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The moment Stein placed his hand on Patchwork Lab’s doorhandle, he sensed a disturbance. Not danger, but nonetheless soul energy coming from inside.
He had a visitor.
He opened the door, careful to not make it louder or quieter than usual. He turned his head left, then right, trying to sense where it was stronger.
The living room.
As he walked through the corridor, the wavelength made itself known. His shoulders relaxed—he’d tensed, just the slightest bit, prepared to take the intruder down.
That wouldn’t be needed.
He opened the door to the living room.
Curled up on the pink couch in a pathetic ball of self-pity—thankfully shoeless—was Spirit. His back was turned to Stein.
He shifted his head a centimetre or two, then let it sink back into the cushion.
“The door bas udlock—” he snorted wetly. “Unlocked.”
Congested.
“It always is.” Stein strode to the office chair and draped his coat over the backrest. “It’s not pollen season—are you crying or ill?”
“…Yes.”
No more unhelpful than usual.
“So, you came here to infect me.”
“No,” he whimpered.
Still unclear.
He turned toward Spirit’s back, scanning him for visible injuries. None. No heaving or hitching shoulders, either, except for at the moment of snorting. Any crying—if there’d been any—would then be from lack of external pity.
Preliminary diagnosis: common cold.
“You’re here to be treated, then?” He stepped to the couch, stopping close to Spirit’s head. “Regretfully, rhinovirus has no cure—you need to wait it out.”
Spirit looked over his shoulder briefly, giving Stein a red-rimmed glare. His head flopped back down, rebounding once against the cushion.
“I came here to die,” he croaked. “I thought it’d be nice if someone found my body before it decomposed. I want an open casket—I have a suit in mind.”
Stein studied Spirit’s body more closely. There was a small tremor. A light flush across his cheekbones—fever, perhaps. In combination with his red eyes and congestion—
Spirit coughed roughly, shoulders heaving.
Then another fit, his entire body racking.
“Oww,” he wheezed once it was over, hand moving to his chest.
Definitely over-playing it—but not as much as Stein first might’ve assumed.
“Come,” he said. “We’ll sit you in the kitchen.”
“No, I’m dizzy.”
“Sitting will decrease sinus pressure, and movement will help circulation. Actually, a brisk walk might be—”
“No, I’d literally stumble into my grave.”
“Well, you can’t stay here. The airflow is insufficient for recovery.”
“I’m good. I mean—I’m dying, but it’s fine. I’ll perish here.”
“Hmm.”
Stein nudged Spirit’s back with the heel of his boot. Spirit flapped his hand at it, missing and almost hitting himself instead. Dramatic, but also a sign of affected motor skills. Exhaustion.
“Watch it, you’ll get me dirty,” Spirit rasped. He was indignant, a good sign.
“Get up, and I won’t repeat it.”
“I told you, I can’t,” he whimpered. “My head hurts.”
“Where?”
“Inside,” Spirit muttered, and Stein’s mouth twitched.
Non-specific. Useless.
He tried again. “Where, inside?”
“I don’t know, I don’t wanna think.”
“You might be dehydrated.”
“You should bring me coffee.”
“No coffee. You’ll get tea and water in the kitchen.”
“For a genius, you have real trouble hearing ‘no.’” Spirit curled up tighter. “I won’t move.”
Stein leaned over Spirit, waiting until the red-rimmed eyes met his.
“Do I need to carry you.”
Spirit’s face contorted: nose scrunching, brows furrowing and the corners of his mouth almost down by his chin.
Stein didn’t move.
Spirit didn’t move.
“Right,” Stein said. “Over my shoulder, it is.”
He’d barely slid his arm under Spirit’s ribcage before he writhed away.
“Fine, I’m up! God.” He twisted to sit on the sofa, sock-clad feet thumping against the polished concrete. “Sadistic bastard.”
He didn’t stand.
Stein tilted his head. “Will you manage, or should we get Uncle a walking chair?”
“Ugghh.”
Spirit pushed off, onto his feet.
He wobbled, stumbled, tilted until he almost toppled.
Stein grasped his arm, steadying him. Maybe he truly was a bit dizzy. He slid his hand to the elbow, the other hand firm between Spirit’s shoulder blades, and steered him down the corridor.
