[Fic][TF2009/RP] - Rain Dogs
Title: Rain Dogs
Author: sugarkitteh
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Lennox/Graham
A/N: Fuzzy'verse. The fuzzy spreads. Initial concept from quidamling and borrowed by kitteh.
---
The headache was nothing new. Unusual, sure because Matt is a man in the prime of his life and at the peak of his health, and definitely not prone to headaches; but not new, because shit does happen after all, and he's only human. He put a little thought into possible causes - tension, sun glare, heat, late onset hangover... nah, not bloody likely. It could be important for treatment.
Or maybe it was just the subtlest of torture devices he was having to deal with - paperwork. Forms for this and forms for that. His eyes were fit to start their grand socket exchange, at the rate they felt like crossing. Matt rubbed between his eyebrows and pinched his nosebridge, easing up on the pressure that seemed to be balling up in his sinuses. Bollocks. About the last thing he wanted to come down with was something that would necessitate him being hauled to medical. Post-snow mission, Will had come down with some mysterious bug - he was in the medbay now, with Ratchet - and Epps was currently busy keeping things tied down on another continent. He supposed he could let some of the less pressing matters slip for about 30-odd hours, but everything marked 'URGENT' needed to be sent out ASAP.
Matt huffed out a sigh, rolling his spine in a stretch. Painkillers first, then a bit of fresh air, and hopefully that'll put this headache to bed, he thought, reaching for what they'd playfully dubbed the 'ChemAssist kit' - painkillers, antihistamines, packets of coffee and sugar and the odd chocolate bar or two. He pawed out a blister pack, popped two tablets out and swallowed them, chasing the bitter taste with cold coffee.
Oh, well. Sac up, Graham, and put these guys down, too.
---
By the time the sun had dropped, every joint in his body had begun to ache, every scrape and injury he'd gotten from approximately six months back and then some was beginning to twinge, and the pain was starting to flicker in his very bones. Matt was deeply alarmed. Hunched over at his desk, head buried in his hands, lights off once it'd started assaulting his retinas, he fought to keep his breathing even in between the hot flares ripping down his spine, not wanting to hyperventilate. This had gone beyond bad and was headed right into nightmare territory. Nothing, nothing in his previous experience had left him feeling anywhere this wretched, and it took every ounce of willpower he had just to get himself upright enough to slap a hand on the comms and grate out a request for a medic, preferably Ratchet, please. A fresh spurt of agony cut him off at the knees and he slid to the ground, staring up into the deepening gloom.
Well, fuck.
Matt stopped fighting the pain, let it wash through him instead. If it was going to hurt, then fine, he'd accept it, work with it. It made crawling over to his chair marginally more bearable, made the wait for someone less interminable, and by the time his door slammed open, it was a relief to let go of his tenuous grasp on consciousness while hands maneuvered him to the ground, patted him down, and...
---
Some time in the night, he woke up in the midst of a fever dream that had started with the feeling of his spine being wrenched right out of his back, leaving him fighting the sheets, the shorts he was stripped down to, the very air itself. The medbay floor was blisfully cool against heated skin, and Matt was dimly grateful that it seemed to be empty, that no one had seen his ungainly tumble right out of bed - he wouldn't live that down for months. His hip and shoulder felt bruised from the impact, and he rolled over onto his back, chest heaving. Everything fuckin' hurt. Had he gotten he sick? Had something gotten infected, had he managed to somehow contract some kind of disease? Skating dangerously close to the thin edge of panic, he fought a hand out of the tangle of blanket, pressed it to his forehead, the side of his neck - clammy skin, elevated pulse rate, fuck, even his hand was shaking. Bloody fuck.
The needle in his arm seemed to burn, igniting a spark of irritation. God, he just wanted it to stop. On a breathless grunt, he yanked it out, curled up on his side. Pain shot through the back of his skull, his joints, right up the centre of his chest like a cut from a heated blade.
In the middle of everything Matt found himself desperately trying to recount every little scrape, cut, any injury that'd broken skin, track it back to its source, and came up horribly blank. A series of convulsions overtook him and his bones cracked, shifting under skin in ways that should've been impossible. Just a dream, maybe it was all just a fucking dream and he was laid up with a fever - practical shite that he could handle - and then he got lost in a whirlwind of pain that sucked him into a tiny ball on the floor. When it finally spat him back out, he was dazed, and there were sounds, scents, swirling around him, and the hurt had finally subsided into a dull ache. Matt raised his head weakly, then let it drop again, gasping for air.
Better. Much better. Only now he needed answers, needed to...
But everything was wrong. Colours. Angles. Even the very feel of things - the floor, the lay of his body, the -
Oh God. Oh Jesus, oh sweet Mother of God -
Matt jolted to his feet. Something had -
Pushing up, overbalancing, snagging a foot in a fold of blanket as his forearms went out from under him. Promptly going down again, limbs sprawling in impossible angles.
No. No. No.
Footsteps, one person, combat boots, a sound and a presence that he recognised right away. He opened his mouth to yell out.
Will -
Shock rippled through him, and the whine that emerged from his throat was unmistakeable, shot through with panic. Adrenalin from Will flooded his senses, harsh, edged with stress, and strong arms wrapped around him as he writhed, claws scrabbling on the floor. No, no, no, fucking, no bloody way, no! he screamed, but all that came out were the deep, garbled moans of lupine distress that shut him up ASAP. Panting, he turned to stare at Will, eyes wide. Help me, he whispered. But it was another high-pitched whine, and he ended up planting his head in Will's broad chest, breathing in what he recognised as the Ranger's scent, sweat and gun oil and dust, sunscreen, the faint, deep musk of Will. Only it came through sharper, and stronger, so much stronger.
Fuck.
Dimly, he registered the pass of fingers through fur - god damned fur, Christ - and he shuddered, nudging into Will as though he could punch through and come out the other side as human, as himself. Will was talking to him, a low, soothing stream of words that gradually pierced the panicked fog, settling him, and when Matt came back to ground he was a ball of wolf huddled in Will's lap, claws digging into the man's thighs. Will's hands were firm on him, fingers raking through fur in long, soothing passes, and he pushed into them, needing his touch, needing his presence.
"Fuck, Matt, fuck, you, you shouldn't have - you're okay, you're okay, it's never that bad again," came the soft, anguished murmur, nose buried in light fur. "I'm sorry, Matt, I'm - just, just relax, it's alright, you're alright, you're good, Matt, you're alright..."
It's alright.