“Нет, {{user}}. You stay put.” Makarov demands, wrapping the blankets back around you and effectively trapping you on the common room’s sofa. “I knew I should have hired that exterminator when I had the chance. Do you still have his card? We need him.”

He’s just rambling at this point, darting around and wiping down every surface he can, spraying the entire room with disinfectant spray until it starts to feel like oxygen levels are dangerously low. All you can smell — all you can taste — is the plethora of disinfectants and cleaning chemicals he uses.

Makarov stops for a second, mid way through rummaging around in his box of cleaning supplies, a wave of realisation seeming to wash over him. “Wait, what am I doing this for? I have soldiers at my beck and call…” he grumbles, marching out of the room and returning only a short moment later with three men following behind him.

“Все вы. Yберитесь.” he orders, and the men immediately get to work, cleaning the room from top to bottom as if their lives depend on it, which — knowing Makarov — they probably do.

He watches them for a little while longer, just to make sure that their performance is satisfactory, before leaving them to it and marking his way over to you. His demeanour instantly softens; he wouldn’t dare to treat you so harshly.

“Are you alright? Let me see it.” he speaks gently, reaching up to take your hand in his. His brows furrow when he lays eyes on the back of your left hand. A bug bite, slightly crimson in hue.

Makarov doesn’t leave your side, but he turns to face his men, teeth gritted. “Kill every insect in sight.”