The Best Laid Plans [M/M; 1/?]

[treehouse]

Hello again! 

I promised I was working on a sequel to The Building Inspector, and here I am with the proof! You should be able to read this one on its own if you want, but it’s a very direct sequel, so I definitely recommend starting with the first one. I seriously can’t tell you how cool it’s been to exercise the old writing muscles again, or how much your support has meant to me! I hope you enjoy the next installment in Mark and Nate’s story as much as I’ve been enjoying putting it together. As before, this is just the first section of a longer story, because it turns out that while I did not forget how to write, I did forgot how to write anything… short 😅

Hope everyone is staying warm out there, especially if you’re in the path of this storm that’s hammering half the US right now! And happy holidays 💙

-TH

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

Mark Kaplan wakes up in a good mood. 

He usually does, these days. Nobody’s more surprised by it than him, but his life — normally, despite his best efforts, something of a disaster — has been good lately. His career is in the best place it’s ever been; his home is in better condition than it was when he moved in; even his health, usually fickle, has been holding up admirably. He hasn’t caught a cold since November and it’s the end of February, making this officially the longest streak he’s had in years.

And, of course, there’s his love life. The truth is, he can credit all the other improvements, at least in part, to Nate Graham, his boyfriend of nearly three months. The house is in such good condition because Nate, a full-time building inspector and hobbyist carpenter, has cheerfully volunteered his time for an assortment of repairs and upgrades. Mark’s more than half convinced Nate’s responsible for his improved health, too; everything’s just easier with him around. Nate’s strong, good with his hands, and outdoorsy, at least outside of allergy season; he unthinkingly takes care of things that used to give Mark all kinds of trouble. Gone are the days of Mark exhausting himself digging out his driveway, struggling on icy stairs, or straining his bad knee trying to wrestle heavy items in from the car. Nate handles all of it with a smile, without having to be asked, and never makes Mark feel like it’s the slightest bother.

Even Mark’s professional gains source, in a way, back to Nate. They’d ended up spending Christmas together, even though they’d only been seeing each other for a few weeks at that point — Mark’s large Jewish family cares a lot more about the High Holy Days than Hanukkah, so he wasn’t leaving town for the season, and Nate and his sister Sam had both insisted he come over. Mark had met Nate’s father Joe, a small, cheerful man with great taste in cheese, and Sam’s husband, an eccentric research scientist named Dave. He’d also met Nate’s niece, Ramona, and his nephew, Chris, who was the catalyst for the biggest shift in Mark’s career in years. 

On Christmas day, while they were unwrapping gifts, Nate had told both children Mark was the illustrator of Ramona’s favorite series, the Roger Raccoon books. She’d been delighted, but Chris had thrown a tantrum, insisting that it wasn’t fair that Mark only made things that Ramona liked. Sam and Nate had both been mortified, but Chris was only four, and didn’t know any better — Mark just laughed and offered the four year old an apology, promising he’d draw something for Chris, too.

He’d ended up making a whole book, mostly out of boredom; his office always closed for a week at the end of the year, and he was between illustration projects. Chris had said he liked lizards, so Mark created a character in the style of the Raccoon series — a bookish, glasses-wearing gecko named Gertrude — and sent her on a pint-sized adventure. It wasn’t any great shakes of a story, at least in Mark’s opinion, but after illustrating so many children’s books, he did feel had a basic sense for how things should go. Chris had ended up loving Gertrude Gecko Solves The Case so much that Mark sketched out a bunch of other characters one early January afternoon, and spent an entertaining couple of hours letting the kids help give them names and personalities.

It was just something Mark had done for the fun of it, and admittedly a little bit for the soft look in Nate’s eyes. He’d only mentioned it to his agent in passing, when she’d asked on their quarterly check-in call how his holiday had been; he hadn’t expected her to ask him to send her the digital files. And he really hadn’t expected her to reach out a few days later, a whole quarter early for their next scheduled chat, and tell him that the Roger Raccoon publishers wanted to pick up Gertrude Gecko for a multi-title run, with Mark as writer and illustrator.

“But — it’s just something I drew for my boyfriend’s nephew,” Mark had said, bewildered. “It isn’t like — it wasn’t — I didn’t mean it to be a pitch! God, I wouldn’t have just sent you the raw file like that, if I’d know you were going to — “

“Yeah, well, what’s done is done, and I don’t know what else to tell you,” Brigette had said, rolling her eyes into the camera on their Zoom call. “They fucking loved it, anyway, so I’m not sure why you even care. They’ve been wanting to build out the Raccoon series for ages — sales are always excellent on those titles, and the merchandising push did well — and they know it’s your art driving the numbers. Plus, you’ve always done great storyboarding work, and Kate’s ready to move on creatively anyway; she started her career in middle-grade, you know. Her heart’s never really been in picture books. If this goes well, there’s talk of letting you take over writing those, too; you’d be doing both series.”

“Both,” Mark spluttered, “that’s — it’s — what? Brig, I’m not even a writer!”

“Oh, sure you are,” Brigette said, waving a hand. “You wrote that Gecko book, didn’t you? And you’ve come up with half the Raccoon plots, Kate told me as much. Anyway, that’s what editors are for; if you really find yourself struggling, we’ll find someone else to bring in as a co-writer. Don’t worry about it. Listen, Mark — “

“But I’ll,” Mark said, still halfway in denial, coming up with reasons it couldn’t be for real, “I’ll never have time for that! I have a — a job, a full time — “

“Mark,” Brigette said again, laughing this time, “that’s what I’m trying to tell you, if you’d just shut up for a second. This is — and please know I don’t say this lightly — quit your day job money.”

She gave him a number. Mark, dazedly, asked her to repeat it. She laughed at him, and said it again, and he tried for several long moments to think of something to say other than what he did, in fact, end up saying, which was, “Holy shit.”

Brigette grinned, the sharp, hungry smile of someone whose 10% was going to provide quite a payout. “They liked those extra character sketches so much there were even rumblings of optioning — “

“For television?” Mark squeaked. Clearing his throat to get things back into a more normal register, he added, “I forgot those fucking sketches were even in that file, Brigette!”

“Well, they were,” said Brigette. “And again, they loved them, so I don’t know why you’re complaining. Look, yes or no? I mean, you can take a few days to think about it if you want, but I kind of figured — “

“No,” Mark said, and then, hastily, “I mean, no, I don’t need time to think about it, because yes, I’ll do it. Obviously I’ll do it! Holy shit. Holy shit.” 

“Great, congrats, I’ll get things rolling and email you with details. Keep an eye on your mail for a bottle of champagne from the firm, yeah? Kiss kiss,” Brigette said. Then she just… ended the meeting, as though it was any other call, and she hadn’t just changed Mark’s entire life. 

Mark didn’t end up quitting his job, largely because his bosses seemed so panicked at the idea. But he did scale back to two days a week, delegating most of his daily tasks to the designer he’s training to eventually replace him. He’s been on the new schedule for two weeks now, and it’s amazing, even if it doesn’t feel entirely real. He keeps finding himself in his home office, sitting at the new drawing desk Nate built for him, and wondering if he accidentally wandered into some luckier person’s life. 

Really, it’s almost unfair that Nate’s mere presence in Mark’s orbit has improved so many unrelated things, especially since Nate is also, bar none, the best boyfriend Mark has ever had. He’s kind and attentive, interesting, funny; he genuinely seems to get Mark, never appearing to tire of his somewhat relentless personality, the way people usually do. Nate’s fun to talk to and easy to spend time with — he’s genuine and good-hearted and great in bed — he can even cook, which really shouldn’t be possible in a man with so many other positive qualities.

And, on top of all that, the poor guy also has the worst allergies Mark’s ever seen, breaking into gorgeous, uncontrollable sneezing fits at least once a week even in the dead of winter. For someone like Mark, whose interest in sneezing is as pronounced as it is private, Nate’s a dream come true in more ways than one.

Luckily, Mark’s not the only one reaping unexpected benefits from their relationship. In January, he and Nate went to dinner with Nell, Mark’s coworker and dear friend, and her wife Amelia, the deputy mayor. Over drinks, Nate had shared the story of the faulty elevator where he and Mark met; the conversation had wound from their meet-cute to the elevator itself, and eventually into a long discussion of the city’s outdated safety ordinances. Mark had enjoyed watching Nate lay out his thoughts and recommendations — it was obviously a topic he thought a lot about — and a few weeks later Amelia had called him into her office and offered him a new job. Nate’s now running a small task force dedicated to researching, creating and implementing an updated building code city-wide, and though he’s only been at it a couple of weeks, he seems to be loving it. 

In summary: things are good. Things are so good that Mark’s even started to drift away from some of his natural pessimism, and turn down the volume on the little voice in his head which says things like, Don’t jinx it! and Nothing gold can stay! For the first time Mark can remember, he’s not sure it has that much of an argument. 

He’s in a particularly excellent mood this morning for one simple reason: it’s Friday. And not just any Friday — it’s the Friday before President’s Day, and thus a three day weekend. Knowing they’ll have a whole extra day to recuperate before going back to work, Mark and Nate have made ambitious plans for the next few days.

Tonight they’re going to President’s Ball, the horribly misnamed but locally famous annual City Hall party. Despite what it’s called, it’s not a ball in any sense of the word; from what Nell’s told him, it’s just a bunch of civil servants in very loosely formal dress, getting absolutely sauced in a rented event space. It’s held every President’s Day weekend, but Mark’s never been able to go before — Nell always gets Amelia’s only plus-one — and it’ll be Nate’s first Ball, too, having transferred into their city’s building inspection department from a neighboring town’s last fall. They’ve both been excited about the party for weeks, and Mark rubs his hands together in anticipation as he gets out of bed and into the shower.

The Ball is hardly the end of their plans, and Mark runs through the rest as he works through his shower routine, trying to make sure he has it all straight. Tomorrow morning they’re going to the first farmer’s market of the year — Nate used to visit it every Saturday before his allergies kicked in, and with spring bearing down on them, this is likely the only weekend he’ll be able to stop by. Then tomorrow night, to use up all the food Nate will inevitably purchase, the two of them are throwing a dinner party at Nate’s house. It’ll be their first time throwing any sort of event together, and the guest list includes a few of Nate’s friends Mark hasn’t had the chance to meet yet; he’s a little nervous, but mostly excited. Everyone he’s met from Nate’s life so far has been wonderful, and, somewhat horrifyingly, Mark finds himself feeling sappy and tender about anything he and Nate do for the first time as a couple. Each little moment feels like a milestone, and even though Mark’s never cared about that sort of thing before, it seems that when it comes to Nate, he does. 

He’s humming to himself as he towels off, gets dressed, and slaps some moisturizer on his winter-dry skin. Even if they weren’t so busy this weekend, Mark would be excited for it — he hasn’t seen Nate in a few days, their schedules having both been too full to allow them to get together, and Mark misses him. That’s new, too; usually when he’s in a relationship Mark cherishes his alone time as something precious and vital, guarding it jealously. With Nate, the opposite is true: more than once Mark has found himself wishing Nate lived with him, even though it’s way too soon to even be thinking about that. It would be disgusting, honestly, suffering from such an abrupt onslaught of romanticism, if it didn’t feel so nice. 

Mark’s just put some toothpaste onto his brush, allowing himself to luxuriate in the always-dangerous sensation that nothing could ruin his mood today, when —

“EHcKkChoO!” The sneeze hits Mark out of nowhere, splattering his mirror with spray. He stares at the speckled surface in horror for a long moment, then wipes it off with his towel, his mind abruptly whirring with panic. He doesn’t often sneeze, is the thing, except when… when…

No. Mark slams the door firmly on that line of thought before it can begin; it’s not even worth entertaining. He can’t be getting sick — he can’t be. Not now, after all this time! Not for this weekend he and Nate have put so much effort into planning, that they’ve both been looking forward to for weeks! That’s how old Mark’s life worked, sure, but lately Mark’s been a different guy. He’s a happier, more together Mark now, a Mark with significantly better luck, and getting a cold at the absolute worst possible moment isn’t the sort of thing he has to worry about anymore.

He takes stock of himself carefully, trying to get a handle on his anxiety. Breathing: fine, no coughing or congestion to speak of. Headache: non-existent, except for the vague, muted throb that’s always in there in the mornings before coffee. Body: no aches or pains, aside from his knee, which is almost always achy and painful during this part of the year. Throat: not sore or scratchy, though he could probably use a sip of water. Nose: totally normal, if he ignores that one measly sneeze. Not even the faintest hint of a tickle.

Mark takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, trying to relax. It’s fine. It was one sneeze. Everyone lets off the occasional random sneeze now and again, even Mark — it doesn’t mean anything, especially since he doesn’t have any other symptoms. It’s fine, and he’s fine, there’s absolutely no reason for him to think otherwise.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror, and, fiercely, like a challenge, says, “Come on, dude, get it together. Find your inner chill. It’s going to be a good day.” 

But it isn’t one.

—

It’s just little things that go wrong, at first. His normally excellent coffee is weaker than usual, as though he messed up the ratio of water to grounds without noticing; the milk he intended to have with his cereal turns out to have gone off; a shipment of drafting pencils he’s critically low on gets mistakenly delivered to a UPS warehouse, instead of to his door. Said warehouse turns out to be almost an hour away, and Mark spends twenty minutes on the phone trying to convince them to just deliver the goddamn package before accepting that he’ll have to go out there and get it himself. It’ll completely throw off his intended schedule for the day, but if he doesn’t pick the box up, they’ll ship it back, and he won’t get the pencils before his stockpile completely runs out. 

