control of the ferry from my cortical without my noticing it but then to return control without either one of us experiencing potentially deadly backlash. I winced, biting my lower lip, repeating shitshitshitshitshit in my mind.  If this guy was even half as powerful as I thought he was… 

I heard rather than saw him settle back into the ergonomic cradle, and the long breath he blew out had weight.  We drove in silence for 30 minutes.  Only once, about 10 minutes from the destination, did I hear a sharp intake of breath.  My ears strained to hear what would follow - a gasp, a word, a shifting of position - but there was nothing.  Stealing glances in the rear view monitors gave zero information: he was swathed in darkness.

Finally, we pulled up to a sleek high-rise apartment, one of the new ones that had several individual elevator pods hovering at its base.  Rumor was that this style of building had no interior doors at all: each black-tinted pod would take you directly from your vehicle to your balcony door, the ultimate manifestation of privacy and seclusion.  And luxury.  Everything was controlled by corticals, from the temperature to the blinds to the coffee maker.  All one had to do was ‘nudge’ a thought, and the house responded instantly.  

The ferry settled under one of the street lights, and a glance in the rear view camera showed a beam of light cutting directly across my passenger’s face.

It was him.  Thorn, Keane R.  But the side of his face that was ruined - the left - was in shadow.  He had turned so his right eye and ear were facing me.  Other than looking bloodlessly pale in the harsh blade of light, he seemed relatively normal. 

Well, as normal as a man recently picked up from a maximum security penitentiary could seem, I suppose.

As I looked at him, his right eye closed, another sharp inhale causing his muscular shoulders to lift.  Then, as before, no other sound escaped, but I watched as his body flinched forward sharply.  It was…

Was that a sneeze?...

Giving himself a little shake after and blinking rapidly, I ‘felt’ control of the ferry taken from me a little more roughly than before.  The door panel slid open, and Mr. Thorn unfolded himself from the cradle.  I hadn’t been able to see earlier, but he was a little taller than average, with a light layer of fuzz growing in on his head. It looked like it would be the same shade as his eyes. 

Before the panel shut completely, he looked at me, dark eyes boring down to my soul. 

“Thank you.”

My eyebrows shot up.  “Um, you’re welcome?”

But the panel had closed.

Edited January 8, 2022 by starpollen

[Kolen]

Ooh. I liked what you had there😍

[starpollen]

After what feels like forever... finally a Part 2!  I have a better idea in my head of where this is going.  And I did some massive editing / rewriting to Part 1, so it might be good to give that a re-read before diving below.    Hope you enjoy!... 

 

Part 2 - Asher

I went about my usual ferries for the next couple of days.  Then, I got another incoming message.  

Thorn, Keane R. and the address where I had dropped him off.  I groaned. It was nearly 11:00 p.m. and I was supposed to go off the clock at midnight.  Who the hell needed something at this hour, anyway?...  Then I noted the destination.  Why was I picking up the mysterious Thorn, Keane R. and taking him to the private residence of the richest and most exclusive doctor in town?  

It was painfully evident from the moment he got in the ferry.

Bleary, bloodshot eyes.  Scarred face so haggard and pale that it was almost grey beneath the dark scruff of unshaven cheeks.  Mouth hung open.  Nostrils swollen scarlet.  The slump to those wide shoulders was that of someone completely MIS-er-a-ble. 

Keane fell into the cradle, crumpled in half - head between his knees - and coughed. Deep, choking, and ugly. 

“Shit.” I couldn’t help but stare.

He raised his head to peer at me through his real eye, the cyber one sealed shut.  “Yeah,” if possible, his voice was even more gone than before, wisps of air forced through the shape of lips and teeth by sheer grit.  “Shitd is rightd.”  It was clear that the guy was barely hanging on. 

“Okay,” I reassured both of us, whipping around and ‘nudging’ the ferry to engage.  “The map says 20 minutes.  We’ll make it in under 15.” 

“Thagks,” he choked out, lowering his forehead to rest against crossed wrists that lay lax across his knees.  His shoulders bounced as his breath hitched, lean body flinching with a vicious, “h’XZgtch!” that resulted in more ugly coughs.

“Hang on, man,” I muttered, mentally using several illegal codes to override the safety protocols in the ferry’s system so I could push our speed to double the legal limit.  “We’ll get you there.”

The next minutes were spent in a whirl of flickering streetlights and careening around corners while my heart hammered against my ribs in a panic over a guy I was sure would have killed me without flinching a few days ago.  The monitors showed him sagging in the cradle, nose buried in his elbow as he sneezed.  “h’GZKtchH’ue!...”  Just don't let him die in my ferry, I begged whatever god was listening.

Pulling up behind a stately brick townhouse in the poshest part of town, I shut down the ferry’s power and jumped out as if the thing were on fire.  ‘Nudging’ the back door open, I reached for my ailing passenger. 

Thorn - Keane - was shivering, barely responsive, as I hoisted him out of the cradle.  Hooking one of his long arms around my shoulders, I felt his head thunk against my neck as I wrapped an arm around his trim waist.  This close, it was evident how cut he was - lean muscles hard under his designer sweater - and the heat coming off of him was intense. 

“Damn,” I grunted as he trembled in my arms. “You’re a mess, aren’t you?”

His attempt at a chuckle ended up as a wheezy moan.

We stumbled toward the awning-covered back door - the discreet entrance for high-profile clients, I assumed - when he suddenly whipped his head off to the side.  “hw’PSCHHt!... ehh?-GSCHxt’hu!”  Both wet explosions left him sagging, as if he’d ejected any pretence of energy. Somehow I managed to drag him inside without his help, his long legs tangling and threatening to trip us both. 

Dr. Richards was waiting, a surprisingly young man with dark red hair and black hipster glasses. 

“Shit,” he took one look and jumped into action, taking Keane’s other arm and draping it over his own shoulders so the sick man was hanging like a hammock between us.  “This way,” he barked at me before shouting over his shoulder for a nurse.

We managed to get Keane down a short hallway and into what looked like a luxury hotel room: huge bed with white linens, leather headboard, an attached bath kitted out with grey-veined marble and chrome fixtures. 

Keane let out a long, hoarse groan as we lowered him to the wide bed, immediately turning onto his damaged left side and burying his face into the pillow.  His lean body gave a hard shiver and then flinched with a series of wet sneezes: “h’GKshCH-uue! … eh’TSCHEeu! … ah-GTSChieu!...” followed by clogged coughs that sounded like someone was ripping wet fabric into strips.

“Talk,” the doctor barked, his young face pinched with determination as he rolled the patient onto his back to take temperature, pulse, and heart rate.

“Don’t ask me, man,” I responded, backing up against the nearest wall and swiping at the sweat on my face with my wrist.  “I’m just the ferryman.”

“Not you,” Richards growled, pulling back Keane’s eyelids to check his pupils.  “Thorn.  Symptoms.”  The doctor lightly patted the sick man’s cheeks until those dark eyes focused on him.  “How long.  Any new drug allergies since last time. The source of exposure.”  These were not questions: these were bullets.

“Ndo ndew allergies.  Duddo who f-frob,” came the weak reply, shaky as he shivered despite the doctor yanking up the blankets. It seemed like Keane couldn’t catch his breath. “ Felt… off. For a few d-days.  Knew I was gettig… gettig out s-...so I…I-...”  Dark eyes rolled up into his head as the shivering intensified.

“Okay… okay,” the doctor rolled his eyes behind those hipster frames, calling out behind him to whatever nurse was in the wings to set up IV saline and antipyretic and 'hurry the fuck up...'  “We’re going to run some tests,” he said to both of us, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Once we know if this is bacterial or viral we can set a course of treatment. You staying?”

The question caught me off guard. 

“Wh-what?” I stammered, my throat suddenly tight. 

“With him,” the doctor’s piercing gaze met mine.  “Are you staying?”

“I-...” My cortical schedule informed me that I was surprisingly clear for the next several days. Suspiciously clear. Which never happened.  

Keane’s dark, pleading eyes caught and held me, slightly unfocused and shockingly vulnerable in that pale, scarred face. 

“Yeah,” I found myself whispering, our gazes locked and unblinking.  “I guess I am.”

And that’s how I found myself in the most uncomfortable chair ever built next to the bed of a man I was sure could kill me with the barest thought.  Watching him shiver as he dozed off and on between blood draws and throat swabs, occasionally wracked with spraying sneezes and croupy coughs, I felt my heart clench.

And had no idea why.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Dr. Richards announced after nearly an hour.  “That’s all the tests done.  Rapid flu test has come back positive, for sure, but it’ll take a few more hours before we get all the results.  I’m covering all the bases here, just in case.”

At his first words, Keane dragged his sluggish eyes open, struggling to rise up and prop his back against the headboard.  

“So what happens now?” I asked, clenching my fists against the instinct to help him.

“Now,” Richards replied, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with a pocket square.  “Mr. Thorn needs to finish the saline drip for dehydration.  The antipyretics have already lowered the fever to a more reasonable level and we’ve started oseltamivir - Tamiflu - so when the saline is finished you can take him home.”

As if the sick man were a lost puppy.

“Okay,” I breathed, already looking forward to a tumbler of whiskey and my own bed.

“Assuming he has someone to look after him,” the doctor added, slipping his glasses back on and looking pointedly at me. 

My hands came up, palms out.  “Hey, man, I’m just the-”

“The ferryman,” Richards finished, still staring at me without blinking. “So you said.  I think you’ll find the Agency will have a change in your job description coming to your cortical shortly.”

