Jake feels like shit. His nose has been running since he woke up, urged awake in the middle of the night by Khonshu. He’d slipped silently and gracefully from Layla’s embrace, seamlessly adjusting the comforter in his place. The sneezing, miraculously, hadn’t started until after the mission was done, but once it began, it never stopped. The drive home has been miserable. And slow. And itchy. He’s finally parked a short distance from the apartment– far enough to escape notice, to avoid suspicion, close enough to be reachable in case of emergency.
Efficient as always, Khonshu tells him, in that reserved way he does that tells Jake the stupid bird would rather have Marc. It doesn’t matter. He’s not getting him. Excellent work.
Jake sniffles, hard, rubbing his nose against the side of his hand. “Yeah, yeah. Listen. Sngfff. The others will be down with this for a while, so you’re gonna have to wait before I’m back on duty, entiendes?”
Khonshu hums, shifting lazily in the passenger seat. I’m sure you’ll be fine, he says curtly, and he’s gone before Jake can even glare.
Ugh.
They’d known they were getting sick for a few days, now— well, he did, and Marc did. Marc’s been doing a fine enough job hiding it from Steven and Layla. It was simpler when it was only a sore throat, and a headache he couldn’t shake. At least the croakiness could be attributed to grumpiness, and the headache could be blatantly lied about. Jake can tell Layla’s been suspicious, even if Marc can’t. But this—
“Heh’EHKSSHHieh!”
—this is going to be somewhat more difficult to explain away. He wipes off the steering wheel with his sleeve only to snap forward again with a spraying, sinus-aching, “Hhehh’EHKKSHhieh! Snff– Hheh– HhH– Heehh… HEH’EHKSSSschhuh! SNff– EH’KSSHhh!”
He slumps backwards, sniffling with every other breath, desperate as those breaths hitch wildly again, and as he scrubs his nose furiously with the back of his hand.
“Snff– Hh-ehh, hihh, snff-snfff… sngff- hh… heh, snff, hehh…! Heh’KSHSH!! EKKSHhiehhh-snff-!” His glove and steering wheel are glistening at this point, and no matter how many lightning-fast little sniffles he gives into, the drippiness is incessant. He can’t even inhale regularly anymore, each breath through his nose sounds liquidy and breathless.
Fuck. Fuck, this is driving him crazy.
“Hehh’IEKKShhuh! Snff-snff… Hheh- h-hh… hheh… E-Eh…! EHH’KTSCHHIEhh! Sngff!”
He fumbles in the glove compartment for– tissues, napkins, receipts, fucking anything to wipe his nose with, and finds absolute jack shit. “HhEH’KSCHHHuhh!” He slams a fist against the dashboard. “P-Puta mbadreehh’KSHHieHh! Snff- HehhEKSHHeh!”
He’s lightheaded, slumping back in the driver’s seat as he– “HEH’KSZSHHIEH!” As he ducks forward again and again. He’s barely getting any air in at this point. He lifts a shaking, gloved hand to his nose, pinching it shut in an attempt to stifle the next sneeze. “Hh-HehhhKGGT!–uhh, snff…” Silencing them is really more of Steven’s game.
Jake really hasn’t had much practice with sneezing at all, is the thing. Jake has been sick before. He’s fronted during fevers– found himself suddenly forced to consciousness, taking over the body and finding himself only capable of dizzy kaleidoscopes of abstract thought.
Those times, he’d drift away into delirium until someone– Layla, most times– pressed a cold washcloth to his face for long enough to surface into awareness. To make sure Marc was going to be okay. To then slip away without a trace.
This is… nothing like that. This is overpowering, and overwhelming, and– “Heh’EKSHhieh!! Sngff…” As he gears up for the next sneeze, he tips his head back, eyes squeezed shut, nostrils flaring and trembling as he breathes in… and in… and…!
…And nothing. He releases the breath shakily. Is it over?
No. The tickle’s still there. He sniffles desperately, rubbing his nose and detesting the wet squelching sound it makes. “Snff… H-hhehh… heh, snff-snff, e-ehh…! Snff- hheh, eh…!”
But nothing happens. He growls and grinds his nose mercilessly into his leather clad palm until the tickle eventually fades from desperate need to incessant bother. He fumbles with the door handle, sniffling all the way down the block, all the way up the stairs, and all the way into the apartment.
He toes his shoes off and leaves them haphazardly in the doorway (Marc will blame Steven, Layla will believe Marc.), shoves his gloves deep into his pockets before shuffling into the kitchen. He doesn’t bother turning the light on– He knows where the paper towels are. He tears a piece off and mops at the disgusting mess he’s made of his nose and upper lip. “Snff… snf-sngff…” The material is rough on his already irritated skin, but it does the job. Suddenly the tickle flares once more, ricocheting through him in a high-pitched gasp, and…!