Annoyed but determined to push through it, Mark sits down with his tablet and the best of intentions to get some work done. He’s in the process of converting his less-than-professional version of Gertrude Gecko Solves The Case into a proper draft — it’s not the most interesting work in the world, since he’s just cleaning up what he’s already done, but it’s certainly not difficult. It should go quickly; it doesn’t. He finds his focus slipping away every few minutes, leaving him staring out the window or tracing the same line half a dozen times without noticing. 

What little work he does manage to get through is sloppy at best, and when he realizes a little after noon that he’s done it all on the wrong layer of his file, he lets out a small screech of outrage and decides he’s had enough. He grabs his jacket and his cane, shoves his tablet into his already packed weekend bag, and walks out the door to go get his fucking package. He’ll go work at a coffee shop or something when he gets back, to kill time before Nate gets off work — Mark’s house is obviously stifling his creative energy today, or something. 

At least it’s nice going out to the car. Nate’s promised to build him a covered walkway as soon as he’s able, but until the ground thaws enough to sink the anchoring posts, he’s built a temporary wooden walkway instead. It goes straight to Mark’s once unusable garage, which is now clean, organized, and blissfully rat-free. He doesn’t even have to raise the door himself anymore; Sam installed an electric lift free of charge in January, as a thank you for helping her secure a lucrative contract with Finest Frozen Foods. 

Mark’s good mood starts to show signs of life as he thinks about how grateful he is for all that’s changed around him lately, only to be crushed back down to earth when he gets to the door of his car. Without any warning, he sneezes again, an abrupt, “EcCHxt,” that comes out unintentionally half-stifled, as though it gave up halfway through. 

Fighting back his growing sense of alarm, Mark tells himself he doesn’t have to count it as he backs out of the drive. He doesn’t have to count it! He still feels completely fine, not another cold symptom in sight, and it was barely a half-sneeze, anyway. He puts on some relaxing music, turns up the volume, and tries to think positive thoughts as he turns onto the quiet, two-lane country highway that his phone says will eventually deposit him at the warehouse. 

When this strategy doesn’t work, Mark takes a brief detour and indulges in a rare trip through a drive-thru instead. Sometimes, if enough things go wrong in a single day, the best move is just to… lean into it, and try to reset. A pile of piping hot french fries and a crispy chicken sandwich — that’s just the thing to turn this day around. A small, achievable win, to start the trend in another direction.

When he returns to the road with his purchase, the chicken is soggy and the fries are cold, because of course they are. Mark eats them anyway, scowling around every unpleasant bite, his mood darkening with every swallow.  A few of the fries scratch a little oddly at the back of his throat, as though his esophagus objects to the horrible texture of cold potato every bit as much as the rest of him. Even his fountain soda is bad, flat and slightly chemical-tasting, like it’s been sitting out for a few hours. 

Mark finds the sky itself has turned against him as he pulls into the warehouse parking lot: the light gray clouds that have been lingering all morning are deepening to a dangerous color. He glares up at them as he stalks towards the building, willing them to hold it together at least until he gets back in the car. It’s cold out, but just warm enough that whatever falls from them is bound to be sleet, a form of precipitation Mark thinks should be banned by the Geneva Convention. It will be slippery, cold and damp, three conditions he prefers to avoid whenever possible, and the last thing he wants to add to this day is a chill.

The only thing the clouds offer in return for his pleas is an ominous vibe. Swearing under his breath, Mark goes inside. 

There’s a line at the counter — why wouldn’t there be, at this point — and a single teenaged employee behind it. She seems to be getting a kick out of taking her sweet time about things, and while Mark doesn’t really blame her, his spirits dim with every minute he waits to get to the front. By the time it’s his turn, he’s been in there almost half an hour, and he has to stand at the counter a while longer when she goes to the back to look for his item.

“Long time to wait for such a small package,” she tells him when she finally gets back, placing a box about the size of a paperback book down on the counter between them. “Sign here.”

Mark signs and then opens his mouth, primed to take the opportunity to complain about how stupidly difficult it is to get the one kind of pencil he likes. It might be his pettiest grievance, but airing a petty grievance sounds kind of cathartic right now.

But what comes out instead of his pencil-centric bitterness is an unexpected, “HeHhh.” Mark feels his eyebrows draw together and, though he tries to fight it back, his eyes flutter shut, and he gets his elbow up just in time to catch the gasping, “HeHhHh-eHhcKshoOOo!” that escapes him.

If the last one was only a half-sneeze, then this is a sneeze and a half; it pulls the breath out of Mark for a second, and echoes in the dingy room. Worst of all, it leaves him sniffling, which he definitely wasn’t doing before.

“Uh, bless you?” says the girl behind the counter, sounding surprised by the force of the sneeze.

“Thanks,” Mark mutters. He scoops the package up and hurries towards the door without saying a word about pencils, or anything else.  

The sleet, of course, has started coming down when he gets outside, and Mark shudders, still sniffling, as an icy droplet makes its way inside his collar and slides down his neck. He slams the door shut behind him when he finally reaches the car, taking the time to turn it on, crank up the heat, and secure his cane between the straps of the weekend bag on his passenger seat before, feeling defeated, he opens the glove compartment.

There’s a selection of handkerchiefs inside, which, at least for the last few months, Mark’s only kept handy for Nate. They’ve proved useful more than once — the aggressively perfumed waitress on their fourth date had led to a particularly memorable example, one that Mark revisits fondly and often — and Mark had almost let himself forget the reason he owns so many hankies in the first place. Grimly, he selects a black one with little gray dots and unfolds it, lifting it to his nose with one hand. He’s intending to allow himself a good blow and put an end to his sniffling, but realizes before he can that there’s a fresh tickle brewing deep inside his nostrils. 

Desperately irritated by this development, Mark tips his head back, handy still held to his nose, and waits for the stupid sneeze to come. It takes its time about it, the itch flaring and making him hitch frantically only to back away again before he can get any kind of release, and he groans, leaning his head back against the headrest. When, after a full minute of “HihHh?” and “EhHhHh?” and furiously rubbing his nose inside of the soft flannel, Mark finally pitches forward with a huge, “HehHh-hEhhH-hEhhEcKkkCHOO!” he’s actually relieved.

For a second, anyway. Then reality washes over him, reminding him that that was his fourth sneeze of the day, and that his nose is still feeling suspiciously full. Mark blows hard into the hanky, wincing at how loud and productive it is — the effort clears his sinuses, but there’s a distinct and foreboding suggestion of ‘Only for now’ that Mark can’t ignore.

Knowing he’s not going to like what he finds, he does another quick assessment of himself. His breathing is still fine, but he definitely has a headache now; it might just be tension from the horrible morning, but Mark doubts it. His throat’s not sore or anything, but it’s definitely drier than it was, and there’s a distant scratchy feeling when he swallows. And while his nose is currently clear, it has the weird, almost cottony feeling that Mark’s learned, over the years, to dread as a harbinger of an approaching storm. 

It’s time to face the facts: he’s catching a fucking cold. A stupid, horrible, hideously timed, weekend-ruining bastard of a cold. The kind of cold Mark always manages to catch at exactly the wrong moment. His beautiful dream of a new, luckier, healthier Mark — well, a dream is all it was. He’s still old Mark, the same Mark he’s always been; he’s just lived these last few months on credit, and the bill is finally coming due.

He pulls back onto the winding two-lane highway distractedly, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel as he thinks. The thing is, Mark’s colds haven’t exactly been a non-issue in his previous relationships. It’s not that he expects Nate to be a dick about it — Nate’s not a dick about much of anything, and his allergies are so bad that Mark imagines he’ll be more sympathetic than most about all the sneezing, congestion, and coughing. Mark’s even thought that having a cold might be… better, with Nate around. So much else is, after all. It seems, at very least, possible. 

It’s the timing that’s the problem. He doesn’t think the cold itself will be an issue, but Mark’s been dumped half a dozen times because of his tendency to get sick right before big, important events. He’s missed or ruined opening nights, release parties, family holidays, graduations, birthdays, and two separate romantic weekends, and he knows too well that that kind of thing takes a toll. If Mark gets sick right now, he’ll have to bail on not one, not two, but three things Nate’s been excited about doing with him for most of a month. What if he decides Mark’s not worth all the trouble? 

Does that really sound like Nate? asks the calm, reasonable part of Mark’s brain. Or do you think maybe you’re just being a little irrational, like you sometimes get when you’re sick? 

Mark ignores this, too busy coming up with a new plan to give it another thought. Getting sick right now is simply not worth the risk: Nate’s too important to him. He’s just going to have to… put this cold off, that’s all. It’s not impossible; he’s done it before. Or, well, he’s attempted to do it before, at least — since Mark always ends up getting walloped at the end regardless, his memories aren’t super clear vis a vis how it usually goes. 

The good news is he’s noticed this one early; it shouldn’t be too difficult to pull off a 48-hour delay. He’ll pick up some Dayquil on the way back to town, drink an extra cup or coffee or two, and just push through it until after the dinner party tomorrow night. Then, on Sunday, he can come down with the damn cold. It’ll just look like the busy weekend wore down his immune system, which at least is more normal and convenient than getting sick directly before everything happens. Nate won’t have to miss anything he’s been looking forward to, and Mark will get to have his cake and eat it too. It’s the perfect solution to his problem. 

That’s a comically bad plan and you are a fool, the rational part of him says, but again, he pretends he never thought of it. For all it’s usually dead-on, sometimes Mark really wishes he could switch that section of his brain off. 

He ends up being glad he can’t: twenty minutes later, it’s the part of him that notices the first tendrils of smoke creeping out from under the hood of the car. 

—

[ID2006]

I am ridiculously excited. I was hoping for the sequel to be Mark getting sick and some caretaking fluff, which I'm sure Nate is up for.

[thesneezyowl]

Nate as the caretaker … I die!

[georgie]

This was excellent! I love the detail that you put into your characters , makes them very easy to imagine!

[EveP]

@treehouse, what a cliffhanger. I hope he'll be okay-ish.

[starpollen]

Oh, poor Mark.  But I’m very much enjoying where this is headed!… 🥰 Thank you!

[Dye]

Oh my god you work fast!! 

These two truly hold my entire heart, it feels so real and, like, it's a sneezefic, but it's like the sneezes are in the fic, rather than the fic being about the sneezes. Probably makes no sense but aaaAAAA I love this I can't wait for Nate to find out hehehehehe

 

 

 

[Lady Blessington]

Yay love it keep goinggggg 🤘🤘🤘

[Freshair]

Thank you for writing this ❤️ 

This "met my true love in an elevator" fic presses ALL the right buttons!

[Freshair]

6 minutes ago, Freshair said:

Thank you for writing this ❤️ 

This "met my true love in an elevator" fic presses ALL the right buttons!

This comment belongs by your original story but love the new one as well 😀 

[treehouse]

Hello again, folks! 

First of all, thank you as always for all of your lovely comments!!! Your response to these stories has blown me away, I am so so so thrilled you are enjoying them, and my lack of timely reply was due to being extremely busy losing my mind and writing 8,000 words in two days ( @Dye re: me working fast, all I can say is that ADHD is a hell of a drug 😂). 

Housekeeping note: I obviously have been and will continuing to be taking some liberties here, because it’s fiction and we’re all just having fun, but! I do know a few people who have been through car experiences like the one fictionally laid out in this chapter, so I feel duty bound to say: it absolutely is true that if you’re ever driving a car which starts to smoke, or if your fuel gage ever starts dropping rapidly out of nowhere, you need to do as Mark does and get the hell out of that car as fast as humanly possible. Cars are full of all kinds of flammable stuff and when you are inside of one that includes you! Better safe than sorry. 

Okay, that’s it! Hope you all had wonderful holidays if you were celebrating, and wonderful weekends either way. 💙

-TH

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

Things start to happen very quickly after Mark notices the smoke. 

First there’s a noise. Mark is not a car guy by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s been driving long enough to know a bad sound when he hears one; this is a bad fucking sound. He immediately hits the brakes and starts pulling over, glad to be on an empty country highway and not the interstate. 

As he’s coming to a stop on the gravel shoulder, a series of flashing red warning symbols appear on his console. Then the fuel indicator needle starts dropping rapidly — it’s this, more than anything, that propels Mark into terrified action. He slams the car into park, throws the door open, grabs his keys from the ignition and his cane and bag from the passenger seat, and dives out, running as fast as he can down the shoulder away from the Civic. It’s… not really that fast, his knee being what it is, and even so it’ll cost him days of added pain and stiffness, but it does kind of seem like his life might depend on it.

When he’s a safe distance away, Mark drops the bag, turns, and watches, numb, as his trusty black Civic bursts into huge, hungry flames. It’s puzzling for a minute, to see something burning so aggressively despite the steady, half-frozen rain, and then he remembers: chemical fire. It needs smothering, not water.

He should call someone. That’s… that’s what you’re supposed to do, in a situation like this. Mark should know who he’s supposed to call — he‘s sure he would have known the answer even five minutes ago — but somehow that folder in his mental filing cabinet seems to be empty, the contents torched with his car. His brain keeps throwing him utterly wrong suggestions, like dialing up his mother — across the country and never helpful in the best of circumstances — or reaching out to the used car lot where he bought the Civic four years ago, in case they have any useful advice.

More out of habit than anything, a bitter old thought cycles to the front of Mark’s head, one of those dark little twists of the knife that ride alongside long-term, unintended single life. It’s a thought which suggests that, no matter how well he thinks he’s doing on his own, this is the sort of situation where it would be helpful to have a husband, or a partner, or a… boyfriend…

“Oh, I am an idiot,” Mark says out loud. Pulling his phone from his pocket with trembling fingers, he calls Nate.