“Job descr–” And there it was.  The alert came to my cortical before I could finish the word.  

Thorn, Keane R. and his address.  Then a series of dates.  

9 days. 

9 days playing nursemaid to a stranger, a dangerous criminal.  In his house. 

You didn’t argue with the Agency.  And you didn’t quit in the middle of a job, not if you wanted to wake up still breathing the next day.  The few people I had heard of who had attempted it ended up going out in the most painful and sometimes bizarre and - did I mention painful? - of ways.  It was not on my ‘to-do’ list to join them.  

The next alert to come to my cortical was a deposit to my bank account.  It was staggering.

My mouth hanging open, I swung my head around to look at my new assignment.  Thorn, Keane R.  Granted, said ‘dangerous criminal’ was currently looking more like a limp dishrag, blinking at me owlishly with a wince pulling at his pale lips. 

“Sorry,” he rasped before wilting back down to the bed with a long, bubbling cough. 

Shit.

 

Edited January 5, 2022 by starpollen

[EveP]

OMG! I love this. Caring for a complete stranger, a big and strong miserably sick guy at that, ticks all my boxes. 😍

[starpollen]

Yes, yes.  Plotty, angsty, miserable sick men.   I've been in the mood for h/c and fever lately, so.  I write what I want to read.    This is progressing pretty fast.  If you've got ideas or suggestions, I'm all ears!

Warning for strong language.

 

Part 3 - Asher

I sat in stunned silence while the doctor and nurse bustled around the room, murmuring words that didn’t register to my numb ears.  I sat trying to think of a way out of this - any way at all - that wouldn’t get my man parts lopped off and stuffed in my eye sockets.  There wasn’t anybody I knew who would take my place.  There wasn’t any supervisor I could complain to - all jobs came through the cortical.  I’d never even met my supervisor, if I even had one…

So absorbed was I in my own panicked thoughts that I completely missed it when Dr. Richards next addressed me. 

“Hey,” fingers snapped in front of my face.  “Did you fall asleep with your eyes open?”

“Uh,” I blinked rapidly, focusing on his too-young face. Up close, it was easier to see the green-veined hazel of the doctor’s eyes behind his glasses.  If he wasn’t such a prick I might have found him attractive. “S-sorry, what?”

“I said you can take him home now.  He’ll need to come back in three days for a follow-up, provided nothing goes south before then.  Here’s my private number.”  Digits appeared in my cortical.  “And the access code.”  My eyebrows quirked up at the word - ‘eggplant’...? - but Richards had already turned back to his patient.  “Alright there, Thorn?”

Thorn, Keane R. was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands braced on either side, barely holding himself upright.  His color was better - still pale but no longer ashen - and his dark eyes were clearer.   Long fingers plucked two tissues from the box on the nightstand, tucking his raw nose into them for a drenching blow.  Nodding vaguely at the doctor’s inquiry, Keane dropped the used wad of tissues in a small bin and reached for more. 

“Here’s his medications. Instructions will be in your cortical,” the nurse pushed a surprisingly bulky white paper bag into my hands. “Monitor his temperature, make sure the meds are administered strictly on time, and keep him hydrated.  He’ll be feeling better in a few days.”  

I blinked at her, at the doctor, and at the sick man himself before shaking myself to awareness.  There was no point in obsessing over circumstances that I couldn’t change.  Best to just get it over with.

“Right.  Ready to rock and roll?” I stepped in front of Keane and held out a hand to help him up. 

Those dark eyes half-rolled at my cheesy line, then fluttered shut as his breath hitched.  “Ah’jddsshtt-ue!...” He caught the wet sneeze neatly in a stack of tissues, scrubbing his nose in the aftermath with a wince.  No wonder it was so raw and chapped if that’s how he’d been treating it over the past few days.

“Bless,” I grunted, catching him under his elbow and heaving him upright.  I snatched up the doctor’s tissue box and tucked it under Keane’s arm before steering him towards the door.  “Let’s take you to bed.”  

I didn’t miss the side-eye he gave me, which helped me hear exactly what I’d said.  Shit.  

“Home,” I clarified with an edge to my voice I hadn’t heard before.  “We’ll get you home. And let nursing commence.” 

Keane seemed steadier on his feet as we made our way back to the ferry, but then collapsed into the cradle as if the short walk had sapped what little strength he’d gained from the I.V.s.  Pulling out three tissues from the pilfered box, he layered them in his palm and began sneezing, “h’GKshCH-uue! … hsieh’TSCHEeu! … ah-GTSChieu!- hck’gYEUUschht!...”

“Goddamn,” I gasped in awe as he kept going, taking my position in the driver’s bucket and engaging the ferry. 

“h’GKshCH-uue! … eh’TSCHEeu! … ah-GTSChieu!...”

“Breathe, buddy.”  

A final, terrible pair ended the fit, “G'zJdCHhyieh-G’zSCHTtt!-euuuu…” followed by the soft snicks of more tissues coming out of the box and Keane’s wheezy pants for breath.  Long, gushing blows led to wracking coughs, and at the very end a low, miserable moan.  

“You okay back there?”  Easing us out onto the road, I ‘nudged’ the safety protocols back into the ferry’s mainframe and covered my hack-tracks, not wanting anyone at the Agency to know that I was capable of that kind of stunt.  It would force me into Dot-dom faster than you could say ‘Shanghai.’

“You’re good at that.”

His hoarse voice caused a wash of ice through my veins.  “Wh-what are you talking about?” I replied slowly.

“You bissed ode pathway id the secod circuit but I closed it for you,” he sucked a slurpy sniffle and cleared some gunk from his throat, hocking and spitting into another tissue.  Ew.  "Probably dobody else but be would have caught it, but... better to be safe."

“Uhh,” my neurons were firing in choppy bursts, fear slicing its way through any coherent thought.  Apparently not only was Thorn, Keane R. mentally powerful enough to skate in and out of someone else’s cortical, taking and giving control of protocols with the ease of an Olympic athlete… he was also able to dip in and out of external psychogenic activity simply by proximity?  

Holy Mother of …

“Whad’s your dabe?”

“Huh?”  Yeah, I was all kinds of eloquent today.

“I cad’t keep callig you ‘ferrybad’ for the dext dide days.  Not odly does it reek of obidous Greek tragedy, it seebs rude to address sobeode by their job title.”

“Oh.”  My name.  It was probably also rude to point out that his congestion was making it difficult to process what he was saying.  “Maddox.  Asher Maddox.” 

“Well… Baddox, Asher Baddox,” he rasped, tipping into a brief but harsh coughing jag. “...thagk you,” he continued when he’d caught his breath.  “I dow you didd’t have to stay earlier. I’b sure it would have beed easier to… hh?... kgm… to drop be off add have sobeode else frob the… hH-hyieh??... …ughh, frob the Agedcy fetch be hobe.  I appreciate thad you … hHh?- Hyw’ZkSCHt’eu!... ugh, ‘scuse be… thad you stayed.” He scrubbed hard at his nose with the tissues, eyes pinched shut. 

“Careful,” I gave an awkward attempt at a chuckle as we turned a corner.  “You’re gonna scrape all the skin off the middle of your face.” 

A congested grunt was my reply, but he stopped scrubbing.

“Why didn’t you request someone else?” I asked softly, glancing at him through the monitor.  “Someone more… qualified.”  Like a licensed nurse, I didn't say.

His dark eyes pierced through the camera lens, face smoothing out in an unreadable expression.  “It’s… coblicated.”

Minutes later we were pulling up to his complex.  “Where should I–?”

“Park adywhere. They’ll sedd sobeode for the ferry.”

Oh.  Oh. 

I wouldn’t be leaving for the next 9 days.  At all.  That was the implication.  

“But, I need to at least swing by my apartment for–”

“Sobeode will brigg what you deed.”

And that was it. My stomach dropped to my toes as I realized that I was going to be trapped for 9 days in the very exclusive, highly private prison that was Thorn, Keane R.’s home.  The irony was obvious.  We walked up to one of the black pod lifts - Keane coughing raggedly but otherwise under his own power - and the aperture opened.  Stepping inside, “What about groceries?” I tried weakly, knowing it was futile.  

“By staff will take care of everythig.”

“Wait,” I turned to fully face where he stood slumped against the wall of the pod as it climbed, a damp knot of tissues pressed to the pulsing rims of his raw nostrils.  “You have staff??  Then what the hell am I doing here!?”

The left corner of his mouth - the one twisted a little by the scars - lifted in what might have been an attempt at a wry smirk but was more of a painful grimace.  “You’ll see.”

I stood there gaping at him until the pod came to a stop, the aperture opening on the top floor of the building.  The penthouse. Of course. 

Groaning, I pressed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, desperately wishing I could go back six years to my 21 year-old self and convince him to find a different job - trash collector, pooper scooper, elementary school cafeteria lady - anything but this...  

“You cobig?” 

Stepping out of the pod blind, I blinked at my shoes before lifting an angry gaze to Keane’s bleary one.  His dark lashes were fluttering, mouth dropping open in an expectant ‘o’ before he crushed the knot of tissues to his painfully red nose. “h’GZKtchH’ue!...ahh-G’ZZttshh’eeuu!” 

That second sneeze caused him to sway wildly in the middle of his entryway. I jumped forward and caught his shoulders before he could go down like a felled tree. 

“Come on,” I growled, slipping an arm around his waist and grabbing his wrist. I pulled his arm around my shoulders and hissed at him through my teeth as we weaved our way inside. “If I have to be here I may as well keep you from bashing your valuable head on these very expensive marble floors.”