Spirit protested only weakly. “I can walk there myself.”
“I would’ve believed you ten seconds ago, when you were of a different opinion.”
“…That was too complicated.”
Though Spirit was in his suit jacket, and Stein in his tee shirt, Spirit shuddered. “Why’s your lab so damn cold?”
It wasn’t.
“I’ll get you a blanket,” he replied.
“Just turn the heat up.”
“I won’t.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Stein ignored the next snippy “yes,” pivoting him into the kitchen. As usual, there were stacks of folders, binders and books littering the kitchen table. Messy, to some people. Stein knew exactly where everything was. He slid a chair out with his foot and guided Spirit down with a dull thump.
“Ow,” Spirit grumbled, though it couldn’t have possibly hurt.
Stein ignored it.
He unlatched the window and opened it. It was a warm day, but not hot. Almost the same temperature as indoors. He clicked his tongue.
“Air exchange won’t be optimal today, but it’ll have to do,” he murmured, moving to open a second window.
Spirit snorted loudly and looked up at him. “Huh?”
“Nothing.”
Stein took the roll of paper towels from the counter and put it on the table. “Your nose is running.”
“I know.” Spirit ripped a couple napkins and a third off—unable to stick to the very clearly perforated lines—and dabbed under his nose. “It’s my nose.”
“Stay there.”
“No, I’ll jump out the window.”
Stein tried very hard not to sigh, and briefly left Spirit to blow his nose, snort, cough and generally overplay his one-person-pity-party.
He crossed the hallway, stepping into the guestroom. The duvet on the foot end didn’t have a cover on, but he couldn’t be bothered with it. It would need washing after anyway. He’d make Spirit do it himself, then maybe he’d think twice before catching a cold again.
Spirit groaned from the kitchen, just as Stein reached the doorway.
Spirit turned his face to Stein—nose red-rubbed too, now—just as Stein threw the duvet at him.
“Hey,” he protested weakly, grabbing for the duvet before it slid onto the floor.
“Wrap yourself up.”
Stein rounded the corner again, sliding the metal sick aid kit off the hat-shelf. It rattled as he carried it back into the kitchen. Spirit followed him with his gaze, already huddled under the duvet like a child bracing for a jump scare.
He opened the box and took the thermometer out.
“I don’t need that,” Spirit rasped as Stein slid a plastic cap onto it. “I already know I have a fever.”
“Open,” Stein said, holding the slim glass-stick close to his mouth. “We need to check your temperature before you have a drink.”
“I’m good,” Spirit muttered. “I’d rather have the tea now.”
“We will take your temperature.”
“I’m good.” Spirit pressed out through clenched teeth.
Stein withdrew his hand slowly, keeping his face perfectly neutral. “There are two distinct ways to check this, Spirit.”
And one of them was significantly less efficient.
Spirit blinked.
His eyes widened.
He quickly opened his mouth.
Stein popped the thermometer in. “That’s better.”
“Bastard,” Spirit groused, thermometer between his incisors.
The thermometer clanked gently against Spirit’s teeth as he pushed it under his tongue—and, considering it kept clanking, probably chewed it.
“Hold it still.” Stein pinched the thermometer, Spirit’s jaw stopping slightly askew. “That includes no talking.”
“Ah cang talk wid it ing,” Spirit grumbled.
“Can and should are different,” Stein murmured, peeking at the kitchen clock.
He grasped Spirit’s chin and tilted it to the side, pressing two fingers to his jugular. Spirit sat still, keeping quiet. Even the thermometer was completely still. Stein glanced at the kitchen clock again.
Thirty seconds passed—thirty-six beats counted.
He let Spirit go. “A moderately elevated pulse, not life threatening—like everything else.”
“Ah feel weally wawm though—"
“And yet chilled?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
Even without the thermometer, he agreed with Spirit—everything pointed to a light fever. He’d get the paracetamol. Or perhaps—
“Does your throat hurt?”
“Yeah.”
Ibuprofen, then. And something to eat—if Spirit got stomach pain in addition, there was no knowing how long it would be until Stein contemplated murder.
