October 20, 2023

Nathan does not feel much better in the morning, which pisses him off to no end.

He wakes up before Jamie does, a dull pounding present in the back of his head. His skin is riddled with goosebumps and his legs protest when he rises. His only comfort is that Derek didn't haunt his subconscious in his sleep. Instead, he dreamed about Poveglia—about chasing after a winged lion through forlorn corridors, never quite catching up with the creature or understanding where it wanted him to go.

The name San Marco rests on the tip of his tongue. Nathan is too woozy to even begin to comprehend this.

He goes to the bathroom, downs one, two, three glasses of water to moisten his parched throat. He contemplates changing his bandages, but postpones it.

The day ahead will surely be long enough, and he has more important things to do first.

His empty stomach revolts even more than his weak limbs. He leaves Jamie a note saying he went out to grab them breakfast at the grocery store and will be back soon—can't have her guessing at his whereabouts and fearing for his safety the moment she wakes up. Fortunately, he is able to scavenge the food he needs without complications arising, and the fresh air does him good, cleansing his lungs and clearing the worst of the fog in his mind.

He runs into Gino on his way back up the hotel stairs, who follows his fiancée's example by congratulating him and tells him he looks rather pale. You're doing well in the health department, Nathan? Are you sure?

Nathan insists he is doing just fine.

By the time he re-enters his room, Jamie is awake and dressed for the day. She may have found his note, but still rips her eyes from the computer in her lap to look at him with unabashed relief. Nathan takes this for a good sign, though the arrival of a new day also brought with it anxieties he can't seem to shake. But those can be addressed later.

"Hey. I got us food." He holds up the grocery store loot so Jamie can see it—tiramisu in a plastic container and a packet of that disposable wooden cutlery that's going to save the environment somehow. "It's the tiramisu stuff you mentioned. I thought it was a shame we missed it at the restaurant. Dunno how you feel about dessert for breakfast, but..."

Jamie closes her laptop, smiling slightly. She places the device on her nightstand and pats the spot next to where she's sitting on her bed, inviting him to plop down beside her. "Sounds perfect. Better than what we would've had yesterday."

Nathan sits with her, a confused frown forming on his face. "That restaurant had a Michelin star. This is just store-bought."

"That's not why it's better, Nate." Jamie laughs, shakes her head. She takes the cutlery packet from him and opens it up. "Let's eat, okay? I'm kind of starving."

Nathan could easily echo that sentiment, so he digs right in. Even this cheap iteration of tiramisu, it turns out, tastes just as good as Jamie promised—coffee and cocoa powder mingle with hints of alcohol, all wrapped up together in absolute creamy delight. Nathan already dreads the moment they'll run out when they're still only halfway through.

And focusing on the food is easier than releasing his most nerve-wracking questions out in the open.

"Are you planning on talking to Stella later?" he asks inbetween bites. That question, at least, is safe to ask. There's no reason for him to fear the answer.

Jamie's grip on her disposable fork tightens ever so slightly. "I think I'll talk to her, yeah. Still mentally preparing for it, though."

"If it helps, she was pretty forthcoming with me yesterday. She told me the rent money story. You should really hear it from her, not me, but she seemed truthful. We can compare the versions when you're back if you'd like."

Jamie relaxes, fork sinking into a piece of tiramisu again. "I... I'd like that. Thanks."

They continue eating in silence. Nathan wonders if Jamie finds it peaceful or if it's gnawing at her, too. His head spins a little—not from the slowly rising fever this time. Ask her. Just ask. But the fear he might not like the answer intensifies and he'd rather stuff his mouth with dessert to keep the more dangerous questions inside.

Eventually, however, the tiramisu is gone, and Nathan is all out of easy methods to keep his anxious brain occupied.

"What's wrong?" Jamie drops their used cutlery in the plastic container, which she parks momentarily on her laptop. "You look... stressed. If it's Stella, if anything she said is bothering you, I can–"

"Did it mean anything?" Nathan blurts out.

Jamie blinks. "What?"