“Babe!” Nate answers, after only a moment’s ringing. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He sounds bright and cheerful, like he’s having the sort of day Mark intended for himself. Mark can hear Nate’s coworkers talking and laughing in the background, the distant murmur of a comfortable office afternoon, and this normality juxtaposed against his own current circumstances is so surreal that he sways where he stands for a second, closing his eyes.

“I,” Mark says, realizing abruptly that for once in his life all his words have dried up, and he has no idea how to start this conversation, “uh, hello. How… are you?”

“I’m… fine,” Nate says slowly. He sounds a little concerned now; his coworkers’ laughter begins to drops off slightly. “Is everything okay, Mark? You sound — kind of weird.”

“Well, I’m… on the side of the road. Because, uh. Because my car is on fire?” Mark says, struggling a little to pull the sentence together. “So it might… be that.”

“What?” Nate exclaims. The remaining sounds of his coworkers all cut off abruptly, as though everyone in the office has frozen at his horrified tone. “Mark, oh my god, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“I’m… okay,” Mark says slowly, still watching the flames. “It’s — I’m — I got away from the car before it really started… happening. Only the car is burning, not, like. Me.” He pauses, a thought floating up to the surface, and then, to himself, says, “The fire department. That’s who I was supposed to call.”

Nate’s voice is sharp as he says, “You haven’t called 911?”

“Sorry,” Mark says quietly, an unusual, outsized wave of shame breaking over him. He’s not typically like this in a crisis — emotional or forgetful, let alone both — and he scrubs a hand over his face, which is burning in embarrassment as he adds, “I — I couldn’t remember who I was supposed to call. I know that sounds so stupid — “

“No, hey, no it doesn’t,” Nate says, all the edges scrubbed from his tone. He sounds soft now, soothing, or at least like soothing’s what he’s shooting for. “Jesus, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just worried, that’s all — you haven’t done anything wrong. Can you tell me where you are?”

“Somewhere on… Route 31?” Mark says, wincing at how inexact that is. “In between, uh… that church with the weird cow sculpture and the abandoned gas station?”

“I’m… maybe not as familiar with the weird sculptures of the area as you are,” Nate says. He’s clearly trying for gentle, but Mark can tell there’s some strain in his voice. “Can you send me a pin?”

“Oh my god, right, yes. Technology exists. Hold on,” Mark says. He taps at his phone, noticing distantly that he’s shivering a little, which is odd; he’s hardly noticing the cold, for once in his life. “There, I think it sent.”

There’s a pause while Nate waits for it to come through; then he hisses, as though  sucking air in through his teeth. “Jesus, babe, that’s the middle of nowhere.” Mark hears frantic rustling noises, the jingling of keys, a door opening and shutting. “What on earth are you doing out there?”

“My pencils went to the warehouse,” Mark says, knowing this is all going to sound like nonsense to Nate, but not able to stop himself now that the floodgates have opened. “And nowhere else will ship them and I’m running out and they were going to send them back if I didn’t get them! And the whole morning went wrong anyway, every stupid little thing, and I just wanted to — to reset! To eat a fucking chicken sandwich, and — and get my goddamn pencils before they went back to California! That’s all I wanted! And now my car is on fire and it’s cold and it’s wet and I’m — “ He cuts himself off before he can say ‘getting sick,’ taking a huge breath so he doesn’t burst into furious, overwhelmed tears, which would be really embarrassing. “It’s just… it’s been a bad fucking day, Nate.”

“Christ, babe, it sounds like it,” Nate says. “Listen: I’m coming to get you. You’re like half an hour away from here, but I think I can be there faster, and I’ll deal with calling the fire department, okay? You just — god, wait, did you say wet? Is it already coming down out there?” When Mark makes a soft sound of agreement, not trusting himself to confirm this verbally without going on a rant about sleet, Nate groans and says, “Shit, that hasn’t hit here yet. Is there anywhere you can get out of the weather?”

Mark laughs, briefly and humorlessly. “It’s a big empty field on either side, so. No, not really.” He squints at his surroundings, and adds, “There’s like, a very sad little tree I can lean up against?”

“Shit,” Nate mutters again. His voice takes on a serious, authoritative note Mark’s never heard him use before when he says, “Mark, listen to me: I’m not trying to freak you out, but you need to do whatever you can to keep the layer of clothing against your skin dry for as long as possible, okay? I don’t think you’re going to be out in it long enough to be in serious danger, but I’d really hate to be wrong, and this is the kind of weather where hypothermia can sneak up on people, so just  — try, all right? And if you find yourself feeling like sitting down and taking a nap, don’t.”

Ah, Mark realizes, as if from a great distance away, Nature Nate. Not being an outdoorsy person himself, it’s easy for Mark to forget that Nate has, for fun, chosen to spend time in a whole host of situations that Mark would personally view as harrowing, life-or-death scenarios. Of course Nate knows about hypothermia; he probably learned about it on some ill-fated camping trip that he only survived by the skin of his teeth, which he will talk about like it was a thrilling adventure sometime in the near future. 

Because his brain isn’t working well enough to point any of this out, what Mark says is, “Stay dry, no sleeping. Got it.”

Mark can hear sounds in the background again — a door opening, voices — as Nate says, “Babe, I have to go, but I’ll be there as fast as I can, all right? Just… hang tight. I — “ he stops, and there’s a brief pause before he finishes, quietly, “I… I just need you to be all right. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mark whispers, too overwhelmed by all of it, everything, to come up with a better response to the emotion in Nate’s voice. “I’ll, uh. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Nate says, “I’m holding you to that,” and then he hangs up the call. For some reason Mark thinks he hears Nate bellow, as if at a distance from the speaker, the word, “GRACE!” right before they disconnect, but he can’t imagine why. 

Mark slides his phone into his pocket and stands there blankly for a second, his empty hand flexing and releasing almost convulsively, the other clenched in a white knuckled grip around his cane. The car is still burning — Mark gets the sense that the car might just keep on burning until there’s nothing left — and he stares at the flames for a minute longer, orange and white, billowing thick black smoke. He wonders, not really caring about the answer very much, if maybe he’s in shock. It would explain this pervasive numbness, this sense of total disconnect from the world around him.

He remembers, at this point, that he promised Nate he would try to stay dry. This more than anything jerks him back to himself enough to do a basic analysis of where things stand. His bag, thank god, is waterproof, so its contents are safe; his jacket is… less than waterproof, having been chosen when the sky was clear. Because what’s falling is sleet and not rain, the fleecy fabric is holding up okay for now — a lot the water is ice enough to simply slide away — but it’s definitely starting to dampen, and Mark knows it won’t last a whole half hour. He’s got a sweatshirt, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a regular t-shirt underneath it; he’ll just have to hope that bottom layer stays dry until Nate shows up.

At least his pants are wool, and should thus be more or less waterproof. They’re what he intended to wear to the party tonight, so the fact that they’re getting spattered with mud is pretty annoying, but he’ll take it over fucking hypothermia. 

He picks up his bag and shuffles over to the sad little tree, winter-bare and not able to do anything to protect itself from the weather, let alone Mark. Still, he leans up against it, away from the wind, and tells himself it’s helping.

After about five minutes, Mark realizes he’s cold. He wasn’t while he was on the phone with Nate, too focused on the flaming wreckage of his vehicle to pay attention to things like his corporeal form, but he’s freezing now, in an urgent, unhappy way that he can’t ignore. His hair is wet, a trail of icy water dripping from it down the back of his neck, and he’s shivering, huddled with his arms around his weekend bag like maybe it’ll turn out to be a space heater. He hates being chilled even in the best of circumstances, and this is really the last thing his body needs right now. Whatever he’s said to Nell over the years about exposure having nothing to do with his illnesses, an experience like this is definitely not going to help Mark fight off whatever bug he’s caught until Sunday.

As if summoned by Mark’s thoughts, his brewing cold rears its ugly head once more, setting off an intense tickle at the back of Mark’s nose. He barely has time to gasp before he’s firing off four harsh, uncovered sneezes: “HahehCKchoo! EhckCHOO, eHckCHoO! HehHh-ehhHhh-ehHhCkKSHIEW!” 

“Super,” Mark mutters, sniffling, as he drops the bag on the ground and roots around in his pocket for his handkerchief. He blows his nose noisily and sighs as he lowers it, watching the weather take it from damn to sodden; after a second it slips from his fingers, but they’re so cold he hardly notices.

Mark’s coat is starting to feel heavy now, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before the sleet soaks through his other layers to his t-shirt. It’s still a horrible shock when it happens a few minutes later — Mark gasps, shuddering, and feels the cold all the way to his bones. It makes his shivering grow more intense and even harder to control, and, mostly to distract himself, he indulges in a few choice words about this entire godawful day, spitting them out through chattering teeth for the benefit of any nearby worms or frogs. 

Mark’s been waiting about 15 minutes, and soaked to the skin about five, when he starts to hear sirens in the distance. Four minutes after that, a fire truck and an ambulance round the nearest corner, a dark blue Jeep sandwiched between them. Relief crashes over him even as the fire truck shoots by, interested only in the burning car; the Jeep, as Mark knew it would, pulls off the road directly in front of Mark’s tree, Nate bursting out of the driver’s side door the instant it comes to a stop.

Everything starts happening quickly again. Nate’s hugging him, so tightly and with such force that it lifts Mark off the ground — Nate’s helping him to the ambulance — Mark’s stuttering out that he’s fine, really,  and doesn’t need medical attention — the firefighters are shouting something in the distance. Mark blinks and he’s moved — he’s sitting on a little cot in the back of the ambulance — somebody in a blue jumpsuit is running something over his forehead — somebody else, maybe Nate, is taking Mark’s jacket off, then pulling his sweatshirt and other wet layers up over his head. Without meaning to, Mark lets himself be manhandled like a fucking Ken doll, too fuzzyheaded and freezing and otherwise overwhelmed to muster up the energy to argue. Now there’s a new, dry sweatshirt being handed to him — he’s pulling it on — Nate’s sitting down next to him — a space blanket is being wrapped around his shoulders — oh, Nate’s arm is being wrapped around him, too. That’s nice, and Mark exhales, letting his head drop onto Nate’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” Mark says quietly. He’s still shivering violently, but at least the slightly panicky edge to it has gone — he doesn’t feel warm, not by a long shot, but he can tell he’s tell he’s not in the dangerous place that he was a few minutes ago. And he can talk without his teeth chattering, which is an improvement. 

“Yeah,” Nate agrees, his own voice a little shaky, “that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it?” 

“Thanks for coming to get me,” Mark says, barely more than a whisper.

Nate tightens his grip for a minute and drops a kiss onto the top of Mark’s head as he says, roughly, “Don’t thank me for that. I mean, Jesus Christ, Mark, I — I wasn’t going to leave you to freeze to death on the side of the road.” He sighs, and adds, “God, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Speaking of which,“ the blue jumpsuited person says. Mark jumps — he’d forgotten anyone else was here — and looks up to see a male paramedic with white-blonde hair and a cheerful expression. He looks vaguely familiar to Mark, who tries to place the man as he says, “I checked your temp, and I have good news and bad news. Bad news: you are what I would, medically speaking, call ‘cold as shit.’ But — good news! — you are not so cold that we have to take you to the hospital to make sure that your organs don’t fail.” He raises his hands in a little jazz-hands sort of motion as he says, “Hooray!” which makes Mark snort with amusement.

But Nate, to Mark’s absolute shock, snaps, “For fuck’s sake, man, what’s wrong with you?” Normally Nate’s personality is easy-going and affable; Mark can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Nate get angry, and this, for him, is a wild departure from type. He stares as Nate continues, “This isn’t Raven’s Ridge or — or that time in the Adirondacks, all right, you can’t talk to him like this is just another fucked up day on the trail! Mark’s a regular person! You’re supposed to be a professional!”

“Bro, you know I love you,” the other man says, in the tones of someone at the end of their patience, “and I know this is a tough day, so I’m going to forgive you for that little outburst. But you’re going to take it down about twenty notches or I’m going to make you wait outside, mmkay?” Nate flushes and looks away; to Mark, in a much gentler tone, the paramedic says, “Here, drink this. It’s not going to taste great, but it’s warm, and that’ll help.”

He hands Mark a cup of what turns out to be weak black tea. Just as the man suggested, it tastes disgusting but helps anyway, and Mark gratefully drinks several long swallows before lowering the cup. He doesn’t put it down; the warmth feels too good against his hands. 

“Thanks,” Mark says, and then, finally placing him, “Oh, I… know you. You’re… Finn, right? Nate’s friend? We met at that bowling thing a few weeks ago.” He wrinkles his nose, both out of confusion and to banish the distant trace of a tickle, and adds, “I thought you were a nurse, not a paramedic.” 

Finn smiles. “I’m a nurse paramedic, actually, but it’s kind of a mouthful. I usually just say one or the other.”

“That’s what they call it when you go to all the school to become a nurse and then decide hospitals are boring after one measly year,” Nate says, apparently having gotten over his flare of irritation. He’s rubbing his hand up and down Mark’s arm without seeming to realize it, and Mark feels himself relaxing by tiny, shivering increments under his touch. “You know, in case you were wondering.”

“I didn’t decide hospitals are boring,” Finn says, in the tones of old argument. “I just realized my talents were better suited to a higher impact environment.”

“Pretty long-winded way to say ‘adrenaline junkie,’” Nate says.

Finn rolls his eyes. “Like you’re one to talk.”

“You guys are old camping buddies, right?” Mark says, trying to get a grip on their dynamic. He takes another sip of the tea, wincing at the flavor.

