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Heather is fine. That's what her brain is telling her. She was fine all week after she got back from Austria. Thursday, she was run off her feet. Then, she woke up on Friday with a headache. By Friday night, she was sweating and aching all over. But. Fine.
Saturday, she's also fine. Throwing up is fine. Aching joints so bad she can hardly move seems perfectly normal. She has to go out to do shopping. She's ready to go out when she keels over and wakes up sitting in the foyer with a headache on top of her headache. Maybe she should lie down and she'll feel better.
Heather crawls to the couch and hauls the blankets over her. She's going to be fine in a few minutes. She doesn't remember when she ate, eating would be a good idea. After she sleeps. Something is ringing — probably her ears.
*
At least the ringing stops.
Ten short minutes later, David North comes striding off of the elevator, lips pressed into a thin line as he digs his key to Heather's apartment out of his pocket. She wasn't picking up the phone, but she should be back by now. This wasn't like her at all. David tries the door — okay, good, locked — before he uses the key to let himself in, and sees a red-haired pile of blankets on the sofa.
Okay. He stands corrected. This is exactly like her.
*
Heather is completely unaware that anyone is in the apartment though something strange creeps into her fever dreams. She's frightened in that way one can only be in dreams, horrified and desperate to wake up. In her dreams, someone is in danger. Leaving her. She can't tell if it's Mac or David, she just knows she's scared.
"Don't go there," she says numbly."Come back."
*
Frowning, David locks the door behind him before quickly crossing the room. He has dim memories of the last time he was this sick. It wasn't fun. "Easy, Heather," he says gently, crouching down next to the sofa. One hand immediately goes for her forehead. "It's David, I'm right here."
*
Heather is past the clammy and sweaty stages of being feverish — her forehead is bone-dry and scorching hot. Her complexion is so white, her faint freckles stand out like paint spatter. Some aspirin might have been wise, maybe a cool bath, but she was so sure she was fine.
"Don't go, it's dangerous," she says very clearly. She opens her eyes, sees David and doesn't see him at the same time. "You can't die, David. Please don't go. I'll go. I should go." Whatever it is, she's determined to do it herself instead.
*
"The only place I'm going is the kitchen to get you some ice," David promises, reaching back to adjust the blankets so they lay in less of a haphazard mess. "You're burning up. Sit tight." He rises to his feet and heads for the kitchen, ignoring protests if he has to, to fetch a few things. Baggy of ice, glass of water, aspirin.
*
"I'm fine." Now, Heather is more aware. "Just. Just hot. The blankets. Too many blankets." She tries to sit up. It takes her a moment and then she gets her feet over the side of the couch so she can stand up — sort of. "You don't need to worry about me, David. I'm fine."
*
At least David gets back to the couch before she can get too far. He reaches for her shoulders and very carefully guides her back to sit, an odd smile on his face. "Heather. You're not fine. Sit," he insists gently, before pressing the glass of water into one of her hands and dropping the aspirin into the other. "Let's get that fever down so you can tell me about your trip."
*
"I was on a trip?" That all seems hazy. David, though. Pill and water, she knows how to make that work. She takes the aspirin, then tries to put the pieces together. "Am I sick?" She gives David a curious, wide-eyed look. Her green eyes are luminous and glassy. "If I'm sick, you should go. I don't want you getting sick, David."
*
"I don't get sick anymore," David reminds her, waiting for her to get the aspirin down before he offers the makeshift ice pack. "So there's noone better to take care of you until you're feeling better. Looks like you're stuck with me again."
*
"I don't deserve you." Heather hugs the ice pack to her, looking up at David with a wan smile. "How did that even happen? I hardly remember — everything was grim and awful and then you were there and it wasn't anymore."
*
David leans down to press a kiss to Heather's forehead. "Just lucky, I guess. Do you feel up to some food?" he asks, brushing her hair back with his fingers. Fuss, fuss. "I made sure your kitchen didn't die while you were away, so there should be enough here for some kind of decent meal. Maybe some soup?"
*
"I think. Maybe I should." Heather puts a hand to her forehead, then inspects the rest of herself. Her clothes, her stockings, her shoes. "I was going out. I think I fell down. That's not like me. I can't be wearing this right now if I'm sick." She ponders this a moment. "I'll change."
Best course of action. She leaves her shoes on the coffee table, then tries to untangle herself from things. This time she makes it to her feet. "I'll be right back." Yes. That's going to be fine. Walking and undoing the tiny buttons on her blouse would be a hard thing for a well person. It's not a good combination.
*
Okay. Priorities. Before Heather can manage to trip over herself, David just sighs in quiet amusement and moves to scoop her up. "Fine, fine. But let's try to stick to doing one thing at a time until you're steadier on your feet," he says wryly, already moving to carry her into her room and deposit her — gently! — on the edge of her bed. "Probably more comfortable for you to be resting up in here, anyway."
