ANGELEYES, dbh connor

TWENTY-SIX

KISS GOODNIGHT
━━━━━━(●'ω｀●)━

MORNING COMES QUICKLY WHEN you're pre-occupied snooping around Connor's home. Before you know it, the sun has risen and you're nosily rummaging around the detective's kitchen, opening and closing cabinets like your existence depends on it.

All just to find any other traces of Amanda Stern... And maybe some more information on Connor's family.

As it turns out, you don't know a whole lot about him.

His record is suspiciously void of information. His father isn't written on his birth certificate and his mother is Cassandra Summers, a simple woman still living in Alabama and without any romantic partners or living family, but that's all you know. It's too clean. Too empty...

You freeze, your internal clock's timer going off.

It's 7AM -- time for Connor to wake up if he wants to make it to the DPD at a good time.

You quietly close the cutlery drawer you were searching through and look over your shoulder, down the hall, to Connor's closed bedroom door. For a few minutes, you stare at the door blankly, waiting for him to wake up.

But he doesn't.

Frowning, you walk down the hallway and stand outside of his door. You raise your knuckle and lightly knock, "Connor?"

From the other side of the door, Connor lets out a sleepy groan.

"...May I come in?"

He doesn't answer. It's not like he sounds to be in danger or anything, but if he sleeps in for much longer he'll be late for work, which will be detrimental to your mission, so...

Nodding to yourself, you decide what to do. You rip open the door with a serious expression on your face, "Detective, you should start preparing for work... Oh... Connor?" and the scene that greets you leaves you concerned.

Connor is wrapped up in his blanket pulled all the way past his nose. From what you can see of his face, he looks very pale and there's a pink flush to his cheeks. He's trembling lightly.

He opens his eyes dazedly and glances over at you.

"You're sick," you say quietly. "The snow, last night, must've caused this... Can you hear me, Connor?"

He sniffles and pulls the blanket down to his shoulders. "Uh huh... Ugh."

Frowning, you approach him, "Please allow me to take your temperature." Without waiting for his response, you rest your pointer and middle fingers against his warm, clammy forehead and feel his temperature.

38.4 degrees Celsius which is definitely a fever.

He sighs, his eyes fluttering shut as he leans into your cold touch. A small, sleepy smile appears on his face. You freeze, suddenly feeling strange that you're so close to him.

"I'll get you something," you say speedily and pull away from him. "Keep the blanket on, please, you'll need to sweat the fever out." ⍓

Connor sighs tiredly, "Mhm..."

You quickly leave his room and speed to the kitchen. To be entirely honest, you're not sure how to relieve him other than by bringing him medicine... Doing a quick internet search, you see that chicken soup is a good cure for fever and chills.

You turn the stovetop on and rummage through the fridge. Aha! Ibuprofen, perfect.

A few minutes pass by quickly and, just as you're plating up the chicken soup, Connor appears in front of his bedroom door, wrapped up in his grey quilt blanket. His hair is messily ruffled and curls against his forehead in an endearing manner.