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gay-for-the-snz · 2 months ago

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Baggage (M, cold, pt. 3/3)

Sorry this one's short as fuck compared to the other two, but it wound down to a spot I felt really put a nice little cap on things, so I let it end where it wanted to end. Our poor little meowmeow's origin story of sorts has come to a close, but I'll probably pull some other key moments from prior to current day that I wanna explore, so keep an eyeball out for things in the future!

[part 1, part 2, part 3]

⁂

Christ alive. The rain is pouring so hard, it's difficult to see the road ahead of them completely. They're all crawling along the highway, and it's the one of few times in his life that he doesn't actually disagree with going under the speed limit. He has to get this kid home and warmed up. He CANNOT call Bill tomorrow and tell him that he gave him pneumonia and let him die, because he just wanted to buy some damn groceries. The poor bastard is shivering so hard he can hear his teeth chattering.

"Well! Welcome to the west coast. Remind you of back home yet?"

He swipes at his nose with his soaked sleeve, shivering like he's about to freeze into a block of ice. "A little."

"It doesn't usually start like this with such little warning, but it'll probably be going for hours now that it has." He can feel the water running down his face, down the back of his neck, but he's more aware of the kid next to him.

His hair, so long that the braid is laying on the seat behind him, has the water running down him like it's still raining in the truck. He looks like a drowned rat, everything not pulled back into the braid clinging awkwardly to his face and neck, the same way his clothes all stick to him like a second skin still in the process of being molted.

"Captain," he starts, but he's cut off by his own body. A raindrop slips down the freckled bridge of his nose, glides along the rim of one quivering nostril, and disappears with a sharp sniffle--that's immediately undone. "haH'DDZZHhyue! EZZHhuue! hh'DZzhhue!"

He has the courtesy to at least try and turn away from him, angling his body towards him to keep the bags as far from the spray as he can, but there's little he can do to cover when his arms are encumbered by the stuff they did all of this for in the first place. He's never been a squeamish man, seen and done things that would put most off of their lunch, but even he finds it difficult to watch just how desperately contagious he is.

And he doesn't blame him! If anything, it makes him pity the whelp all the more, but he is a walking biohazard like this. "Bless you. You said you aren't sick like this often?"

He looks dazed in the aftermath of it, scrubbing at his nose with his sleeve in lieu of anything else to tend to it with. He can hear the distinct click of wet congestion being shifted as he moves his nose side to side. "Uhmb--" The throat clear doesn't really do anything to give him his consonants back, nor do the several attempted sniffles that sound like he's up against a brick wall, or perhaps a flood. Color rushes to his cheeks at the cringe inducing sound of blowing his nose to try and relieve him of some of the burden of this cold. "Not really."

"Hm." Part of him believes it, looking at how unprepared and caught off guard he seems by the whole shebang, but it's also difficult to think that any creature who's come down with something like this for a cold is someone who isn't predisposed to this sort of thing. He doesn't press the matter any further, though, just tactfully lets it lie. "Quite the welcome to your new life, then."

"It's not the one I expected, that's for sure." He still looks like he needs to sneeze. The soft flare of red-raw nostrils. The tears clinging to thick, dark lashes like he's straight out of a photo of a waifish, consumptive pretty boy from days of yore. The persistent, ineffective sniffling. He looks so utterly cold-ridden that perhaps he just assumes he needs to sneeze, simply because he can't imagine a second passes with a cold like this where he doesn't.

"Alright, come on then." He pries several bags from hands that put up only token resistance, unwilling to commit to actually withholding them from him, but making the show of not wanting to. "You go straight into the bathroom and into the shower, and I'm not going to hear any argument about it."

"But--"

"I said I'm not hearing any arguments. No ifs, ands, or buts about it."

"But Captain--"

He pushes at his back with the head of the cane like a herding dog nipping at the heels of its flock. "Go on, move."

"I'm moving, I'm moving!" He startles, but heeds the direction, if only because he isn't really giving him a choice in the matter.

