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His head was killing him.
Owen had just woken up in a safehouse, in some isolated part of France he didn't care enough to remember. He and Curt had been placed here after a gang they infiltrated somehow found out they were spies.
“God, Carvour, why do you always assume it’s my fault the mission went badly?”
“Seriously? After the hundred times it was your fault, you can’t blame me for thinking this was your mistake.” It was Owen’s mistake. He knew that, but he had too much pride to admit it to Curt. He decided lying and acting as if he were as perfect as always would be the better option.
“Whatever. It’s not like we can fix it. Plus, we basically get a vacation now.”
“Vacation? A vacation of not being able to leave the house except for the strictly necessary?”
“Look, when you kill for a living, relaxing doesn’t sound very bad.”
Now, a few days into their ‘vacation’, Owen woke up with a fever. A pretty extreme one, at that.
It took all the strength in his body to get up and wash his face, and when he looked in the mirror, he was met with a very pale face, unfocused eyes, and cracked lips.
To put it simply, he looked like shit.
He decided to just try to sleep the whole day.
These plans were ruined by his recent roommate.
“You awake, Owen?” Curt asked, knocking on the door.
Owen replied with an intelligible mumble, and for some reason, Curt had heard it and opened the door.
He stood and looked at Owen with a very concerned expression, and immediately went to check on him.
“Are you okay? You look terrible.”
“I’m fine. I’m probably just sick, I’ll get over it.”
Curt rested his hand on Owen's shoulder, and he flinched away from the contact.
“You sure you’re okay? Jumping at me touching you isn’t an amazing sign, old boy.”
“It just hurt a little. I’m fine.” Owen’s tone wasn’t convincing anyone.
“You’re shivering so much.”
“It’s cold, what do you want me to do about it?” It didn’t feel cold. It felt like he was burning.
“It’s spring, Owen. I’ve seen you shiver less in Russia in the middle of a mountain.”
Owen decided to stop protesting, and opted for just laying in bed. He couldn’t seem to be able to close his eyes, though.
“I’m going to leave you alone for a bit. Try to rest, alright?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“You’re staring at the ceiling like you want it dead. Little tip, if you want to sleep, you have to close your eyes.”
“Just shut up and go.” His tone was anything but serious.
Curt left, and Owen slowly got more comfortable.
_________________________________________________________________________
“You have got to be kidding me.” Owen looked at Curt with pure disbelief.
He was currently in front of him with a thermometer and a bowl of soup.
“What?”
“I told you I was fine. And soup? Really?”
“I know you aren’t ‘fine’. And what’s wrong with soup?”
“If I can walk and think I am fine.”
“You can’t walk.” Curt rebutted, with a slight grin.
“Yes, I can.” Owen was bluffing openly, and Curt was not one to back down.
“Then walk.”
“You told me to rest. Indecisive, are we Mega?”
“You can't.” Curt said with a sing-songy voice.
“Shut it. You’ve seen me be shot before, why does a mild fever concern you?”
“You are so stubborn. Can’t I just take care of you for once? You don’t have to be okay all the time, you know.” Curt said it with a bit more sincerity than he meant to.
“Fine. But if the soup’s not good, I take back my acceptance.”
Owen sat up and took the soup in his hands while Curt took his temperature.
“Uh, how much was 39 '4 celsius again?”
“You don’t know how to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit?” Owen asked with a dumfounded tone.
Curt just looked at him with a slightly embarrassed stare.
“Really?”
“Yeah”
“It’s about 102 Fahrenheit.”
“What? Your fever isn’t even mild? 102 degrees?!”
“You’re acting like having a fever means I’ll die tomorrow."
“It’s not my fault you look so shitty I noticed you were sick.”
“You’re insulting a poor, sick man? That’s low, even for you.” Owen mocked.
“When the sick man gives me reasons to insult him, I take them.”
Owen then coughed harshly, and Curt’s grin was wiped off his face.
“Do you need anything?”
“Water.” Owen croaked out.
Curt hurriedly gave him a glass of water, and went back to his worried nature.
“Are you lightheaded? Do you feel like vomiting?”
“Jeez, what are you, a doctor?”
“No, but you might need one.”
“How many times do I have to say this? I’m not bloody dying from a fever.”
“You don’t have to be dying for you to need help.”
Owen sighed dramatically, and concluded that Curt would keep protesting if he denied again.
“Thank you for caring, Curt, but I am going to be okay. If I need you, I’ll call you.”
“Okay.” Curt didn’t sound fully reassured, but turned to leave.
Owen stared at the soup he forgot he had in his hands.
It was okay. Although he mostly resists Curt’s doting, he appreciates it. No one had ever shown such grace towards Owen.