“We went to high school together,” Nate says, which: yep. That explains it. “And then, yeah, a lot of camping, fishing — “

“White water rafting,” Finn cuts in, grinning, “rock climbing, rappelling — all kinds of shit. Nate here has a lot of nerve calling anyone an adrenaline junkie, with everything I’ve seen him do. He’s a maniac; ask anyone.”

“Yeah, well,” Nate mutters, looking away. “People change.”

Mark, who knows that abandoning most of his outdoor hobbies was the hardest thing about the abrupt onset of Nate’s allergies, separates one hand from comforting heat of the cup and rests it on Nate’s thigh. Secretly, he’s a bit glad that Nate is no longer, just for example, biking straight down steep forested inclines as a recreational activity, but that doesn’t mean he’s not sympathetic to the loss. Nate meets his eyes for a second, his gaze going soft, before he puts his free hand to Mark’s cheek, his calloused palm cupping it carefully. 

“How are you feeling?” Nate asks. His tone is gentle, private, and Finn has the good manners to look away. 

“Embarrassed, mostly,” Mark admits, turning into the warmth of Nate’s hand a little, but avoiding his eyes. “I hate that I put everyone to all this trouble — “

“Hey, you didn’t put anyone to any trouble,” Nate says immediately, running a thumb over Mark’s cheekbone. “It’s not your fault this happened, and I’m so glad you called me, okay? Plus, the fire truck would have had to come anyway, and they usually send a bus on calls like this too, just to be safe.”

“Also, we’ll be keeping this strictly off the books, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Finn puts in, tactfully keeping his eyes on the cabinet he’s currently rummaging in. “I mean, we’re not taking you in, and all I gave you was a space blanket and a cup of tea — I don’t see why your insurance company needs to know about that. Anyway, Nate did most of the work. I’m not sure why you even brought me, man.”

“Well, this,” Nate says in mockingly patient tones, gesturing all around him, “is called an ambulance? Big warm room on wheels? And you wouldn’t let me take it without you. Something about licenses and the law; I wasn’t really listening.”

“Sometimes I wish I’d let you get swept away in that mudslide,” Finn says, clearly not meaning it. 

“And sometimes I wish I’d left you to starve in that crevasse,” Nate says cheerfully, obviously also kidding, “but what can you do, right?” To Mark, finally lowering his hand, he says, “You ready to get out of here, babe? I can take you home, if you want, or back to my place. Whichever you’d rather.”

“I’d recommend a nice hot bath,” Finn adds, looking up from the cabinet with a serious expression. “Wherever you end up going. And try not to let your body temperature dip too low for a couple of days, just to be on the safe side. Not a good time to do a plunge at the cold springs or anything.”

“I have yet to come across a good time to do that, but I’ll take it under advisement,” Mark says wearily. He thinks he’d probably enjoy Finn in different circumstances, but trying to parse his whole… deal… is tiring right now. To Nate, he says, “And I’d love to get out of here, but I feel like I probably need to see what’s going on with — “ His voice catches, which is embarrassing, and he has to clear his throat before he can spit out the words, “With my car.”

“Oh, god, right,” Nate says, “one second,” and he stand, opens the ambulance door, leans out, and yells, “GRACE!” at the top of his lungs. It does, at least, confirm for Mark that he heard Nate call that name earlier, but does not offer any enlightenment as to why. At Mark’s furrowed brow, Nate shrugs, sitting back down next to him, and, putting a hand on Mark’s back, says, “It’ll just be a second.”

Enlightenment arrives a few minutes later in the form of a stocky, dark-haired woman in a firehouse jacket. She climbs into the back of the ambulance, folds her arms over her chest, raises her eyebrows at Nate, and says, “You bellowed?”

“Mark, this is my cousin, Captain Grace Hillock,” Nate says, the hand on Mark’s back beginning to rub long, slow strokes up and down between his shoulder blades. It’s nice. “Grace, my boyfriend, Mark Kaplan. Sorry you two aren’t meeting under better circumstances.”

“Do you just know every person in this whole town?” Mark asks, unable to bite back the question. “Is there like a club I’m not a member of, or what?”

Nate, Grace, and Finn all laugh, and Grace, wryly, says, “It honestly feels that way sometimes. At least now he’s actually local again, and working at City Hall — it was really annoying when he wasn’t even around very often. Nice to meet you, by the way.”

“You too,” Mark says, and then winces. “Sorry about the, uh. You know. Fire?”

“Doesn’t seem like it was your fault,” Grace says with a shrug. “You get the car checked out regular and everything?”

“Yeah, I’m really careful about that,” Mark says, and, though it’s the last thing he wants to think about right now, adds, “I was in an accident a few years ago — not my fault, but it made me… cautious. About everything. I just had the Civic checked out a couple months ago, actually, because the battery seemed a little sluggish — “

“I sent him to see Jake,” Nate adds, in a tone that suggests this will mean more to Grace than it does to Mark. “Who replaced the battery himself, and gave the car a clean bill of health.”

“Well, if Jake said it was fine, then it was, at least at that point,” Grace says, and then sighs. “The truth is, sometimes this just happens. A leak springs in one of the fuel hoses, or the coolant system goes haywire, and suddenly your Dodge Bronco is a Dodge Barbecue.” She winces at the expression on Mark’s face, and adds, “Sorry; that was tasteless. I don’t mean to make light of it. The truth is, I’ve seen a lot of these — you’re a lucky son of a bitch to have gotten out of the car when you did.”

“This hasn’t felt like a particularly lucky day,” Mark admits with a shudder, “but I’ll take your word for it. I assume it’s, I mean — there’s not — there’s no saving the Civic, right?” He’s humiliated by how plaintively this question comes out, and he knows he’s not the only one to notice; Grace winces again, and Nate slides the arm rubbing his back up to wrap around his shoulders once more. Mark leans into him, feeling small. “I mean, it’s — I know the answer’s probably no, it, uh. I’m not stupid. I know a fire isn’t… great. I just had to check.”

“I understand,” Grace says gently, “but no, Mark, I’m afraid not.” She looks him over as his shoulders slump, and, seeming to take pity on him, adds, “If you’d like to call your insurance company, I can talk to them for you. Help get things rolling, and let them know where to go to get their pictures, once what’s left stops burning — ”

“It’s still burning?” Mark demands. 

“Ah. Yeah,” Grace says, rolling a few stands of her dark hair absently between her fingers. “We’ve got the road blocked off, of course, and once it’s calmed down we’ll get it towed away and cleaned up, but. Yes. Still active at this time.” 

For some reason it’s this, more than anything, that makes the reality of the situation hit Mark. There is no saving the car — the car is as gone as gone gets — and Mark will never see it or any of the things that were inside again. He puts down his now-empty cup of tea, closes his eyes, and takes a few deep breaths, willing himself not to cry. It’s just a car; people lose more important things than their cars all the time. He’s lucky to be alive, like Grace said, and he’s lucky to be in a position where he’ll be able to afford to replace it. He’s lucky to have insurance, and savings, and a wonderful boyfriend with a fire and ambulance hookup, who was willing to drop everything to come out here and get him. He’s lucky, and he tells himself so fiercely and viciously until the stinging sensation recedes from under his eyelids.

Mark takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. “Right,” he says, and tries to pretend he doesn’t see the way Nate’s looking at him, his concern both obvious and too kind to bear just now. “Insurance, you said? That would be great; let me find the number.”

-

All told, it’s almost four by the time Nate and Mark are allowed to leave Route 31, a road Mark intends to do his utmost never to travel again. The insurance call takes a while, and then there are some papers to sign, and Mark’s thinking and moving slowly, even now that his shivering has receded to only a slight (if constant) tremble. He feels a bit like he’s been submerged in a vat of molasses, struggling through as if through thick paste to complete even the most basic tasks, but he does his best, and no one seems to mind. On the contrary, in fact, everyone appears to be handling him with kid gloves. Mark’s not sure if it’s because Nate bristles the moment anyone so much as glances at him sideways, or if Mark really just looks that pathetic, but he doesn’t actually care either way. He’s so tired that even pity is kind of a relief, so long as it means no one expects much from him.  

Eventually the inevitable happens: Mark’s nose starts to tickle, and he sneezes again. He doesn’t mean to, but the heavy triple batters its way through his defenses too quickly to stop, his nose giving only the warning of a few twitches before he turns into his shoulder and releases, “EhcKkCheW! EhhCkSHOO! Ehh-hEhhh-hEhckSHIEW!” 

“Whoa, Mark, bless you,” Nate says, sounding startled. “You okay? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sneeze more than once before.”

“It’s just from the stupid cold,” Mark says, which isn’t technically a lie. The fact that Nate will assume Mark means the temperature, and not the illness Mark has  yet to mention he’s suffering from, is beside the point. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Hmm,” Nate says, giving Mark a brief and unnervingly evaluative look. Then: “Look, Gracie, can we go now? Please? Mark needs a hot bath and something less disgusting than Finn’s tea to drink.”

“Also, I would really like my ambulance back,” Finn says, rolling his eyes. “You know, whenever you guys are ready. Just lives to save, no big deal.”

“You were playing Candy Crush on the couch in my office when Nate showed up,” Grace points out. “And you and this bus are both technically volunteering your time right now.” Finn does not look remotely perturbed or ashamed by being rumbled like this; Mark gets the sense that he doesn’t embarrass easily. “But yeah, Nate — you two can go. We’ll call if we need anything else.“

They say their goodbyes, and Nate helps Mark out to the Jeep, which is a little grim. The sleet, thank god, has largely stopped falling, but Mark’s knee is in worse shape than he’d hoped — he’s already wincing in pain when he looks up and catches sight of what’s left of his car. The large flames have died down, but smoke is still billowing off the charred, blackened husk of his Civic, now barely identifiable as having been a vehicle. Mark stops dead, his eyes widening, and stares at it, unable to look away. 

“Hey,” Nate says gently, after a few seconds. When Mark doesn’t move, Nate steps into his line of sight, blocking his view of the car. He puts two fingers under Mark’s chin and tips his head up, his blue gaze warm and understanding when Mark finally meets it. “You don’t have to look at that, Mark. You’re okay — that’s what’s important.”

Mark lets out a heavy sigh. Part of him is crying out to maneuver around Nate, to stare at the wreck of his Honda until he doesn’t feel anything anymore, but it’s not a large part. He nods, and sags, and accepts with no small relief when Nate pulls him into a tight hug. 

“You want to go back to your place?” Nate asks, running his fingers through Mark’s still-damp hair. “I know we were planning on mine, but after the day you’ve had, I thought maybe you’d rather be at home.”

God, yes, Mark wants to go home. Nate’s place is lovely, but it’s not Mark’s house, with its little creature comforts and hidden stashes of cold medication and leather couch broken in for absolute maximum coziness. But once Mark admits that, then the rest of his plan will start cracking; if he goes home and gets comfortable in his own space, he knows he won’t be able to bring himself to go to the fucking party tonight. 

“Thanks, but it’s okay,” Mark say, sniffling as quietly as possible with his head on Nate’s shoulder. “We can just go to yours, like we talked about. Honestly, I think looking at my empty garage would bum me out.” 

“That garage does always seem to have a lot to answer for,” Nate says with a sigh. He gives Mark one last little squeeze and then releases him, stepping back only slightly. “You’re shivering again — time to get in the car, yeah?”

Mark agrees, not pointing out that he never really stopped shivering, and climbs into the passenger side of the Jeep. Nate blasts the heat the minute he turns the car on, and Mark relaxes back against the seat as the temperature starts to climb, murmuring, “Oh, you’re a good boyfriend.” 

“You standards are worryingly low,” Nate informs him, not for the first time. But he only continues to prove Mark’s point as they drive, turning off the road when they pass an apple farm a few minutes in, and insisting Mark wait in the running car while  Nate goes in to buy large cups of hot, spiced cider. Mark drinks his greedily; he enjoys the warmth more than the flavor, but it’s certainly delicious, as is the large doughnut Nate picked up to go with it. Mark’s not very hungry, but he nibbles at it anyway, focusing on the bright, clean maple flavor instead of, just for example, how close he is to having a total emotional meltdown. 

He and Nate don’t talk much for the bulk of the ride, but it’s not uncomfortable silence. For one thing, Nate’s hand is on Mark’s thigh for pretty much the whole drive, except for those occasional moments where he needs it to shift gears or make a sharp turn — it’s hard for Mark to feel uncomfortable in those circumstances. Anyway, it’s just a sort of… processing silence, Mark thinks, admittedly a little fuzzily. They’re both letting their brains run through the small but measurable earthquakes that happen internally after something like this. Mark keeps casting little glances at Nate, reminding himself that he’s here, in the present, and it’s over; in the process, he finds Nate looking back at him more that once. 

It’s horrible, of course, but it’s… oh, Mark doesn’t know. A better sort of horrible than riding through one of these moments alone. 

Naturally, when they’re about five minutes out from Nate’s house, Mark’s nose decides to interrupt them. He feels the tickle start up deep in his nostrils and turns towards the window, lifting a hand to cover his nose and mouth. He’s determined to silently stifle whatever comes, but the damn sneeze forces out two wildly obvious hitching breaths first, and then comes in hot on their heels, far too strong to suppress: “HeHhHH-HEHHH-HehHcKkShiEW!”

“Bless you,” Nate says, again sounding surprised. He moves his hand temporarily from Mark’s thigh to open the glove compartment and grab one of the plaid handkerchiefs inside. “Here — it’s clean, I promise.”

“Thanks,” Mark says, and cringes internally when he hears it come out ‘Thags.’ He takes the hanky gratefully, realizing he doesn’t remember what happened to his last one; god, now that he thinks about it, it might be on the side of the road.

