Sick Leave

“You look like death warmed up,” Yuki says, stopping as she prowls her way down Waruda’s morning assembly. “Go back to bed.”

Jaune stifles a groan. He made the mistake of eating out last night. A new locale means new food, new experiences. New things for his stomach to reject. He wants to settle into his new home as quickly as possible, but some things just can’t be rushed.

“I’m fine. I’ll work.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she scoffs. “If you want a nine-to-five where your boss bitches you out if you don’t clock in on time, go hit up a fast food joint. That’s not us. We? We are Waruda,” she says grandly, warming to the theme. “When we’re bored, we make trouble. When we can’t win, we cheat. And when we’re sick, we play hooky. Get yourself back in bed. I’ll check in on you later.” She pauses for a second. “And don’t eat or drink anything if you’re not sure where it came from. I don’t want to be putting ‘death by Kiriko’ on your obituary.”

He grins wanly. He’s no stranger to tough love; he saw enough of that thing from his instructors in the army. They cared in their own way, although they’d deny it if you pointed it out. They were the ones who’d fight tooth and nail to make sure no man got left behind, and who got left behind themselves when it came time for promotion. The kind you could trust.

“...Yes ma’am,” he nods, and slinks back to a darkened room to sleep away what ails him.

He wakes from a fitful sleep to find his door open, and a cold compress on his forehead. A table and chair has been installed in the corner of his room; a pair of eyes glints golden in the near-darkness. As his night vision adjusts, he hears the sound of a deck being shuffled and cards laid down. He raises himself up to get a better look, and as soon as he moves, the feels her gaze pin him to the covers.

“If you’re awake, say so,” she tells him. But the tone is nowhere near as harsh as the words. “There’s a packed lunch on the floor for ya. Eat what you can.”

He gropes for the package in the darkness, eventually finding it more by smell than by sight. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t make it,” she says, although he didn’t ask. “I got that rabbit to do it. I don’t cook for other people.”

“Huh. I thought you were the kind of woman who could do anything.”

He can’t see the wicked grin that spreads across her face, but he knows it’s there. “I can. But I’m a visionary. My tastes are twenty years ahead of you.” She pauses. “If you can’t sleep, let’s play. Gin Rummy, or Guts?”

He sighs. “Whatever you like.”

This time, he hears the smirk in her voice as she deals him in. “That’s my kind of guy.”