i need somebody to pull me out [ closed ]

[comesfrompain]

Who: Brock Rumlow & Jefferson
Where: 5052
When: During the Plague.
What: Rumlow getting dadded and doted upon. He hates it.
Warnings: Description of illness symptoms.

[Amnesia aside, Rumlow doesn't remember the last time he'd been this sick. At first, it hadn't been so bad, pushing through to keep working because he wasn't gonna let something like a little nausea keep him down. But once he had to stop mid-set to make a quick retreat to the bathroom, Rumlow knew he was done. His guess is some kind of food poisoning, but for the life of him he can't think of what he might have eaten to cause it.

So he closes up and makes his way home, glad the gym ain't far from the house. He holes himself up in the bathroom for a hot minute, eventually coming out to go collapse in bed. Maybe once he's done shitting himself to death, he'll be better. When he wakes up the next day, there's no such luck. If anything, it's gotten worse and Rumlow barely manages to get downstairs to call one of the guys at the gym to tell them he's not making it in. Plastered against the kitchen wall by the phone as he tries to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him, Rumlow wonders if he's somehow been legitimately poisoned.

Has he been made? Did some anti-SHIELD organization infiltrate the town and ID him?

Peeling away, he feels heavy, like his limbs weigh more than they ought to. He makes it to the couch and leans against it for a second while he catches his breath. Christ, he thinks. It's like altitude sickness, except that makes about as much sense as tits on a bull. Eyes slipping closed, Rumlow allows himself to ooze over the back of the couch onto the cushions. He's just gonna stay here for a bit and recover his breath to make the trek back towards his bedroom.]

Comments

[comesfrompain]

[It's only after Jefferson repeats it that Rumlow realizes how that must have sounded. He puts a hand on his forehead, groaning as he rolls to his side, face burying in the pillow.]

Meant maybe 'm not the one bein' targeted. [He says, though most of his words are completely inaudible they're so muffled. He shifts to look at Jefferson at the mention of tea. He grimaces and then tries not to think about the awful cramping that his abdomen has been going through practically nonstop.] Prolly just puke it back up. 'Less you got some kinda magic tea.

[royalpassport]

No. No magic. [ Jefferson shrugs. ] Just ginger tea. I've always found it helpful. Just take it slowly. [ Though, perhaps if Brock is this sick, tea might be too much for him. ] Or I could bring you some ice to suck on. [ He just wants you to stay hydrated, man! ]

[comesfrompain]

[Curling into a smaller version of himself, Rumlow stares at Jefferson while he weighs the consequences of the two. Ginger's supposed to make your guts feel better, so he might as well try it. If he can't, then he guesses Jefferson can drink it. He needs more fluids anyway, and what's tea but leaf water?

He nods and reaches for a blanket to pull over himself. It doesn't really work because he's on top of them.]

Tea.

[royalpassport]

[ Brock is so pathetic right now, it's almost cute. Jefferson lets out a little sigh and leans over his housemate to start fussing with the bed sheets, pulling the parts Brock's not laying on down, then nudging him to try to get the other man to start lifting himself up a little, just enough for Jefferson to get the sheets free.

Then, he pulls the blanket over Rumlow. ]

Tea it is. Now I can finally repay you for helping me.

[ He starts to head for the kitchen, then pauses at the doorway and glances back at Brock. ]

Is there anything you need? I could bring some, uh. [ He snaps his fingers, trying to remember. ] The pink stuff.

[ PEPTO. ]

[comesfrompain]

[Once he's ensconced in the blankets, Rumlow sighs. He's far from content, but it's better than before. He hates how moving is an actual chore. For a guy like him, all about physical power, this is a goddamn nightmare. At least Jefferson's here to take care of him. Good choice to bring him home, he tells himself.]

Won't help.

[Rumlow says, he'd been chugging the shit yesterday. His mouth still tastes like pink. He hates it.]

Just the tea and some water.

[In case his body hates the tea.]

[royalpassport]

[ Jefferson nods and makes his way into the kitchen, setting a kettle on the stove to boil before he sets about with other tasks: moving a bottle of water from the fridge to the freezer (just to get it extra cold while he's preparing the tea), checking the pantry for things Brock might be able to keep down later. Saltines, broth...

With both of the Rumlows sick, he should probably take a trip to the store to stock up on these things... But that'll have to come later.

Once the tea's prepared and cooled enough to drink, Jefferson returns to the bedroom, carrying a tray with him. Tea, water, a plate of saltines just in case his stomach settles. Jefferson glances over Brock, to see if he's still awake, then sets everything down on the bedside table. ]

There... Need help sitting up?

[comesfrompain]

[While he waits, Rumlow sort of drifts. He's tired, and yet his brain won't stop thinking about everything. Whether this new information makes it less likely he's been poisoned, if there's maybe a really nasty disease going around instead, is there something in the water? Eventually, once Jefferson comes back upstairs, Rumlow casts him a grateful look. The saltines are a nice touch, and Rumlow hopes he can get them down. His stomach is angry from hunger too.

He unfurls himself and tries to sit up, but that pain shoots through his limbs again and he grits his teeth at the sensation. It's not paralytic, at least, but God, it's kind of like when your leg falls asleep and you just don't want to move it.]

If you want.

[He wants, Rumlow reminds himself. Why would Jefferson offer if not? He knows he's just trying to stay tough, but Christ. This weakness makes him feel so useless.]

[royalpassport]

[ Tsking under his breath, Jefferson leans down to help the other man into a sitting position, propping some pillows behind him as he does so. Just so Rumlow can lean back comfortably. It's strange, he finds, how naturally this is coming to him.

But he shoves that thought far from his head. ]

You really don't have to play tough right now, you know. The ship has sailed on that.

[comesfrompain]

[Rumlow gives Jefferson a look and rumbles, getting as comfortable as he can with his new pillow pile. He's not mad at Jefferson, really. It probably comes off that way though. He frowns and looks down, trying to control his irritability, but it's rough when his body feels like shit on top of not knowing what's wrong. It's more the second thing.]

Just pissed off I'm even stuck like this in the first place.

[Rumlow explains, figuring he owes it to Jefferson for even taking care of him in the first place. He's normally not this much of a pain when he's sick (though that happens like once in a blue moon). He's just mad that there's nothing he can do but basically lay around like a lump and sleep.]