Seven Shots

“Just leave me here to die,” he groaned. “Save yourself! It’s too late for me, but you can still make it! Go! I’ll always love you!”

And with that, Jonas collapsed on the couch, sprawling out with his feet – still wearing muddy boots – on the pillows, and his head and shoulders on my lap. He winked at me and started to laugh, but it quickly turned into a hacking cough that made my reluctant grin turn into a wince.

“That’s the germs telling you to stop being a drama queen,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “The germs don’t get a say. They’re the ones killing me. Killing me all the way to death.”

His nose was running terribly. I leaned over and grabbed the box of tissues, nestling it between my hip and the couch cushion, in easy reach for my overdramatic patient. “You know, for a man who’s gotten shot, what is it, five, six times - ”

“Seven,” he corrected.

“ – Seven times, you’d think you’d be able to handle being sick.”

“Sickness is different,” he argued, his voice gravelly like sandpaper from all the coughing. “I can’t take out germs with a gun.” He sounded like he was pouting. I found myself wondering, not for the first time, why I put up with him. Oh, right, because you’re married to the idiot, I reminded myself, glancing at the gold band on my finger – a new addition only of the last two months.

Suddenly my cellphone, still in my back pocket, buzzed angrily. Someone was calling me. Sighing, I maneuvered so that I could get my hand around Jonas and to the phone. He groaned as I jostled him. “Shut up,” I said, lightly slapping him with my other hand. As I did so, I realized he was burning up, and felt a touch of guilt; maybe I should take him a little more seriously.

“This is how I die,” he moaned now, still staring at me with his big, dark eyes. “All those bullets, all the sketchy neighborhoods, all the dangerous clients, but noooo, this is how I go out! Not with a bang, but with a fever.”

“Shh,” I scolded him as I pulled out the phone. “It’s my mother.”

“That’s even worse. She thinks I’m an accountant,” he said grumpily. “I’m not an accountant.”

“I know you’re not. No accountant gets shot seven times and only goes to the hospital for three of those incidents. For that matter, no one sane does that,” I said, and then answered the call with a cheery, “Hi Mom! What’s up?”

“Hi, honey! I was just calling to see if you’re still coming tonight?”

Oh shit. I’d completely forgotten that Jonas and I were supposed to go out to dinner with my parents tonight. My dad had just gotten promoted, and it was a big deal. This dinner was for us and several of their closest friends. It meant the world to him. But in all the chaos of Jonas stumbling in an hour earlier from his last assignment coughing and sniffling, and promptly playing the role of world’s biggest drama queen, I’d completely forgotten.

I looked down at Jonas. This close to the phone, he could hear what my mom had said. Coughing violently again, he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Mom, I don’t think we can make it,” I said. “We feel terrible about bailing, but Jonas is sick - ”

“Dying,” he interrupted.

“ – pretty sick, actually, so we’d better miss out tonight,” I finished, glaring at Jonas. “Think he might’ve picked it up at work.”

“At work? He’s an accountant, for Christ’s sake, how sick can they be in the office? Can’t he just take some meds and suck it up?”

Jonas raised his eyebrows. “Still not an accountant, and I deal with more than she ever knows,” he said, his rough voice managing to sound bitter. “Seven bullet wounds! Not to mention the - ”

I ignored his protests but all the same, looked him over. He really did look bad. He’d be fine when all was said and done, but right now, well, this was bad. He was burning up, his voice was about six octaves deeper than usual, and he was constantly either blowing his nose or coughing. I tried to imagine bringing him to a formal dinner in this condition. Jonas was a force to be reckoned with when he was perfectly healthy. When sick? Forget it.

“Sorry, Mom,” I said firmly. “I don’t think we can make it. We’ll make it up to you soon. Maybe we can do a dinner next week?”

“Leah, what the hell?” She was flying into a rage. I braced myself. My mom had always had a short temper. “You know how important this to your father, and to me, but you’re choosing that accountant over your own family? I can’t believe you would - ”

“That man is my husband,” I said coolly, trying to keep calm. I was getting more frustrated by the second. Why, God, must I have to deal with Jonas being sick and my mother being, well, my mother, at the same time? What had I done to deserve this? This combination was quite possibly a circle of hell.

“I know he is, but even that is a decision I doubt! You know your father and I thought you could have done much better -”

Jonas, in my lap, snorted; it turned into a cough. “I see the light at the end of the tunnel,” he moaned. “But at least your parents won’t be there.”

