Chapter Text
Von Kaiser knew when Glass Joe was feeling unwell.
He had become much more adept at reading body language and faces overall since they had begun dating.
In the past he had never paid much mind to what he could deduce from the way someone's mouth turned upwards or downwards, or what one did with their hands while talking to him.
It had not been difficult for him to learn Joe. Despite his soft-spokenness the Frenchman was fairly expressive after all, in contrast to a few of the other boxers who were perpetually stoic and stony, like Piston Hondo, Mr. Sandman, and the German himself.
Von Kaiser had always deeply respected the men who could keep stone-faced in the ring. The wrong expression or gesture could easily telegraph one's next move- a point that he had always drilled into the minds of his young students. And there were certain expressions- smiles and smirks, scowls and sneers- that did not reflect good sportsmanship.
Von Kaiser had initially been appalled by Joe's behavior during matches: his trademark taunt cry of Vive la France, his wide and cocky grin whenever his opponent's punch failed to land a KO, the little march he did while humming his country's national anthem to himself, and most of all, the terrified frown that always appeared when it looked like he was going to lose, once again.
Eventually some of the small Frenchman's little quirks charmed Von Kaiser, and he could no longer consider himself bothered by them. He was simply patriotic, and any jab that did not knock him out was definitely worth celebrating.
The hints of melancholy and fear, however, did not charm or humor Von Kaiser. He would feel his blood boil whenever he heard an opponent or an audience member crack a joke about how pitiful and scared and helpless the Frenchman looked.
Von Kaiser had come to know the real Glass Joe- the Glass Joe that peeked through the weak facade of enthusiasm and confidence, if one just looked closely enough.
“Is something the matter, mein Liebling?”
Whenever Joe's wide, brown eyes looked less like those of a sweet fawn and more like those of a sad, lost puppy, Von Kaiser knew that the Frenchman was either having un mauvais jours- a bad day- or was physically sick.
Joe had barely touched his coffee and was struggling to consume even a spoonful of his yogurt, and he had only managed to peck at his croissant.
“I am fine, mon bijou,” he murmured, staring at the full spoon in his left hand, unable to bring it anywhere near his mouth.
“You do not seem fine, Josef. You have not had a bite of your breakfast, and you look a bit flushed. Are you getting sick?”
Joe shook his head and forced the spoon between his lips.
“Why don't you stay home today, Schätzchen. You do not look well.”
“Non, Viktor.” He gulped down the yogurt, although he knew that his stomach would ultimately not cooperate. “I think I need some air frais, that is all. The gym will do me good.”
As he drove to the WVBA facility, Von Kaiser occasionally glanced at the uncomfortable Joe leaning forward in the passenger seat. He remained quiet for the entire ride, keeping his gaze out the window and occasionally squirming in his seat.
“Josef, if you need to go home, let me know.” Von Kaiser laid a hand upon his forehead as they entered the gym; he was beginning to feel quite warm.
“I will be fine, Viktor. I can stick with an easy workout today. Maybe some light weights for just a short while.”
“Well, then,” he grunted. There was no stopping Joe; if he wanted to train while clearly ill, then that was his prerogative. “Just do not be afraid to let me know when you need to leave, ja?”
Von Kaiser pushed Joe's auburn hair up and off of his wan face. “I would much rather you sit out instead, Josef. But I will be at the barbell racks if you need me.”
Von Kaiser watched in the mirror as his biceps bulged with each curl of the barbell.
"Sieben… acht… neun… zehn."
When he finished his grueling set, he paused to dry off his hands and take a sip of water before resuming.
He looked down at his watch; he and Joe had been at the gym for nearly an hour. Perhaps Joe was OK after all? Certainly he would have given out by that point, and the two would already be on their way home.
He lifted the heavy barbell off of the floor and was lining up his elbows for a set of forearm curls when a youthful voice interrupted him.
“Herr Kaiser!”
His head snapped up, and he glanced in the mirror to see Little Mac racing up behind him, nearly out of breath.
