Contractors don't dream...

[mortemscintilla]

WHO: Korra & Hei

WHAT: Down with the sickness.

[ Ever wondered what happens when the deadly Black Reaper is felled by the common cold? Look no further. ]

[ There is a lull in his search for Yin and Mao. He can't stand a lull -- he is het up, that fizzy-hot impatience crashing down his spine every hour on the hour -- he wants results on his search. He wants something solid -- a clue, a lead. Or, unable to have that, something to tear apart. Quiet makes him seethe. Quiet gives him a chance to think about whether or not Yin is alive, or sprawled facedown in a ditch, a tangle of broken white limbs and glassy eyes. Or worse, installed in some filthy den of vice like the thousands littering Republic City's bowels, where there is a nice little trade of girls who are frail and unwell in that unique way Yin is -- at least until she is cracked open, her life-force squeezed out like yolk, the remnants of her body flung aside like broken shards of eggshell. ]

[ The idea makes him grit his teeth. Yin and Mao have to be out there somewhere. If only he can be granted, for just one hour, a bird's-eye-view, an aerial perspective far above the city's rooftops but short of the obscuring clouds; and if only his teammates could wear unknowing red bullseyes, so that he can point down and say, Found you. ]

[ But stupid fantasies are not the way the world is. So he glowers at the dead ends his search yields, and stews and schemes and waits under his ten tons of dread. ]

[ While contending with his latest setback: a hellacious cold. ]

[ Sulky, mouth dry and nasal passages stuffed and aching, he tries to go about his routine. But when he walks he is dizzy, and has to grab the wall for balance. It's pathetic: it's been years since he's felt this shitty. Ordinarily he is defined by his jarring solidity, the sense he can weather any storm, forge onwards while others fall and die. ]

[ Look at him now. Weak as a kitten and slumped in bed, surrounded by sheaves of snotty tissues. Oooh, sexy. ]

[ Korra is in for a real treat when she gets back home. ]

Comments

[anatural]

[Oh great.]

We're both sick. [sigh] You look about as gross as I feel.

[Regardless, she throws herself in bed next to him. Two grosses cancel each other out, right?]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei mutters something incomprehensible as the mattress jounces under Korra's weight. He doesn't think it's a good idea for them to be in the same bed, swapping germs, snot and whatnot. But it's too much effort to protest. He doesn't shrink away. But he doesn't slip his arm around her, either. His gaze, bleary but steady, makes it seem as if she is being assessed for a grade in Healthcare Class, and receiving something in the range of a D minus. ]

[ Wryly, ]

You're always beautiful. Even with a drippy nose and watery eyes and ... [ A beat, before he grimaces, wrenching a pillow from under the coverlet and wedging it between them, before pressing his burning face into its cool shelter. ] On second thought, you are pretty gross.

[anatural]

Oh come on, you were doing so well.

[She sighs again and covers her eyes with her arm.]

Have you eaten anything today?

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei shakes his head, still facedown in the pillow, cracking an eye open to meet Korra's through messy licks of hair. Belatedly, he realizes she probably hasn't eaten either. Making a churlish, half-assed noise between a sigh and a grunt, he straightens his shoulders and cracks his neck from side to side, before hauling himself to his feet. His whole body feels sore; protesting being thrown so suddenly out of the warm bed. He ignores it. ]

Sit tight. I'll heat up some leftovers.

[ And soup. They need plenty of soup. ]

[anatural]

Get your butt back into bed. [She grabs his shoulder and yanks him unceremoniously back down.] I'm more than capable of heating up leftovers.

[mortemscintilla]

[ It's a testament to Hei's wooziness that he sways, then spills across the bed with an ungainly thump. The room tilts -- or maybe it's just the sloshing contents in his head. Undoing his heavy slitted eyelids, he meets Korra's gaze. Even with her sniffle-reddened nose and the high splotches of color on her cheeks, she makes a pretty sight. Against his will, he reaches up and lightly bats off a lock of dangling hair from her face. ]

But can you make cream of mushroom soup?

[anatural]

[He's not exactly a sex god in his current state, but grossness aside, there's something kind of adorable about sick Hei. She grabs the hand batting her hair and squeezes it.]

Nope, but we've got everything we need for five-flavor soup. Now lie down and put the used tissues in an actual trashcan.

[And she is off to the kitchen to cook before she gets too dizzy to do it safely.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei Hmmms in idle assent, letting her pad off. Listens with an attentive ear to the kitcheny sounds that begin emanating downstairs -- girl bustling, boy hiding, traditional gender roles triumphing -- before he gathers up the wadded tissues and dumps them in the wastebin. Rolling over on his belly, he settles his chin on the pillow. He's long since forgotten, he realizes, how it feels to be ill. Not post-battle-beat-to-a-pulp ill, but head-clogged-throat-raw-compulsively-coughing ill, feverish and puny. What in the great blistering hell is going to become of him? The Black Reaper. What a laugh. More like the collared housepet. Ever since Heaven's War has ended he's been one cannibal short of a missionary picnic, and look where it has landed him. ]