“Look, Mom, that’s not even the matter at hand right now. The fact is, Jonas is very sick, and tonight just won’t - ”

“I can’t believe you, Leah! Such a disappointment to us. And now this accountant is getting in the way and encouraging this behavior - ”

“Still not an accountant,” Jonas interjected.

“ – absolutely ridiculous, we will have a serious talk about this, young lady - ”

Jonas grabbed my free hand in his and held it to his scorching, sweaty forehead. “Take care of me in my last hours on this earth,” he groaned, managing to wink at me before once again grabbing a tissue and blowing his nose, producing a noise not unlike an elephant.

“Was that him? He’s right there? Well, you should tell him that the two of you are unbelievable, and your father and I - ”

I couldn’t take it anymore. Between the screaming mother on the phone and the needy husband laying on me, I snapped. “Sorry, I have a clingy and feverish assassin on my lap. I’ll call you back when I’ve convinced him that a cold does not mean that he is dying,” I said sharply, and hung up.

After that outburst, Jonas and I sat in silence; he’d even ceased his sniffling. Finally, he reached up and stroked my face. “So, uh. Hell of a way to tell your mom what I really do for a living.”

I blushed. “I could’ve told her in worse ways.”

We pondered again, then he laughed. It turned into another long-winded cough; I patiently waited. When he was done, he choked out, “No, not really.”

I laughed too. “Okay, maybe not. But at least you don’t have to say you’re an accountant anymore.”

“A small victory emerges from being on my deathbed. Take that, germs.”

“Right, but like I told her, you’re not dying,” I corrected.

“I don’t know. I definitely feel closer to my life flashing before my eyes than I ever have after being shot any of the seven times.”

“I’ve never heard of an assassin dying from a bad cold,” I said.

“Ah, well, if we do our job right, you don’t hear about us much at all,” he said, smiling.

“I wish I’d never heard from you at all sometimes,” I told him.

“Nah, you don’t wish that. You love me,” he corrected. Then he promptly rolled off the couch, laying dramatically on the floor with a massive groan. “Now come on, save me, I’m dying. Save me from this illness that ails me and drains my life force, or else I will move on from this world.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re obnoxious when you’re healthy, but when you’re sick, you’re unbearable, you know that?”

Still facedown on the floor, he waved his hand dismissively. “Your mom’s said that for years, what else is new? Maybe if she knows I kill people for a living she’ll tread more carefully.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” I said flatly, knowing it was unlikely. “I’ll go get meds and a cool washcloth for you.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he called from the floor. I smiled to myself and began walking to the bathroom. Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and I felt something fly past me, within inches of hitting me. I screamed and threw myself down, frantically looking around to see that a large rock had been thrown through our front window and landed just a foot away from me.

I heard gunshots; I realized that someone was shooting through the shattered window. Bullets danced overhead as I crawled along the floor and tucked myself behind a chair, cringing. Where was Jonas? If he was still laying there, he could be hit, and sure, he’d taken seven bullets, but not any while he was so exposed –

Suddenly, there he was. He was upright, still looking feverish and sweaty but much stronger, his eyes intense, grasping his favorite pistol in his hands. I watched as he positioned himself behind a wall near the window and shot quickly several times, then ducked back, then shot again.

Outside I heard a thump, and the firing ceased. Jonas had hit whoever was shooting at us. Not a surprise; he was the best shot I’d ever known. He went to look at the window, clearly saw something he was satisfied with, and nodded, pleased.

He turned back to me, still holding his pistol but directing it downwards, away from me. “Are you alright?” he asked urgently, his voice still raw and gravelly.

“I’m okay,” I said. “But – you – I thought you were on your deathbed. I thought you were dying.” My words were getting less shaky as I went along, more teasing. “ You said that it worse than all seven shots you’ve been hit with. You said you were going into the light.”

He smiled as he came over and sat beside me. “I also said that I can’t take out germs with a gun,” he said. “That guy, I could take out with a gun.”

“Uh-huh. Well, at least we know you can’t be that sick - ”

Jonas quickly slid down the wall, moving himself so that he was again laying with his head in my lap. I rolled my eyes, knowing what was coming.

“No, no, this clingy and feverish assassin is dying,” he said dramatically, his dark eyes twinkling with laughter. “Convince me otherwise.”