“hyy’AxSCHt’euu!... ehh?-GSCHjt’hu!” he sprayed down the front of us both, completely missing the sopping tissues barely clutched in lax fingers.  

“Thanks for that,” I muttered, already counting down the incubation period until I succumbed to his super germs. 

“...god, I’b… s-sorry…”

 “Where to?”

“... deed to… lay dowd…” Keane whispered, his face suddenly a shocking shade of white, leanly muscled limbs beginning to shake.  I wondered again why he didn’t have a hired nurse here, a bevy of medical equipment.  As sick as he obviously was - as rich as he obviously was - he could easily have turned his penthouse into its own mini-hospital.

Another hard tremor shook him, and I blinked back to the moment. It didn’t matter right now: the man needed to be in bed. We’d just have to make do.

Glancing around, my eyes skimmed over the open concept living and dining area: expensive furnishings, thickly piled carpets, gaping marble fireplace under massive vid screens. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the best view of the city skyline and the river.  My gaze roamed until finally coming to rest on a hallway that branched off. The couch was closer but I didn’t want to have to move him again later on. So, taking a chance, I staggered both of us down the corridor, barely managing to keep from careening him into the wall. 

The penthouse contained an obvious guest room (no personal items in sight), a home office (with the expected legion of computer equipment), a powder room, home theatre (complete with popcorn machine), a gym (all top-of-the-line equipment) and finally a master suite that sported a rumpled California king-sized bed.  Dropping Keane onto it with more exasperation than gentleness, I knelt to take off his shoes.  He was wearing butter-soft leather loafers, thick socks, fleece pants, and a black cashmere sweater.  He’d obviously been chilled; the bed was draped with two extra comforters and a throw blanket. 

I tucked the loafers neatly under the bed, giving his knee a quick pat.  His lean body slowly listed to the side, tissue box still clutched to his chest, until he crashed into the pillow with a creaky groan.  

“Ash-er…” one arm reached out, fingers fumbling to catch my wrist.  “Asher. You deed… I deed you to…” The sick man struggled up onto one elbow.

“What?”  I leaned in close, palming his forehead. It was fiery hot; the fever must be spiking. Dammit, I had dropped his prescriptions in the entryway when I’d caught him mid-fall…  

Those dark eyes snapped to mine and locked.  “You deed to shut be dowd.”

Flicking my gaze back and forth between the perfect cyber of his left eye and the slightly-blown-yet-piercing pupil of his right eye, I felt him give my wrist a hard shake. Brow furrowing in confusion, I answered, “I, I don’t–”

“By cortical,” he clarified, and suddenly it hit me.

The house.  The entire penthouse was locked into his cortical, the computer chip embedded in his brain that controlled every little function. No wonder he needed more than his staff - most people couldn’t do the things he and I could. Hell, most people could barely control their corticals for simple, everyday tasks.  Even then it was a huge energy drain.  

It also explained why the place was empty.  If his brain shorted, this place could turn Final Destination in a heartbeat.

It also explained - chillingly - why I was here.  Because my mind was stronger than most. 

Because I could hack.

“I-I can’t do that,” I whispered, eyes going wide as saucers as panic seeped into my bones.  He was asking me to override his control, to hack into the chip inside his brain and shut it off if the fever cooking in his cranium spiraled out of control and whatever delirium ensued made him dangerous. He thought I was strong enough to protect others from him... “I–... I’m not strong enough to do–...”

“Yes,” he ducked his chin, still staring into my eyes without blinking.  “You are.  You have to be.”

My brain was still spiraling. If the look he was giving me was any indication, it wasn’t just the penthouse.  There were other things - dangerous, potentially deadly things - attached to this man’s mind that could be affected if he lost control.  

And he was counting on me - the six-year fuck-up of a failure that was ME - to stop him. 

What.

The.

Actual.

Fuck.

“Keane, I can’t…”

“Asher,” his cracked whisper was low, pleading, long fingers digging into my wrist so hard my bones were grinding together.  “There’s do ode else.  Do ode at your level.  We’ve beed searchig for bodths…”

His words went in one ear and out the other.  My jaw hardened. “I don’t know how to do what you’re asking!” I barked, harsher than intended. I huffed a breath, striving for calm. “But what I do know how to do is get your prescriptions into you, keep you hydrated, monitor your temperature, like the nurse said.” I was nodding at him but the reassurance was really for myself, feeling more determined with each breath.  “We’ll keep on top of things and… and maybe it won’t come to that.  Okay?”

After one more beat, something in Keane’s expression flickered. He gave a slow nod.  Then, his already-white face washed over grey, eyes rolling into his head as he collapsed back onto the pillow.  Checking to make sure the man was still breathing, I jogged to the entryway and snapped the paper bag up from the floor.  Accessing my cortical, I opened the file I found labeled “Thorn, Keane R. - Prescription Instructions” and began to skim through the information.

I raced through the rest of his place, finding an industrial kitchen bigger than my entire apartment and snagging some electrolyte fluid and vitamin gel from the massive fridge.  Finding a sophisticated tablet in the office, I quickly hacked the password and opened a notebook app to start recording the times of each dose of medication.  I could have done it with my cortical alone but I felt like it was safer to have some external means of documentation. 

Back in the master suite, I maneuvered Keane’s shivering body between the sheets and covered him lightly with just one of the blankets.  If the goal was to keep his temperature from going through the roof we’d have to be careful about trapping the heat his body was throwing out. 

Both nightstands by the bed were bare - no photo slide frames or readers or even a glass for water.  I set up one table as a pharmacy and the other for everything else: tablet, electrolytes, vitamins, damp washcloth.  The works. I had to make damned sure that what he’d asked of me wouldn’t be necessary. Because if I even tried… 

It could kill us both.

 

Edited January 5, 2022 by starpollen

[starpollen]

Still burning through this.  Hopefully it clicks with some of you guys.   I'm rather fond of these two... 

Warning for brief inferrence to V but no actual occurrence. 

 

Part 4 - Asher

The next several hours were torture, and not just for the man shivering in the massive bed.

After dosing Keane with the required medications, we’d stumbled through the process of changing his clothes.  I’d found a drawer with soft cotton drawstring pants and long-sleeved T-shirts, a much more breathable material than his fleece and cashmere in the fight against his temperature.  I’d tried not to stare as the act of undressing him revealed more scarring on his back and chest, some obvious bullet wounds and other lines of healed cuts.  It reinforced my initial impression: Thorn, Keane R. was a dangerous man who lived an equally dangerous life. 

It also made me embarrassingly aroused.  The man was beautiful: long, straight limbs and lean, sculpted muscle.  The scars made him even sexier, if that was possible, evidence of a strong man who had battled back from pain time and again.

At some point during the proceedings a courier deposited a pile of groceries and an overnight bag full of my clothes and toiletries in the lift pod (Did I even want to know how someone had gotten into my apartment?  Probably not.) along with boxes of high-priced, luxury designer brand, lotion-infused tissues.

Which were desperately needed.

“... ah-GTSChieu!- hyieh’G'zJdCH-ieeu!”

“Bless,” I murmured, passing over another thick handful of luxurious paper squares for Keane to destroy.  He was curled on his side, dark eyes glassy and unfocused, lips damp from near-constant coughing and sneezing.  When he wasn’t actively ejecting germs all over us and the sheets, he was fidgeting uncomfortably as his body was assaulted by aches or shivering from chills. 

It was nearly 4:00 a.m.  His fever had spiked alarmingly an hour before, but a dose of acetaminophen and a lukewarm bath followed by cold compresses on his pulse points had brought it down relatively quickly.   I’d managed to get two mugs of tea and half a mug of soup down him since we’d gotten him home, but we had much more success with the electrolyte fluid and vitamin gels.  Both of those seemed gentler on the sick man’s sore throat.

Glancing at the tablet and checking my cortical for the time, I calculated that I had a few minutes to make myself a sandwich, maybe also a quick shower and a change of clothes before his next round of meds.

“Keane,” I reached over and palmed the back of his hot head, rubbing my thumb in circles at his temple. I’d discovered during an earlier bout of chills that it soothed him.  “I’m gonna get something to eat and maybe shower and change. You good here for a bit?”

Bruised lids tight with exhaustion, he gave a small nod while bringing up the fresh tissues and slowly massaging raw, inflamed nostrils.  A low moan from the back of his throat stuttered into more hitching breaths, brows drawing together in reluctant dread.

“...hGsieh’TSCHEeu!...AaHh’jddsshtt-ue!... ehh?-GSCHxt’hu!...”  Wet, thickly congested, and from the pinched lines around his eyes probably exacerbating a pounding headache.  I prepped three more stacks of the thick, lotioned tissues, laying them in his eyeline and within reach.   

Baffled at the sudden urge to press my lips to his forehead - likely some random nonsense from childhood nostalgia - I shook it off and made my way across the penthouse to the impressive kitchen.

A short, brown-skinned lady was there wearing a crisp blue uniform with a white collar, buttoned down the front. 

“H-hello,” I stuttered, skidding to a halt in the doorway.

“I’m Sofia,” she smiled professionally.  “One of the housekeepers. How can I help you?  Does Mr. Thorn require anything?” She tilted her head in an abnormally mechanical fashion.

One of the housekeepers.  Multiple housekeepers.  Staff.  Right.  

“Uh, I was just gonna make myself a sandwich,” I edged my way towards the fridge. 