"If I don't hear that shower start in the next few minutes, I'll wrestle you into it myself. Go get your pajamas and wash up." Truthfully, he wishes he was in the shower warming up, but it would be heartless to make the poor beast wait for him when he's shivering so hard he looks like he's going to shake apart at the seams.

He can see how badly he wants to protest. It's written into every inch of him, the conflict between the desire to gratefully accept the offer and the deep-seated need to argue and insist he couldn't possibly think of it. He finally sighs, hangs his head, and starts to disrobe somewhat, kicking off his boots, peeling off the sweatshirt and socks that are ruining his carpeting in this precise moment.

"I'm going! I was just sitting down for a second, I'm going!" Elliott nearly yelps and jogs to the bathroom when he leans menacingly into the doorway to the guest room a few minutes later, and he hears the bathroom door nearly slam behind him, followed quickly by the water running.

He raps on the weathered wood, shouts through it to him. "I better not see you for at least twenty minutes!" His water bill won't be pleased, but he'd rather pay a high water bill than a high hospital bill any day.

The old wood stove isn't a perfect source of heat, but it does plenty for his needs. He feeds it another log, and hangs up the clothes they've both shed to start drying out. He'll throw them in the actual dryer later to finish out, but it would be a waste to run a whole load for just two outfits. He'll throw a load in the wash to pair them with later, let these do their thing in the meantime.

The sound of sneezing is audible from the shower, the sound so miserable that it makes his heart ache a little. He really does feel bad about the fact that this is how he's having to start a new life--in a stranger's house, preparing for work in the morning, when he's got a monster of a cold and a black eye and enough emotional baggage it would take more than the one plane to bring it all, but so little physical baggage that everything he owns and considered worth bringing fit into two suitcases.

He stops counting at a dozen sneezes in as many minutes, each one just as harsh and contagious as the last, and decides to go get himself changed into something dry before he's sounding the same way. Not that he truly expects to avoid catching this off him, but it'd be better to make it put up a fight than to just roll over and accept it.

He's made chicken soup a million times before, but this is just...soup. No chicken. He isn't sure what to throw in to give it any more real substance than this. It looks laughably inadequate with just chunks of carrot and celery in it. He finally throws a bag of noodles into it, even if he's not the biggest noodle fan, simply so it has something else in it.

He glances towards the pantry, then back towards the sound of the shower, and grabs a can of diced chiles, dumping them into the broth and stirring it together. It smells good, at least, and it's got the right texture, so he doubts his ailing stray will take too much offense to it. What he doesn't know until he takes a bite won't hurt him, and something makes him highly doubt that he's much of a spice guy, but he sounds like he could use it.

The kid himself makes an appearance in the kitchen a few minutes later, a towel wrapped around his hair like a turban and a blanket wrapped around his body like a cloak. He looks ridiculous, but he's sniffling, thick and persistent, in a way that makes it sound like none of the congestion was loosened by the steam.

He swipes at his nose with a crumpled wad of toilet paper, and looks at him tiredly. "I can take over if you want to shower."

He does want to shower. Unfortunately, he can already envision him garnishing the soup with his cold while he's stirring it. "No thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Are you feeling warmer?"

"Yeah. I tried to be quick, but it felt so good to finally feel warm again. I was so cold all day."

"You never complained about it?"

He looks sheepish. "Wasn't really worth complaining over." He must see the expression on his face shift, because he quickly adds, "nothing I could do about it, and not a big deal."

He's going to strangle him, maybe. "I'm asking you to complain if you need something changed."

"Oh, it's not a big deal--"

"Fine. I'm ordering you to complain. As your boss, you are now commanded to complain as part of your job. If I don't hear you tell me you want something, it'll be a demerit in your record."

He blanches in response, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. "I don't--you're n--you're not serious?"

"Serious as a heart attack. I expect to hear you complain, long and loud, or you'll be in trouble. If you won't ask for what you need on your own, I'm going to force you to, starting now. Go."

"But--"

"Go."

"A blanket!" He recoils slightly, trying to back away from his own request, to soften the edges of a need into something more gentle and palatable. "I c--I could use another blanket on the guest bed! I run cold and another blanket would be nice!"

