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machabre · 1 month ago

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@ wolves-ate-my-heart I promised so here it is, oneshot'ed this thing yesterday and today.. I'm so rusty when it comes to writing fiction (esp fics that aren't horror) so apologies in advance if it sucks! lol

Anyway, yeeah a little sickfic with Dragunov. Slightly xreader but not overly romantic or intimate. ~2500 words

When Dragunov said he was home, you said you were coming over. That was your usual exchange of messages, and Sergei was usually practically waiting at the door for you. Given you hadn't seen the soldier in- how long has it been again? Two weeks, three? His failure to appear was out of character. You wait about a minute more before knocking again.

And silence.

You shift your weight to the other leg, fidgeting with your keyring, the metal stinging softly against your hand that's gone just a bit sweaty at the thought of a specific new addition. The White Angel of Death had entrusted you with access to his space, weeks ago, actually, not long before he'd disappeared like he often did. He'd leave you little aside from the hope of a text upon his return and this time, the key; embellished with a skull. You honestly never dreamed of using it until now.

— —

You tell yourself that you'll just have a look around to see that Sergei is not hurt or— you stop your thoughts there. The man was infamous, if anything, with at least a handful of people who wanted him dead. But Sergei was a force to be reckoned with himself, he could hold his own, you think.

As you let yourself into the White Angel's home, a chill races over your skin. You close the door on the crisp air behind you, and the apartment is still. The air feels markedly unused despite the low drone of a ceiling fan in another room. The place is familiar to you- even the silence. You'd been in here a number of times, but never alone, of course.

Stiffly, you wander into the short alcove, where Dragunov has hung that coat he likes wearing- the wolven grey one. You think he'd have taken it with him on a cool day like this. You follow the emptiness to the kitchen and living room, thinking you'll go no further than that- but with laptop and cup of tea flanking him is Dragunov himself, asleep at the small dining room table. Sergei's in comfortable clothes for once; a broken-in henley and black sweatpants, his hair still tied up and head resting in his folded arms. You sigh in relief, realizing you'd barely breathed after closing that door. He probably had some work to follow up on, or maybe he couldn't sleep until just now— he was always such a light sleeper, you're surprised he your knocking didn't rouse him. You start to back up and leave him undisturbed, but Dragunov moans softly, and lifts his head as if your presence alone was more detectable than your knock.

You hear his back pop when he straightens- and you're not surprised, nothing about that pose looked comfortable. His expression warms slightly upon fully recognizing it's you in front of him, and he stands up abruptly, as happy to see you as a lost puppy upon seeing its owner. You brace yourself for a near bone-crushing hug, or being swept off your feet and carried right out the door. Neither come, because Dragunov quickly sways and grips the edge of the table, looking like he's going to fall over, or puke- or-

"Hey whoa-" You rush to place a hand at his waist to ensure he doesn't faceplant into the table, or anything else, forgetting Dragunov weighs an upwards of 200 pounds right before he leans into you. "Damn, you are heavy-" He grunts softly at how his shirt hikes up his stomach. "Are you okay?" You ask, brow creased. Dragunov shifts his weight off of you and nods reassuringly. But you're not so sure. It only took one touch to feel how hot and sticky he was where he's usually cool, and you notice the shadows under his eyes are at a ten instead of a three. It's all enough to make you consider that The White Angel of Death, might be sick. You resolve to at least get him to lay down on the couch, if not to bed.

He's heavy- there's no way you're carrying him, but you do help drag Sergei to the other room while he puts up almost no resistance, aside from little grunts. He stumbles into place when you nudge him in the direction of the sofa, slumping into the couch as if hungry for its upholstered embrace. "Don't think I'm not happy to see you, Sergei, but you look like shit." The heat radiating off his body when you as much as sit next to him, is intense, no wonder he seemed so woozy. "Maybe it's a good thing I broke in."