“What kind would you like?” she stepped in my path, reaching for the control panel of the pricey machine.

“No, no, I can do it,” I assured her. 

“But it is my job,” she smiled again, clinically bland, dark eyes unreadable. 

“Turkey club?” I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck, mentally preparing for ham or - in a pinch - peanut butter and jelly.  

“White or wheat bread?”

“Wheat.”

“The works?  We’ve got pickles, red onion, tomato, lettuce, bacon, cheese, mustard, mayo…”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Sounds good. No cheese, though.  I’m lactose intolerant.  And allergic to tree nuts.”  I had no idea why I told her that.  Other than the cheese issue, it wasn’t relevant to a simple sandwich.  Except that I would be here for the next nine days… and made a mental note to look in that overnight bag for my asthma medication and EpiPen. 

“Okay, Mr. Maddox.  I’ll have it in the dining room for you in a few minutes,” she smiled that empty smile, turning and tapping into the control panel.

Aaaand she knows my name.  I blinked, looking around at the security cameras and control panels in various parts of the space.  

Why is any of this surprising, Asher?  Look. Where. You. Are.

Duh.

Instead of sitting on my hands waiting for a strangely impersonable woman to serve me a goddamned sandwich, I ducked into the bath attached to the guest room and took what was the most amazing shower of my life.  My cortical had been connected to the shower’s mainframe (again, why was I surprised?) so the waterworks that sprayed over my tired body were the perfect temperature, pressure, and angle.  One spray focused intensely on my tight shoulders, providing a muscle-melting aquamassage.  Another outlet lightly coated my skin with expensive-smelling body wash that was expertly rinsed away.

I broke my heart to ‘nudge’ it off.  But I was in a time crunch and couldn’t afford to let indulgence distract me.

When I stepped into the living/dining area in blessedly clean clothes, my sandy blond hair still damp and curling as it dried, a picture-perfect sandwich was waiting at the head of the table. Stacked high with thick cuts of roast turkey and bacon (no processed deli meat here, these were REAL Thanksgiving-worthy slices) and crisp veggies, slathered with homemade mayo and stone-ground dijon mustard… I groaned around the first mouth-watering bite.  

A guy could get used to this. 

I finished the sandwich quicker than I wanted, but rushed back to the ergonomic office chair I’d dragged into Keane’s bedroom as quickly as possible. I checked his temperature with the back of my hand: definitely cooler.  Maybe that’s why Sofia had been allowed in the penthouse with us. 

“How’re you feeling?” I asked when bleary black eyes flickered to meet my gaze.

A long-fingered hand rose, tilting back and forth in the so-so sign.  Keane’s voice had officially given up the ghost; he couldn’t make more than a pathetic squeak.  So we’d been reduced to hand gestures and code. 

“Headache?”

Two fingers came up.  Five meant brain-bleeding migraine, so two was good.

“Chest?”

Three fingers.  That meant that it hurt a little to breathe, lungs sore from coughing and also difficult to breathe through the congestion.  I glanced at the pharmacy table where a humidifier was whispering softly as it spewed mentholated mist.  It had been in the lift pod with the other supplies.

“Throat?”

Four fingers.  Five fingers.  Back to four.  

“Damn,” I winced, reaching for the cup of ice chips on the nightstand and spooning one between his cracked lips.  “Better?”

Exhausted eyes slid shut in relief.  A 'thumbs up.'  We’d tried the prescription throat drops Dr. Richards had included but they made Keane sick to his stomach.  Speaking of…

“Stomach?”

One finger.  Good.  Neither one of us wanted a repeat of that episode.

“Sneezing?”

Two fingers.  Three fingers.  Two fingers.  Tickly but not quite sneezy yet.  Acceptable.

“Aches?”

Four fingers.  The mountain of supplies had included several heated gel packs but I hadn’t wanted to risk them increasing his fever.  Instead, I was alternating acetaminophen and ibuprofen in addition to the Tamiflu.  A check of the tablet showed that his next dose of ibuprofen was in a few minutes, which probably accounted for the four fingers.

“You’ll get more meds soon,” I told him, watching as his thumb came up and head moved in a subtle nod of acknowledgement.  He hadn’t opened his eyes since the ice chip.  “More ice?”  Another nod and mouth opening like a baby bird as I slipped the spoon inside.

If I didn’t know how sick he actually was, I would have given Keane a hard time about succumbing to ‘man flu.’  But I hadn’t forgotten that I was sitting at the bedside of a hardened criminal, one bad-assed S.O.B. that was a key player in the Agency.  Despite his haggard appearance, his reputation spoke volumes.  And I was a front-row witness to how hard he was battling.

Tapping my cortical into the bedroom’s monitoring system, I checked the infrared scanner for an update on his fever.  Down a degree.  This was good. 

“I met Sofia in the kitchen,” I toned, leaning back in the plush office chair and propping my socked feet on the edge of the bed.  “She makes a hell of a sandwich.  Even if she’s not very personable.”

The tablet flashed, a message popping onto the screen.

Android, it said. 

I blinked from the tablet to the patient.  “Keane?  Did you–...”

Bleary black eyes blinked open to regard me, followed by a smug smirk.

Wow.  This guy really was powerful.  But the darkening smudges under his eyes told me that the effort had cost him. 

“Your housekeeper - one of your housekeepers - is an android?  Huh,” I leaned my head back and studied the ceiling.  Briefly I wondered what it would be like to have this much power and money.  Would it be worth it?... worth all the illegal activity and constant danger?

Keane’s hand came up, pointer finger extended, and made a slow circle in the air.  Then he reached for a waiting stack of tissues and buried his red nose in them for a tired, “htsieh’sTSHEu!”

“All of your housekeepers are androids?” I guessed at the meaning of his gesture.  

A nod as he gave a damp blow, followed by the finger-circle gesture again.

“All of your staff are androids??” 

Thumbs up. 

“Shit.” My mind was officially blown.

My curse was met with a shrug of his shoulders and a chesty cough.

The rest of the night and the following morning continued in the same fashion, neither one of us getting much sleep due to the schedule of medications and Keane’s nagging symptoms.  I set my cortical alarms to go off at the required intervals, ensuring that I didn’t doze off.

Keane coughed and sneezed and shivered and dozed and coughed and sneezed some more. 

By the time Dr. Richards’ number flashed on the large vid screen on the opposite wall around 11:45 a.m., the area around the bed looked like a bomb went off. Detritus of tissue balls, half-full mugs, empty gel packets and electrolyte bottles were scattered around the bed like shrapnel.  But Keane’s temperature had remained under control since that alarming spike, and we hadn’t missed a single dose of his meds. 

“Thorn,” Richards barked from the vid in his signature bullet-like manner.  “Status.”

I slipped a hand behind the sick man’s shoulders, helping to prop him up against the tufted headboard so the doc could get a good look at him.  “He’s lost his voice, sir, so I’ll have to answer as best I can.”

“Laryngitis?” The doctor’s brows drew together suspiciously, peering at me like he wasn’t sure I was telling the truth because he hadn’t anticipated that outcome. 

“He’d tell you himself, sir,” I straightened the covers before sitting down and turning my chair to face the vid.  “If he could.”  A glance at Keane showed him pointing to me and nodding. 

“I’ll send something over,” Richards waved his hand in the air as if shooing a mosquito.  “Well, ferryman, I don’t know how you’re going to be able to answer my questions.  Thorn is the one who knows how he feels.” 

“Uh, well, we’ve got a system,” I fidgeted nervously, glancing at Keane for permission.  He had another set of tissues at his nose, massaging with eyes at half-mast.  After a second or two of his attempt to rub the tickle into submission, he blinked more alertly and nodded in my direction before inhaling sharply. 

 “h’GZKtchH’ue!... ah-GTSChieu!- hck’gYEUUschht!...”

Dr. Richards lifted his chin.  “Alright, still sneezing.  What else?”

We went through the routine: 

Headache: three

Chest: two-three-two

Throat: solid four

Stomach: one-zero-one

Aches: three

“Fever?” Richards snapped.  

I checked the infrared system.  “101.4”  

“Better,” the red-headed man nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You’ve been documenting it?  What’s the range over the last 8 hours?”

I told him, reading from the tablet: “103.6 during the worst spike, around 3:00 a.m. 100.9 thirty minutes after this morning’s intersecting dose of acetaminophen and Tamiflu.  He's due for another dose of ibuprofen any minute now, so his current temp will come down a bit after.”  As if the doctor didn't know that.  Mentally I rolled my eyes at myself. 

“Good,” the word punched the air, those green-veined hazel eyes piercingly sharp even digitally.  “Thorn you’ve wrangled your ferryman into an adequate nurse.  Well done.” 

I bristled at the comment, as if I hadn’t had anything to do with how well the ill man was faring.  But Keane lifted a ‘thumbs up’ at the vid screen, chapped lips stretched in a wan smile, and I swallowed my protest.  

“The rest of the tests are either inconclusive or irrelevant.  So far it’s just a bad flu, but based on the frequency of your coughing and sneezing I suspect a brewing upper respiratory infection.  We need to keep it from worsening into bronchitis or pneumonia.  I’ll check back tomorrow,” Dr. Richards leaned back and crossed his arms.  “Unless there’s a crisis before then, just keep on as you are.  Remember: strictly scheduled doses. Hydration and fever control.  Follow up in two days.”

Both our thumbs went up, and the screen snapped to black. 

Immediately, Keane’s head thunked back against the headboard, heaving a weary, wheezy sigh. 