"You kissed me. Did it mean anything?" He's suddenly so queasy he feels like he might throw up. What a look that would be. "Because in hindsight, you were really emotional yesterday, so maybe you weren't thinking entirely straight, and maybe now you're just trying to find the nicest way to tell me it was all a mistake or I could've been anybody. Or maybe you're regretting it for some other reason–"

"Nate."

"–because now you're calm and you've had time to think it over properly and a part of me is terrified it didn't mean as much to you as it did to me. Or worse, that I took advantage of you in a moment of weakness. I'm sorry if I did."

Jamie still blinks at him in confusion. Nathan is starting to think none of what he said crossed her mind until maybe fifteen seconds ago.

"Nathan. Did I ever tell you I admire your dedication to overthinking things?"

"Uh... Not in so many words. Thanks?" Nathan's cheeks heat up, which has nothing to do with his health. "I... suppose I should be doing less of that. Sorry."

"No, it's fine. You're overthinking it, but I'm glad you asked. There's nothing wrong with that. Just because something is obvious to me doesn't mean it's obvious to you, too, so if clarification is what you need, I'll be happy to give you some." Jamie shifts a little closer to him until their legs touch. "All right?"

"All right."

"First off, I regret nothing. You didn't take advantage of me in any way, because I kissed you, and I'm telling you right now I was thinking straight enough to decide it was what I wanted. I also wouldn't have done it if it didn't mean anything, because I care about you and I don't get to mess with your feelings like that no matter how emotional I get. If you could've been anybody, I would've been the one taking advantage of you, and I wouldn't ever want to do that.

"So if I have to spell it out in words, I kissed you because you were safe and you made me feel comfortable, because I was sick of pretending I don't have feelings for you, and because it finally dawned on me that maybe I wouldn't be dooming us both by embracing them. Does that reassure you?"

For the first time this morning, Nathan is starting to feel truly, undeniably good.

"It does. A lot."

"Look." Jamie gets closer to him still—any more and she'd practically be in his lap. "If you want to know how I feel about you, I can't put it any better than this. Remember when we talked in Iceland, after putting the grimoire back in its rightful place? I asked you to stay in my life a little longer."

Nathan smiles at the memory. "Couldn't forget it if I tried."

"Good. I'm really glad you chose not to walk away back then, but I think it's time to revisit the question. Because it's been six months, so we've kind of worn out 'a little longer', and expired good agreements should be renewed. But maybe, this time around, we specify that you stay a lot longer instead of just a little." Jamie smiles right back at him, slightly red-faced. "Forever could be nice. However long that is."

Nathan laughs. She can't love you, not if she's smart, Derek's spectre told him the last time they met. It seems ridiculous now, so completely ridiculous, that Nathan almost believed him.

Should that sorry figment of the past show up again, he'll throw its vicious, erroneous words in its face with confidence. Checkmate, asshole.

"Dude, are you for real?" Jamie struggles not to start laughing herself. "I'm giving you my best attempt at romance and all you do is laugh?"

"Some forever sounds perfect to me." It's a good thing Gino isn't here, as his assessment of Nathan would've gone from sick to lovesick fool. "I'm just very happy right now. Please don't let that obstruct your attempts."

Jamie hums, satisfied with this answer. Her hand moves to lightly caress his cheek. "If for some reason you're still not convinced yesterday's kiss mattered to me, I'd be delighted to rectify it with a do-over."

She had Nathan at I regret nothing, but wise men keep their smartass quips to themselves when kisses are on offer. He doesn't waste a second capturing her mouth with his own, eager to improve upon what was already an experience that sent him reeling. They're less clumsy this time around—more coordinated and confident without the previous night's grievances wearing them down. The aches in Nathan's body, the last traces of miserable anxiety, all evaporate as he lets himself to get lost in Jamie and every delicious thing she's doing with her tongue.

The joy of kissing in private as opposed to in public is that the bar to take it a step further is that much lower. One kiss leads to many, growing more and more heated by the second, and Jamie has no qualms allowing his hands to roam over her body. Nathan would like to explore every inch of it, then make sure neither of them will be able to look her parents in the eyes without blushing like crazy for a good long while. Preferably in the very near future.