“Herr Kaiser, there you are. Come quick!”
Alarmed by the frantic teenager, Von Kaiser dropped the barbell back on its rack with a resonating metallic thud.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.
Little Mac pivoted on his heels and motioned for Von Kaiser to follow him. “Come to the locker room. Joe’s sick.”
“Oh, nein.”
The German raced ahead of him into the main locker room and found a handful of the other boxers huddled around a bench.
Bear Hugger was seated upon it, reclining his back against the wall and cradling Joe in his large, hairy arms. The bib of his denim overalls was splattered with pale clumps, and his usual ear-to-ear grin was replaced by a worried frown.
The Frenchman was very green in the face, a film of sweat on his forehead, and Don Flamenco was crouched beside him with a trash can in his hand.
“Scheiße,” Von Kaiser groaned, hurrying to the small group.
“Hey, Von Kaiser is here, Joey, do ya wanna sit with him instead?” Bear Hugger gently bounced Joe like an infant and met Von Kaiser's stern gaze.
“What's wrong with him? What happened?” Von Kaiser dropped beside the obese Canadian and allowed him to hoist his barely-conscious partner upon his lap.
“There ya go, Joey,” Bear Hugger murmured, lightly smacking him on his bare knee. “Welp, Don came in and found him in front of one of the johns, hurlin’ like he'd eaten some raw fish that'd gone bad.”
“Sí,” the Spaniard confirmed, indicating the trash can. “And when he was done, he said he felt very weak and could barely stand. We had to carry him here.”
“Then he blew chunks all over Bear, just like I did at the bar after half-off whiskey night,” Aran Ryan added with a smirk, although his brow was also slightly furrowed with concern.
Von Kaiser sighed, frustrated and embarrassed. If only Joe had stayed home! It was never unusual for him to get sick to his stomach, especially when his opponents aimed their blows at his belly rather than his helmeted face, but now the Frenchman seemed to be genuinely ill.
Von Kaiser laid the back of his hand on Joe's forehead. “He's burning up.”
At his partner's cool touch, Joe began to stir. “Viktor,” he managed to utter, “I need to go home.”
“We're going to get you home right away, mein Schätzchen, do not worry.”
With Bear Hugger's help, Von Kaiser carried Joe to his Volkswagen and gently laid him across the back seat.
“Danke, Bear. Now go get changed, please,” Von Kaiser said, cringing as he eyed- and smelled- the lumberjack's soiled dungarees.
“Any time, Vik,” Bear Hugger answered with a salute. “And no worries. It's just a little puke, eh? And not nearly as bad as Aran's cheap whiskey upchuck. I've had worse stuff get on my clothes. Now run home and take good care of your Joey.”
Your Joey.
The Canadian's words echoed in Von Kaiser's mind as he turned the car key. He scolded himself for not having been more assertive with his Joey, more protective.
Why had Joe been so reluctant to stay home that morning anyway?
“We will be home soon, Schätzchen,” he promised as he turned on to the freeway.
Joe responded with a long sniffle. Von Kaiser clutched the wheel and kept his focus upon the road as he heard the rustling of a plastic grocery bag, followed by a series of heaves and belches, coming from directly behind him.
Gott, he had seen much more blood and gore in the past twenty-odd years than the average man would see in a lifetime, but vomit still made his skin crawl.
“We will be home soon,” he repeated shakily, to reassure not only Joe but also himself. His trembling right hand reached for the radio dial and turned it to NPR.
Distracted and eventually soothed by All Things Considered, he turned his mind away from the fact that there was a full, makeshift barf bag just inches behind his seat and began to mull over remedies.
Ginger, and… what else? Weak toast was an option, given all the bread Joe kept in his kitchen. Could he take pain relievers? Should he apply a hot or a cold compress to his aching belly?
What had their mothers done for them when they had had the stomach flu as children?
Once he had gotten Joe home and settled into bed, he would call his Mami: she would know just what to do.