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Bronco loved nothing more than a clean operation, one in which everything goes according to plan, everyone's happy, and nobody's maimed or in jail or done fucked up. This operation fell squarely within that definition of clean, and their exit route took them to Paris, where Bronco decided they deserved a bit of peace and celebration.
The persistent headache, however, ruined the mood. It had started as a low fever on the third day of the operation, when he’d taken a short swim in the river. A little sickness didn't affect him much in moments that mattered, but now that nobody was shooting at them or threatening to set fire to Ma'am's car, his body decided it was time for Operation Scorched Earth.
Bronco tried to sleep it off on the flight. Although if anything, the turbulence and stuffy cabin made it worse. He felt dizzy, almost nauseous, and the seat only reclined so much.
Sid was glancing at him. Having to fly economy, the poor bastard was stuck in a middle seat while Bronco got the window seat. Some old lady sat in the aisle; being the gentleman he was, Sid was engaged in quiet, amicable conversation, the kind that’d make a mother follow up with ‘Are you single? Would you like to meet my daughter? Or my son?’ Yeah, fuck that. Bronco put on his sunglasses, shut his eyes, and rested his arms on the armrests on both sides, shoving Sid's arm off.
"Excuse you,” said Sid, mildly miffed.
"What's yours is mine, hon." Bronco flashed him a smile. “There’s a fucking pétanque boule in my head knocking everything over. I need my armrest.”
“Here I thought your head was empty."
Bronco would've flipped him the bird had they been in less family-friendly company. "Wake me for beef ravioli,” he said instead.
Bronco dreamed. It was never quite pleasant to nap on planes: the shakiness always fooled his body into some state of panic, startling him awake with a kick or a hard twitch. But he managed to sleep through the hour.
In his dream, he was reliving one of those days in one of those years he'd spent working for his previous employer. Lots of running. Blood. Screams. Lots and lots of gunfire. Sweat dripping into his eyes. The desert sun glaring into his eyes. Couldn't see shit between the veil of his sweat and the distant mirage. Go, run, you're on your own out there. Set your own plans, get your own shit. Here's some money. Land in jail and nobody's coming for you. Fuck things up and you’re fucking yourself up. Shitshitshit Sid get out now—
Bronco jerked awake. A warm hand gripped his arm on the stolen armrest, then let go.
"Not beef ravioli time yet," said Sid calmly. “You just missed the water cart.”
“Let me have some of yours,” Bronco said.
Sid picked up his plastic cup, downed the rest, and said, "No."
This time, Bronco did flip him the bird.
The plane landed after another five hours in late evening. By then, Bronco was not in the mood for any jokes. He just wanted to get to their place for the night and crash. Dinner and shower be damned. They were going to be here for two days; he would eat tomorrow or whenever he woke up.
The sunglasses stayed on the entire ride to their hotel. It was dark and neither their driver nor Sid made much conversation, thank goodness. The sunglasses came off when they arrived at their room, right before Bronco face-planted himself on the nearest bed. It didn't help much with the headache, but at last he was finally horizontal, and the pounding was reduced to just his head rather than his entire body.
Sid dumped the bags on the ground next to the sofa and took a seat with his own weary sigh. "Gucci said they've landed too," he informed Bronco.
"Great."
"They're asking about dinner plans."
"I'm saving myself for breakfast," Bronco answered, voice muffled.
A rustling of clothes. Maybe a nod or a shrug, or some other minor movement that Bronco was too tired to turn and look. Then there was the sound of footsteps across the carpet, a clink, something plastic like a bottle opening. Then, the sound of pouring water.
Bronco reached out a hand without turning his buried face. Moments later, a glass was fitted in his palm. With a groan, he rolled over, sat up on the edge of the bed, and drank greedily. The water was refreshingly cool, and he would've doused himself with it if only he didn’t need the bed to be dry for sleeping.
"It was good?" asked Sid. "Feeling better?"
"Best water I've ever had."
Sid plucked the water bottle from the table and set it down on the bed so Bronco could read the label: €13.
"Jesus fucking christ."
“That’s coming out of your wallet," Sid said.
"You opened it."
"You drank it."
"...Sue me." Bronco returned to his face-down position. "I'm going to sleep. Don't wake me unless shit is fucked."
"....burning..."
"How long...."
"...night...some water..."
"...three days...wake..."
"Bronco...?"
Blearily, Bronco heard his name. Something chilling settled on his forehead, and he startled into semi-lucidity.
Sid's face leaned into view, his hand holding something still—cold, relieving—over Bronco's forehead. Rachel was behind him.
"What's fucked...?" Bronco rasped.
Rachel made a face. "Yeah, keep him in bed. I'll phone someone."
Wow, what did that mean? Bronco made to sit up, but Sid kept him down with a hand on his shoulder. The something—towel—slipped off Bronco's forehead, and he felt lightheaded at the sudden cool air.
"Easy there," Sid said with his indoor quiet room voice. "Nothing's wrong. Well, except you."
