#everyone please remember to wear full shirts and hats and don't expose your tiddies to the cold

[overdrivels]

Down with the Sickness (Drabble)

Hanzo x Reader

Hanzo’s caught a cold.

Hanzo’s mouth is full of curses in his mother tongue as he ambles down the halls at a quarter to five in the morning. Apparently his alarm had gone off twice without his notice, and it took him much longer to get out of bed than usual no thanks to a fierce ache in his entire body that tried to force him back into the comfort of his sheets. The training session from yesterday must have worn him out more than he remembered. He wears his clothes on both shoulders today, the halls and his room much more frigid than usual–the thermostat in his room before he left said otherwise, however. 

He nearly crashes into a red-eyed Hana, who immediately takes notice of his state with more concern in her voice than exhaustion. He had assumed she was referring to his clothes, but he was far too focused on getting to the training range for his morning rep to heed her advice to return to his chambers and forgo his training for the day. In hindsight, he supposed he should have listened before Hana and Soldier: 76 found him nearly half an hour later slumped against a wall with only two arrows missing from his quiver, and more than a dozen superficial injuries from the training bots that continued to barrage him as they followed their pre-programmed paths.

It isn’t until he wakes up a second time with a stuffed nose and headache that he vaguely admits to himself that he might not be in the best condition after all. Newfound nausea that has him scrambling to the bathroom drives that fact home. It’s as though the mere act of admitting that he may be ill invites the cold to hit him full force.

He is going to put an arrow through the person who got him sick he thinks as he dry heaves over the toilet. Hours seem to pass by, but in reality, it’s only been twenty minutes, until Hanzo is ready to tear himself away from the porcelain bowl. The walk between the bathroom and his bed eats up more energy than he’s ever remember it requiring. The exertion has him heaving all over again and colorful spots floating in his vision. Hanzo lets himself down shakily on the mattress, legs and brain feeling like fuzz, and sweat pouring out of him like it was being rung out of him.

This is the worst.

Mankind is able to create new limbs and new organs out of nothing but a few measly cells, and artificial intelligence is a reality that nearly wiped out humanity, but the common cold still remains an incurable mystery?

Bullshit.

In the back of his mind, he could hear his brother’s voice from when they were children, when Genji would seem to never be sick while he would be saddled with the occasional flu that would leave him bedridden for days.

“Quit being dramatic, brother, it’s just a cold.”

Of course Genji could say such a thing–idiots don’t catch colds, after all–or rather, now that he’s a cyborg, the chances of him catching a cold is even less. Was there enough man in the machine to be affected?

Hanzo squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head of the thought–a bad move, it just makes him dizzier–he didn’t want to think about the specifics of his altered blood relative. But how much blood could he have? He is sure that when he unleashed his dragons upon Genji, the smears on the floor and walls were not inconsequential (the cleaners sent a hefty bill to remind them of such, not to mention the dreams–maybe his memory is exaggerating, he is quite unwell after all).

With a groan, he lies back down on the bed, and changes his mind immediately when he finds that he cannot breathe. It only adds to his irritation when he sits up against the headboard and his body thinks it is at sea. He swings his legs over and gets up because this situation is ridiculous. His body is being ridiculous. The cold is ridiculous.

With his mind being addled by sickness and thoughts of how unfair modern science was to him, he nearly yelps and instinctively begins to clamor up the wall when his door slides open with a telling ‘beep–woosh’. He is halfway between climbing and slipping before he spies your silhouette–he’d recognize it anywhere, even with his facilities impaired.  He doesn’t try to give up his poor ascent; he’s sick, and the last thing he wants is to inconvenience him by passing it onto you.

“Hanzo, get down from there.”

He can hear the exasperation in your voice. Part of him wants to keep climbing just to escape your undoubted disappointment at his unruly state and another part wants to assuage you and pretend that he is in perfect health.

His body makes his decision for him when he finds that he can’t take another step up the wall and gravity forces his exhausted body back to the earth. His feet touch the ground with much more force than he’s used to and he presses his forehead into the wall in defeat, willing himself to discover the secrets of quantum physics and be swallowed into the wall. He can only hope that you never bring this up ever again, he sure as hell won’t even though it’ll haunt him several years down the line when he least expects it.