[ It's not a bad place. The inner-voice is dry and complacent. In his own world, he could have pegged some bright-red tacks into the map of his life: a fugitive existence, hide-and-seek, paranoia, a string of battles, brief victories no more than borrowed time to scrape out a brief existence, a one final, epic bloodbath, the downspiraling of the Syndicate, and his own terrible death. No respite. No miracles -- not like helping to save a completely alien world or setting up house with a feisty godling whose hair smells of the same shampoo he uses. The same pillow. ]

[ No. All things considered, it's not a bad place at all. ]

[anatural]

[Considering he does the vast majority of the cooking, this could hardly be called a slam dunk for traditional gender roles. The best part of five flavor soup is it is dead simple to make. It's basically just arctic hen stock and five spice. Less than ten minutes later, Korra bends the soup into two bowls and brings them to the bedroom.]

For the record, I'm blaming this cold entirely on you.

[mortemscintilla]

[ Fun fact. Hei is driven to prepare his own meals largely out of paranoia. Persons in his profession are all too frequently dispatched by their own agents -- wielded by enemy hands -- and he has no intention of becoming one of their pathetic number. It is a testament to how comfortable he's grown around Korra that he isn't hovering over her shoulder as she preps their meal. (It's even worse if he decides someone's cooking suits his palate. Then he's the typical adolescent nightmare -- boorish, ravenous, polishing off his plate before anyone else has taken the first bite, then promptly demanding seconds.) ]

[ He perks up when Korra returns, carrying the soup bowls. A haze of aroma floats between them and the ceiling, mixing with the sunlight from the window. His stomach, predictable as ever, gurgles approvingly. ]

I didn't do anything.

[ It's an absent mutter. His attention is on the food, the soup pale and creamy with tiny herbs sprinkled on its surface, and giving off a waft of pure heat. Hei inhales the fumes with a low hum of pleasure despite everything -- before his face twitches into something he doesn't recognize as a pout. ]

I left butter-soaked leeks and sea urchin roe in the fridge. You should've put that in there.

[ Huff huff huff!!! (Everyone's a critic.) ]

[anatural]

[SERIOUSLY?! Korra uses her bending to flick some of the soup between his eyebrows.]

That would be gross. [She likes leeks, but not in her five flavor soup. Please.] We've got enough disgusting in this room already.

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hey! Hey! No playing with your food, missy! ]

They're used all the time in velouté. [ He swipes the soup-splatter off his forehead, his frown skipping off her with sulky reproof. Cradles the bowl close, drinking down the soup straight from the lip. It tastes muddy and saltysweet, dripping thickly down his throat. Hei barely notices anything but the temperature. Heat. Oh, radiantly lovely heat. ]

[ Setting the empty bowl aside, he gets this hazy, almost endearingly stupid look in his eyes. ]

I remember the first time I tasted buttery leeks. It was in this cream soup served with caviar-topped oysters, and just a hint of lemongrass. The caviar popped in your teeth. And the soup tasted like you were dreaming of the sea.

[ He pauses, head swaying back and forth in the gyre of memory, then goes slightly more glassy-eyed, puts his hand on his belly, and burps. ]

[ Please excuse him. He's clearly very passionate about leeks. Or the sea. It's hard to tell. ]

[anatural]

Yeah well velootey isn't five flavor soup. [Food nerd. Korra drinks her soup at a more sedate pace.] And I don't need my food dreaming of the sea. I lived on an iceberg for 16 years. I am plenty familiar with the sea.

[She finishes her bowl off too soon and sighs, wondering if it's worth the effort to get up and get another.]

[mortemscintilla]

Veh - looh - tay.

[ He corrects her pronunciation automatically. Food plebeian. ]

[ Pleasantly warm, but with a still-gurgling belly, he follows her gaze to her empty bowl. Her forlorn little sigh pings off his brain. Still hungry too, huh? Gently, he reaches out and pries the bowl from her fingers, before gathering up his. ]

I'll make something to go with the soup.

[ ...

...

Sneeze. ]

[ Hopefully something that isn't the texture and consistency of snot. ]

[anatural]

[She'd say Thanks, but then he sneezes.] I'm not eating anything you sneeze in.

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei glowers at her squintily, with that special headtilt. (Awwww. They are each others' television.) ]

What? You probably sneezed on the soup, too.

[ Count your blessings, you thankless brat. ]

[anatural]

Of course I didn't! Don't be such a child! [And remember, sir, that you lost a good chunk of the age advantage on her with your three year time adventure.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Oh, he remembers. Not that it's stopping him. ]

You first.

[ He would say more. But right now it's a miracle if he can't go two seconds without having to wipe his snotty nose or grumble-mutter about petulant Avatars and inadequate cooking skills and how the world is ending. ]

[ Or how it just feels that way, with his half-empty stomach. Potato. Potahto. ]

[ He sniffs a few times, clears his throat, and hauls himself up, bowls balanced precariously in one hand. ] There's germ masks in the first aid drawer. I'll use those. [ In another moment he can be heard galumphing down the stairs. Blame the cold: it has displaced his natural grace somewhere. He's gone flat-footed. ]

[anatural]

[Fuck you asswipe that was some GREAT five flavor soup she made and you're an ungrateful little shit.