*
"David!" Heather squeaks furiously about being carried, then glares at him once he puts her down. She huffs irritably. "You can help me change, then, if you're going to mother me." That seems like a suitable punishment. "My nightdresses are in the closet, hanging up. Pick one."
*
Oh, the teasing comments he could make. She can probably tell David's resisting the urge, even through her fever, by the particular quirk of his lips. But all he actually says is "Yes ma'am," before he obediently turns to go hunting in her closet.
*
There are a number of very nice fine cotton nightgowns and a few elegant peignoirs and a couple sets of practical but rather adorable flannel pyjamas.
"Nothing fancy," Heather says, then her voice drops to muttering. "Why I put a girdle on on a Saturday…what was I…it's like I dressed in the dark." She stands up again to get rid of the skirt once she fights her way out of the blouse.
*
"In the dark, with a nasty fever… same thing." David opts for one of the pairs of pyjamas — like it or not, she needs to stay warm — and turns around to deliver them. If she were more coherent, maybe she'd be proud that he's managing to studiously keep his eyes on her face. "Here."
*
Heather notices. She's just lost her filter. And, apparently, her temper. "Oh for…" She whisks the pyjamas away with a sputter. "You're going to see me naked eventually, David. Let's not be silly about it."
*
David just holds up his hands and tries not to laugh. It's difficult. "I wasn't about to presume any such thing, but — you're the boss. Would you rather be laid up on the couch while I'm cooking, so you can have some company? Or in here?"
*
"Wherever you are, I want to be there, and since you're going to be noble about things — the couch." Heather sheds the rest of her clothes and pulls on the pyjama top, then struggles into the bottoms. "And, because I am so fond of you, I will let you help me out there. But only because it's you, David."
*
Without any fuss, David just drops to a knee next to her and reaches over to help her get into the bottoms without managing to fall over. "Duly noted. I won't tell a soul," he promises, straightening back up and offering her an arm. "Let's get you back to your ice pack."
*
Heather stands on her toes, demanding a kiss. "Kiss me, and I promise to behave for the rest of the afternoon." She's feverish and feels like death but that's not going to stop her from bargaining — if she has to be good, she is damn well going to get something out of it.
*
David is not having an easy time keeping himself from laughing at her. "Heather. You know better than to make promises you can't keep," he chides her right before he leans down to give her what she wants all the same. It isn't like he can get sick, after all. And he did miss her.
*
Heather's kiss is hot, mostly because of the fever. "I can, too, be good." She pouts at David, then clings to his arm like the world's warmest little limpet. She rests her head against him as they walk out toward the living area. "I'm fine," she says, yet again. As though saying it will make it true. "I'll be better in a minute. I was fine all week. No one was sick at the conference that I could tell, no one mentioned it. Sue's well enough, I think."
*
Oh, good, she remembers the trip now. David helps her back towards the sofa, drawing the blankets out of the way so that she can sit down. "Well, that's good. Hopefully it'll pass fast. Faster if you rest," he notes sweetly, retrieving her glass of water and pressing it back into her hands. "So. I will stay here until you're well again."
*
"Now you're making me glad I got sick." Heather drinks her water obediently. "But you don't have to do that. I'm sure I'll be better in no time. The trip, I did take a trip, right. To Austria. That's where it was." She shuffles her memories back into order in her head. "It was weird. Von Doom was there, he's moving to New York — the better to stalk Sue and harass Reed, I suppose. Oh. And…" She fades out again, unwilling to continue.
*
David settles into a crouch in front of her while she works on the glass of water and puts her thoughts into order, absently drawing the blankets across her lap. There, that's better. "Hmmm? And what?"
*
"I don't — " Heather only wavers for a moment. "I think I remember a conversation with Sue. Yes." She hesistates, as though she's worried about David's reaction.
*
"Is it a conversation you need to tell me about right now?" David asks, slowly tilting his head as he watches her face. "Because I am sure there are a lot of things you two talk about that I am frankly better off not knowing. And that's okay."
*
"Oh, it's not about sex," Heather waves that off. "I mean, we talked about that, but that's not it. It's about Stryker." Her expression crumples, she picks at the blanket across her lap. "Sue thinks she can find him. She doesn't want to do it because she knows you'll probably kill him and she doesn't want that on her conscience or something — you know. Justice and all that. I don't understand her."
When she looks at David again, her eyes are full of tears. "I would do it myself, I would rather do it myself, than have you be in danger." She grabs David's hand as though she's drowning. "I can't lose you, David, I can't do that again — not so soon, not ever. I have terrible dreams. I don't know how to make her tell me. If I could, I would go do it now. Somehow. I don't know how but I would."