Because he’s not able to think of any way around it, Mark gently blows his nose, trying to keep it sounding perfunctory. It’s definitely not perfunctory — if anything, it makes him even more desperate for a long, loud blow — but he doesn’t want to sound any more ill than he already does. 

Of course, because it’s just the kind of day Mark’s having, this plan backfires on him utterly as they pull into Nate’s driveway. His nose, apparently growing impatient with being overfull, begins to burn with a tickle so intense Mark’s eyes start to water. He lifts the handkerchief again, resigned to one more sneeze, only to get hit with five, each one wetter and louder than the last: “HeHhh-eHhCkkChOo! EHhcKkchoo, EhckTCHOO! EhHhcKshoo! Ehhh-eHhhh-EHHHCKSHIEW!” This last one draws the breath from his lungs, and leaves him gasping into the hanky for a second before he gives in to the inevitable and blows his nose properly. It’s loud and gurgling, which is horribly telling, but it’s better than another fit like that. 

“Bless you, babe, wow,” Nate says, pulling the car to a stop. When Mark looks up, Nate’s staring him, his brow knit with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound like maybe you’re feeling a little rough.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Mark says; he feels guilty lying to Nate, but after all, it’s only a little one. A 24-hour lie, to be banished the moment tomorrow’s dinner party is over. “I think it’s just the temperature ch-chEckTCHOO!” This sneeze sneaks up on him mid-word — the indignity! — and he half-catches it against the back of his hand at the last second, sniffling hard before he says, “Sorry, the, uh. The temperature change. Getting so cold like that, I mean. Sometimes that sort of thing makes my nose really sensitive.”

“Okay,” Nate says slowly. He looks a little confused, but he seems to shake it off, smiling at Mark as he says, “Well, that bath Finn suggested probably won’t hurt either way, right? Let’s go in — no, no, stop that. Leave your bag, I’ll get it — Mark! I’m serious.” 

“I’m fine,” Mark says, although part of him really doesn’t know why. He’s not fine; he’s just been through something almost anyone would describe as ‘an ordeal,’ and he’s beginning to feel, quite frankly, like shit. Surely there’s no point in carrying on this charade — but somehow, he can’t seem to help himself. Some vicious, stubborn self-reliance instinct seems to have taken the reigns, insisting, “I can do it.”

A pained look crossed Nate’s face so briefly Mark almost misses it. Quietly, almost pleadingly, he says, “Indulge me, then.”

“I… well… oh, fine,” Mark says, powerless against this approach. He lets Nate take the bag, and turns out to be relieved when he gets out of the car — it’s hard enough getting to the door on his knee without the extra weight. It doesn’t buckle under him or anything, but it’s definitely unhappy, and making that unhappiness known. 

If Nate notices him dragging, he doesn’t comment. He just helps Mark up the steps, lets them both into the house, and draws a bubble bath in the master bathroom. Mark strips and sinks into the water gratefully when it’s ready, closing his eyes and submerging himself up to his neck. He hears Nate moving around in the room for a while before, quietly, he says, “Mark? You’re not actually asleep in there, right?”

“No,” Mark says, so relieved to finally be experiencing something close to warmth that he doesn’t notice that it comes out hoarse, or that he sounds a little loopy. “Too wound up to sleep. Just — my bones are cold, Nate. You ever had cold bones?”

There’s a creaking noise; Mark cracks open one eye to see Nate sitting down on top of the closed toilet. He’s smiling, but there’s an edge to the expression Mark’s not familiar with — sadness, maybe, or worry. “Oh, yeah. Cold bones are the worst.”

“If you’re humoring me,” Mark starts haughtily, but then deflates all at once and, closing his eyes completely again, admits, “I’m going to allow it, honestly. It’s been a long day.” 

“I’m actually not humoring you,” Nate say, a smile in his voice. “When I was right out of college — “

“Oh god, this is going to be one of those horrible stories,” Mark says, amused in spite of himself, shaking his head. “Where you almost die in like, the bush — “

“I didn’t almost die in the bush!” Nate says, with obviously feigned outrage, and then sheepishly adds, “It was a cave.”

“Oh, a cave, my mistake,” Mark says, opening his eyes properly so that he can roll them. “I should have guessed.”

Nate, sure enough, proceeds to tell him a horrifying story about getting trapped in a damp cave for 36 hours. But Mark notices that he falters a little in sharing it, seeming to stutter against the more upsetting parts in this way he never has before. Mark’s too out of it right now to think about it, but he files it away for further examination at a more cogent hour. 

“Well, I’m very glad you didn’t perish in a hole in the earth,” Mark says, “which is both the truth and a sentence one rarely gets to say, so: thanks twice, I guess.” 

“And I’m glad you made it here in one piece,” Nate says, his face going suddenly serious. “Jesus, what a fucked up day.”

“Can we… maybe not talk about it?” Mark says, wincing. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean forever, just — I think I need a little more… time.”

“Hey, of course,” Nate says at once, his tone collapsing into one of hasty reassurance. “Don’t apologize; I get it. We don’t have to go into right now — forget I even brought it up.” He pauses, and then a stricken expression crosses his face. “Hey, will you be okay in here if I go give work a call? I’m realizing I kind of just… left. I should probably check in.”

“Oh, god, yeah,” Mark says, laughing on it a little. Then he fully processes the fact that Nate walked out of his new job, which he loves, without saying anything to anyone, just because Mark needed a ride, and feels himself start to blush. “I, uh. Thanks again for coming to get me so quickly.”

“I told you to stop thanking me for that,” Nate says, gruff. “It was… self-interest, as much as anything. I couldn’t have — I didn’t want — look, I was never going to do anything else.” 

Fuck, I love you, Mark thinks. It’s not the first time he’s thought it — not by a long shot — but it’s the first time he’s had to actively strangle it back like this, fight himself tooth and nail to keep from saying it out loud. It’s too soon, and this is a horrible day, a day he doesn’t want to remember every time he thinks about expressing that feeling to Nate for the first time. But god, he wants to say it so much it burns inside of him, white-hot despite his lingering chill. He wants Nate to know how much Mark values his impulsive, protective nature, and his encyclopedia of outdoor survival skills, and his unerring instinct towards kindness. He wants Nate to understand that Mark is forgetting, a little more every day, how he used to get by without him. 

“Well, I appreciate it whether you’ll accept that or not,” Mark says instead, and sinks lower in the water, feeling like a coward. “And I’ll be fine in here, I promise.”

“Well, I’m just a yell away if you do need anything,” Nate says. He stands, and adds, “I left you my bathrobe for when you get done, okay? And your bag’s here, next to the sink.”

“Thanks, babe,” Mark sighs, closing his eyes again. “Tell your coworkers I’m sorry about stealing you in the middle of the workday.”

“I’ll tell them you say hello,” Nate says firmly, “because you have nothing to apologize for,” and then Mark hears the door open and shut behind him.

He sighs and settles back against the edge of the tub, losing himself for a while in the comfort of the bath. Every product is unscented — Nate’s allergies make this the only sensible option — but it still smells clean and fresh in here, and the hot water is a balm to Mark’s soul. It eases the sharp pain in his knee to a dull ache, and while he can still feel the ghost of a chill clinging to his skeleton with icy hands, it’s the closest he’s felt to warm in hours. At this point, Mark will fucking take it. He drifts, awake but only half-aware, relieved to not be thinking about very much at all.

In what’s becoming a common theme today, Mark’s nose interrupts him; to his dread, he begins to feel a distantly familiar tickle start up deep in his sinuses. This tickle isn’t like the ones that have been behind Mark’s other sneezes today — those have all been Stage One tickles, sharp and insistent, sometimes surprising, but, at least, fleeting.

What’s developing in Mark’s nose now is a Stage Two tickle: an itch that will be ever-present, holding him perpetually on the edge of a sneeze, for days, maybe even a week. It’ll make his sinuses swell and his nose ache, lead to dozens of desperate fits and even more drawn out, torturous, itchy singles, and none of it will provide any fucking relief. Mark usually doesn’t reach this stage until the third or fourth day or a cold, and to be here already is a really bad sign. The stupid weather obviously exacerbated things; Mark needs to get some DayQuil in him, and quickly, before it all spirals out of control. 

Mark climbs out of the bath — the water was starting to cool anyway — and hastily pulls on Nate’s thick blue terrycloth robe. It’s soft and warm and Mark allows himself a second to huddle inside of it, his whole body aching, before he takes a deep breath and starts rummaging in his bag for his dopp kit. He searches the kit itself frantically on finding it; obviously Mark let his lucky streak go to his head these last few months, but surely his hubris never reached such a point that he got rid of his emergency stash entirely.

After a moment of real panic, he finds a couple of old, nearly expired blister packs of DayQuil in a side pocket, enough for a few doses. He takes two of the pills immediately, using water from the tap, and then sits down on the closed toilet again, already a little worn out. Sniffling, he looks around for his handkerchief and realizes that there’s a stack of fresh ones sitting just next to the sink.

Mark stares at them for a minute, trying to remember if they’ve always been there. Probably, right? Nate usually sneezes a few times in the morning, even on low allergy days; they’re probably here for that. Or maybe he put them out to be ready for spring — that would explain the nagging sensation in the back of Mark’s mind that he’s never seen hankies there before.

Whatever the reason, he’s glad to find them; he plucks the first one off the stack and blows his nose, trying to keep it quiet. To his dismay, this activates the growing tickle, which flares into three sneezes that Mark stifles with decreasing success: “EhchXT! EHHchxt! HeHhCHXT-choo!” He blows again, harder this time, and the tickle recedes, though he’s still sniffling, damn it all.

Hoping the Dayquil will dry up his head, Mark dresses, putting together the best outfit he can now that his wool pants are ruined. He ends up going with the sweater he was going to wear in the first place, a maroon cashmere piece that he only brings out for special occasions, which will, if nothing else, be incredibly warm. He pairs it with a charcoal gray corduroys that he can fit a large knee brace underneath and a good pair of shoes; it’s not exactly formal, but it’s the best he can do under the circumstances. 

The process of putting it all on takes longer than he’d like — he’s still moving painfully slow — but the good news is that the Dayquil is starting to kick in by the time he decides he’s ready. It’s nearly six when he walks into Nate’s kitchen, where he’s surprised to find Nate in exactly the same clothes he was wearing earlier. 

Nate looks equally surprised by what Mark’s wearing, eyes raking over him quickly before, clearly a little puzzled, he says, “You… look nice. I mean, you always look nice, but — you’re dressed up.”

“Well, you did say this thing is sort of formal, right?” Mark eyes Nate’s mud-spattered work jeans and adds, “But if that’s what you’re wearing, then I’m definitely overdressed.” 

“You’re — talking about the party?” Nate says, his expression of confusion morphing into one of disbelief. “I — I mean, I figured you wouldn’t want to go to that, not after today. I was going to propose takeout and a movie; I’m having this weird craving for ramen.” 

God, yes, you absolute prince of a man, Mark’s soul cries out; he only barely doesn’t say it out loud. A large bowl of hot soup on the couch sounds like a dream right now, and it takes an absolutely Herculean effort for Mark to resist agreeing at once.

But: he can’t agree. Now that the DayQuil has started to kick in, he feels almost halfway human, but there’s no way to know how long that’s going to last. Mark has the worrying feeling it’s not going to be that long; that Stage Two tickle is still present at the back of his nose, caged but kicking, looking for weak points. Once it truly breaks loose, no amount of cold medication will stop it entirely — there’s every chance Mark won’t make it to dinner tomorrow. At the rate things have been going today, he might not even make it to the farmer’s market. He has to go to this party, right now, if he doesn’t want the weekend to be a total loss. 

You’re being stupid and stubborn, says a familiar little voice in the back of his head. Again. You always do this — push too hard and crash — even though it never, ever ends well. Come on! You know Nate’s not going to an ass about this; just talk to him! He won’t be angry! He might even take — 

Mark cuts this thought off abruptly, harshly. He is not going to go down the road of hoping someone will take care of him while he’s sick. That’s not his lot in life; that’s simply not his fate. Even when he was a kid, Mark was usually on his own when it came to illness  — whatever bug he caught always ran through the rest of the family, so his parents were always busy taking care of his brothers, leaving no one but Mark to take care of himself. As for his partners, the few he’s had who have just been neutral about Mark’s colds, left him to his own devices for managing them, are the gold standard in terms of what he can allow himself to expect. It’s one thing to fantasize, but Mark’s not going to set himself up for disappointment, no matter how good hearted and caring Nate is in so many other aspects of his life. It’s just not something other people do for him, and Mark knows better than to hope. 

“Babe?” Nate says; Mark realizes abruptly that he’s waving a hand in front of Mark’s face. “You still with me in there?”

“I think we should go to the party,” Mark says, trying not to wince when his voice cracks. “Can’t let one bad thing ruin the weekend, right? We had plans, and we’re going to stick to them. What is it they say — neither snow nor rain nor sleet nor fire, right?”

“That’s the Postal Service motto,” Nate says, cocking his head. “Or parts of it are, anyway. Pretty sure even the postman isn’t expected to carry on through the flames, and there’s supposed to be something about gloom in there, too.” More quietly, he adds, “Mark, seriously: it’s just a work party. There will be others. If you’re not up to it — “

“But I am!” Mark says quickly. “I am, I swear. The bath helped a lot, and anyway, I think it might… take my mind off things, you know?”

Nate studies Mark’s face carefully, his eyes narrowing. “Are you sure? Because, you know, it would be fine to stay in — “

“Completely sure,” says Mark, who’s actually fairly certain his resolve is moments from crumbling, but whatever. Fake it til you make it, right? “Totally, 1000% sure. Go get dressed! We’ll be late!”