“Hehh’EKSHHieh! Snff, hh-ehh, snfgff– HEHH’KESHHHuh! Snfff– ‘EHkkschheh! Heh’KESHHEIeh!” Fuck. Those were loud. He folds the paper towel piece in two, pressing it firmly against his twitching nostrils, but it’s not enough to silence– “HeHHEHHH’KTSCHHHhiehh!”
Layla pads into the kitchen sleepily, still rubbing one eye as she yawns and spares a glance at the clock above the stove. Jake swallows hard as he rubs his nose back and forth through the paper towels, ruthless. This is dangerous. He shouldn’t be around her like this, not when he can barely keep it together. But switching out now would be worse— Marc or Steven would immediately know something was up. He’ll just have to put on a decent performance.
“What are you doing up?” asks Layla as she flips the switch on the stove light. It throws her face into dim, warm highlights, softening the dark of her sleepy eyes, illuminating the roundness of her cheeks, and despite himself, Jake wants to lean in and kiss her jaw. Instead, he snuffles, furrowing his brow in his best approximation of a Marc Pout. Her eyes are all over him, making him feel exposed— he shoves down the urge to bolt, to put as much distance between them as possible. She reaches out to run a hand down his arm, and dammit, he flinches. Her eyes go wide as her fingers glide against the cold fabric. “Marc, did you go out?”
Jake clears his throat. “Just ndeeded sobe air,” he says, finally lowering the paper towels. He can pull off a pretty good Marc, so long as he doesn’t say too much. Annoyingly, he can’t do Steven. His voice cracks when he tries.
Speaking of air, his lip curls into a snarl as his breath catches again. Layla barely ducks out of the way in time to avoid being showered with the unfortunate effect of– “Eh’KSHHhieh! Snff- H’KSHHhhehh!”
“Bless you, baby. You clearly didn’t need the cold air. And it’s the middle of the night.” She reaches for Jake’s face, slow, deliberate. He tracks her with his eyes as she cups his jaw, tilting his head from side to side. The movement seems to shift the pressure in his head, and his sniffling ramps up tenfold to avoid dripping directly onto her arm. She narrows her eyes. Is it because of his sniffles, or something else? Jake doesn’t like how closely he’s looking at her, can’t tell what she’s searching for in his face. Eventually, she apparently finds it– or doesn’t, he has no clue, but she hums and switches to just holding his chin with her thumb and forefinger.
“You should have woken me up and told me you were feeling sick,” she chides.
Jake would very much like to agree with her and get back into bed as soon as possible. Keep things simple. Marc, on the other hand.
“It’s just a tickle,” he grumbles, ducking out of her grasp and rubbing vigorously at his septum with his pointer finger. “Ih-hih… Eh… HhHETSSScheh! Snff-snff… Hehh… hh, hheh…!” As he gears up for another, he tips his head back, squeezing his eyes shut once more, wriggling and scrunching his nose against the sensation. Layla tuts softly and places her hands on his chest.
“Look at you,” she murmurs. “Clearly it’s more than that.”
“Ehh-heh… It’s… hh-heh… I’mb… hheh-ihh…! Sngff– Hh-hih…!” He hangs there like that, mouth hanging open, one tear rolling down his cheek. She reaches up to wipe it away, and it’s the gentle pressure she places on his stuffy sinuses that undoes him. He can’t even breathe, can’t do anything else but tickle for a long, agonizing second as his lungs fill to complete capacity. It finally crests, and he can’t stop himself from rocking forward, twitching nostrils pressed firmly to the inside of Layla’s wrist as he finally gets his release.
“HhhEHH’EKKSHiehh! Snff-snff– H’KISHSHieh! Snff!”
Quiet, then, except for the hopelessly damp sound of Jake’s breathing. He cracks his eyes open, tears clinging to his lashes and making his vision swim. Blinking rapidly, Layla’s face comes into view. Dark eyes wide and shining with concern. Brow furrowed. Jaw set.
“Sorry,” he croaks, voice barely there. His nose twitches against her skin and he rubs, just once, just to chase away the barbed edges of the tickle, before pulling away. He coughs a few times, weak, irritated. Layla shakes her head. Reaches for his face again, careful not to provoke his sinuses this time.
“It’s alright. Bless you. Let’s get back to bed, hmm?”
Jake’s too exhausted for much more than a nod, sniffling and following Layla into their bedroom. She tugs at his shirt until he starts to fumble with the buttons, fingers shaking. Is that a fever? Exhaustion? Fear? Her eyes are narrowed as she places her hands over his, pushing them away so she can take over the process of stripping him down. Jake decides the shakes are a combination of all three.