*
"Oh." For a moment, David is actually shocked silent. He hadn't been expecting that. But then Heather is looking at him like that, saying the things she's saying, and it very effectively shakes him back to his senses.
David leans forward to wrap his free arm around her shoulders and draw her into a tight hug, letting her keep hold of his other hand as long as she needs to. "Hey. If I need to promise her that I won't kill him, then that's what I'll do," he says softly, kissing the side of her head. "Okay? It's going to work out."
*
"You promise, I won't," Heather says fiercely. She presses her hot forehead into the curve of his neck, holds onto his hand tightly with both of hers. "I love you and he hurt you and I would kill him for it."
*
"I've broken promises before," David notes quietly, blinking a few times at the back of the couch. No, he didn't miss that. No, he isn't entirely sure whether or not confessions of love made while riddled with fever count. He does hug her a little more tightly, though. "Together. Okay? When we go after him, it will be together."
*
"Okay," Heather says reluctantly. "I understand her but I'm still angry about it." She sniffles a little, then shifts to press a kiss to David's cheek. "I said we would fix this somehow. I can't imagine how many other people he's hurt. I just want this to be over, as much as it can be. For them. For you. For all of us. I don't usually hate people, David, but I hate him. He betrayed everything we worked for."
*
"I know. I — thank you. I understand." David is still horribly off-balance, but he's trying. "He did. And we are going to fix it, I promise. Once we find some way to fix whatever he put in my head so he can't — we'll go and fix it. I'll promise Sue whatever she needs me to promise, and I'll try to keep my word, but — we will fix it."
*
"Like I said." Heather pulls back to look David in the eyes. She's glassy, still, and not well, but she does seem determined. "You promise. I won't. You can keep your promise. People always expect me to be the nice one, and I'm not. I want you to be okay and I will do anything to make that happen. I can't even explain why, it's not a rational thing, I know it's not. I know I have a fever and I sound crazy but I feel like this all the time, David. I just do."
*
"You don't sound crazy, Heather," David says quietly, meeting her eyes steadily. His brow is still slightly furrowed and his eyes are a touch bright, but he's managing. "We'll handle it. Just… after you're well again. So." He kisses her forehead before he shifts, intending to get to his feet. "Let me start that soup for you."
*
"Yes, dear." Heather did promise to be good and she will keep her promises — to David. She subsides onto the couch and tugs up her blanket. "If you wear the apron, though, you have to let me take a picture." Okay. Mostly good.
*
"Maybe if you're good." David smoothly gets back to his feet and heads for the kitchen, only running a hand over his face now that she can't see why. "Remember your ice."
*
"Got it." Heather picks up the bag of ice and cuddles it against her stomach. It won't be ice for long. "I wonder where I picked this up. Maybe from a visiting dignitary," she says miserably. "I'm bad at being sick. I'm glad you can't get sick but I'm also jealous. I hate being weak." Even when she's better, she's weak. At least she has David.
*
"Conferences always get people sick. It's a rule," David says wryly, raising his voice enough to be heard while he putters around the kitchen. First: begin some soup. At least he knows where everything is now. "Too many people in one place, everything goes sideways."
*
"We should check on Sue." Heather would get up and do it but she honestly feels too awful. "How was I even standing up before? I feel horrible." She puts a hand to her temple and cheek where it hurts under the burn of her fever. "Am I getting bruise? I already had a bruise, didn't I?"
*
"Old bruise." After a moment, David emerges from the kitchen with a glass of orange juice that he trades for what's left of the water. There. "Unless you got a new one while you were away, but nothing showed up on the news, so I think it's probably just the old one fading away." After a quick glance at his watch, he sits down on the edge of the coffee table. "I can go up and see her once your soup's ready, if you'd like me to. Or we could call."
*
"Okay. Good. Because at one point I was standing up and then I wasn't. But no bruise is good." Heather smiles at David and reaches for his hand. "You keep taking care of me. I'm starting to hate it a little less each time. This is all terribly domestic. Are you going to get bored if it is?"
*
Standing up and then wasn't. Yes, that does sound like her. David sighs patiently and lets her take his hand, leaning over enough to take a closer look at her face. Maybe it is a new bruise. "What, get bored of the domesticity? Not with you. I know you too well to think it'd stay boring," he says innocently, squeezing her hand.
*
"Point taken. We should call up and check on Sue. How could it ever be boring when we live downstairs from the Fantastic Four?" Heather asks with a little smile. She squeezes his hand, then lets go. "Go check on the soup." She will not get up and do it herself. Being good.
*
David just laughs. Yes, the Four are why a relationship with Heather would never be boring. Top marks, Miss MacNeil. "Yes ma'am," is what he says instead, grinning as he gets to his feet. "Drink your juice."