Nate stares at him for a long, slow moment; Mark does his best to neither quail nor sniffle under his gaze. Eventually, sighing, he lifts his hands and says, “Okay. I mean, if… if that’s what you want, then. Sure. Let me just… get changed,” and stands, heads to the bedroom. 

He doesn’t push in his chair behind him, which is odd — Nate’s usually automatically, unfailingly good about that sort of thing — but Mark’s grateful. He sinks down into Nate’s vacated seat, massages his knee for a minute, and then runs another quick self assessment, not loving what he finds.

The DayQuil has indeed dried up his head and muted the itch in his nose, but it’s come at a cost — he feels like the space where his brain is supposed to sit has been packed with cotton instead, making the edges of everything feel heavy and soft. His head hurts, distantly but too much to completely ignore; his body is sore, like he put it through a vicious workout. His throat’s rough, and despite the non-drowsy nature of the medication he’s taken, he feels like he could sleep for a week. His knee… well, maybe it’s better not to think about his knee. And on top of all that, he’s somehow still cold, the chill having apparently settled in for the long haul.

Really, the smart thing to do would be to give it up right here, admit defeat, and accept the ruined weekend for what it is. All Mark’s doing by fighting the inevitable is making things worse for himself — it’s too late to quit while he’s ahead, but he should  probably quit anyway, before he gets any further behind. 

As if to agree with this thought, his nose pushes one more sneeze to the surface, a heavy, “EhCHXXT!” that scrapes the back of Mark’s throat as he stifles it. He sighs and blows his nose again, shoving his handkerchief quickly back into his pocket when he’s done. 

“Ready!” Nate calls from the hallway. Mark pushes down his better instincts, stands, and heads towards the sound of his voice.

-

[EveP]

Great update! Thank you @treehouse. Now I'm hoping for some misery at the party followed by lots of caretaking. 🙂

 

[ID2006]

Yup, definitely looking forward to the caretaking. I'm grateful that you are a fast writer because I've been checking for updates far more than any reasonable person would admit to. And as always, your writing is phenomenal.

[thesneezyowl]

I squealed when I saw the update! 

[HideAndGoSneeze]

You have me heavily invested in this story! I'm loving your writing, the characters, the words you choose that paint a perfect picture in the readers mind.... You're amazing! Can't wait to read more! 

[Privatedancer]

Looking forward to this.  Nate will be the best caretaker if Mark ever let’s him!

[Lady Blessington]

So funny and cute and hot! 🥰

[thesneezyowl]

The sheer amount of times I’m checking on this story may overload the website 😂 I keep rereading it like a favorite book!!! 

[Evian]

A stage 2 tickle, I love this it’s hilarious 

[treehouse]

@EveP@ID2006 Oh the caretaking is DEFINITELY coming (but @Privatedancer’s right, Mark’s got to let  Nate do it first 😈). Thanks so much for the kind words!!

@HideAndGoSneeze @Evian @ice_cream_though Thank you so much, I’m so glad you’re enjoying it!!

@thesneezyowl Honored by your investment tbh 🥰 Thanks so much! I’m shooting to have another update up today or tomorrow — no promises but I am hopeful!! 

 

 

[thesneezyowl]

1 hour ago, treehouse said:

@EveP@ID2006 Oh the caretaking is DEFINITELY coming (but @Privatedancer’s right, Mark’s got to let  Nate do it first 😈). Thanks so much for the kind words!!

@HideAndGoSneeze @Evian @ice_cream_though Thank you so much, I’m so glad you’re enjoying it!!

@thesneezyowl Honored by your investment tbh 🥰 Thanks so much! I’m shooting to have another update up today or tomorrow — no promises but I am hopeful!! 

 

 

You’ve made a memorable, sweet, sneezy, well written, forum stalkworthy story! You’ve developed the sweetest, sneeziest characters with great chemistry. It’s truly like reading a chapter of a book every time. 

[treehouse]

Hello hello! 

No real notes here because this is a late night post and I’m tired lol, but thank you as always for your support, it makes me so happy! I hope you enjoy this installment 💙

-TH

 

CHAPTER THREE

The first hurdle in getting to the party is Mark realizing he doesn’t have a coat. His jacket, like his sweatshirt and the rest of his layers, was last seen on the floor of the ambulance in a sad, wet heap, and he certainly doesn’t know where it is now. He has, instead, the sweatshirt that was given to him in replacement, which Mark had noticed only after taking it off proudly reads “FREE MUSTACHE RIDES.” He suspects that it’s Finn’s, and he’s certainly not going to wear that to the party.

When he says as much, Nate smiles, offers to let him borrow a jacket, and reassures Mark that Finn will remember to bring his things by eventually. Honestly, Mark would be happy enough never to see a single one of them again — it’s not like he’ll ever be able to wear any of it. He knows from the accident four years ago that it would just feel like bad luck. But he says thanks anyway, and tries to act like a normal person about, even though he’s very unsure of what that’s supposed to look like just now. 

Vanishing into the closet for a minute, Nate reappears with a black peacoat, holding it open for Mark to step into. It’s too big, of course, meant fit to Nate’s broader shoulders and taller frame, but that’s actually a positive tonight. Mark doesn’t care if he looks a little ridiculous; he cares that the thick, warm fabric hangs down past his knuckles, and that it smells a bit like Nate, even through the edge of congestion that the Dayquil isn’t quite holding off. It’s comforting.

When Mark slides his fingers into the pockets, eager to warm them up before he steps outside into the chillier air, he’s surprised to feel a clean handkerchief in each one. He looks up at Nate sharply, but Nate is innocently lacing up his boots, and doesn’t seem to notice. 

He probably just… keeps them in here, Mark tells himself. For his allergies. That makes sense, even if it does, for whatever reason, ring a bit false. Anyway, regardless of how they got in there, Mark’s glad to have a couple of extra hankies — he might end up needing the backup.

Mark looks Nate over with a pleased little sigh, watching as he finishes lacing his boots and selects a brown leather jacket for himself. He’s wearing a navy sport coat over a red and black checked flannel and a pair of well-fitted black trousers, and he looks good, rocking the ‘Business lumberjack,’ look that drew Mark to him the very first time they met. It makes Mark want to kiss him, but he bites down on the urge, not wanting to put Nate at any greater risk of catching his cold than he already has.

But Mark’s cold doesn’t seem to be the only thing that’s contagious; moments after Mark crushes the urge to grab Nate by the lapels, Nate turns to him and gives him a long-once over. 

“You look good in my coat,” he says, in a voice that makes Mark’s mouth go a little dry. He steps closer, into Mark’s space, as he adds, “It’s rude, you know. To look better than someone in their clothes.”

“You literally look like an action figure,” Mark says, somewhat breathlessly, the woes of the day very briefly forgotten. “In everything, all the time. So you can just shut up with that, uh, incredibly generous — Nate, don’t!” This last he squeaks, more than a little frantically, as Nate starts to lean in for a kiss.

Nate’s eyebrows lift as he pulls his face away. Sounding confused — sounding so confused, in fact, that it almost seems contrived — he says, “Oh, no? Why not?”

Fuck, Mark thinks, panicking. He didn’t think this through; what the hell is he supposed to say? God, his brain isn’t working well enough to navigate a situation like this — he can barely think — and he decides his best bet is to go with something that’s almost the truth. 

“I — I was just remembering you thought I sounded kind of sick, earlier,” Mark says, cringing internally at pointing it out. “And I mean, obviously I feel like, completely and totally fine in every way — “

“Oh, obviously,” Nate says, his eyebrows climbing even higher. “I think you’ve made that… very clear.”

“But, I mean, on the off chance that I am, like,” Mark says, waving a hand as though it’s a ridiculous hypothetical and making his voice as dismissive as possible, “coming down with something, or whatever, I’d feel… really terrible… if I got you sick, too.”

For some reason, this makes Nate give him a fond but deeply exasperated look, like the one that appears when they wake up together to find Mark has stolen all the blankets in his sleep. 

“I think I’ll risk it, Mark,” he says gently, rolling his eyes, and then darts in to place a quick kiss at the corner of Mark’s mouth. “There; now it’s too late, and it’s on me if anything happens. Plus, not to brag, but my immune system’s pretty legendary, so. Unless you have any other objections, I don’t see any good reason I can’t go ahead and forge on.”

“Well,” Mark says, letting his feelings overwhelm his better judgement, “when you put it like that,” and allows himself to be gathered up into Nate’s arms. 

Mark loses several minutes to simple enjoyment; even his body’s various protests quiet in the face of what a pleasure it is to be kissed by Nate, slowly and thoroughly, like they’ve got all the time in the world. He forgets about the car, and the cold, and the party — he forgets to think about anything at all, except this. His hands slide up into Nate’s hair, his cane falling sideways and clattering into the wall; Mark doesn’t need it right now, not with Nate holding him up as though the extra weight is nothing. Honestly, that part might be even better than the kissing, at least in this particular moment. It’s such a relief, if only for a few minutes, to let go of everything and trust Nate to keep him upright. 

Eventually Nate breaks the kiss, though he’s still holding Mark close as, huskily, he says, “We could just… skip the party. Have our own. Might be more fun.”

This is a cruelly, painfully tempting suggestion, but nothing’s changed; Mark still needs to go to tonight’s event, get something under his belt to show for this weekend before his cold gets too brutal to hide. He leans back a little, disengaging from the moment with regret. “God, Nate, as much as I’d love to, I promised Nell and Amelia we’d be there. Can I take a very enthusiastic rain check?”

Nate sighs, sounding more disappointed than Mark would have expected, but his voice is gentle when he says, “Sure, Mark. Whatever you want.”

He picks up Mark’s cane and hands it to him before stepping away, and they head out to the car. Nate offers Mark an arm as they go down the stairs and Mark, out of necessity more than anything else, allows himself to take it — it helps, though his knee still aches through every creaking bend and heavy step. He’s relieved when they get to the Wrangler, especially when Nate cranks the heat up again. Mark, bundled up in Nate’s coat, buckles up and relaxes back into the seat —

— and blinks awake, disoriented, as Nate pulls into a parking space. “Holy shit, are we… here?” Mark says fuzzily, reaching a hand up to rub at one of his temples. When Nate nods, Mark yawns, then says, “Wow, I must have… fallen asleep, I guess. I’m so sorry, I didn’t — I only meant to close my eyes for a second.”

“It’s okay, babe,” Nate says, putting a hand on his thigh and squeezing lightly. “You’ve had a really hard day — it would be weird if you weren’t exhausted. Look, I know I’m a broken record here, but are you sure you don’t want to just go back home? Eat a quick dinner and turn in early?”

“Oh, come on, we’re already here,” Mark says weakly, despite wanting to do just as Nate suggests very badly indeed. His feeble protest otherwise does not seem to convince Nate — if anything, his face falls — so Mark, with real struggle, rustles up a little more pep as he adds, “Anyway, Nell says the catering is always great, and I feel in my heart that I deserve crab cakes right now.”

Nate looks at him for another moment, then pushes out a long breath through his nose and nods. He smiles, but Mark notices it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know what? You do deserve crab cakes. Just — you let me know when you’re ready to go, okay? Anytime is fine.”

Mark promises he will, and they go inside and leave their jackets at the coat check, though Mark hastily sneaks the handkerchiefs out of both pockets and conceals them in his corduroys. He hates to leave the coat behind — even in his warm sweater, he’s still chilly — but Nate gets him a glass of mulled wine from the bar first thing, and that helps a little.

The event space is basically a large, open room, one that reminds Mark of wedding receptions and bar mitzvahs, which is loosely decorated in a theme Mark would describe as ‘Government employees not trying very hard.’ Still, the lighting is low and warm, which is easier on Mark’s headache than fluorescents, and the space is full of happy, laughing people. Not so long ago Mark would have entertained himself with a lot of cynical thoughts about forced joy at work events, but Nate’s made him soft — now he actually thinks it’s kind of nice to see people relaxed, enjoying themselves. 

It goes okay, for the first half hour or so. Or, well… it goes… fine. Mark sips the warm, richly spiced wine as they make the rounds, eating several crab cakes and a variety of other delightful little passed hors d’oeuvres, and gets introduced as “My boyfriend, Mark,” to dozens of Nate’s coworkers and building friends — that part’s nice. It’s nice, too, that Nate sticks close to him, keeping a hand on his back or an arm around his shoulders nearly constantly. Mark’s more used to going to parties with guys who hardly remember he’s in the room once they get there, and Nate’s attentiveness soothes a bitter snarl of anxiety Mark hadn’t realized was sitting in his chest. 

What’s less nice is that this is a small community in a small town, and Finn, Grace, and the fire crew who were called to the scene earlier today are all guests at this party. This means that absolutely everyone has heard about the afternoon’s rather dramatic events, and every soul among them seems to want to talk about it, with varying degrees of tact. Mark hears a lot of, “Oh, you poor thing!” and “That must have been so terrible!” and “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling!” from a number of people he is meeting for the very first time, which is… not great, honestly. He finds he’s not sure how to reply; it was terrible, and they can’t imagine how he’s feeling, especially since Mark’s not entirely sure he even knows himself. He does a lot of smiling and vague nodding and drifts a little, for once letting Nate do most of the talking. This gets Mark nothing but cloying, pitying smiles from the rotating cast of inquisitive strangers that keep intercepting them before they can so much as get to a table, but fucking… whatever. It’s better than having to rehash it over and over himself. 

After a man Mark’s never met before suggests with perfect confidence that the fire is a perfect example of why it’s critical to buy American-made cars, Mark turns to Nate and says, “Holy shit, I can’t take it anymore; I’m going to run to the bathroom, okay?”