"I'm not..." Bronco started, then decided he better not finish the sentence or he may just throw up. But he was more awake, and his brain catalogued Rachel's worried stance and Sid's hovering.
"Stay in bed, Bronco," said Rachel. "That's an order."
"Yes, ma'am..." Bronco muttered. He lifted a soggy-feeling arm to put the cool towel back on, but with his eyes shut and his body not wholly under his autonomy, it proved quite difficult to locate the damn thing.
Magically, the towel returned to his forehead with a muttered Hold still. A solid weight. Fingers brushed hair strands out from under the towel, and Bronco fell back asleep under the promise of safety.
Bronco woke up feeling lighter. The ceiling was darkened, dimly lit by a warm light source out of his field of vision. A lamp of some sort. Probably a table lamp.
A page flipped. Sid. Bronco exhaled and moved his tired eyes to locate the source of the small noise.
Shadows moved. Sound of water being poured into a cup. Then Sid came into view with the glass. Bit of a déja vu.
Feeling like an over-baked potato, Bronco sat up. Sid steadied him with a grip on his arm, helped him settle against the backboard, and handed him the glass of water. It felt like he'd not moved in a while. His breath was still warm, and he felt dulled. But the headache had ebbed. Quietly, Sid reached out a hand to take his temperature.
"Rachel was here?" Bronco asked.
Sid nodded. "She left in the morning when your fever broke."
"New assignment?"
Sid shook his head no.
Bronco paused his water intake and regarded Sid. "Something happened while I was out?"
"You were out for two days."
"Yeah, explains why I'm starving," Bronco groaned.
He set down his glass, settled a foot on the ground to test out his balance, and then stood with the help of the nightstand. He dismissed Sid's hovering, and the man returned to his position at the sofa, book open but not being read. It was a strange setup, like some kind of photo-worthy moment with the perfect lighting and perfect antiqueness of the gross-colored patchwork sofa-chair to match the theme. Sid had changed out of his previous clothes, but the other bed didn’t look like it’d been slept on.
"What are you doing?" asked Bronco.
"It's called reading. You should try it sometimes."
Bronco grunted. He shuffled to the mini fridge, opened it, and found only more bottles of water. He picked one up and rolled it against his feverish face. For a moment, all he heard in the room was the soft crinkling of the plastic bottle and the muted honking from the streets beyond the closed curtains. Sid was quiet, he realized. He turned an eye to the man, who was still definitely watching him.
"Catch me up?" Bronco said. "Abridged version, please."
Sid eyed him. "Nothing happened, relax. The others flew back already. Whenever you're up, we should get a move on too."
Somehow, Bronco felt like Sid was cursing him. The man had this look, which he often had whenever Bronco would propose something out of the box. A kind of 'What the shit, Bronco’ expression.
"Seriously, something on your mind, Sid?" Bronco asked.
"I was just worried."
"You were worried?"
Sid shrugged. "You were out for two days."
"Yeah, and I'm starving. Huh. Feels like we had this conversation already. C'mon, let’s head out. I'm really fucking starving."
Bronco put the water back into the fridge and threw on his jacket. The urge to crack a joke was strong, but he squashed it down. Sid was worried for him, and Bronco hated making him worry.
There was a welcome entourage when Bronco and Sid met up with the rest of the team. It seemed like the news that he'd been sick had been gravely exaggerated to the point that a couple of them greeted him with a hug.
"Guys," Bronco said, taking off his shades when he finally found hands to do so. "I didn't fucking die. It was probably a bad bug. Which might still be contagious, so keep your distance.”
"Gucci said you died," Baker said.
"Uh, no, I didn't. I said it looked like he died."
Bronco scratched his jaw. He needed a shave. "Did I look like shit?" He had felt like shit.
"Well, no, we didn't see you. Sid was just really—" Gucci cut himself off. "Er, Sid updated us."
Bronco arched a brow. "I see," he said and clasped his hands together. "Alright, enough of that. The legal team has sent over some persons of interest. Let's get to work! And Sid, a word?"
"Ugh."
Bronco waited until the rest of the team had dispersed from the room. Then he crossed his arms and stared at Sid. Sid stared back.
"So," Bronco began eloquently, "we're good?"
Sid's brow went up. "Good on what?"
"That I was conked out for two days because I took a dip in the water even though you said we shouldn't?"
Sid just shook his head with an exasperated sigh. "Well, I'd say 'I told you so' but the operation went fine, so no harm done."
"No harm? I nearly died from pneumonia."
“Grow up,” Sid said simply.
"I felt like absolute hell."
“Then maybe try not doing things that make you feel like hell next time?”
Sid's tone was light, but his eyes weren't. Don't do that again, please.
Bronco paused before he said, "Thank you, Captain Obvious."
"I'm going to take a nap," Sid announced.
"It's two in the fucking afternoon, Sid."
"And I haven't slept in three fucking days, Bronco."
"Fine, alright. Fine," Bronco surrendered. Sid was definitely still upset. "Wake you for beef ravioli?"
"I want butter chicken and a divorce."
"One butter chicken, got it."