Primeval fic: The Art of Being Fine (Second Life verse)
Title: The Art of Being Fine
Disclaimer: I do not own Primeval. lena7142 created Feral Stephen.
A/N: Another fic in the Continued Adventures of Feral Stephen. Beta provided by lena7142. Remaining mistakes are my own.
Summary: Stephen gets sick. Not that he wants to admit that.
-o-
Stephen sneezed.
“You’re sick,” Cutter observed.
Stephen wiped his nose with a scowl. “I’m fine,” he muttered. Then, he promptly sneezed again.
Cutter raised his eyebrows.
Stephen growled, and Cutter wisely held his tongue.
-o-
Stephen coughed.
The first time, it was a small thing.
By the fifth time, it was a deep, hacking sound, rattling and wet.
When Cutter lost track of the number, Stephen was curled over with it, working desperately to bring up the sputum in his lungs with questionable success.
“You sure you feel alright?” Cutter asked, one eyebrow raised.
Stephen glared, slinking off without another word.
-o-
Stephen shivered.
It was almost unnoticeable at first, but as Cutter came up behind Stephen to check out his latest research, he brushed against him accidentally. It was a brief touch -- and really, he expected Stephen to stiffen -- but instead he could feel the fine tremors in Stephen’s body. Surprised, he reached out, and it was a testament to how poorly Stephen felt that he didn’t flinch away.
Instead, he let Cutter turn him and press a hand to his forehead.
Cutter pulled in a gasp and replaced it with a disapproving look. “You’ve got a fever.”
Stephen blinked at him tiredly. “I’ve been in the past for almost ten years,” he said. “I don’t have any exposure to the common illnesses here.”
Cutter tsked his tongue. “You need to go home.”
At that, Stephen hissed, yanking himself away with force. “I’m fine,” he said, insistent now. “There’s no time to be sick.”
Cutter usually trusted Stephen’s self-assessment, but he was a proud and stubborn man. Sometimes to a fault.
In that, some things never changed.
-o-
Stephen collapsed.
Cutter had come up to share the latest results. Stephen had been at the counter, getting himself a cup of coffee, if the cup in his hand was any indication. Cutter started off, asking if Stephen had run the second batch of tests yet, but Stephen didn’t reply. He didn’t even move. True, Stephen was a bit asocial at times, but to flat out ignore a question with a simple, concrete answer wasn’t like him. It wasn’t like him at all.
Concerned, Cutter had reached out to touch him--
And Stephen went down.
His eyes rolled back and his limbs went loose. The cup in his hand fell, splashing hot liquid on the floor as Cutter scrambled to brace the other man’s graceless fall. As it was, they both ended up on the floor, Stephen sprawled half on top of Cutter, while the Scottish man gaped helplessly.
Stephen’s entire body was hot, ravaged by fever. His cheeks were red, brow soaked with sweat. Cutter adjusted his grip, moving slightly so he could cradle Stephen better, and the small movement jostled Stephen enough so his eyes opened.
The blue eyes were too bright, glassy with illness, but they still settled on Cutter’s with a trace of awareness.
“See,” Cutter said, nodding as a matter of fact. “You’re sick.”
“You may be right,” Stephen murmured, his body relaxing as he slipped toward unconsciousness. “For once.”
-o-
Stephen slept.
It was a restless sleep, monitored by the doctors at the ARC. He’d been taken by stretcher, and when the doctors had examined him, they’d found Stephen to be dehydrated and fighting a high fever.
“A flu bug, most likely,” one explained. “Without any exposure for the last decade, his immune system is somewhat compromised.”
Cutter listened, but only just. He kept his eyes on Stephen, who was stretched out on a bed now, an IV inserted in a vein at his wrist.
It was going to be fine, he told himself. Because he didn’t know what else to think.
-o-
Stephen dreamed.
They were restless nightmares, and Stephen moaned on his bed. Cutter remembered the last time he did this, the last vigil he’d held when Stephen had been injured in the Permian. He remembered the delusions, the screams, the wary conversations about clones and regrets and what might have been.
What should have been.
Cutter wasn’t so foolish as to think those problems had been left in the past, but he had to believe that things were better now. They were different.
Stephen was home, with people who cared about him. It wasn’t the life he remembered, but it was one that still offered him more than he’d had before.
And if this Stephen wasn’t the one Cutter remembered, it was still one that offered him a second chance -- and more.
So they could handle the dreams. They’d endure the nightmares. And they’d still come out together.
-o-
Stephen got worse.
It had only been a day, but the doctors were already fretting, upping Stephen’s medication in a desperate ploy to improve his odds. But Stephen struggled, his breathing turning raspy as his face stayed lax and the fever picked up.
It was bad, and Cutter knew it. Stephen had survived predators and anomalies, Helen and his own mistakes. And now, it was nothing but sheer dumb luck.