“Yeah, that guy’s a real peach,” I muttered, belatedly gathering up as much of the mess as I could reach and chucking it into the small bin I’d brought from the bathroom.  “If you had working vocal cords I’d ask how you two ended up being such pals, but…” a quick glance at him showed one scarred brow lifted in bemusement.  “Probably the less I know, the better, right?”

Keane’s dark eyes regarded me thoughtfully. I didn’t like it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I hissed, dirty mugs clanking together as I hooked as many on my fingers as possible.  “I can smell you plotting.”

His shoulders bounced with thin, squeaky laughter that degenerated into a painful bout of wracking coughs. 

“Shit,” I muttered as I watched him curl into the mattress as it shook him.  “Don’t die on me now, man.  I’ll be back with some more soup and tea.”

I stalked away with a scowl, listening to him finish coughing only to sneeze a gargantuan “hyieh-G’zSCHTtt!-euuuu…” that echoed off of every flat surface. 

I should probably change the sheets today, I mused as I set the mugs in the sink. That last spraying sneeze warranted it all by itself, let alone the copious hacking and sweating Keane had suffered since sliding into bed at just before 1:00 in the morning. And who knows if these sheets were the same ones he'd gotten sick in over the past couple of days.  When you're sick, it feels nice to have fresh sheets.  The man was so miserable, I wanted to do anything I could to make it better.  If I could find the linen closet… maybe in the master bathroom?...

Sofia was M.I.A. so I prowled the house poking in all the closets until I found a stack of folded sheets and towels in the laundry area off the kitchen.  Carrying them back to the sickroom, I set them on the office chair and gathered up more dishes.  Keane was curled on his scarred side with his back to me, one hand fisted at his chest and the other tucked under his cheek, snoring softly. 

Finally the poor guy was getting some rest. 

Not even registering the lazy smile on my face, I exited the bedroom.  Back in the kitchen I programmed the appliances for soup and tea to be prepped and kept hot for the next hour, making myself another sandwich that was disappointingly not as good as the one android-Sofia had prepared.  Although, to be fair, it would make sense that a human couldn’t be expected to make as perfect of a sandwich as an android. 

Back at Keane’s side, I eyed the stack of sheets and decided not to wake him: he needed all the sleep he could get. I set the sheets on a low dresser and downed my own bottle of electrolyte fluid and packet of vitamin gel, still holding out hope that I could avoid contagion.  I was pretty sure that if I caught this bug I wouldn’t be getting my own former-ferryman / private-nurse, no matter what numbers were currently sitting in my bank account.

Mentally weighing the risk of skipping the upcoming dose of ibuprofen with the benefit of him getting some sleep, I decided I'd play it by ear and see how long his sleep lasted.  I could keep an eye on his temperature through the infrared.  

It had been 26 hours since I'd last slept. That was fine.  Ferry drivers often had to go without sleep for 48 hours or more.  I knew I couldn't last 72, but I was confident I could make it at least 60.  After that?  Well, we'd cross that bridge when we got there.

What I needed was to keep my mind occupied.

Glancing at the sleeping man thoughtfully, I tapped into my cortical and focused on the vid screen.  So far the kitchen and the guest bathroom had responded to me perfectly, but I could tell that I didn’t have access to all the protocols in the house.  Keane’s belief that I was mentally stronger than I believed nagged at me. 

Was I?...  Could I?...

With a series of backdoors and illicit codes, I hacked the vid screen. 

Setting the sound to ‘mute’ and enabling the captions, I propped my heels onto the mattress and settled back into the luxurious office chair for one of my favorite films with a smug smile on my face.  Granted, normally hacking a vid screen was grade-school level stuff, but I had just confirmed that Thorn, Keane R. did NOT have grade-school level protocols in his penthouse.  At. All.  His vid screen had been the most sophisticated protocol I’d ever encountered. 

And I’d hacked it.  Easily.

Quickly glancing at the bed, I did a double take. Ice flooded my veins, my mouth suddenly dry.

Keane was looking over his shoulder at me, dark eyes traveling between the vid screen and my face with an unreadable expression. 

Shit.

“I, uh…” My feet dropped to the floor, rubbing suddenly sweaty palms on my thighs.  “You seemed to finally be sleeping and I was bored so I…I–...”

A wide, lazy smile slowly broke across his scarred face.  With a calculating glint in those dark, dangerous eyes, the smile turned predatory.  He lifted a ‘thumbs up’ between us and I could almost hear the trap snapping shut. 

Good boy, I almost heard him say in my mind.  

My heart pounded.

Oh god.  What had I gotten myself into now??

 

Edited January 5, 2022 by starpollen

[EveP]

Wow! What an afternoon you're giving me. I wasn't supposed to sit here and read at all, or... I was supposed to proofread a completely different text, but couldn't stop reading this one. 

[Juto]

I came for the worldbuilding but I’m definitely staying for the couple too. 
This is brilliant. 

[starpollen]

@EveP @Juto I'm so glad you're enjoying it! These two have kind of become my new obsession over the last few days.  I've got 2 more parts written and working on a third and having to stop myself from just slapping all of it on here at once!... 

No sneezing in this part, but the next part will make up for it.

 

 

Part 5 - Asher

Keane slept off and on for the rest of the afternoon.  Due to his smug satisfaction at my hacking of his vid screen, I didn’t miss the dose of ibuprofen, continuing to alternate it with acetaminophen every two hours. It kept his temperature hovering around 101. When he was awake I plied him with cup after cup of tea and soup and endless bottles of electrolytes and vitamin packs.  When he was asleep I made a mental game of trying to hack into several protocols around the house, pleased with myself each time I succeeded.  

Around 3:00 p.m., as promised, Dr. Richards sent over a prescription corticosteroid inhalant for the sick man’s laryngitis, which went without a hitch. He also included a muscle relaxer.

Minutes after the first pill, we discovered Keane was allergic to it. 

Those moments where hives broke out over his scarred skin and those dark eyes telegraphed panic as his lips swelled and his throat closed up… I think I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life.  Thank god for my EpiPen.  

A frantic call to Dr. Richards had him exiting the lift within 20 minutes, trailed by his trusty nurse hauling a wagon full of equipment. 

I backed myself against a wall, sweating and shaking. Unblinking, I watched as they descended on the bed: the nurse set up an I.V. and oxygen mask while the doctor administered several injections to his wheezing, terrified patient.

“Quick thinking,” he praised me later while the nurse was in my chair monitoring Keane’s blood pressure and pulse. “You just randomly keep epinephrine in your back pocket?”

“Tree nut allergy,” I whispered, unable to tear my gaze away from Keane’s flushed face beneath the mask, brow pinched with pain and residual panic.  “What–…” I had to swallow to get the words out, clenching and unclenching my hands. “What do I need to do now?”

“Besides feeling proud that you saved a man’s life?” Dr. Richards’ hand came down on my shoulder, fingers grinding into my knotted muscles. Somehow it was grounding instead of condescending, helping me take the first full - if shaky - breath in the last hour.  “Maddox,” he used my name for the first time; I didn’t realize he even knew it.  “You’re doing good here.  You’re doing all the right things.  Breathe.  You’ll get him through this.” 

I swallowed hard and nodded vaguely, still keeping my eyes locked on the man in the bed.  I wasn’t sure when his health and comfort had become the most important thing but, suddenly, it was. 

The medical team stayed another three hours.  When they finally packed up to leave, Richards added another arsenal to the pharmacy table. 

“Normally an anaphylaxis patient spends 6-12 hours in hospital,” he toned, lining up the new medications on the borrowed nightstand and running fingers through his dark red hair.  “But all the tests indicate that the treatments have flushed the drug out of his system and therefore shouldn’t trigger a relapse.  In any case, you’ve got enough epinephrine here to jolt an elephant.” The doctor pushed his black-rimmed glasses further up on his nose and peered at me through them. “I have another critical patient I’m treating or else I’d stay longer. But I can’t. Right now Thorn is stable and you’re doing a better job than my nurse.”

I blinked at him in surprise. “Uh. Thanks.”  It was lucky that she had been out of the room when he said it.

“But if you start to experience symptoms, if you feel ill at all…”  The man suddenly cut off, studying me intently.  “Have you slept?”

From my position in the office chair at Keane’s bedside, elbows digging into my thighs with my fists pressed to my mouth, I flicked a glance up at the doctor before going back to staring intently at the man asleep on the wide bed.  Keane’s color was almost normal. The steroids had opened his lungs and sinuses so he was breathing better than he had all day, and as a result he’d fallen into an exhausted sleep.  The oxygen mask was still over his face, and I found a strange hypnosis in watching it fog and unfog as he breathed. 

“I’m fine,” I heard myself mutter, reaching out to adjust blankets that didn’t need adjusting, even as weariness dragged at my spine. Normally I would have a lot more hours in me, easy, but this crisis had sapped almost every reserve I had.

“You mentioned a tree nut allergy.  Any other health conditions?” 

“Are you my doctor now, too?” I asked, not intending to sound rude but realizing I probably did. To cover, I chuffed a weak laugh. “I don’t think I can afford you.”

“Maddox.” Bullets, as usual. “Other conditions.”

“Uh… touch of asthma?…” I rubbed the back of my neck self consciously.  

“Right,” the other man took it in stride.  “That means you’re at-risk.  I’ll start you on your own TamiFlu - I should have done it already but I didn’t have authorization.” Pulling a box of the capsules from the wagon, he popped one from the blister pack and pressed it into my hand. “The Agency has invested a lot in Thorn here, so the Powers That Be have dictated continuous monitoring.  For some reason he wants you.  He’s made it very clear there’s to be no one else allowed in the penthouse, but obviously that’s unrealistic.  At some point you’re going to need to sleep, and by the look of you that point is quickly approaching.” 