Dragunov's lips curl at that. You did not break in. He gave you that key for a reason, and he's considering letting you stay as company. You reach over and brush some of the loose hair out of his face and behind his ear, the strands sticking to his cheekbone as you do so. "Damn. Your Siberian ass should not be this hot. You've got one hell of a fever." He smiles at that comment, a tiny smirk as you place the back of your hand to his cheek and forehead. "You know, with how you overwork yourself, I'm surprised this is the first time I've seen you come down with something like this."

He turns away with a soft sigh, avoiding any more touching. He'd survived far worse things than this, in fact, he'd probably shake it all off by tomorrow. He just.. doesn't want to give it to you, as happy as he is to see you. He makes it a point to scoot further away, just enough so that you're not touching, and makes a small sound to punctuate his decision. "Okay, okay. I get it. I'll live if I catch a cold you know." You chuckle. "Let me get something for that fever at least."

— — —

You couldn't have been gone for more than the five minutes it took to find his cold and flu medicine, a blanket, and fill a glass of water, but Sergei managed to doze off in that time. He's laying on his side, hands folded across his stomach. He doesn't fit on the couch that way, not even close. His breathing, which had never been audible in your recollection, was heavy and congested. "Drag-" you whisper. "Drag.." You hold up the glass and blister packs, a light blanket tucked under your arm. "Got some medicine, and a blanket, if you're cold." Dragunov scrunches up his features as if both of those concepts are completely foreign to him. The thought that he might be out of it enough to speak is definitely one on your mind, but he doesn't. He just sits up with a full-bodied groan you recognize as his voice- separate from his usual whispery growls. The sound and sudden motion leads to a cough, which he stifles the best he can, and less than one second later he's having a full blown coughing fit despite his efforts. It's so unlike him- to make any sound above a couple decibels in the first place, never mind like this. It almost worries you.

You can assume he's got a headache on top of it all with the way the spasms leave him wincing. You press the blister-packaged pills and glass into his hands that obviously were reaching for the blanket. "Take this first." you tell him. "Then you'll rest." He complies, puncturing each blister pack and taking the dose with a sip of water. A sip that leads to him chugging the rest of the glass like a man dying of thirst in the desert. "Hey, hey!" You stop him halfway through the glass with a gentle touch to the arm.

"Hm?" Dragunov grunts in surprise, licking his lips. He gives you a glare. What? His throat feels like sandpaper, and you're depriving him of the only thing that's felt nice all morning? "Slow down with that. The last thing we need is you puking it up." You say and tap the glass with the back of a fingernail. He shakes his head subtly, gives a single dry chuckle, and proceeds to completely drain the glass anyway before he hands it back to you with a half-nod, a tiny sound, and a curled lip- with an almost defiant air.

"Yeah, and I'd have known you were that thirsty if you'd just have-" You sigh and take the glass back, but not before giving his bicep a playful flick and dropping the blanket in his lap. "You're kind of insufferable you know." You tease. He smiles a bit more completely at that. "Hold onto this and I'll be right back."

— —

You head to the kitchen with the mind to try bringing juice this time, just to get a little jolt of energy into him. But with the state of his kitchen you quickly realize anything but water is off the menu. His fridge isn't only vacant of juice, but anything ingestible to begin with, the pantry- more dust and shadows than food. You're honestly a little surprised, but it makes sense given how little time he realistically spends living here. You fill the glass again, making a mental note to tidy up for him and get a few essentials later.

— —

Dragunov sips this glass at a slower pace. He's pulled the blanket you gave him around his body, and is shivering now as he swallows the last droplets of water from the glass. "Told you, take it slow." He shakes his head and sets the empty glass on the table beside him. "Now you're just shivering." Dragunov looks at you with a reassuring warmth and a grunt as he shifts positions. He's hiding the achiness he must be feeling behind near silence, but you can see it in his movements- Dragunov is tired, his body is sore, and he's still burning up- only now chills are making him miserable.

