Sick Day

Sick Day

Crosshair wakes up sick, and Omega proves herself the best big sister. Written for the @summer-of-bad-batch prompt Lula and inspired by the nagging sore throat I have today. (Edit: it’s Covid!!! Why!!!) ~1000 words of comfort fluff, set a year or two after the Batch settle on Pabu.

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Crosshair groaned, rolling over in his bed, the covers twisting around him.  He shivered despite the layers of sheets and blankets.  That didn’t seem right.  He slowly blinked his eyes open and swallowed, grimacing when his throat felt like fire.

Oh.  Great.  He was sick.

There was a knock at the door.  He propped himself up on his elbow and glared blearily at the sound.  Omega stood in the open doorway, looking in on him with concern clear on her face.  “You’re still not up?”

“I’m sick,” Crosshair said thickly.  “Stay away if you don’t want the plague.”

“Sick?  With what?  Hunter and Wrecker and I are fine,” she said, taking a few steps into the bedroom.  

He waved a hand at her in irritation, trying to warn her off.  “How should I know?  I’m not a medic.”  He sighed, rubbing his face.  His skin felt hot, even to his own touch.

“You don’t look good,” Omega said worriedly.  She’d closed the distance to his bed and now leaned over him, smoothing his short sweaty hair back from his forehead.  “You’re burning up!”

“Uh-huh,” he agreed.  “Tell me something I don’t know.”  He shivered again, pulling the blankets up to his nose and squinting up at her.  “Just leave me to die.  It’s the only way.”

“Oh come on now,” Omega said, but this time she wore a hint of a smile at his hyperbole.  “Okay, if you’re still able to be snarky, I guess it can’t be too bad.”  She squeezed his shoulder with her hand.  “I’ll get some things for you, all right?  You just sit tight.”

“Do I look like I’m going anywhere?” he mumbled.

“Very funny, Crosshair.”

It was a few minutes when she returned, arms piled high with various items.  She pulled his bedside table out with her foot, leaning down and depositing everything she’d brought onto its surface beside where his prosthetic hand lay.  

“Crosshair.  Wake up.”  She nudged him slightly, and he blinked hazily at her.  

“I’m up.”

“All right, here’s what we’ve got.”  She held out a metal flask, waving it in front of his face.  “Cold water.  I want you to drink all this before you go back to sleep.  You have to stay hydrated.”  She helped him sit up, and it was a measure of how crappy he felt that he didn’t even have it in him to make a face at her.  He let her help him into a sitting position, and he took the bottle in his left hand after she opened it.  “Do you want your other hand, or --”

He waved her away with his stump, and she left the prosthesis on the table in its case.  He didn’t always use his hand; it was necessary for many tasks, but just as often he preferred to go without, as it took extra effort to use and control.  Wouldn’t be much point when he was stuck here in bed.  He took a drink of the cold water, flinching as he swallowed, his throat a bed of knives.  But the water was deeply refreshing, and he forced himself to take a few more drinks.

“Good.  Here, we’ve got some other things.  Lozenges if your throat’s bothering you, medication for a fever, an extra blanket, toothpicks if you need them….”  She looked up at him hopefully.

Crosshair nodded to the bottles of medication.  “I’ll take some of that.”  He traded her the bottle of water for pills tapped into the palm of his hand, tossed them into his mouth, then took back the bottle of water to take a swallow.  Maybe that’d help him feel less like something that had been scraped off of somebody’s boot.

He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.  “I was supposed to be down at the docks today.  Let Beryx know I’ll be late --”

“Oh no you don’t,” said Omega sternly.  “You stay in here and rest.  I’ll let her know you’re sick, but don’t overdo it.  I know what you’re like, little brother.”

He managed a chuckle, though his throat seared.  “I guess you do.”  He managed to finish the bottle of water.  “Satisfied?”

“Very.  If you didn’t let me help, I was going to go get AZI,” Omega said.  “I still will, if you get worse.”

“Threats now, is it?”

Omega giggled.  “Oh, there you are.  Good.  Give me a minute, I forgot something.”

“I can hardly wait.”  He drowsed against the wall for a moment, waiting for her to return.  She was such a good kid.  There was a warm glow in his chest that had nothing to do with the fever.

“Here we go,” she said.  He opened his eyes to see Omega holding Lula in his arms, offering her out to him.  

He hesitated.  

It’d been years.  The last time he’d really had anything to do with the tooka doll had been after Kaller, after the Order, when Wrecker had pummeled him with her.  It hadn’t done anything to help the ache in his head that he now knew had been the inhibitor chip, and it certainly hadn’t done anything to help his unsettled, paranoid mood.  

But he also remembered being small, legs throbbing from growing pains, head aching after hours focusing on target practice, curling up with Lula in his bunk and jealously guarding her from his brothers.  She’d belonged to all of them back then, a secret gift from 99, something all their own in a world where they knew they themselves were owned.  She’d been the reason they’d picked those colors for their armor, even if they would rather die than admit it to the regs.

A reluctant smile creased his face.  “Fine.  She can stay.”  He lowered himself back to the bed, burrowing back under the blankets, and Omega tucked Lula in snugly beside him.  “But if anyone asks, you made me take her.”

“Of course I did,” Omega said with a conspiratorial wink.  “Everyone knows I’m even more stubborn than you are.”

He snorted, closing his eyes, sleep calling once more to him.  But there was one last thing he needed to do.  “Hey.  Omega,” he said softly.

“Yes, Crosshair?”

“Thank you.”