And there was no anomaly to save them. No change in the timeline to set things right. It was just persistence and unwavering belief.
Hope.
A foreign concept, indeed.
-o-
Stephen fought.
This was what Stephen always did. He gave everything he had, and held nothing back. Stephen’s body rallied, breath by breath, against the illness that had taken hold. The doctors talked about extraordinary measures. They talked about worst case scenarios.
Cutter didn’t listen anymore.
He knew that there weren’t always happy endings. He knew that Stephen didn’t always have the best of luck. But Stephen was still there -- and Cutter wasn’t going to leave until this was over.
One way or another.
-o-
Stephen was dying.
After a few days of fighting the fever, his breathing faltered, and they put him on a ventilator. His fever climbed and they said he was in a coma. A week into the illness, his heart stopped because the toll was just too much.
Cutter watched, ignoring the tube as it snaked down his throat. Cutter stayed close, absorbing any heat he could. And Cutter didn’t breath, his heart stilling with Stephen’s, stuttering once and twice -- before paddles worked and Stephen came back to him again.
He’d lived without Stephen once.
He didn’t think he could do it again.
-o-
Stephen had nothing left.
No matter what his skills or his traits, he was just a man. Mortal and breakable. Weak and fallible.
Cutter held his hand, closed his fingers around it, and said, “I don’t know if I can watch you die again.”
Stephen’s heart beat.
“I don’t want to, anyway,” he admitted.
And Stephen’s heart kept beating.
-o-
Stephen got better.
They removed the tube. They said he was stable. The flush in his cheeks abated, and the doctors called it a marvel of modern medicine.
Cutter smirked, because he knew better. It had nothing to do with medicine, modern or otherwise.
It had everything to do with Stephen.
-o-
Stephen opened his eyes.
He was weak and his voice was strained. It took effort for him to swallow, and his breathing was still compromised.
Still, when Cutter leaned close, he tried to speak.
“Hush,” Cutter said. “You’ve been out of it for awhile.”
There was a question, an uncertainty in Stephen’s eyes.
“I told you you were sick,” Cutter said coyly.
Stephen’s brow furrowed and he moistened his lips with obvious effort. “I’m fine,” he croaked.
And Cutter laughed. Stephen still looked more dead than alive, still looked like a ghost of himself, but somehow, that didn’t matter.
Grinning, Cutter leaned close, hand on Stephen’s pillow, almost touching, but not quite. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I suppose you are.”
Disclaimer: I do not own Primeval. lena7142 created Feral Stephen.
A/N: Another fic in the Continued Adventures of Feral Stephen. Beta provided by lena7142. Remaining mistakes are my own.
Summary: Stephen gets sick. Not that he wants to admit that.
-o-
Stephen sneezed.
“You’re sick,” Cutter observed.
Stephen wiped his nose with a scowl. “I’m fine,” he muttered. Then, he promptly sneezed again.
Cutter raised his eyebrows.
Stephen growled, and Cutter wisely held his tongue.
-o-
Stephen coughed.
The first time, it was a small thing.
By the fifth time, it was a deep, hacking sound, rattling and wet.
When Cutter lost track of the number, Stephen was curled over with it, working desperately to bring up the sputum in his lungs with questionable success.
“You sure you feel alright?” Cutter asked, one eyebrow raised.
Stephen glared, slinking off without another word.
-o-
Stephen shivered.
It was almost unnoticeable at first, but as Cutter came up behind Stephen to check out his latest research, he brushed against him accidentally. It was a brief touch -- and really, he expected Stephen to stiffen -- but instead he could feel the fine tremors in Stephen’s body. Surprised, he reached out, and it was a testament to how poorly Stephen felt that he didn’t flinch away.
Instead, he let Cutter turn him and press a hand to his forehead.
Cutter pulled in a gasp and replaced it with a disapproving look. “You’ve got a fever.”
Stephen blinked at him tiredly. “I’ve been in the past for almost ten years,” he said. “I don’t have any exposure to the common illnesses here.”
Cutter tsked his tongue. “You need to go home.”
At that, Stephen hissed, yanking himself away with force. “I’m fine,” he said, insistent now. “There’s no time to be sick.”
Cutter usually trusted Stephen’s self-assessment, but he was a proud and stubborn man. Sometimes to a fault.
In that, some things never changed.
-o-
Stephen collapsed.
Cutter had come up to share the latest results. Stephen had been at the counter, getting himself a cup of coffee, if the cup in his hand was any indication. Cutter started off, asking if Stephen had run the second batch of tests yet, but Stephen didn’t reply. He didn’t even move. True, Stephen was a bit asocial at times, but to flat out ignore a question with a simple, concrete answer wasn’t like him. It wasn’t like him at all.
Concerned, Cutter had reached out to touch him--
And Stephen went down.