He turned the water faucet on, water rushing until cold. He filled a glass, then the kettle. The kettle went on the stove. He turned the heat on before approaching Spirit, setting the water glass down in front of him.
He lifted a couple packets from the box, flipping them over to read, before he found the ibuprofen. He slid a blister pack out and put it on the table, before putting the packet back in the box.
He looked at the kitchen clock again.
That’d do.
He stepped next to Spirit and pinched the thermometer, turning it to see the numbers. Spirit’s gaze shifted to his, hooded under heavy eyelids and his duvet-tent.
“Thirty-eight point seven,” Stein murmured. Higher than ideal, but not dangerous.
Spirit flinched back. “I knew it—I’m a corpse!”
“Centigrades.”
“That doesn’t help!”
Had it been a lower temperature than average, Stein would’ve been able to pin it directly. As it was now, he needed to calculate. His eyes flickered as he did.
Spirit leaned forward. “Stein!”
“It’s approximately one-hundred and two in American,” he said.
“You can’t scare me when I’m mortally sick!”
“Moderately sick. Hand.”
The blister pack crinkled as he pushed a pill into Spirit’s outstretched palm.
“Drink it all,” he said, sliding the water glass closer. “It will thin the mucus.”
Spirit made a disgusted face—fascinating, considering his recurring snorts and the trickle under his nose. He complied, however, washing the pill down with the entire glass. He drew a deep breath after finishing, sending him into a new coughing fit.
The congestion truly seemed troublesome.
The kettle whistled.
Stein slid it off the stove in passing, heading to the cupboard. He retrieved a glass bowl, set it down on the counter with a soft clank.
“A bit large to drink from,” Spirit mused as Stein poured hot water into it.
“It’s not for drinking.” He pulled the kitchen towel off the oven handlebar and tossed it to Spirit. “Put this over your head.”
“…over my head.”
“Yes.” He set the steaming bowl down in front of him. “Then lean over.”
Spirit stared at him. “I already knew you were insane, don’t overdo it.”
“Steam will open your nasal passage.” He took the towel from Spirit, shook it open and draped it over his head—receiving a bewildered look—then cupped the back of Spirit’s head to guide him forward.
“You’re toying with me,” Spirit muttered, but didn’t struggle. “I’m sick, and you’re testing how bad you can trick me.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Stein said. “I already know how far I can go without you catching on.”
Spirit’s head shot up—probably to glare—but Stein pushed it down again. “Breathe, just until I’ve brought the sandwich and tea.”
“My face is melting,” Spirit grumbled.
“Does it burn?”
“No.”
“Then accept it.”
Spirit grumbled something, but at least he was breathing the steam. Stein drowned him out by rummaging in the freezer louder than necessary. He found the finely diced ginger—and noticed half a package of frostbitten toast bread.
He paused.
A rye bread sandwich would be the quickest to make. He had fresh ryebread. However, considering it was Spirit he was dealing with—who was particular with food even when not sick and pitiful—he might put up a fight. Stein had nothing easy to threaten with, either.
He straightened. “Toast or rye bread?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Straight for option three, of course. “You need it for the ibuprofen.”
“It’s fine—everything tastes funny.”
“Do you want stomach pains in addition?”
“…Toast, then.”
Out of the freezer the bag went, and into the toaster went the frozen slices.
“I would offer to put honey on the toast, as it might soothe your throat,” he said, rummaging for a lemon. “But I unfortunately have none.”
“I don’t want honey, anyway.”
Stein forced himself to not roll his eyes, even though Spirit wouldn’t see it with his back turned.
“Stop rolling your eyes,” Spirit grumbled.
“I didn’t.”
“I felt it.”
“Again, I didn’t.”
“Show me the proof.”
Stein turned around. Spirit was still face-down in the bowl, seeing absolutely nothing. His voice was weak enough that it was difficult to hear if it was an attempt at banter or sulking.
He’d test him. “…You’re trying my patience.”
“You’re not trying for your patients,” he grumbled.
A bad pun—half-sulking.
Stein ignored him.
He retrieved two cups from the cupboard, scooping diced ginger into one. He halved the lemon and squeezed juice into that same cup.
A teabag in each cup, steaming water on, and then he let it rest while preparing to assemble the sandwich.