I downed the pill with the last swallow from my latest bottle of electrolyte fluid. I couldn’t argue with him; my eyes felt like sand trucks had dumped a beach’s worth in them. 

Those piercing hazel eyes stared at me intently.  “We’re going to have to bring somebody in. I’ve known Thorn a long time.  If he trusts you this much this quickly, he’d let you choose who should spell you. So. Who do you want.”  

I flicked another glance - this time a little annoyed - at the doctor’s sharp eyes before focusing back on my charge. If Keane didn’t want strangers in his place I needed to honor that.  I didn’t want to violate his trust.  “I don’t–” 

“You’ll do him no favors if you pass out,” Richards reminded me. “You need sleep.  At least four hours.  Who do I send for.

Four hours of sleep.  I closed my eyes and dug my fingers into the sockets.  Every muscle in my body longed to lie down.

“Uh,” I blinked open, rational thought elusive. Who did I know in the Agency that would do exactly as they were told with no questions?... A name came out: “Jaston.”  

“Excuse me?”

“A fellow ferryman,” I cleared my throat as I shifted in the chair.  “Jaston Kurt. I trust him.”

Jaston Kurt was the older kid who had given me the contact for the Agency seven years ago. We'd kept in contact over the years, seeing each other at birthdays and backyard cookouts with other friends. The last I’d spoken to him, he’d just been promoted to a Dot.  The man was a little weird but he was loyal to the Agency and obedient to a fault.  If anyone could step into this Penthouse Of Crazy and not steal the silver or shank me in my sleep?  It would be him.  

A short silence.  “He’s on his way.”  Then the doctor left, taking the nurse with him.  

To attempt to describe Jast’s face when I met him at the lift would do it an injustice. 

“Y’shittin’ me, cock?” he breathed in his thick Mancunian accent, golden eyes wide as his head bobbled, taking everything in.  “How d’ya land this cozy gig?” 

“Wrong place, wrong time,” I groaned, scrubbing a hand over my face in an attempt to keep myself upright.  “You got instructions?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved me off, loping around the living/dining space like a panther, his dark skin catching the glow of the wall sconces as he passed.  “Sit like a piffy on’a rock whilst you hav’a snooze. Make sure th’tosser don’t peg it or somefin’ else mingin’. Oi. This gig?  Mint.” 

Translating Jaston Kurt required the capability to fire on all cylinders on a good day, which I was not having at the moment.  In fact, listening to him was giving me a headache.

“Right,” I growled, gesturing to him to follow me to the master bedroom where Keane slept like the dead, flat on his back, exhaustion trebled by illness, trauma, and steroid crash. “Here,” I whispered, holding out a hand to the office chair.  “Just sit here for a few hours so I can get some sleep.  No wandering around.  Don’t touch anything.”  I didn’t think he would, but it didn’t hurt to say it. 

“Yeah, yeah.  Penthouse.  Cameras.  I’m trackin’.  Oi,” Jaston’s brows rose, that golden gaze taking in Keane’s lean form even with the lingering oxygen mask and I.V.  “E’s dead fit, innit ‘e?”

Recognizing the glint in the Brit’s eyes if not the actual translation, my resulting growl could rival lions.  “This is a JOB. Got it… cock?” I leveled a withering stare, daring him to challenge me.  I couldn’t explain this sudden possessiveness over a man who was still basically a stranger, but I couldn't help it, either.

Jast had the good sense to look contrite.  “You’re talkin’ bobbins, mate,” he blushed, rubbing a hand over the shorn curls of his head.  “No need t’have a right cob-on.  I’m jus’ chuffed about th’gig.  You go do what’s needs doin, a’right? I’ll be just ‘ere,” he dropped into the chair, fingers laced at the back of his head while grinning up at me with his trademark dazzling smile.  “I’m buzzin’ ‘ere, I am.  Swear down, I’ll do right by our kid.”

I closed my eyes as he came to the end of that nonsense.  God, I desperately needed some sleep… 

Pinching the bridge of my nose as the headache increased, I left the erstwhile Jaston to watch over Keane while he slept.  Despite the appearance of these odd protective feelings, I did trust the man to do exactly what he was told.  

A shower.  Everything would be better after a shower.

And it was.  That shower… I was tempted to sign over my soul to the Agency just for the chance to have a shower like that every day.  Setting my cortical alarm for four hours, I tumbled face-down on the plush bed and was immediately asleep.

 

Edited January 5, 2022 by starpollen

[Kolen]

REEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

AHHH I'M SO HAPPY I CHECKED THE FORUM TODAY AND NOT YESTERDAY!!!!

@starpollen you're so amazing 😍😍😍😍😍 

I love your writing, and (I'm pretty sure everyone irl is concerned because of all the weird man squealing but IDC!!) You are SO AMAZING!!

😃😃

[Reader]

Have mercy!!! I am blown away! The details are out of this world! I’m just basking in it all and wishing I could read it again for the first time to re-feel those sections of the story where I was thrilled, intrigued, scared, astounded, flabbergasted; parts where my heart melted or where I laughed, etc! WOW! The characters are fantastic and the h/c/angst is beautiful.

 Thanks for posting chapters back to back! What a treat! Gonna wait to read this newest chapter and pair it with the next for a double treat! 

[EveP]

Again, I should be working, but... 💖

[Kolen]

On 1/2/2022 at 7:46 AM, starpollen said:

Yes, yes.  Plotty, angsty, miserable sick men.   I've been in the mood for h/c and fever lately, so.  I write what I want to read.    This is progressing pretty fast.  If you've got ideas or suggestions, I'm all ears!

okAy. Since this was an option..

could you add in some /fever induced/ flirting ~?  

apparently I am craving fluff.. You don't gotta, though

[starpollen]

Apparently I just can't stop... @EveP The distractions continue. #sorrynotsorry  

@Kolen I'll see if I can work that in.  Great suggestion! 

@Reader I'm so incredibly flattered by your coments.  Wow.   Thank you so much!

Hope you guys enjoy this next part.

 

Part 6 - Asher

When my inner alarm went off four hours later, I expected to feel awake, alert, and - if not quite 100% - definitely ready for Round 2.  Instead, I was even more exhausted.  The light headache I’d gone to sleep with had grown to borderline-migraine proportions. 

I found Jaston ‘watching footie on the vid.,’ as he informed me.  No surprise.  Keane was curled facing us, his scars standing out starkly under three days’ growth of dark stubble.  Oxygen was apparently no longer needed, the machine tucked away in a corner.  He was still out like a light.

“Oi,” Jaston whispered with a glance at our snoring patient. “What it is, right, swear down ‘e was a mardy git when ‘e woke an’ found me here insteada you. But we fetteled right up when I ‘splained you was sleepin’ fer th’ first time in days.  He seemed proper chuffed a’ that.  I gave ‘im a brew an’ ‘e went right back t’sleep, ‘e did, like a lamb.”

“Thanks.”  I didn’t have the energy for more.

“A’right then, cock. Gotta chip it’s hair washin’ time. See ya?” Jaston gave another toothy grin.

“Yeah,” I dropped into the chair the moment he stepped away.  All I wanted was for my chirpy friend to leave.  Ever since he’d arrived I had been feeling overwhelmed by his energy, strangely territorial and unsettled despite my lingering exhaustion and the pounding in my head. “Thanks, again,” I managed out of politeness, leaning over Keane and adjusting blankets that didn’t need adjusting.  

I felt Jaston’s golden gaze on my back, and could imagine his knowing smirk. “Cheers, mate.” Listening to him getting into the lift and disappearing was the equivalent of a Xanax: all the tension drained out of me in seconds.  Without thinking, I slipped one of my hands into the lax one closest to me, bending our elbows to bring Keane’s scarred knuckles to my lips. 

“You okay?” I whispered against his warm skin. I didn’t expect a response: the man was OUT, snoring softly but determinedly, a line between his brows that spoke to the serious business he was making of sleep.  

My gaze raked him from head to toe: dark brown-black hair growing in all over his head, ribbons of scars trailing from a ruined ear down below the collar of his cotton long-sleeved T-shirt.  The fabric outlined wide shoulders and a leanly muscled chest. I remembered his trim waist and hips that filled out to muscled thighs and calves.  Big feet with high arches.  I could picture in my mind the skin and scars underneath his clothes, and realized that I was getting to know this man’s body intimately… without really knowing him. Other than his mental abilities when it came to ferry protocols and what I could guess of his reputation and importance to the Agency, I was essentially ogling a stranger. 

A glistening wetness around the rims of his raw nostrils caught my eye. I pulled a deluxe tissue from the box on the nightstand and gently pressed it to the underside of his nose, being as careful as I could not to irritate the agitated nares or wake him as I wicked the moisture away. Then I forced myself to tuck his limp hand under the blankets while checking his temperature using the infrared. 

102.1  Oh. That wasn’t good.

The doctor and nurse had administered the ibuprofen and acetaminophen doses while they were here, but I knew we’d missed the 8:00 p.m. dose. Keane had been sleeping and so had I.  

The sick man was supposed to have taken an intersecting dose of ibuprofen and Tamiflu at 10:00 p.m., but I had been asleep and Jaston had made no record of it.  He’d told me that he had given Keane “a brew,” which I think meant ‘tea’ in Mancunian but he hadn’t mentioned anything about medicine.  I was torn: do I give a potentially double dose?  Do I risk skipping a dose?  We were two hours behind in the schedule...