“You all right?” Nate asks, lifting an eyebrow. “I know this has been… a lot.”

“Yeah, all good, just need to pee and like, breathe for a second,” Mark says, reaching up to squeeze Nate’s bicep briefly. “Be right back!”

He hurries to the bathroom as fast as his complaining knee will carry him. Mark doesn’t have to pee; he has to sneeze, and the need is getting more urgent all the time. He’s been pushing the urge down for the last ten minutes, wiggling and pinching his nose occasionally to wrestle it back, and all those sneezes are still in there, queuing up, eager to come out. Mark has never in his life managed to truly get rid of a sneeze; the most he can do is delay them, to eventually be released all at once. 

He makes it to the men’s room with time to spare, thank god; it’s empty, which is a relief, and Mark locks himself in a stall, sits down on the toilet, and waits. It takes his nose a moment to realize he’s actually going to let the sneezes out this time, and as his breath starts to hitch, he pulls one of Nate’s plaid hankies out of his pocket, unfolds it, and holds it open with both hands. He lifts it to his face as the already intense itch spikes so sharply that Mark’s eyes roll back into his head, and he rears back with a throaty, “HehhHhh-hEhhh-eHCKKKKKCHOOO!”

The sneeze leaves him gasping, breathless, but Mark doesn’t lower the handkerchief. It’s never just one, not with an itch like this; he feels his nostrils flare and then he’s folding forward, lost in a helpless fit. “HehHhh-heHiSShu! Hitchoo! Huh-huHhTCHOO! Ehhckchoo, ehHHHckSHIEw, hah-hAHH-AAAASHIEW! HiHhh-hIHhhh-hIiIihHHHH-ITCHOOOO!” He takes a few heaving breaths, then gets pulled under again, the tickle so strong that each sneeze seems to trigger another: “HehHhhhhhCHOO! EhTchu-iTCHOO! Ehhh-EHHH-EHHCKSHIEW! EtCHU, eTchOo, hAh-hAH-HAhHh-HAISSHOO! Oh my god, hATCHOO!” 

Mark takes some toilet paper and blows his nose after this, not wanting to dirty his limited supply of hankies more than he has to. He winces, both at how rough the cheap paper feels against his already tender nostrils and at the way that particular fit just played out, because it was yet another bad sign. Most of the time, Mark’s sneezes start with a sharp “Ehhck” sort of sound; only during his worst, most vicious colds does any variation on that tendency appear, as though his nose, like the rest of him, is just too tired to maintain its usual standards. 

There’s nothing to be done about it now, though, and at least the tickle fades back into a distant, hovering itch. Mark sighs, stands, washes his hands, and goes back out to the party, where is promptly and thankfully accosted by Nell.

“Oh my god, there he is, my little baby idiot,” she cries, pulling him immediately into a hug. “You ass! I can’t believe I had to hear about it from Jeremy, of all people —  Amelia’s assistant — I mean, he’s a lovely boy, I’m sure, but he shouldn’t know about your death-defying exploits before I do — “

“Nellie, for the love of god, give him a little time to recover before you start lecturing him,” Amelia says. “Hi, Mark, by the way.”

“Hi,” Mark says, laughing a little, as Nell steps back with a mutinous expression. “And it’s okay, honestly. Better than all the weird, fake pity from strangers — it seems like everyone knows about it, and wants to offer an opinion. They’re driving me nuts.”

“Rubberneckers,” Nell says darkly, glancing around with distaste. Then she pauses, looks Mark up and down, and says, “Good lord, you look half dead. You should sit down.”

“I do not look half dead,” Mark mutters, even though it is kind of how he feels. He does, however, let Nell grab him by the sleeve and drag him over to the nearest table. She pushes him towards one of the white folding chairs and he sinks into it, glad for the chance to give his knee a proper stretch. 

When he notices Nell and Amelia pulling out chairs for themselves, he raises his eyebrows and says, “You don’t have to stay here if you want to go like, make the rounds — “

“Oh, please,” Amelia says with a wave of her hand, folding down heavily onto her own chair. “I see most of these people every day, and I’d just as soon get off my feet — these heels were a mistake.”

“I’m not going to say I told you so,” Nell says primly, which earns her a good-natured grimace from Amelia. Then, turning to Mark, she adds, “And you can’t get rid of me that easily, either. The fun part of this party won’t start for an hour or two, once people really have a buzz on — right now it’s a snooze fest, and I’m happier here then out there, being bored to death. Now: tell us what happened, and don’t leave out any details.” 

“What happened to ‘rubberneckers?’” Mark protests, mostly for the sake of it; he’s not really bothered.

Nell rolls her eyes, gesturing out at the party. “Those clowns? They are rubberneckers — who are they to ask you anything about it? But we,” she gestures feelingly to herself and Amelia, “are your friends. We’re not rubbernecking; we’re concerned. It’s different.” 

“God, you are irritating,” Mark says, smiling at her to make it clear he doesn’t mean it. Then, not seeing much of a way around it, he tells them both about the afternoon, hesitatingly at first and then probably… too fast. He just gets caught up in remembering and it all spills out of him, like a cup tipping over — how abrupt and terrifying it all was, how cold he felt on the side of the road, the way the Civic had looked as it burned. It’s like the conscious, emotional part of him goes out to lunch and just leaves his mouth behind, running through everything as if from a long distance away. When he finishes talking, he blinks and realizes that Amelia has a hand over her mouth, and Nell has placed one of hers over his without Mark noticing, and is staring at him with tears in her eyes. 

“Oh my god,” Mark says, jerked back to the present in alarm, “it’s — it’s not that serious, Nell, holy shit. I’m fine, it’s — “

“You just shut up, you horrible little man,” Nell says, slightly choked. She takes her hand away from his and wipes her eyes, adding, “If I have to listen to you play this down and act like it’s no big deal, I swear I’ll kill you myself.“

“What Nell means to say is: thank god you’re okay,” Amelia says, with a quelling look at her wife. “What a horrible experience! And it must’ve given poor Nate the fright of his life; the whole building was buzzing after he ran out, you know. The first rumor Jeremy heard was that his boyfriend had been kidnapped — “

“Oh my god,” Mark groans, dropping his heavy head into his hands. “Fucking — small towns! That’s twelve years of perfect, peaceful anonymity down the drain. Now I’m going to have to like, buy a new identity on the dark web and start all over again in Siberia — “

“Nah,” Nell says, apparently having recovered her composure. “Something else’ll happen, and people will forget. You’ll see. All that they’ll remember is that you were a ‘real champ’ about it.” She rolls her eyes to indicate her personal distaste for this phrase, but Mark would have known anyway; it sounded wrong coming out of her mouth. 

“Your anonymity wouldn’t have survived dating Nate in any case,” Amelia points out. “I thank god every day that man doesn’t have any interest in politics — everybody around here seems to know him.” 

This is true, and Mark casts an eye over the crowd, his gaze flickering around until it lands on Nate. He’s deep in conversation with an older woman Mark doesn’t know, waving his hands a little as he talks, and favoring her with a cheerful smile at her reply.  Even looking at him makes something relax deep within Mark, leeching tension away from muscles he hadn’t noticing he was holding taut. 

Unfortunately, letting go of the tension also causes Mark to lose his grip on the tickle in his nose, and he has to bring his elbow up to catch an abrupt, unstoppable, “EhhCkshIEwW!”

“Of course you’re getting sick,” Nell says, throwing her hands in the air, as Mark sniffles and pulls out a hanky to wipe his nose. “That’s so immediate, Mark — this proves my weather theory, by the way, just so you know. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. You got the garage cleaned out and stopped digging your car out of the snow: boom, no problems for months. And then you get caught in the sleet and right away — “

“Oh, stop it, I was already sick,” Mark snaps, because there’s no point denying it to her; she won’t believe him anyway. “It started this morning, if you — must — hEhHhh — m-must — HEHHHSHIEW! Must know. Ugh, god, excuse me.” He blows his nose lightly, not wanting to be any more rude than he absolutely has to be, then mutters, “The fucking weather definitely didn’t help, though.”

“What on earth are you doing here, then?” Nell demands. “I have a hard time imagining Nate pushing you into coming out sick — “

“No, no, god,” Mark says hastily, holding up his hands. “Nothing like that. I kind of… haven’t told him yet.”

Nell and Amelia both stare at him for a second. Then, in tones of desperately tried patience, Nell says, “Why not?”

Mark shrugs, uncomfortable. “We had this whole big weekend planned and I just. I didn’t want to ruin it all with my stupid faulty immune system.” He glances over at Nate again, his expression softening. “I mean… look at him. He’s perfect. It’s so — things are so good right now, you know? And I really don’t want this to be another one of those times where I think things are going great, until the guy I’m seeing realizes I’m not fucking exaggerating about getting sick a lot. I can’t take it; not from Nate. It… he matters too much to me.” He grimaces; between the mulled wine and his aching head, he’s forgotten to keep a handle on his tongue, and said too much. Stupid cold. 

Amelia looks slightly touched by Mark’s little speech; Nell looks furious. As she opens and closes her mouth a few times, obviously trying to decide what she wants to say, Nate seems to sense Mark’s eyes on him and turns around. He breaks into a huge grin on seeing Mark, and mouths, There you are, before jerking his head towards the bar, a silent question. Mark smiles and nods back, flushing slightly, still desperately pleased to be the focus of his attention even after months of experience. 

“Oh my god, Mark. If you think that man is going to dump you for having a cold,” Nell says, her tone fierce, “then you are selling him — and yourself, I might add — damnably short.” Mark’s gaze slides from Nate to her, startled, as she adds, “I bet this is really just your weird… thing… about asking for help. Even accepting freely offered help! I swear, you’re compulsive.”

“Excuse me?” Mark says, though admittedly it catches in his throat a little, and he has to cough a few times before he can continue, “I don’t have a weird thing about asking for help!” 

“Oh, no, you do,” Amelia says, wincing a little. “Sorry, but — you just do. You always have.”

Nell takes a deep breath and, in a sweeping tone, begins, “When you were but a wee starving babe — “

“I was twenty five when we met,” Mark points out.

“When you were but a wee starving babe of twenty five,” Nell amends, not dropping her dramatic tone, “and you were being paid shit wages by our frozen food overlords — “

“Come on, they weren’t that bad — “

“I was the one cutting your paychecks, Mark!” Nell exclaims, dropping the dramatics and clearly at the end of her rope. “You were making garbage money,  and eating rice and beans for lunch, and we’d have you over to dinner, and you’d never agree to take the leftovers. Never! Not once! You’d eat three helpings, and I’d say, ‘Let me wrap up some up for you,’ and you would refuse!”

“It,” Mark says, blinking at her in absolute shock. “It would’ve been — rude — I mean, it was your house — “

“I wanted you to take them!” Nell cries, throwing her hands in the air; this has clearly been boiling up in her for a long time. “You were skin and bones, Mark! I said — every time, I said! — ‘Please take them, we won’t eat them,’ and you wouldn’t! Not one time! Once we were going out of town the next day, and I made a whole meatloaf, thinking, ‘Surely, this time, he will have no choice but to take the leftovers — ‘“

“Honey, I really don’t think this is the time to get into the Meatloaf Incident,” Amelia says, putting a hand on Nell’s shoulder. “Mark’s been through enough today, don’t you think?”

“Nell, I’m… really sorry,” Mark says, more than a little boggled. No one’s ever gotten angry with him for refusing their help before; he’s far more used to people resenting him for needing it. “I didn’t — uh. I did not recognize the… emotional weight… of the meatloaf. I’ll… I’ll work on it.”

“Oh, do what you want; I’m just being a bitch because my dear friend almost died today,” Nell says, glaring at him halfheartedly. “I am glad you’re okay, you know. I’d be very upset if anything happened to you, so I’m going to need you to — Mark? Are you even listening to me?”

“Y-yeah,” Mark says, trying to focus on getting the words out through the tickle flaring sharply in his nose. He waves one hand in front of his face without meaning to, the other lifting his handkerchief, as he gasps, “I’m just — g-gonna — sn-sneeze — aAhhgain — hUh-HuHhh-HUPTCHOO! HUHSHOO! EhckTCHU, HETCHOO, eh-eHhhcKkSHIEW! AAAASHIEW!” He gasps in two more hitching breaths after this one, expecting a final sneeze, but the tickle recedes without delivering, at least for now. Mark knows it will come back for him eventually; it always does. He coughs instead, only twice, but both of them deep, harsh.

“Yikes, bless you,” Amelia says, wincing again. “That sounds like it’s going to your chest, Mark.” 

“You should be in bed,” Nell says, “and I have half a mind to tell Nate that myself — “

“Nell, please,” Mark says quickly. God, his head is starting to pound; the DayQuil must be wearing off. “Don’t, okay? Just — I’ll tell him tomorrow, I promise. And I’ll leave soon; I’m definitely not planning on sticking around for the late night stuff. I feel like I was hit by a truck.”

“With everything you’ve been through today, you honestly might as well have been,” Nell says tartly. Mark shudders, all this talk about the afternoon’s events bringing his chill back with a vengeance, and has just wrapped his arms around himself, willing his body not to start shivering in earnest again, when  — 

“You look cold,” says a deep, familiar voice, as a navy sport coat, still radiating body heat, is draped over Mark’s shoulders. 

When Mark looks around, Nate’s standing just behind him; he sags in relief under the jacket, leaning back into the warm wall of Nate’s torso. Mark tips his head back to look up at him, so it’s resting against Nate’s stomach as he smiles in gratitude and says, “God, thank you. I was. Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” Nate says, smiling down at Mark as he rests a hand on each of his shoulders. “I lost you for a minute there; glad to find you in such good company. Nell, Amelia, hi — Amelia, sorry again about missing our four o’clock today.”