"Here, Sergei-" you motion for him to turn around. "I think I might know something that will help, a little." Dragunov does as you ask, not without a raise of an eyebrow though. He's clearly wondering what you have in mind, and more importantly, what you're helping with this exercise. "Just turn around." You say. Dragunov shifts again with a rough vocalization that sounds all kinds of irritated and uncomfortable- and sick. He grabs a handful of tissues from the table in front of him and coughs a couple times. This time unhampered, and phlegmy. He crumples them up to toss out later. "Now, I'm not gonna cure you but-"

He shivers when you push the blanket aside and slide a gentle palm under his shirt, but the shudder quickly gives way to a relaxed sigh when you begin to rub his mid-back in soothing circles. He's so stiff, from fighting no doubt, and fighting this illness.

"Are my hands too cold too?" you ask as your other hand joins in the massage. Dragunov shakes his head. Though your hands do feel cool to him, it's nice on his overheated skin, just like the cold water. He sighs gratefully when your fingertips sink deeper into his thick muscle and he leans into the corner of the couch while you're trying your best not to linger too much on each scar interrupting his pale skin, the little sounds he's making, or the slight arch forming in his back and hips.

He groans again, softly, when you reach his neck, which compared to the rest of his muscle bound form, is especially elegant and trim. Just like the rest of him, it's full of tension and you delicately work out the knots. Dragunov sighs and abruptly flips his head to the side, startling you. "Am I hurting you?" you ask, concerned. Dragunov groans and squirms again, like a little spasm. A more languid shake of his head follows, and you can see his dark lips curled into a pleased smile, his eyes closed. He sighs again through his nose, which sounds a little stuffy, but most of the usual steely tension has melted from his face. You don't think you've ever seen Sergei's forehead without that crease.

You chuckle and wrap your arms around his solid waist so that you're almost on top of him. Then you lean down and give him a gentle kiss, there on the neck- then on the jaw because you know Sergei would never let you kiss him on the lips while he's infected like this. In fact, you're almost surprised he didn't send you off and quarantine himself in his apartment the second he woke up. He sighs as your hand brushes over his solid abs, with your chin on his shoulder and his long hair touching your face. The scent that permeates it is sharp, a little smoky, almost acrid- not a conventionally nice scent but one that's come to remind you of Dragunov all the same.

You can't help but wonder about all the other times Sergei must've fallen ill. Was he always alone? Would he just take something and tough it out, hiding his weakness. You know very well he doesn't realistically require any care for a simple virus, nevermind you waiting on him hand and foot- or at least trying to read his silent language. Because Dragunov is.. Dragunov. He's perfectly capable when it comes to fending for himself, but he's also a master of concealment. His voice is only the tip of it, and pain, well he treats it no differently than everything else he hides. Maybe you want to show him he doesn't always need to do that, at least, not with you. And maybe even more, you want him to know he needs to let his guard down sometimes, and when he does- he'll be safe if you can help it.

The fact that he's willing to trust you on this level out of anyone else makes warmth prick at your face and extremities as you rest against him, especially when you remind yourself how you got in this situation in the first place. Dragunov interrupts the thought by clearing his throat, followed by a low vocalization. "Any better?" You whisper, not expecting much of an answer, but you try anyway. Dragunov offers a humming sigh, which you feel rumble through his chest. "Alright, let's get the rest then." You say.

— —

By the time you've reached his mid back again for round two, he's fallen fully asleep. You pull the back of his shirt down and replace the blanket to keep his temperature stable. You have to say, he looks just a little better- his complexion is back to it's usual pallid tone, lips rich and dark against it. It's a look you've learned to recognize as "healthy" when it comes to Dragunov, at least. The couch still isn't the most comfortable of things for him to sleep on‐ he's practically pushed you to the very edge with his splaying out, and his head is awkwardly bent so that it'll undo all your work, but dragging Sergei to bed isn't exactly an option for you.

Carefully, you reach over and give his hair tie a slow and gentle tug to free his inky black hair from its usual ponytail. You run the silky lengths through your hands, smoothing out the crease made by sweat and his everyday style. You're not sure, but his skin feels cooler as you readjust his head and sweep his hair down the side of his neck.

You slip away from the couch without waking Sergei, thinking you'll sneak out while he sleeps so you can make some soup for when his fever breaks.

#if you ppl pry me out of my diamond strong containment cell and make me share more writing im not going to believe it #.dragu

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