He hesitated.
“Anything on the toast?” he asked.
“No.”
“Not even butter?”
“It’s fine.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I will.”
If he complained about it being dry, Stein would—without hesitation—cram it into his teacup.
He discarded the teabags and set Spirit’s cup and sandwich plate—well, toast plate—in front of the bowl.
“You can come out now,” he said, turning back to retrieve his own cup.
“It’s warm.”
“Is that good?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the breathing?”
“Better.”
“Hm.” Stein sat down in the opposite chair and took a small sip. “I’d still suggest you reemerge before the toast cools and goes gummy.”
Spirit lifted his head to glare, which looked even less intimidating than usual, what with his pink face speckled with condensation. Stein pushed the paper towels toward him.
“Dry off and blow your nose.”
Spirit’s upper lip curled in a lopsided grimace. “I know when I need to blow my nose.”
“Then do it.”
“Stop bossing me around,” Spirit grumbled, and ripped a few napkins loose. He blew his nose loudly, glaring at Stein as he did so.
Stein raised his eyebrows, shook his head once, and scooted Spirit’s teacup closer to him. He picked up one of the folders and turned his attention to the contents.
He could hear Spirit nibbling on the dry toast, surprisingly saying nothing of it. The teacup scraped briefly as he picked it up and sipped.
“I can’t really taste it, but it feels spicy,” Spirit mumbled.
“Mm.”
“And tangy.”
“Lemon and ginger. It should soothe your throat, even if it’s too little to help your immune system fight the cold.”
“Mm.” Another sip. “It’s pretty nice.”
Stein didn’t allow the smile through, or Spirit might change focus to something less important than intaking his sustenance.
As Stein pretended to work, Spirit kept sniffling, nibbling and sipping. Eventually, it quieted down. Stein adjusted his position, peeking at the plate as he did so. The toast was gone, teacup firm between Spirit’s cupped hands.
“You’ll keep working?” Spirit croaked around sips.
“Yes.”
“What if I get bored?”
“Take a nap.”
“Sitting? My back will kill me.”
“Read, then.” He glanced to the side, lifting a particularly dense book with a myriad of notes sticking out at all angles. “This one’s somewhat interesting.”
“It’s in German.”
“Yes.”
Spirit clicked his tongue. “Do you want me bored? I think you’ll change your mind.”
“Hm.” Stein peeked up over his glasses. “I’ll deal with it when it happens.”
The corners of Spirit’s mouth pulled down, and he sunk back in his chair.
The clock ticked softly in the background.
Spirit kept sniffing softly and sipping, shifting and grumbling every now and then. He leaned forward, forehead on the table. Then he sat back, fingernails drumming against the ceramic cup. Finally, he slumped sideways against the wall. He huffed. Took another sip. Sniffled, then sighed.
Restless.
Stein pretended to ignore it, leafing through the pages.
Eventually, Spirit’s grousing mellowed.
Stein glanced at Spirit’s cup, still between his hands. It was mostly empty, his fingers slackened around it. His gaze travelled up his arms—lopsided, matching his sunken, sideways position that would ache when he woke—and up to his face.
His features were relaxed, head hanging limp and half-supported by the wall.
A soft snore escaped.
The position compressed his airways.
Slowly, quietly, Stein pushed his chair back to stand. As softly as his boots would carry him, he moved to the living room. He picked up one of the cushions, then headed back.
Spirit was still snoring softly.
Stein slid his hand under Spirit’s chin, slowly tilting it up. He pressed the cushion into place between Spirit and the wall, folding the upper half over Spirit’s shoulder. Slowly, he lowered Spirit’s head against the cushion.
Spirit drew a deeper breath, eyelashes fluttering briefly.
“Sleep,” Stein said.
Spirit blinked at him, eyes dazed for a moment.
Then he tucked his cheek deeper into the cushion.
Stein rounded the table and sat back down with his folders. Soon enough, Spirit’s breaths grew deep and slow again.
Stein nodded to himself.
He might not be the fussing type, but he was efficient.
Spirit better be grateful, or Stein would never let him live it down.
He glanced up at Spirit again.
He was smiling.
Stein flipped the page.
He wouldn’t need to worry.