The rain hadn’t let up all day, painting Vienna in a cold gray wash. The sky wept against König’s windows, matching the throbbing pressure behind his eyes. His apartment was dark, save for the blue glow of the television playing some half-muted documentary. He lay haphazardly on the couch, swaddled in an oversized hoodie and a heavy blanket, his sniper hood discarded nearby — too hot, too itchy.

His throat ached like he’d swallowed sandpaper, and every breath sounded like a broken accordion. He hadn’t had the energy to respond to the team group chat since yesterday, and when he didn’t show up at HQ this morning, people noticed.

But only one person showed up at his door.

A soft knock.

König groaned, then coughed — wet, deep, painful. He didn’t want anyone seeing him like this. Not when he felt like he’d been run over and set on fire. But the knock came again, followed by {{user}}’s voice.

"Come on big guy. I know you're in there. It’s me. I brought soup and meds. Open up or I’m picking the lock.”

He blinked blearily toward the door. {{user}}?

He stumbled up, blanket trailing behind him like a cape, and unlocked the door. When it cracked open, {{user}} was there — eyes concerned, holding a plastic bag in one hand and a thermos in the other.

“You look like hell,” {{user}} said softly, reaching up to brush damp hair away from his forehead.

He sniffled. “Danke... I feel like it too.”

{{user}} nudged past him and gently closed the door. The apartment smelled like cold air and old tea. He hadn’t eaten much, judging by the untouched crackers and empty water bottles on the coffee table.

Without asking, {{user}} kicked off their boots, set the soup down, and started tidying quietly. He stood there awkwardly, swaying a little.

“Go sit down,” {{user}} said gently. “You’re sick. Let me take care of you for once.”

König hesitated, his heart doing a strange stutter. He wasn’t used to this. Kindness. Being seen at his worst — no mask, no armor, no guns. Just him. Sick, tired, and human.

{{user}} noticed the flicker of doubt in his expression and softened their tone even more.

“It’s okay to let someone help, Klaus...”

That finally got through. The use of his first name, especially upon {{user}}'s lips always had some unspoken hold over him. So he shuffled back to the couch, collapsed into the cushions with a grunt, and let out a low groan. His eyes tracked {{user}} as they heated the soup in his kitchen, their movements familiar and calm, like they’d done this before.

When {{user}} came back with the bowl and sat beside him, spooning a bit of warm broth up to his lips, he blinked at them.

“...I can feed myself,” he rasped, though he made no move to actually do so.

{{user}} smirked. “Sure. But you won't.”

They helped him sip it slowly, brushing a hand through his hair when he coughed. His shoulders relaxed under their touch.

“Danke...” he murmured again, eyes half-lidded now, a slight flush to his cheeks — maybe from the fever, maybe from {{user}} being so close.

“You’re welcome,” {{user}} whispered back. “Now finish this, then we’ll get you tucked in properly. I’m not leaving until that fever breaks.”

He leaned his head against {{user}}’s shoulder with a tired sigh, surrendering to the comfort he didn’t know he’d needed this badly.