"There. Was that so hard?" Apparently it was, because he looks like he's about to change his name and leave the country. "Come sit down, dinner's almost done. It's just simmering."

It probably needs longer, but he's not losing the opportunity to try and move this along, nor is he keen on making this a later night than it has to be. He's hoping to get some sleep tonight, unlike last night.

They both take their seats, and Elliott just moves chunks of carrot around with his spoon in his bowl.

"Doesn't look appetizing?"

"No! No, it looks fine. I'm just, uh, tired. Thinking about turning in for the night, maybe."

"I haven't seen you eat anything since a bowl of cereal this morning."

"Er--well, yeah."

"At least eat something before bed. I can't pack up this much soup into the fridge."

"Right."

They eat in silence, save for the sound of sipping broth and the ever present sniffling from Elliott. Sniffling which is growing steadily more liquid as he eats. Perhaps the chiles really are doing something for him, here. He keeps using the same ratty wad of toilet paper he walked out of the bathroom with, and he finally just leans back to grab him a paper towel off the roll to replace it. "Here."

"Oh! Thank you." He immediately puts it to use stemming the time of a nose that's now incessantly dripping.

"Are you..." He lets the question die on his tongue, because it's clear that Elliott isn't listening to him.

He's slowly drawing back from the table, the paper towel clutched like a lifeline as his breath snags and brows knit together in preparation. He notices for the first time that he's got a gap between his front teeth; small, but present enough he wonders if he's considered braces to correct it. The gasp is much more dramatic than either of them seemed to expect, because even Elliott looks somewhat surprised by it.

"hADT'DDZZHhue! haHDZZHhyue! hh...hH-!? hYIZZHhieww! iIDDSSHh! yiDSSHhue!" The dam has broken, and his nose is dripping so furiously that he's soaked through the measly paper towel already.

He tears off a handful of them to put the lad out of his misery. "Bless you!" The chiles have done their job, clearly, because the wall of congestion has become a tidal wave. Even the sound is audibly wetter, looser in its quality. "You gonna make it?"

He shakes his head vehemently, eyes still squeezed shut as his breath scissors once again. "hiH-! eISSHh'uh! yISSHhhue! hh! h-hiH--!? ...guh! Oh my God." He blows his nose miserably, grimacing at the sound. "I might die."

He just may, by the looks of him. "You can't die, at least for awhile yet. I don't wanna have to call Bill and tell him I killed you with a pot of soup."

"You can tell him I sneezed so much I suffocated." The circle of pansies on his wrist are on full display from beneath the cuff of his sweatshirt as he rests his cheek in his palm, and for a brief moment he can see that this kid is going to be catnip to the local gays. That sort of feminine charm, rather than the more rugged masculinity he would typically expect.

"I'd think your cause of death was actually drowning, by that sniffling." The whole roll makes its way onto the table, and several immediately make their way into his hands to replace what have already been destroyed.

"I might agree with that." He slides his bowl back and stands up. "Have you got cling wrap? I might, uhm, be done for the night."

"I'll put it in the fridge for you. Get some rest."

He watches him go, and sighs once he disappears into the bedroom. He's hopeful that tonight will be a little smoother than the last.

⁂

It's not.

He's laying in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the symphony of sickness coming from the guest room. He's spent the last two hours either coughing, sneezing, or creaking the bed in a way he imagines he must be rolling like a gator. The bedroom door across the hall opens, and he hears footsteps trail into the living room, and then to sitting on the sofa.

He is going to strangle this kid, maybe. He doesn't want to make him feel bad for it, because he's already a nervous enough beast as it is, but he's going to lose his mind if he doesn't get to sleep soon.

He walks out of the living room, feigns going into the kitchen for water for an excuse to go do something without it being quite so obvious what he's doing. Elliott looks up in surprise to see him, curled up awkwardly on the sofa in his blankets.

"Good morning, Captain?"

"Not sleeping?"

"No, I'm awake for now. I, uh, don't usually sleep well. I try to keep quiet--did I wake you?"