If he's galumphing down the stairs, it's probably a little in part due to Korra hitting his butt with some airbending.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ It's a good thing his coordination is (mostly) intact, Korra. Otherwise he'd be tripping down the stairs and sprawling in an ungainly heap, bowls rolling away. Or else lying at the foot of the stairs with a broken neck and a facefull of shattered glass. ]

Hey.

[ Ignoring the simmering irritation that threatens to boil into an uprising, he stomps into the kitchen, trailing a huffy cloud behind him. Fluttering around the white-tiled floor, ignoring the glare of fluorescent lights and his pounding head, he scans the cabinets. Dried noodles. Dried soup stock. Cans of soup. Dried pancake mix. Everything unhealthy and unappetizing. He closes the cupboard door and feels for a moment the kind of tiredness that makes you sigh. He doesn't let himself sigh. Not exactly. ]

[ Should have gotten a flat in downtown Republic City. More options for takeout. ]

[ Still, it's no great hardship to start a meal from scratch. Quietness settles in as he gets to work, the throbbing aches of his head and body offset by the gentle thud of knife on chopping-board, the comforting hiss of the stove, the cheerful bubble of the water. It's not long before he's whipped up a toriniku dango soup: lightly fried balls of chicken -- crisp outside, soft inside, pungently flavorful -- swimming in a thick broth of marinated wild greens and seaweed. As a side dish, he makes shrimp that are rolled in noodles, topped with prickly leaves of citrusy red shiso, then wrapped in seaweed and deep-fried. He has no energy to contrive a proper dessert; he just tosses out a couple of watermelon popsicles to soothe his and Korra's prickly throats. ]

[ Bearing the laden trays of hot food back to the bedroom, he grouches, ]

Now I'm not going to move for the next three hours.

[ It's your own fault for going overboard with the meal, Hei. Normal people find yoga therapeutic -- not cooking up a three-course supper. ]

[anatural]

[Oh please, she didn't bend him that hard. She's not that stupid. And he is taking foreeeeeeeeeeeeveerrrrrrrrrrr with the food shit she could've just gotten herself another three cups in the time it's taking him. But of course she doesn't want to go to the kitchen while he's cooking to sate her hunger.That would be silly. Besides, her clothes are feeling kind of icky. She decides to change into her pajamas.

She's stripping out of her underwear when he comes up with the food.]

You're the one who decided to spend ten lifetimes cooking.

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei's initial twitch of irritation fades to a grudging interest, then a slow, subliminal appreciation. In most circumstance his aplomb is enviable; he can take a stairwell gangbang like a pro, barely bat an eyelid at a Venda girl performing a python dance -- how much should a naked bratgirl in the bedroom faze him? Ideal answer: not damn much. But the truth is a tricky creature. He's already fevery, but he can feel his temperature rise a notch. ]

[ Carefully, he sets the tray down on the dressing table. The mirrored closet door is open, half shielding Korra from view, but he can see tantalizing bits and pieces of her moving as she hangs up her clothes, unravels her sarashi. She has such a flawless back. Not to mention that satiny, cotton-clad backside. Cat-quiet, he edges closer. Comes up behind her, an experimental sidling, and cups Korra's left elbow in his palm, then slides his hand down until their wrists overlap, their fingers meshing. ]

[ Quietly, ]

You looked hungry.

[ It's not an innuendo. But his head butts briefly, almost teasingly against her shoulder, heavy and furry and warm as a cat demanding attention. ]

[anatural]

I was. Twenty minutes ago. [She doesn't sound annoyed anymore, just amused. The smell of food makes her stomach rumble, but not enough to break out of his grip. She loves the moments like this, when he's just like an affectionate big cat. Even sick as they both are, she leans back so she's nestled against his chest.]

We really should just eat & rest.

[mortemscintilla]

We should. Eventually.

[ But right now, as his gaze slews toward hers in the mirror, he doesn't bother to conceal that renewed spark of dark interest. ]

[ She melts back against him, fevery-hot and delicious, and he nuzzles the unruly crush of her hair, letting his hands roam. Down along the sweep of her shoulders and her well-formed back -- a display of lushly articulated muscle that tapers gently to a neat waist, following the long stem of spine down to where it clefts her ripe ass. The way he's pressed against her, all the way down, her bare skin against his clothes, he's sure she can feel him, his erection like a gun at her spine. ]

[ Fuzzy-headed, helpless, Hei gathers her hair out of the way, pressing a kiss to her nape. An invitation, but also a question. There's no pressure for her to indulge him if she's not in the mood. ]

[anatural]

[Korra has a sexy, flirty, funny response all ready — and then she sneezes. A wet, disgusting, run-for-a-tissue sneeze.]

Excuse me — [She pushes past him to grab a tissue and wipe her nose clean.] Ugh. Not the sexiest bodily fluid. [She tosses the tissue in the trashcan.]

Why don't we eat while the food's hot and then see how we feel. [She's pretty much always up for sex, even now, but she's sick enough that lust isn't overwhelming practicality.]