Bending over and resting my throbbing head in my hands, I groaned. I hadn’t had enough sleep for this.  

I debated calling Jaston to double check the skipped dose but I didn’t think my head could take another attempt at translating his inane babble.  Instead, I called Dr. RIchards, entering the ridiculous code word at the prompt: ‘eggplant.’

“Richards,” he answered with his usual bark.

“It’s Asher Maddox,” I breathed, massaging my forehead.  “Kurt Jaston - the ferryman who stepped in for a bit - may or may not have administered Mr. Thorn’s evening dose of acetaminophen and TamiFlu. I’m pretty sure he didn’t.  But… Do I risk a double dose?  Or do I risk skipping it?  We’re over two hours behind if he didn’t do it, so–…”

I realized I was babbling.  God, all I wanted was to lie down.  My head felt like it was about to explode, joints aching, a lethargy sapping my energy so much that–…

Oh.  Shit. 

Snapping upright, I blurted out, “And I think I’m coming down with it.”

There was a heavy silence.  

“Symptoms.”

And I told him.  The headache, the aches, the lack of energy.  Reluctantly, I checked the infrared. 

“Keane’s temp is 102.1  Mine is… 101.6.” Even as I reported it, the infrared changed: 101.7 and climbing.

The doctor cursed, low and hard.  

“... bed with him…” I heard, as if through a long tunnel. 

“Wh-what?” I mumbled, bent over into my own lap. I suddenly felt too exhausted to breathe, let alone move.

“...the other side of the bed…” I managed to catch, even as the headache ramped up a couple of degrees and the infrared displayed a similar rise in temperature.  “He won’t mind, and neither will you if I don’t miss my guess.”

My increasingly fevered brain pieced together that the good doctor thought it was a good idea to have both his patients in the same bed.  And - now that I thought about it - that made absolute sense.  Vaguely, a small part of my brain admitted that the idea of sharing a sickbed with a virtual stranger making absolute sense might have been the fever talking. But I was too focused on the need to be horizontal to care.

I mumbled that my temp was now 101.9, and Richards cursed again. “Be there in twenty.” The doctor snapped the call shut with two parting bullets, “Bed. Now.” and I was more than happy to comply.

Staggering around the end of the huge bed, I shucked my shoes and jeans and hoodie, crawling between the cool sheets clad in only my rumpled boxers with a moaning sign of relief. I barely registered the shocked face of the man on the other pillow; I was feeling bloody awful and welcomed sleep. 

The next few hours were a blur.

I was so cold.  There was a huge source of delicious warmth to my left that I repeatedly tried to curl against, but strange hands kept pulling me away. I coughed and shivered. Every once in a while I sneezed my characteristic fittish sets, “...isht-isht-isht-isht!... h’IHshhTaahh!” nuzzling a damp nose into soft tissues that someone pressed into my hand before I sneezed some more.  But it was mostly about the aches and the exhaustion.  

I felt terrible.  My throat was a desert: no amount of ice chips could slake my ravenous thirst, but when a cup of water was pressed to my lips I choked on it.  

I just wanted that forbidden warmth: every time I could sneak next to it I immediately felt calm, at peace.  There was a hard chest that I rested my throbbing head against, a soothing heartbeat under my ear and a steady breath - if a little congested - that melted every bone in my aching body.  

But the best part was that, when I managed to wriggle near?... long arms snaked around me, pulling me close. I felt protected. Secure. Safe.

Those hated hands kept pulling me away. 

Finally, I dragged bleary eyes open to see Dr. Richards peering down at me through his black-rimmed glasses.

“You finally with us.” he asked with his usual bluntness, one hand on my shoulder and the other fiddling with an I.V. that was running into my arm.

“Kgm,” I grunted, wanting only to go back to sleep, shifting until my legs found cool areas of the sheets to soothe my burning skin. My head was muzzy with fever and congestion.

“Maddox,” the doctor punched in his typical bullet-like manner. “Are you with us.”

I sighed, unable to form thoughts into words. Sensing that blissful warmth nearby, my body was already turning toward it…

“No,” Dr. Richards’ voice was strident, using both hands to pull me back. “Your fever is too high. Thorn’s fever is also spiking.  You need to keep your distance.”

Something in my foggy brain registered.  Keane.  Fever.  I’m making it worse…  

I autocorrected so wildly that I nearly fell off the bed.  If the doctor’s hands hadn’t been holding onto my shoulders, I would have rolled right off and knocked my head on the nightstand.

“Shit.” the redhead snapped as he steadied me. “For fuck’s sake, Maddox, get a hold of yourself.” 

All I could do was groan, my whole body aching, head hurting so badly I was nauseous.  Or maybe that was just the flu. 

“… he… okay?” the squeaky, croaking voice behind me punctured through the haze, followed by a soothing touch to my back.  “Ash-er…?”

“He’ll be fine,” Richards barked.  “Lay back, Thorn, and stop talking.  Between the two of you I’m earning a year’s worth of Agency salary in one week.”  The hand on my back disappeared, and I moaned at its loss. “Don’t worry, boys. This time next week you can tangle yourselves together to your hearts’ content, but for now, behave.  Maddox, don’t make me put you in the guest room. It’s a lot easier having you both in one place.”

The guest room. The memory of that incredible shower had me moaning again, this time with longing.  Steaming hot water chasing away my chills, aquamassage pounding into my aching muscles… It sounded like heaven right about now.

I must have said something out loud because Dr. Richards gave a snorting chuckle.  “I highly doubt you’d last five minutes before passing out.  Maybe in a couple of days. Here,” and he began dosing me with various liquids and pills.  “Do you want your friend to come back and keep an eye on you both?  That Kurt fellow?”

Friend. Kurt. Jaston?...  Oh god, no.

I groaned out loud, shaking my head so hard that lights flashed behind my aching eyes.  Curling onto my right side, I swallowed convulsively as the nausea flared into a real threat.

The doctor laughed, this time full-on. “Good, because one call with him was enough to last me a lifetime.  I couldn’t understand a goddamned word.”  Placing a cool hand to my hot head, he spoke more gently, “You’re looking a little green there, Maddox.  Want something for that?”

Oh god. “Please.” 

Within minutes I was feeling a lot better.  Whatever Dr. Richards had injected into my I.V. relieved my aches and nausea so that I was floating on a woozy cloud. I would have easily dropped back to sleep, if it wasn’t for one thing… 

“...isht-isht-isht-isht!...”  Fumbling a bit, I pawed in the sheets for the corner of the luxury-brand tissue box that was somewhere between Keane and I.  Finally locating it, I plucked a few and buried my twitching nose in the plush pile. “...i’isht-isshtt!-hh’iiiisshtt!... h’IHshhTchuu!” 

I was starting to sneeze in earnest.  More congested than relieved by the ticklish fit, I dropped the hand fisting the damp tissues to the bed, exhaling tiredly through my mouth. But that made me start coughing.  Not the chesty, wet hacking that still punched up from Keane’s side of the bed with alarming frequency, but nagging enough to make my chest feel uncomfortably tight. I rubbed at my sternum as if that would ease it. Blearily I wondered if the doc had a spare inhaler nearby. 

As if reading my mind, one appeared in my line of vision, caged in Richards’ long fingers.  It wasn’t mine: mine was cracked plastic and generic brand; this one was name-brand and new.

Struggling up on one elbow, I took a hit and held it, immediately feeling my lungs open wide.  Air.  Falling back to the pillow with a long sigh of relief, I clutched the miraculous device to my chest.  I hadn’t felt this clear in ages.  It occurred to me that - since I hadn’t been able to afford a doctor’s visit in so long - I hadn’t known that I needed an update on my prescription.  

“Better?” Richards asked, although I’m sure the answer was written on my face.

“Miles,” I breathed, shaking the instrument and taking one more hit of medication that went so deep into my lungs I thought it might hit my kidneys.  Speaking of…

Reluctantly, I communicated to the doc that I needed to use the facilities.  I had been fortunate that Keane had needed to do so when the medical team was nearby: once at the posh clinic and once during the anaphylaxis scare. So, when Dr. Richards took hold of one of my arms and his nurse the other - bearing nearly all of my weight as they shuffled me into the master bath - I realized how weak I was. 

Damn, but the flu could take it out of you.

I managed to handle business on my own, the nurse hovering just outside the door while Doc Richards was asking Keane if he was next. I had another fittish sneezing set that required some toilet paper to clean up - feeling like sandpaper compared to the designer-brand tissues Keane’s company was affording - and by the time they lowered me back into bed I was ready to sleep for a year. 

Except…

“...isht-isht-isht-isht!--issht!--issht!...” Reaching again for the tissues, I managed to get my hands on a fresh one before the inevitable, “h’IHIIzzTt’ah!” that ended the fit.  I wished I could ignore the now ever-present low-grade tickle in my sinuses and go back to sleep.  But my nose was running now; the sneezes had eased some of the congestion but only enough to give me a ticklish case of the sniffles. 

“This your usual M.O., Maddox?” Richards asked with a wry smirk.

Regarding him confusedly, I rubbed my nose, still itchy, against my wrist and blinked back the sticky feeling of fatigue.  Another sneeze was starting to build up already.