"No." It isn't technically a lie. To wake him would necessitate that he had fallen asleep already. "I just came to get some water. Do you need anything?"

"No, I think I might, uh, just sit here for a little while. Keep to myself. Your bed is really nice, but I'm just kinda--I'm just--I don't know if I'm really gonna get much sleep, and it might be easier to sit up than to be laying down." He looks like hell, gingerly rubbing at his bad eye tiredly. "Would it bother you if I turned the TV on quietly?"

It's very difficult to be mad at him when he is the most pathetic creature on the planet. "Of course not. I'm going back to bed. Come wake me if you need anything."

"Yes, sir."

He doubts that he will. What he's gleaned of this kid so far, he's polite to a fault. He would rather have teeth pulled than be a nuisance, even if that makes him more of one because of it. It hasn't left his mind since he told him at the store yesterday that he hasn't had any parents since he was seven. Who raised him after that, he isn't sure. Hopefully not whatever family he tussled with at the courthouse.

He chews on the inside of his cheek as he rolls back under his blankets. He doubts he wants to discuss it, but he also wants to know what the story is there. There's too many unanswered questions to feel like he has any idea of who's in his house right now. Not that he takes him as dangerous--if anything, he seems like someone who would be tangled up in something against his will, not because he's taken on something out of malice--but there is almost no information to try and fill in any blanks on him.

Most of what he knows is that he hasn't got parents, somebody socked him a good one, and he can catch one hell of a cold. The sounds of it drift from the living room, muffled into the quietest state he thinks he can probably manage to get them. Some peaceful music mingles with it--not a fan of anything exciting for TV then, he takes it.

Fuck.

He gets back up, immediately walks back out to the living room. Elliott startles at the sight of him, and immediately drops the volume so low he can barely hear it. "Captain! Sorry, I thought it was quiet enough."

"You didn't get me up. Listen, and you listen to me well, y'hear?" He waits until he nods, somewhat frantically, those green eyes wide with panic. "I won't promise that whatever life you have here is going to be a perfect one--it's not, and I'm not the kind to sugarcoat things--but I will say that it's going to be better than whatever you left in Virginia. But."

"But?"

"But, you've got to let it be good."

"I don't--"

"You've got to be whatever mess you're going to be. It's fine! It's fine! We're all a mess, I swear it! You just learn to make it work more when you get older and have more experience being a mess! You're never going to get anywhere good if you spend all your time trying not to be a bother to anyone else."

The shivering, cold-ridden blanket cocoon on the couch is silent in response. He can see the wet sheen of his eyes reflecting the light from the TV more vividly. He stands up so suddenly it takes him a little aback to see him shoot up to his full height, but he has little time to be surprised before he finds the gangly beast has thrown his arms around him in a hug.

He awkwardly pats his back as he sobs. "Alright. I know, it's alright." He can't recall the last time he's held someone as they cried. Perhaps it was while he was still married? It feels like too long of a time, but there's such little occasion for it to happen to him, it may well have been the twenty or so years since they parted ways.

He can hear the congestion seeping into the sound of it, adding a ragged edge to the already strained inhales that abruptly to a fit of coughing that sees him awkwardly disentangling himself to push away enough that he can smother it into his elbow as best he can.

"Come on." He takes him by his free wrist, gives him a little tug until he complies, and turns off the TV so he can lead his still coughing charge back towards the bedroom with a hand on his back.

He's a snuffling, teary mess when he wriggles underneath the blankets, curled up securely in a veritable nest of them. "Theeeere we go, alright. Just get some sleep, now."

"Captain?"

"Mm?"

The multitude of what he wishes to express isn't lost on him, even if all he manages is a thin, somewhat choked up, "thank you."

He gives him one little squeeze on the shoulder in an attempt to return the sentiment. "Don't mention it."

He retires to his own bedroom, and leaves him to try and snatch whatever rest he can muster up before morning.

#snzfic #sickfic #snz #elliott fic #my poor little meowmeow. he is so gross in this but trying his BEST!!

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