His eyes rolled back and his limbs went loose. The cup in his hand fell, splashing hot liquid on the floor as Cutter scrambled to brace the other man’s graceless fall. As it was, they both ended up on the floor, Stephen sprawled half on top of Cutter, while the Scottish man gaped helplessly.
Stephen’s entire body was hot, ravaged by fever. His cheeks were red, brow soaked with sweat. Cutter adjusted his grip, moving slightly so he could cradle Stephen better, and the small movement jostled Stephen enough so his eyes opened.
The blue eyes were too bright, glassy with illness, but they still settled on Cutter’s with a trace of awareness.
“See,” Cutter said, nodding as a matter of fact. “You’re sick.”
“You may be right,” Stephen murmured, his body relaxing as he slipped toward unconsciousness. “For once.”
-o-
Stephen slept.
It was a restless sleep, monitored by the doctors at the ARC. He’d been taken by stretcher, and when the doctors had examined him, they’d found Stephen to be dehydrated and fighting a high fever.
“A flu bug, most likely,” one explained. “Without any exposure for the last decade, his immune system is somewhat compromised.”
Cutter listened, but only just. He kept his eyes on Stephen, who was stretched out on a bed now, an IV inserted in a vein at his wrist.
It was going to be fine, he told himself. Because he didn’t know what else to think.
-o-
Stephen dreamed.
They were restless nightmares, and Stephen moaned on his bed. Cutter remembered the last time he did this, the last vigil he’d held when Stephen had been injured in the Permian. He remembered the delusions, the screams, the wary conversations about clones and regrets and what might have been.
What should have been.
Cutter wasn’t so foolish as to think those problems had been left in the past, but he had to believe that things were better now. They were different.
Stephen was home, with people who cared about him. It wasn’t the life he remembered, but it was one that still offered him more than he’d had before.
And if this Stephen wasn’t the one Cutter remembered, it was still one that offered him a second chance -- and more.
So they could handle the dreams. They’d endure the nightmares. And they’d still come out together.
-o-
Stephen got worse.
It had only been a day, but the doctors were already fretting, upping Stephen’s medication in a desperate ploy to improve his odds. But Stephen struggled, his breathing turning raspy as his face stayed lax and the fever picked up.
It was bad, and Cutter knew it. Stephen had survived predators and anomalies, Helen and his own mistakes. And now, it was nothing but sheer dumb luck.
And there was no anomaly to save them. No change in the timeline to set things right. It was just persistence and unwavering belief.
Hope.
A foreign concept, indeed.
-o-
Stephen fought.
This was what Stephen always did. He gave everything he had, and held nothing back. Stephen’s body rallied, breath by breath, against the illness that had taken hold. The doctors talked about extraordinary measures. They talked about worst case scenarios.
Cutter didn’t listen anymore.
He knew that there weren’t always happy endings. He knew that Stephen didn’t always have the best of luck. But Stephen was still there -- and Cutter wasn’t going to leave until this was over.
One way or another.
-o-
Stephen was dying.
After a few days of fighting the fever, his breathing faltered, and they put him on a ventilator. His fever climbed and they said he was in a coma. A week into the illness, his heart stopped because the toll was just too much.
Cutter watched, ignoring the tube as it snaked down his throat. Cutter stayed close, absorbing any heat he could. And Cutter didn’t breath, his heart stilling with Stephen’s, stuttering once and twice -- before paddles worked and Stephen came back to him again.
He’d lived without Stephen once.
He didn’t think he could do it again.
-o-
Stephen had nothing left.
No matter what his skills or his traits, he was just a man. Mortal and breakable. Weak and fallible.
Cutter held his hand, closed his fingers around it, and said, “I don’t know if I can watch you die again.”
Stephen’s heart beat.
“I don’t want to, anyway,” he admitted.
And Stephen’s heart kept beating.
-o-
Stephen got better.
They removed the tube. They said he was stable. The flush in his cheeks abated, and the doctors called it a marvel of modern medicine.
Cutter smirked, because he knew better. It had nothing to do with medicine, modern or otherwise.
It had everything to do with Stephen.
-o-
Stephen opened his eyes.
He was weak and his voice was strained. It took effort for him to swallow, and his breathing was still compromised.
Still, when Cutter leaned close, he tried to speak.
“Hush,” Cutter said. “You’ve been out of it for awhile.”
There was a question, an uncertainty in Stephen’s eyes.
“I told you you were sick,” Cutter said coyly.
Stephen’s brow furrowed and he moistened his lips with obvious effort. “I’m fine,” he croaked.
And Cutter laughed. Stephen still looked more dead than alive, still looked like a ghost of himself, but somehow, that didn’t matter.
Grinning, Cutter leaned close, hand on Stephen’s pillow, almost touching, but not quite. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I suppose you are.”