Chapter Text
“You did what?” Torgaddon glared down at the figure slumped at his feet.
“They challenged me! Was I supposed to back down?” Abaddon’s voice was hoarse but still full of indignation.
“No, no I want to hear you say it again.” Torgaddon said with a barely suppressed smirk.
The First Captain tried to snarl but it came out as more of a croak from his abused throat. He coughed. “Fine. The Death Lord always shares a cup of poison with one of his captains after a battle. Grulgor and Typhon thought I was too weak to handle it.” He paused to draw in a painful breath, “So I had to prove to them I wasn’t.” He glared defiantly up at Torgaddon who raised an eyebrow.
“Remind me again what you proved? For the past hour, you’ve been sicker than a Remembrancer after their first warp jump.”
“They don’t know that!” Abaddon shot back, nevertheless looking a little green at the mention.
“Good thing, too. We’d never live that down.”
Abaddon rubbed a hand across his pale face, wiping away beads of sweat. Most of his long hair was messily tied up in a loose knot on top of his head. In his hurry to bind his hair up out of his face, he had missed a few pieces, and these hung down the back of his neck in lank strands.
“What exactly did they make you drink?” Tarik asked.
Abaddon shrugged voice still raspy, “Emperor only knows. It was foul though.”
“I would expect a cup of poison wouldn’t exactly be pleasant.” Tarik said, finally bending down to look Abaddon in the face. The First Captain’s skin was unnaturally pale, making his flushed cheeks stand out even more. His face was damp with sweat, and his eyes looked unfocused. Out of habit, Tarik pressed a hand to Abaddon’s forehead. Abaddon jerked back, “Leave off, Tarik!”
The ring of command that was still in Ezekyle’s voice was immediately ruined as the sudden movement made him go even paler and he clapped a hand to his mouth, trying to regain control over his rebelling body. Tarik stepped out of the line of fire, and instead came to stand next to Abaddon, “Fighting it will only make you feel worse, you idiot.” He added the last bit so Abaddon wouldn’t think he was being coddled. The First Captain, unsurprisingly, was difficult to care for. He was stubborn, prideful, fiercely independent, and worst of all, easily angered.
“I’m fine, Tarik.” Abaddon was glaring up at him with all the force he could muster.
“Alright,” Torgaddon said, “walk with me then. I’ve got Mournival business to discuss with you.” He held a hand out, and Abaddon surprisingly let Torgaddon help him to a standing position.
Clasping both hands behind his back, Tarik led the way out of the room and began to stroll aimlessly along the halls of the Vengeful Spirit. Abaddon kept pace with him at first, making occasional grunts of agreement or disagreement but not participating in the conversation any more than that. Only if Torgaddon pushed him would Abaddon give a more elaborate answer. And even then, the response was vague to the point where Tarik could tell Abaddon hadn’t really been listening.
As they continued walking, the First Captain’s pace began to slow at first almost imperceptibly, and then dramatically, as if his waning strength had hit a wall. Each time, Torgaddon slowed to match their new pace, giving no sign he had noticed. Abaddon’s face was paler now than when they had begun, and he would have looked unwell even to a casual passerby. Torgaddon began to make deliberate turns now, guiding the First Captain back towards the area of the ship where all the Astartes’ rooms were located. He kept talking, completely diverging from “Mournival business” to other unrelated topics when it became obvious that Ezekyle was only concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
Finally, just a few hundred meters away from Abaddon’s chambers, the moment Tarik had been waiting for finally occurred. Abaddon lost his footing and stumbled. Torgaddon flung out an arm and just barely kept the First Captain from crashing to the floor. He hauled Abaddon back upright and put a supporting arm around his back, “Not much further now,” he said quietly.
Abaddon made a noise that was half grunt, half groan.
“I’m going to assume that meant, ‘Sounds good, Tarik, you’re the best.’”
Abaddon made a second, much angrier sound, but Tarik just gave him a firm pat on the ribs, “None of that now.”
At the door to his chambers, Abaddon roused enough to mutter words of protest, but Tarik, who had already slid the door open, unceremoniously shoved the First Captain inside.
Abaddon stumbled a few steps forward and caught the edge of his bed to keep from falling on his face. He turned to face Tarik, anger and sickness evident in equal measures on his face.
“What in the name of Terra are you doing, Tarik?” He snapped, voice shaking with anger. The bun on top of his head wobbled as he spoke, and Torgaddon had to fight to keep a smile from his face.
Just barely keeping a hold on his composure, Tarik responded, “I’m putting you to bed.”
Abaddon opened his mouth in shock, the bun quivering even more violently, and Torgaddon chuckled despite himself. He put both hands on Abaddon’s chest and, with a light shove, dropped the First Captain back onto his bed, ignoring Abaddon’s strangled sounds of pure fury.
“Lay down, Ezekyle.” And, in a move that would normally be suicidal, Torgaddon turned his back on the fuming Abaddon and made his way across the sparsely decorated room to the tiny sink inset into the wall. He soaked a small towel in the icy water and brought it back over to the bed. Abaddon had pulled the thin blanket over himself, but was still sitting up, glaring at Torgaddon.
Tarik resisted the urge to smack him in the face with the damp towel and instead dropped it into the First Captain’s lap. “That should help a little with the headache.”
“I don’t have a headache,” Abaddon said as fiercely as he could.
Tarik rolled his eyes. “Oh stuff it, Ezekyle.” He put his hands on his hips, “Now I’m going to stand here until you lay down.”
Abaddon sat and stared at Torgaddon until he realized the other Astartes was dead serious. And then with an angry sigh, lay back on the bed. Torgaddon deftly plucked the damp towel off the bed, folded it neatly, and draped it over Abaddon’s forehead.
He patted Abaddon on the chest, “Sleep well, Ezekyle. And if I find you’ve gotten up before tomorrow, I’ll whoop your sick ass myself.” And with that, he stepped out of the room, sliding the door shut behind him.