“I’ll send over some more tissue boxes,” he chuckled at my contorting facial expressions. “And I think we can program one of the housekeepers to take over basic caretaker duties for the next couple of days.  I know Thorn was worried about his fever spiking and the protocols going crazy, but I think we’re out of the woods where that is concerned.  Unless,” the doctor crossed his arms, the white lab coat pulling a little. “Do we need to be worried about that with you?”

Before I could answer, the sneezes took over. “...isht-isht-isht-isht!...ishtch’u-chu!-stchu!-... eh?... h’IHshhTaahh!”  Thankfully I still had the albeit-damp tissue already in my hand.

But Dr. Richards - young as he was - would not be put off.  “Maddox.” Bullets flying. “ Do I need to sedate both of you?  I’d prefer not to, as that will prevent your bodies from expelling congestion and germs and will increase both the severity and length of the illness.  But if you think you might lose control of your cortical…”

Wait. What?... 

The doctor actually believed that I was on Thorn, Keane R.’s level of psychogenic power??...  

I blinked at him, not quite sure I understood him correctly.  The congestion and fever and general malaise were derailing my mental faculties with alarming alacrity.  All I could manage in response was the oh-so-eloquent, “Huh?”

“Do you pose a danger,” the doctor spoke slowly and seriously, staring into my eyes without blinking. “Do we need to take precautions.”

Images of the last few days assailed my fevered brain: Keane and I tossing control of the ferry back and forth like a set of keys, me hacking the ferry to speed him to the clinic, my game of hacking protocols throughout the penthouse with surprising success…

Blinking into that intense, green-veined-hazel gaze, I answered the only way I could, whispering hoarsely, “I don’t know.”

Edited January 19, 2022 by starpollen

[brownsasha11]

Man alive your writing continues to amaze me. Really enjoying the speed of updates. To quote EveP “I should be working”. Keep up the good work

[Serendipity]

Oooooh, I'm loving this so far! The world building is so so good, can't wait for more!

[EveP]

1 hour ago, starpollen said:

The distractions continue. #sorrynotsorry  

I don't mind the least - it's much more fun than proofreading texts about medical equipment for diabetics.

[Juto]

YESYESYES 

Distract away please. This is wonderful!! 

[Kolen]

Yayyayyayyayyay!!!!!  

 who got da skills? @starpollen 😍 💗

[starpollen]

@brownsasha11 @Serendipity @Kolen @Juto @EveP We are the best group of campers ever!    We've got our tents and our s'mores and sleeping bags and the alcohol of your choice... and tacos.  We have ALL the 🌮 tacos. We'll just camp out together in this universe with these guys for the foreseeable future.  

This part is a little different - Keane decided he needed to talk.   So that's what this is.  Sorry it's so short!    Back to our narrator/protagonist in the next part... 

 

 

Part 7 - Keane

Getting out of prison was guaranteed to make anyone’s day, despite the fact that I was coming down with something.  But one look at my ferry driver and my day was made even better.

Asher Maddox was eight kinds of adorable: tousled sandy-blond hair that curled just a bit at the ends, dark blue eyes - almost navy - set above a cute button nose and wide mouth.  His skin was that golden kind that tanned easily, naturally glowing.  He was clad in worn jeans that emphasized his long legs and a rumpled hoodie that - combined with his mussed hair - gave him a sexy ‘slept-in’ look.  But what really attracted me was the strength I felt in his mind as he controlled the ferry with surprising ease.  I was pretty sure he was unaware of just how powerful he was, how rare his abilities.

I knew, because one of my jobs with the Agency was to scout for someone exactly like him. 

It was a testament to both the bottomless arrogance and bureaucratic ineptitude that was typical of such organizations that he’d worked for the Agency for nearly six years - had been right under their noses - and the Powers That Be had no idea.  Granted, it seemed like Asher himself wasn’t aware.  That cluelessness combined with his snarky yet sweet disposition, and I was a goner. 

I hadn’t intended for our second meeting to be when I was in a state of near-collapse from the worst flu of my life.  When I realized I needed Sam Richards - the Agency’s star doctor and also, luckily, my best friend - my cortical had accessed the ferry hub and requested Asher Maddox on instinct. 

So far, he’d proven my instincts correct at every turn.  

Asher was intelligent, focused, thoughtful, considerate, generous, a natural caretaker with a biting sense of humor, all wrapped in that very attractive package.  Just having him near made me feel relaxed, safe. Meeting him was such serendipity: I was both celebrating and cringing in equal measure. 

Celebration:  His personality was everything I ever wanted.  Not to mention that his potential power would be invaluable to the Agency, and part of me was thrilled at the thought of us working together.  The idea that someone else got me, understood what I felt, could do what I could do... was a bone-deep craving I hadn't realized existed.  I craved someone who could shoulder some of the burden, who was a true partner in every sense of the word.

Cringing: He was meeting me at my worst, disgustingly sick, sweaty and snotty and gross. My scars still made me more than a little self conscious, especially in the dating department.  But more than that… there was a part of me that wanted to protect him from this life and the dangers - both physical and mental - that it posed.  I didn’t think I could handle it if something happened to him - like had happened to me more than once - to put scars on that surfer-perfect skin.  Just seeing him sick made my gut clench.

Turning my head, I let myself drink in the sight of him.  Asher Maddox was my kind of perfect.  I think subconsciously I knew he was the one from the moment we met.  The Agency had been searching for months - and if I’m completely honest, I had been searching for years - for this man.

Even lying next to me in bed, burning with fever and sneezing in these adorable little fits, he was all I could think about.

I was coming off a fever spike when I heard Sam’s barked question.

“Do we need to take precautions.”

We all had reason to worry when I got this sick: my psychogenic abilities had garnered me the kind of position within the Agency that gave me access to multiple sensitive projects, two of which (at least) were at the level where one miscue from my cortical would be disastrous.  Asher wasn’t aware, but before he’d come down with the same illness I had hidden several protocol keys in a sublevel of his cortical that I don’t think he knows exists.  It had seemed the safest option at the time, when my temperature was fluctuating wildly and I was in and out of lucidity as my body battled the virus.  

Now, though, I regretted doing it.  In his weakened state those keys were now at risk.  He was at risk, especially if anyone at the Agency learned what I’d done.  And I couldn’t un-do it without his help.

Asher’s reply floated into my ears.  

“I don’t know.”

He sounded croaky, hoarse, afraid.

Sam had insisted we keep our distance so as not to compound each other’s fever, but I just couldn’t stand it.  I couldn’t listen to Asher sounding like that and do nothing. 

Rolling onto my right side, I reached for him.  Sam started to tell me no, but I silenced him with a withering glare.  Slipping my right arm between Asher’s shaking shoulders and the mattress, I pulled him close. 

Asher immediately burrowed into my chest, clutching at my shirt with a whimpering moan. 

Wrapping both arms around his slighter frame, I rubbed soothing strokes over his muscular back, pressing my chin to his temple.  Both of our fevers were up, it seemed, as his skin against mine felt perfectly normal. 

“What’s his tebmp?” I whispered to Sam, still horribly congested but more concerned about the man shivering in my arms. 

“About the same as yours,” the doctor confirmed with a scowl. “Hovering around 102.  And don’t whisper.  Any air moving through your vocal cords is going to create friction and continue to damage the larynx.  If you insist on communicating - either with me or him - I’ll get someone to bring over a couple of remote keypads and we can set up a message center on the vid screens.”

I nodded for him to do exactly that before turning my attention back to Asher.  He was pressed so tightly against me it was as if he was trying to crawl inside my skin.  The tremors were slowly easing, though, his body relaxing as the chills backed down.  Mine had subsided about half an hour ago, and now I was just drowning in congestion.  I couldn’t wait to be over this flu so I could breathe.

I was already reaching for the tissues when Asher’s breath suddenly hitched.  

“Isht-isht-isht!--istchu!--tchuu!...”

I could feel each damp sneeze punch through the fabric of my shirt.  Normally this might have been gross, but compared with what the guy had put up with from me over the last couple of days?  A few sneezes was nothing.  It helped that his were - yep, there's that word again - adorable.  I couldn't help it; he was.

Closing one hand around a couple of thick squares, I used my other to gently cradle the back of his head, pulling it away just far enough to tuck the soft tissues around his nose for the final wet:

“--ia’ATCHSchuu!... uhnnggg…”

His low, rasping moan as he nuzzled deeper into my paper-clad hand, trying to scrub away the tickle, made one side of my mouth curl up in a soft smile. 

“You’ve got it bad, don’t you?” Sam asked, leaning back in my ergonomic office chair and sporting a smug grin.  “Want me to get you a clean shirt?”

I gently pinched Asher’s nose in the tissues and rubbed in slow, hard circles, deeply satisfied when he sighed in relief and melted against me, quickly falling asleep.  Tucking that sandy blond head securely under my chin, I raised the hand not holding tissues and flipped Sam the finger.

But I didn’t stop smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

Edited January 5, 2022 by starpollen

[darkness-is-the-light]

Oh. Oh. This is very cute. I’m very excited to see where this goes. 

[Juto]

Oh! This is so - what’s that word? Adorable! 😆🤩 

[Kolen]

19 minutes ago, Juto said:

Oh! This is so - what’s that word? Adorable! 😆🤩 

Yes!!  

AND you're half quoting Keane~!  

[Kolen]

@starpollen Yes. And we have the sauces of our choice for the lovely 🌮🌮

⛺ ⛺ ⛺ 🍿

[Juto]

1 hour ago, Kolen said:

Yes!!  

AND you're half quoting Keane~!  

I meant to 🥰 it was too cute to resist 😍😭