“Don’t even think of worrying about it,” Amelia says, waving a hand. “Mark told us the whole story — you had more important business to attend to. I’m just glad that Mark’s all right.”

“Aren’t we all,” Nate says, with a little squeeze of Mark’s shoulders. He looks back down at Mark as he says, “Listen — I know I was going to bring drinks, but somebody in that line is wearing way too much cologne. I’m okay for now, but would you mind terribly if we headed home early? I’d love to avoid topping today off with an allergy attack.”

“Oh, babe, of course we can go,” Mark says immediately. Honestly, he’s more than a little relieved to have an excuse to head out, even if he is somewhat confused. It’s not like Nate to predict an attack like this; he usually doesn’t get enough time before the sneezing starts to take a breath, much less cross a room and have a conversation in complete, uninterrupted sentences. That’s even more true when it comes to colognes and perfumes — they’re among his worst triggers, and normally a single whiff will set him right off. 

But right now Nate’s eyes aren’t watering, and his nose isn’t turning pink, and he certainly isn’t sneezing; he doesn’t even seem to be sniffling. Mark narrows his eyes, trying to solve this tiny puzzle, and then forgets about it completely as his own breath starts hitching again. He turns his face away, fumbling for the hanky in his pocket and getting it up just in time. 

Nate’s hands are on Mark’s shoulders, and Mark’s still hoping to somehow make it to the market tomorrow, which means keeping this stupid cold a secret until then; he tries to stifle the first sneeze, which sort of works. It comes out, “Heh-HMMPH-choo,” which is quieter than it would have been without Mark’s efforts to quash it. Unfortunately, the attempt at stifling sets the back of Mark’s nose on fire with itching, and he gasps twice, eyes tearing, and then utterly loses control: “HeHhHh-HEHHHCH! HEHHHCH! HEhHHCH! HEHHHCHOOO! HeHh-heHhHhtCHOO! ETCHOO! Ehh-eHhh-eHhCKsHIEW! ACHOO! ACHOO! AAAAAASHIEW!” He blows his nose furiously — it’s too loud for this very public place, is probably making nearby heads turn — but he knows it’s the only thing that will undercut the tickle. Sure enough, the itch fades back again, at least for now, and Mark collapses back against the chair, abruptly and utterly exhausted. 

“Oof, Mark, god bless you,” Nate says, his voice pained as he gently squeezes Mark’s shoulders. “That really did not sound like a good time.” He’d kept his hands in place even while Mark was sneezing; it had been so comforting, this reliable, steadying warmth in the midst of the overwhelming itch, and Mark’s hideously glad he hasn’t stepped back yet.

“Thanks,” he says, his shoulders sagging under Nate’s hands, and admits, “It… wasn’t one.” He lets his head list to the side a bit, until it’s leaning against one of Nate’s arms, and yawns, huge and cracking. “God, I’m so tired.”

Softly, Nate says, “I can’t say I’m surprised to hear that. Let’s get you out of here, okay?” Then, in a different, slightly panicked voice, he adds, “I mean, uh, let’s get me out of here, because of the, uh, the — “

“Perfume,” Nell says quickly.

“Cologne,” Amelia corrects, and then, smiling sympathetically at Mark, adds, “I, um. I smelled it earlier, too. Didn’t you, honey?”

“Oh, uh, yeah — on the way in, right? Woof,” Nell says, waving a hand in front of her nose. “Strong stuff. You guys better leave right away if you don’t want a repeat of that time at Dino’s — “

“No need to rehash that,” Nate says hastily; Mark doesn’t have to look up to know he’s blushing crimson. He’d sneezed so many times that night that the restaurant owner had come over, comped their meal, and asked them politely but firmly to leave, because they were scaring off other patrons. It had not been Nate’s favorite experience, to say the least, although Mark can’t help but remember parts of it with fondness. 

Mark reaches up to squeeze one of Nate’s hands, and then, Nell’s sharp words still bouncing around in his head, says, “I’d be thrilled to leave, honestly, but, uh. Could you… maybe help me up? I know my knee’s been worse than this, but I can’t actually like… remember when.”

“Oh, babe, of course I can,” Nate says at once. Mark notes with interest that he doesn’t seem annoyed at having been asked. In fact, if anything, he sounds relieved. Fuck, and Nell’s staring directly at Mark now, her eyebrows raised; he winces. God help him, but — maybe she has a point. 

Nate moves away just far enough to help ease Mark into standing, encouraging him to wrap an arm around his waist. “Yeah, just like that — if you lean on me, you can use me to take some of the weight off your knee. There you go. Is that any better?” 

Mark nods, offering him a brief squeeze in thanks, and then says, “You’re going to tell me this is the exact way you hauled someone off the Appalachian Trail with a broken leg, aren’t you? I can feel it.”

Nate grimaces, then admits, “I mean, it was a sprained ankle, but… yeah, there was an incident. And it was actually the Appalachian Trail — that’s getting a little spooky, you know.”

“Maybe you’re just — p-predictable — eHhCHIEW! Ugh, excuse me.” Mark’s hankies are in his pockets, and he’s got one arm wrapped around Nate and is using the other to hold his cane, so he has no choice but to catch this sneeze in his shoulder. It leaves him sniffling rather desperately until the itches flares again a few seconds later: “HehHh-heHhh-hEHhsHhU!” He coughs after this one, a rough, overwhelming hack that goes on for at least half a minute before he can finally gasp, “Holy shit, excuse me again — I’m so sorry. That… got away from me.”

“It’s okay, Mark,” Nate says, running his knuckles along Mark’s arm, his voice low and painfully sincere. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

“Do you know, I think I’m smelling that cologne again right now,” Nell says, with a look at Nate that Mark’s too fuzzyheaded to parse. 

“Yeah, we’d better go,” Nate agrees, already turning them around. Over his shoulder, he says, “Wonderful seeing you both, as always.”

“We’ll have to do it again soon,” Amelia says with a smile. “On a better day.”

“Sounds good to me. B-b-bAAAACHEW! AAAASHEW! Ugh, bye,” Mark says, sniffling, and lets Nate start leading him towards the door. 

They make it across the room quickly, this time. Three different people approach them to try to talk, but Nate smiles blankly and says, “Sorry, we were just leaving,” to each of them without stopping. It’s the closest to rude Mark’s ever seen him get without provocation, and he’d be impressed if he wasn’t trying so hard not to cough. 

At the coat check, Nate tips the woman at the counter $20 to let them cut to the front of the line. When their number is called, he holds his black peacoat open for Mark to step into, again, then does the buttons up for him quickly, before Mark can stop him. He handles Mark carefully, smoothing the fabric over his arms and turning up his collar, smiling at him like he’s genuinely happy to be doing it; Mark feels his defenses begin to tremble, as though tectonic plates are shifting somewhere too deep within himself to name. 

“Oh — your sport coat,” Mark says weakly, remembering belatedly that he’s still wearing it, as Nate shrugs into his leather jacket.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nate says, flashing him a quick smile. “Looks better on you anyway.”

“Please,” Mark say, rolling his eyes. Even at on his best day, his looks are no match for Nate’s, and Mark knows that today is not his best day. In the few glimpses of himself he’s caught this evening, he’s looked pale and haggard, and his nose must be the same shade of maroon as his sweater by now. “Don’t be rihHH-hiHhhH-HIHHHTCHOO! Oh my god. Ridiculous.” Mark sniffles hard, wishing he’d thought to grab a hanky out of his pockets before being buttoned inside this bulky jacket, and then remembering that all three are more or less unusable, at this point.  

“Bless you,” Nate says, and reaches into his own pocket. He pulls out another folded hanky, this one dry and clean, and offers it to Mark. When Mark hesitates, wondering if maybe he can make it home without having to do this in front of Nate again, Nate rolls his eyes and says, “Mark, for god’s sake. You have to know I’m the last person on earth who’ll judge you for needing to blow your nose. I’d be struck dead on the spot from sheer hypocrisy.”

“Oh, give me that,” Mark mutters, snatching it; there’s no point in pretending if Nate already knows he needs to blow. He does so, forgetting in his exhaustion to hold back at all, and produces a harsh, trumpeting honk that makes him cough, and Nate wince in sympathy.

“Mark…”

“I’m fine,” Mark says quickly, still clinging, if only by his fingertips, to the tattered remains of his failing plan. “It sounds worse than it is, really — it’s just from the temperature shift, and maybe the wine. I bet I wake up tomorrow totally back to normal.”

Nate looks at him for a long time, seemingly teetering on the edge of saying something; then he sighs heavily and rocks back on his heels, raising his hands as if in defeat. “Okay! Okay. You’re… I mean, it’s your body, and I don’t want to be — whatever. If you say you’re fine then… I guess… you’re fine.” He looks almost angry for a moment, and then his expression softens, and he steps close, taking some of Mark’s weight again. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here before somebody else tries to ask us about your car.”

It feels colder outside when they step out than it did when they came in, and when Mark shivers, Nate pulls him closer, shields him from the worst of the growing wind. It’s still a huge relief to get to the car, and Mark sinks into the seat, every muscle in his body glad to stop moving for a while.

“Wow,” he says, when Nate pulls up the GPS and Mark sees where they are in relation to his house. “This place is further away than I realized.”

“Yeah, you pretty much slept the whole drive out,” Nate says as he backs out of the parking spot and pulls out onto the road. His tone is gentle as he adds, “It’s about forty minutes back; you can nap again, if you want.”

“I can keep you company,” Mark protests feebly, his nose twitching. Oh, god, the itch is coming back; he tries to fight it as he says, slightly breathlessly, “I’m not that tiHh — god, excuse me. Tired.” 

“That’s not what you said fifteen minutes ago,” Nate points out, which, damn it, is true. 

Mark would be more concerned about it if he wasn’t losing the battle with the tickle in his nose. All he manages to say is, “S-sorry — g-g-gonna — sn-sNahhh-aAaAAaaAAITCHEW! EhhhckCHOO! EHHHHshiew! Huh-hUhHh-HUHHCHOOOO!  Oh my god, sneeze. Uh, I guess… obviously.”

“Bless you,” Nate says. He puts a hand on Mark’s thigh. “Several times over, even.”

“Ugh, thanks,” Mark says. He lets out another honking blow on the theory that he might as fucking well, now. It’s… harsh, and loud, and it makes him cough so hard it hurts, which isn’t great in terms of not looking like he’s wildly, desperately ill. 

But Nate — sweet, wonderful Nate, whose goodness Mark does not deserve — doesn’t call him on it. He just winces, and quietly says, “Poor baby. If nothing else, that’s got to be giving you an awful headache.”

“Oh,” Mark says, blushing both at the endearment and the amount of naked concern in Nate’s voice. It knocks such a shattering blow at his already unsteady defenses that he admits, “It — yeah, it is, actually. My head is fucking killing me. It’s like there’s a hundred tiny lightsabers in there, and they’re all set to strobe.”

“That sounds brutal, babe; I’m sorry,” Nate says. “Can I try something?” When Mark nods, not sure what to expect, Nate reaches over with his right hand while keeping his left firmly on the steering wheel. He settles it behind Mark’s head, his strong, dexterous fingers sinking into Mark’s hair, and begins to rub gentle circles into Mark’s scalp. “How’s that?”

Mark’s eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a moan of pure bliss that he’d be really embarrassed by if he were a little more with it right now. “Oh my god, Nate, it’s — god. I can’t even tell you how good that feels.“

Nate laughs, and Mark realizes distantly that it’s the first one he’s heard from him all night. Usually Nate laughs a lot; Mark will have to think about that when he’s less sleepy, and everything makes more sense.

“Good,” Nate says softly, “I’m glad,” and nothing else. But he doesn’t stop rubbing Mark’s aching head for several minutes, and when he finally does, it’s with a soft, “Sorry, sweetheart, I’m going to have to shift in a minute.”

“Hmm?” Mark says, barely awake. He forces his eyes open, glancing blearily out at the blurs of passing street lights, other cars going by. “Oh — s’okay. Thanks for… doing it. Helped a lot.”

“Sure,” Nate says, his voice still soft. He flicks on the radio at a low volume, and turns it to the classical station he likes. Mark smiles to himself, still looking out the window; Nate’s taste in music always tickles him. It’s so… unexpected, and that makes Mark happy, in a simple, uncomplicated way he’s never quite sure how to describe. 

After a few minutes, Nate starts humming along with whichever concerto, or sonata, or whatever this is — Mark’s never been much of a classical guy himself — and it’s a little off key, but soothing all the same. The rise and fall of the music, the low rumble of Nate’s hum, the steady, almost sub-aural susurration of the tires against the road… it all lures him temptingly away from consciousness, sleep a soft, sweet song. 

Mark’s heavy eyelids close again, and he tells himself, not really believing it, that it’ll only be for a second. He’ll just close them… for a second… 

-

[HideAndGoSneeze]

... Oh. My. Goodness. My heart. Here... Just take it. 

 

Nate is too precious for this world. And Mark reminds me of me when it comes to asking for help. I love these characters and the story you've written! 

[thesneezyowl]

I’m melting 🫠 Nate is seriously one of the sweetest, most patient characters ever. I love how he’s not getting frustrated with Mark for denying he’s sick. He just quietly takes care of him. Loved this update so much!!!!

[EveP]

Oh, I love how you planted Nate's legendary immune system there, and I can imagine that Mark is as awkward about giving care as he is receiving it. @treehouse, you're officially one of my favorite SFF writers. 🙂