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. ]

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[mortemscintilla]

[ He likes that small sound she makes when she's all fucked-out and drowsy, like a sated kitten, full of milk. He doesn't cuddle her. But under the wrinkled cocoon of the sheets, he strokes the curve of her hip, his recumbent body sprawled companionably close, so that her smooth, hot cheek is cradled against his bunched shoulder, her warm little hand clasped in his, the fingers loosely threaded. ]

[ At the window, the sunlight has faded into a dull purple umbra, and he can feel his eyelids growing heavy. Butting his head gently against Korra's, dark hair tangling, he lets exhaustion, like an ebbing tide, suck him slowly into darkness. ]