Thank fuck Jamie seems to be entertaining similar thoughts. She pulls away from him for a few agonizing seconds, but her fingers keep tiptoeing up his thigh, getting dangerously close to his crotch. The Impending Misbehaviour face, her sneakiest what? look of faux-innocence, makes its grand comeback.

Nathan swears he could lose his mind right then and there. Is it even legal to be that much of a tease?

"Careful," he comments, voice low and hoarse. "You're playing with fire."

"Bold of you to assume that's not exactly what I'm going for."

If fire is what she wants, she can have it. All of it. The fog in Nathan's head has cleared up entirely; his pain has been replaced by sheer desire. He dives back in for more, lightly pushing down Jamie on her bed—even with his wounded arm, this is something he can do with ease. He trails kisses down her neck, taking immense pleasure in making her squirm. You don't even know how much I want you right now.

"How long," Jamie mutters, biting back a gasp, "can I reasonably make Stella wait?"

Stella? Stella who?

"However long you'd like. Don't worry about it."

It's far too hot in here—Nathan is starting to find clothes annoyingly restrictive. He needs them to come off already, wouldn't even have a problem taking a knife to yet another piece of fabric. He does have just enough sense left to remember that would be a waste, so he makes do with his hands, working on peeling his T-shirt off first. The heat of the moment and the need to tread around his bandages cautiously don't make it easy, but Jamie gives him a hand, her touch all the more electrifying when grazing his bare skin.

He's about to get back to business when a complication arises.

"Hold on. What the fuck is that?"

That isn't the reaction Nathan usually aims for when making out with a super hot woman.

"Huh... What?"

Jamie has gone from presents-on-Christmas-morning glee to shaken to the core in a bad way rather than a good one. "Nate. Your scar."

As they move in to examine his scar more closely at the same time, their heads knock together. Jamie hisses in pain and Nathan curses. None of this is going according to plan.

Nathan's gaze darts to the blemish on his abdomen.

The scar tissue has turned pitch-black.

"Jesus Christ." Maybe the monster they've been up against brings forth the association, but Nathan swears he has seen this before in movies set in medieval times. "Almost looks like plague."

"Necrosis," Jamie corrects in a small voice. Nathan supposes her sister is a pathologist. "The black discoloration is called necrosis. Common symptom of plague. That's why they called it the Black Death."

All of this should be worrying Nathan beyond belief, but his blood has been flowing steadily downward and he isn't thinking with his brain just yet. "So is the black plague, like... a turn-off for you?"

"Is the black plague a turn-off for me?"

"I mean..."

"Nathan, I'm very flattered I have such an effect on you, but I kind of need you to focus."

There's irony to be found in that statement, but Nathan won't point it out. Jamie is right—he needs to get his head back in the game. And if he's honest with himself, the black plague is a pretty serious mood killer for him, too.

"I swear it didn't look like that when I got dressed this morning," he says, sheepish. "Not that I was paying much attention to it, but you'd think I would've noticed."

"This is bad. This is so bad. We should've been keeping an eye on your wound." Jamie, still flushed and disheveled, gets off her bed with every bit of composure she can muster. She looks him in the eyes, determined and frightened at the same time. "How have you been feeling since the Doctor bit you?"

"Could be better, could be worse. Headaches, sore muscles, feverish. More thirsty and tired than I think I should be. But that's about it."

Jamie shifts from terrified to mildly terrifying. "And you didn't even once think maybe it was worth mentioning?"

"There were a lot of distractions," Nathan defends. "Like birthday dinners, and important conversations, and... um... you?"

"Oh my fucking god." Jamie glances at the ceiling as if requesting divine aid. Fortunately for Nathan's immortal soul, she seems to realize she isn't all that qualified to chastise anyone for getting distracted. "Okay, fine. Fine. But we should be addressing this immediately."

Fair enough.