A quick peek from his peripheral tells him you had brought many gifts with you—several blankets, a tiny basin of water, and a small pot of food. It’s too bad he can’t smell anything nor does he have any appetite, he’s sure whatever the chef has cooked up is filling and delicious. Though, the thought of food nearly has him running to the bathroom again, and he sinks on the furthest corner of his bed from you.

You weren’t having any of that, however, and you scoot up beside him. In your hand are some pills that he wrinkles his nose at. At your insistence though, he takes it with the water you bring, swatting your hand away when you try to help him drink. He’s not a child, he doesn’t need to be babied. The pain in his throat almost makes him reconsider that notion.

“Why are you here?” He winces at the sound of his own voice and at the pain it brings.

“You don’t remember?”

He makes a noncommittal noise, unwilling to admit that he’s not quite sure how he ended up back here. He could have sworn he was training, come to think of it. It doesn't even cross his mind how you even know of his condition.

“Hana found you this morning and called Soldier--you were a little too heavy for her. They brought you to the med ward, and Mercy gave you some anti-biotics before Soldier carried you back here. You scared the crap out of everyone, you know.”

The story doesn’t sound the least bit familiar to him. “But why are you here?” Confusion and frustration wears on him, and any further thinking just makes his head spin.

You say nothing, instead taking the finished glass from him to set aside on the table.

“Hanzo—?”

He doesn’t notice himself slowly sliding toward you, nor does he notice that the room is growing dimmer.

“Hanzo?!”

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep again until he wakes up for the third time, feeling both entirely too cold and too warm at the same time. A shiver runs through his body when a wet towel dabbles his face. The edge of the mattress is dipped and through his blurred vision, he sees that it’s you. A cool hand runs through his damp hair, and he leans into the touch, chases after it, and whines when it goes. That is quickly rectified when you drop a kiss to his forehead followed by a gentle hand that cards through his loose hair. Under normal circumstances, he would shy away from the intimacy of your touch with a flush and a handful of complaints, but as it were, he craves it. He must look pitiful, but he's just a bit too far gone to care.

“Hey, you hungry?”

He blinks sleepily at your wavering face above him, and shakes his head after several seconds. Food is the very last thing on his mind. He buries his chin back into his blankets, which he realizes now have multiplied to become three.

“Do you need anything?”

Again, he shakes his head.

You wipe at his face, slowly making your way down his neck and whatever you could reach without disturbing him. He’s not sure if he likes or hates it, but decides it’s infinitely better than being sticky, and that it’s too much trouble to protest. However, when he feels the bed shift and you get up, he finds himself moving, much to his body’s protest.

Hanzo’s hand shoots out into the treacherous cold and wraps around your shirt in a silent bid for you to stay. He swears he hears you sigh fondly, but he thinks he can ignore that if it’ll keep you from leaving. You slip into the blankets next to him, and he shakes from the chill that you momentarily usher into his cocoon. As much as he feared you getting sick, the comfort of having you next to him at this moment easily trumps those thoughts. He belatedly swears to himself that he’ll take responsibility if the time comes.

The warmth you emit is dry and pleasant, a welcome contrast to the sweaty chill that his body seems to be perpetually cast in, and he curls his hands into the front of your shirt, pulling you that much closer and buries his face into your chest, an action that in his right frame of mind, he would not even dare attempt. If anything it’ll be a constant source of embarrassment come morning. Your legs tangle together, and he relishes any bit of warmth you can provide, sighing contently against you. He can almost ignore the pounding in his head and the ache of his throat and body.

Your chest rumbles with silent laughter, and you plant another kiss onto his forehead. It feels nice, and makes his chest squirm with something more than just a suppressed cough. You slip your arms around him, threading your fingers through his locks and lightly scratching his scalp. He can hear your heartbeat, steady and reassuring. It’s to this that he falls asleep again.

It isn’t until the next morning that he wakes up with a start in your arms, and with the same mortification and embarrassment a drunk would have the day after, that he remembers why you were here.

While being treated in the medbay, out of his mind with medication and sickness, he had called for you.