“I can tell when you’re not feeling well, you know,” she starts softly. “You get grouchy. And you squint when your head hurts.” She glances up at him. He frowns. And after a moment, squints. Layla’s eyes narrow further, but she continues. “I was waiting for you to say something, but.” She huffs out an exasperated, unamused laugh. “I should have known better.”
Jake doesn’t say anything as she pulls his shirt off and places it aside. He’s too busy watching her. Watching her every move, willing his body as still as possible through the shivers, resists the urge to shrink back every time her skin makes contact with his. He goes rigid as she makes quick work of his jeans, fists clenched. She kneels on the carpet, bringing them down to his ankles, and as he follows her urging to step out of them, he suddenly finds himself–
“Hh’EKKschuh!” He swivels his head away just a second too late, failing to spare Layla this time. Still, he hunches his shoulders and turns further still, snapping towards his bare chest. “Eh’KSHheh! Snff– Heh’KSH! Sngfff, ugh, h-huh…! HKEHSHhieh! Snfff–”
There are hands on his waist and he does jerk away, this time, but then there’s also a soothing whisper. “It’s okay, Marc, I’ve got you. Come on.” She leads him to the edge of the bed, shuddering in nothing but Marc’s too-tight underwear, sniffling frantically. With light pressure on his shoulder he goes down, hugging himself. He doesn’t quite know when he started feeling this sick— wonders if something about Layla’s presence is pulling him apart, something of Steven and Marc reaching out to her despite him, wonders how much of the urge to collapse into her lap comes from himself.
Stiff as he can manage, Jake doesn’t meet her eye as his breath begins to seesaw. “Hh-heh… Nhh, hhehh, heh…! Sngff… snf-snf-snf…” Ay, por Dios. Not this. Not again. The mattress creaks as she climbs onto the bed beside him, tucking her legs underneath her and tilting her head curiously as she leans into him. He lifts his hand to his twitching nostrils, digging the heel of his hand against his septum as he hitches, and sniffles, and hitches, and, and… and sighs. Coughs. The sound of his insistent rubbing has a distinct wetness to it and soon Layla’s dry, cool fingers are wrapping around his wrist again. She tugs his hand away.
“God, what’s gotten into you? I’ve never seen you like this.”
It’s right there that he slips. The words don’t mean as much as he initially thinks, but it’s only after he freezes, stiffens, casts her a wild and wide-eyed look of fear, that he realizes his mistake. Layla squints at his reaction; he watches the gears turn and sees exactly when her expression shifts. Subtle. Not subtle enough. His heart is pounding and he can scarcely move as she puts a hand on his chest again. Not like this, he thinks, pained, can’t blow it all up because of a stupid cold, but Layla is just watching him.
“You’re so quiet,” she says eventually. He swallows. Grimaces when it stings. Her hand travels to the base of his throat, gentle fingertips brushing against the skin like she can soothe the ache away from the surface. “Does your throat hurt?”
Jake nods.
“Too much to speak?”
Jake hesitates. Then he nods again.
Layla hums and smooths his hair away from his face. “You’re not Marc, are you?”
He meets her eyes, not sure what he’ll find there— fear, maybe, apprehension, some echoes of the way she’d looked at him in Cairo. When he’d saved them, saved Marc. Now, though, in the dark of the bedroom, in faint reflections of silvery moonlight, she looks… curious. She looks like she’s waiting. Waiting for what?
Jake swallows again, sniffles, and shakes his head no. Her fingers card through his hair, a little sweat damp, coming down to the nape of his neck, nails scraping delicately at the sensitive skin there. “No, I thought not.” Jake’s shaking so hard he can practically hear his bones rattling, and he fights every urge to fall back, to let her wrap her arms around him, steady him. He’s not Marc, though, and he’s not Steven, and this is not Jake’s game. Jake’s not here for gentle hands and sweet promises. He wasn’t wired like that. He’s just…
“I… I’m…” He licks his lips, voice nothing but a croak, and tries not to think about the feeling of her hand on his neck. “I’m—“
“Sick,” she offers, and Jake shuts his mouth. “You’re sick. And you should rest.” Her hands are on his shoulders again, and doesn’t that feel nice? To feel her give, and to simply go? He lays back in bed under her ministrations like he’s in slow motion, feels his head hit the pillow, watches her press a palm to his forehead.
“We’re going to talk tomorrow,” she warns in a low voice, as she settles into bed beside him. She pulls the comforter over the both of them. Jake closes his eyes. “For now, sleep.”
And he does.