"I don't think this is actual plague. Just something that resembles it." The image of Raffaele Mezzanotte's ghost dances before Nathan's eyes—ebony veins rooted in his face, blotchy black spots dotting his skin. "This can't be an ordinary disease, so going to the hospital won't help one bit. We'd just be wasting time we could be using to find a cure."

"We have zero time to begin with." Jamie has taken to pacing once more. Her hands shoot up to fix her hair, but she's too frantic to be fixing much of anything. "We don't know how fast this will progress or what it's doing to you or what exactly it is. Even if we knew where to start searching and we found some sort of cure, there's no guarantee we could get our hands on it before you... Nate, you could be dead before we have something remotely workable."

"Then what the hell do we do now?"

"I think... I think we should kill the Doctor like we said we would. Today. In a best-case scenario, whatever venom it left in your body dies right along with it. If not, then... then it has to have a lair on Poveglia, and maybe we'll find something useful there. That's all still a huge gamble, but it might be our best shot. Good idea or not?"

Nathan could get behind it if it weren't for the one gigantic, glaring flaw.

"Not awful, but not great, either. I'm not in my best fighting state, and if my health gives out when we face the Doctor, you'll be on your own. Then a single wrong move or stroke of bad luck could mean one or both of us are done for. I don't want to put you in a situation like that."

In addition to the constant mortal peril, it would be a huge amount of pressure on her, too. Jamie shouldn't have to choose between saving him or herself. Not if Nathan has any say in it.

Jamie hadn't considered that yet, for she stops dead in her tracks to ponder his feedback. She scrutinizes one of the walls, sinking further and further into an uncharacteristically pensive state.

Nathan doesn't say anything. When the machines in the plan factory are churning out ideas, it's best not to interfere with the process.

"...But we could make it work if it wasn't just the two of us, right? If we brought backup."

"Well, yeah. But we don't have that. Support has been in short supply this entire vacation."

"It kind of has, hasn't it?" Jamie asks slowly, stroking her chin. The intensifying light behind her eyes tells Nathan a scheme has taken root. He isn't sure if this new development is a relief or a cause for great concern.

"What are you thinking?"

Jamie rushes over to him, reinvigorated. "That we ought to be getting ourselves some of that support you mentioned. I'm afraid I can't keep Stella waiting after all." She sneaks in one more kiss for good measure. If she's going to do that every time they part ways, Nathan will count himself among the happiest of men. "We'll pick up where we left off once we're out of the woods, okay? Try to get some rest. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Nathan wishes her good luck, but he's fairly sure Jamie doesn't catch it. She just barely remembers to put on shoes, tucking the laces in before racing out the door.

Suddenly, Nathan finds himself with only his thoughts and fears for company. He shivers.

His gruesome, discoloured scar makes him more nauseous with every second spent looking at it. Nathan slips back into his T-shirt—the action he'll be getting today won't be of the fun kind. With the initial shock wearing off and no pleasures left to distract him, his aches return with a vengeance, as if punishing him for trying to ignore them. He flops down on Jamie's bed, staring at the ceiling, fighting to keep his breathing steady.

He may have been refusing to accept it, but he could be hurtling towards death's doorstep. The worst is yet to come. He lies there for a while, coming to terms with this. Attempting to, at the very least.

But it isn't easy. Nothing is easy right now—not even moving. The mere act of sitting back up takes him a full minute. Nathan is red-hot and ice-cold; the Doctor's venom taints his body, but so does the grimoire's magic, and he worries his immune system may collapse under their combined strain.

Water. He needs water, painkillers, clean bandages around his arm. Extra sleep if he can manage a nap.

Hopefully Jamie will have returned with good news by the time he wakes up; hopefully he'll feel better. With his remaining strength, he stumbles towards the bathroom, dreading the sight of the sickly face the mirror will reflect back at him.

Fragments of his dream flash by when he blinks. Glimpses of a lion, low whispers clinging to his body like a foul odor he can't wash off. These disembodied voices speak in Italian, leaving only two words for him to comprehend. San Marco.

What exactly this means, he doesn't understand.