SFB: III
He throws a book against Theirn's door, in passing.
It's an atrocious romance novel, which is why he feels no guilt about it. "Get up, my dear Rosie, you're going to miss the meeting," he informs the door, on his way down the hall to go downstairs to get breakfast.
Theirn has never been one for oversleeping, especially on assignment, so it's... odd, to say the least, that there's no answer beyond a muffled groan.
When the younger man hasn't managed to make his way downstairs five minutes later, once he's managed to drink half a cup of coffee, the thought that this is more than tiredness is loud enough to send him back upstairs, knocking on the door again more politely.
"Theirn?"
The sound of throwing up is rather more audible than the groan had been.
"Rosie, I'm coming in," he informs Theirn, as he opens the door.
At least it would appear that the younger man has managed to make it to the bathroom before becoming ill, as he is not in the bedroom.
Theirn is, at the moment, kneeling on the bathroom floor, leaning against the bathtub and rather more pale than is healthy, except for a darkening bruise on one shoulder. He was evidently in the middle of getting dressed, as he's got slacks and an unbuttoned shirt on, but not his glasses or shoes.
"Theirn?" Marcus asks, softly, edging into the bathroom, setting the coffee down on the sink and crouching beside him.
Shakily, "something's wrong. Dizzy, nauseous... I'm not sure what it is. Je suis desole."
"Shhh," he murmurs, easing down to take a seat on the tile, pulling Theirn into his arms.
This is not exactly a mistake, as he manages not to drop Theirn, barely. And a moment later has pulled him closer, head resting against his shoulder. "Not surprised you don't feel good," he murmurs, careful to keep his voice light.
Theirn's eyes are closed, and tremors are running through him.
"Perez, or Stewart?" he asks quietly. "And is it meant to be a warning or a remonstration, do you think?"
In other words: is it meant to kill him, or not.
"I don't think it matters who," he says, gently. "And I'm sure it won't be permanently fatal, assuming I do what they want."
"Is killing Wrede the right thing to do? And--" another shudder, this one not from the poison, "how? Their way?"
"Don't worry about Wrede," he says. Orders, maybe. "I'll take care of him, one way or another, in the end. For now, I'm more worried about you. I... what do you want to do about this?"
"If it's not meant to be fatal, I'll just ride it out." He wraps his arms around his knees, curling into a ball. "Not gonna scrap the mission because I was stupid."
"And if it is?"
"Then we'll find out when I go into a coma, and the medics at headquarters can work on it," he says clinically.
"Believe it or not," he replies, tone just as clinically objective, "I'd rather not have you run the risk of dying just because of this."
"Then go and talk to them. If they're not co-operative, then I'll consider scrapping the mission."
"There is technically a third option."
Theirn blinks and looks at him, frowning. "What?"
"I can try to do what I would if I were the one they were smart enough to poison."
"Burn it out." He shudders again. "Do you have time? You know what my system does to magic."
"They poisoned you," he points out, flatly. "They can deal with me being late to the meeting."
"All right. Stop if it hurts you, though."
"It's not me I'm worried about it hurting," he mutters, rearranging Theirn in his lap to what is hopefully more comfortable for both of them.
Theirn closes his eyes, gritting his teeth. "All right. I'm ready."
"Try to relax."
Pointless words, maybe, as he shuts his eyes to better see. The poison's there, all right, still contained to his bloodstream. It's ever so much harder, too, to work in someone else's body, without all the little signals to tell the difference between too much and just enough.
Much harder to work in a body that automatically fights foreign magic, even when fighting means pain. Theirn stiffens, biting his lip hard and twisting a hand in Marcus's shirt.
"Shhh," he whispers, because it's harder to catch poison than it is illness. He funnels more magic into his hands, and from there into Theirn's body, trying to burn it out.
Theirn doesn't scream, but he twists his hand tighter in Marcus's shirt and lets out a muffled whimper, biting his lip hard enough that the coppery tang of blood fills the bathroom.
He can practically taste it himself.
"Should I stop, Rosie?"
"No." It's forced out through clenched teeth, but it's firm. "I can take it. Keep going."
You're sure?
Marcus swallows, closing his eyes again, and focuses his attention again. But the momentary lapse has cost him; what progress he'd made is swept away, the poison everywhere throughout Theirn's bloodstream again.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"Marcus." Theirn's voice is shaky. "Knock me out. Faster that way. You won't have to worry about hurting me if I'm not conscious."
"No." He blinks his eyes open again, looking down at Theirn, smoothing his hair back out of his face. Softer, "no."
"S'going to take too long otherwise..."
"Not that either," he murmurs, pressing a kiss carefully to Theirn's forehead.
"Then what?"
"You get your wish."
"Marcus... I don't--" He shakes his head, looking zomewhat dazed. "I don't understand."
"You'll stay here today," he orders. "Try to stay hydrated, do whatever it is normally when you get a blast of magic directed at you. I'll be back as soon as the meeting's over, and we'll figure things out then."
"What if they want me there?"
"They'll be disappointed," he says, coldly.
He swallows, nodding. "F'you think it's best."
"Get up," Marcus says. "I want you to go back to bed."
Theirn nods again, shakily getting to his feet, supporting himself against the wall for a moment.
Marcus pulls himself to his feet much more fluidly, resting a hand on Theirn's shoulder for a moment. "It'll be all right, my dear," he promises, before slipping out of the room to finish his breakfast and head for the meeting.
There are words he'll be having with a few men.