C groans, shutting the cupboard as they prop the phone under their ear. "B, you know how dramatic A is. They're probably zonked out on cold medicine and dead to the world."
"You didn't hear them," B says, voice pleading. "They sounded really rough on the phone."
"Yeah, because they're sick. We've all been sick. A didn't invent the concept." C tries to keep the bite out of their voice. They know A is B's friend, so they tolerate them for B's sake. But A is not someone they particularly care for.
From the moment they'd met a few years ago, they'd been at odds. A's the vivacious life of the party who thinks C's a stick in the mud. C's quiet and reserved, and thinks A's an attention seeker who always pushes things too far. Together, they're oil and water, fire and ice, two polar opposite who just never click.
Most of the time, B serves as the perfect buffer between them. But B's out of town on a work trip for the week—the exact time A had come down with the flu. Apparently, A had been feeling worse over the past few days, and B had been calling and checking in on them. Last night, A had sounded particularly rough—and when B had called them in the morning for their scheduled check-in, A didn't pick up.
So B, out of their mind with worry and unable to do a thing about it, called C.
"C, I know A's not your cup of tea. But they were like...super out of it. And they sounded scared. I think something's really wrong." B's voice wavers, and C feels a twist of guilt in their chest. “Please?”
C squeezes their eyes shut and pinches the bridge of their nose. "And there's no one else that can check on them?"
"There's no one I trust more than you."
C gazes upward with a resigned sigh. Bullseye. B's blind trust and belief in their competency would always win in the end.
"Fine. Send me their address." _________________________________________
An hour later, C's sitting in their car outside A's house—a cozy craftsman in a thickly wooded neighborhood. They glance at the bag next to them, shadowed in the evening twilight. They'd made a stop at the pharmacy for a few essentials—flu medicine, tissues, cough drops, and some herbal tea that C always liked when they were sick—but now all it just felt stupid and over the top.
I don't even like this person.
Yeah, but you're a good person, C. The rebuttal came in B's voice, and C knows it's time to rip the band-aid off.
They head up the front walk, rap, rap, rap on the cherry red door with their knuckles, then wait a few moments on the shady porch. Nothing. The shades are all drawn, and C can't get a glimpse inside.
They're probably asleep. As any sick person should be. And I'm the idiot waking them up.
But they'd promised B that they'd check on A, and they weren't leaving without proof of life. So they kick around in the small rock garden out front until they spot the hollow rock with the spare key (just like B had said), then brace themselves for a truly humiliating encounter.
"Alright, B. If A calls the cops on me for breaking and entering, I'm holding you responsible." With a twist of the key, C opens the door and pushes inside.
The house is quiet, save for the whirr of a small air humidifier in the corner of A's living room. C's been here with B for a few rowdy parties, so it's strange to see the house so devoid of life.
"A? You in here?" C calls through the house, an uneasy feeling they can't name settling in their stomach. They drop the bag at the door and wander the main floor of the house, the only evidence of a sick person being a collection of used mugs scattered across the counter and in the sink. But still, no sign of A.
Like I said. Upstairs. Asleep. C pads up the creaky stairs until to a dim hallway, then peer into a room they assume is A’s bedroom.
In the evening light, C can see a tangled pile of blankets with tissues strewn across the bed. They tentatively pad over, not wanting to wake A, but their caution is unwarranted—A's not there.
C's heart beats faster, every one of B's fears echoing through their mind. "A? You in here?"
From somewhere in the house, C hears a cough.
C darts from their room and freezes in the hall.
Another small cough, and a whimper.
Closer, then. C traces the sound to a room which they can only assume is the bathroom. It's dark in there, but C cautiously creeps in and fumbles in the darkness, trying to find a light. In the shuffle, their foot hits something soft the moment they find the light switch.
They flick on the light, and there, curled on the bathroom floor, is A.
A flinches at the light and throws a hand over their eyes with a yelp. Their other hand clutches a spilled bottle of medicine, sticky red syrup in a sickening red puddle on the white tile. There's a towel pulled half over A's trembling body like a makeshift blanket. More shocking, though, is how dreadful A looks. Face devoid of color, shaking all over with chills, hair plastered to their forehead with sweat. The room has faint sickly scent, and A’s body is contorted oddly, like they fell down that way and didn’t have the strength to move an inch.
And when A finally sees that it's C, they whisper one quiet plea.
Help me.
“A, what the hell—“ C drops to their knees and slips their cool hand over A’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”
In response, A shudders and pulls the towel tighter. “F-f-freezing.”
Even in delirium, A had to contradict them. But there’s no time to dwell on that. C hauls them out of the pool of cough syrup and props them up against the tub, then makes a mental list of everything they need to do.
Clean clothes. Clean up the bathroom. Take their temperature. Medicine.
“Water,” A croaks, breaking C’s frantic thoughts as they slump back down to the floor. C sees their dry, cracked lips, and winces at the thought of how long it's been since A's had fluids.
“Hang on, bud. You’re okay.” C brushes a trembling hand through A’s hair, and their soft, soothing voice feels like the polar opposite of the adrenaline coursing through C’s body.
The next few minutes are a blur. C runs downstairs to grab a glass, then has to hold A's lolling head up so they can drink without choking. After A gulps down the whole glass, C fetches clean clothes from A's room, then tries to clean up the mess of cough syrup on both A and the floor before peeling the sweat-drenched clothes from A's shaking frame.
Once A's warmly dressed in clean flannel pants, a dry thermal shirt, and a cotton pullover, C hoists A up and carries them back to their room and to their bed. Easing them under the covers, they tuck their shivering frame under one, two, three blankets. It’s probably too many, but A’s teeth are audibly chattering and C has no idea how long they’d been curled up on the cold bathroom tile while suffering with chills.
“A, I need you to tell me how you feel.”
“Bad.”
“No, specifics. You’ve clearly got a fever, what else?”
“Head hurts. Throat hurts. Bones hurt. Cold.” A shudders and pulls the blankets tighter. “So cold. All cold.” They cough once, twice into their blankets, and it’s deep and rattling. C doesn’t have to ask if that hurts, too.
“What was the last thing you took?”
“Don’t….don’t know. Ran out….yesterday.”
“Wait…but the cough syrup…”
“Flu stuff’s gone. Cough syrup was…last resort."
C winces—no wonder A feels wretched.
"Well, you need proper medicine, pronto." C gets up to go find a thermometer and grab their bag of supplies they’d dropped downstairs, but they feel a clammy hand curl around their wrist.
“Stop leaving,” A rasps.
“A, I gotta go get—“
“You….are the first person I’ve seen…in 72 hours. Please do not go.” A’s desperation to cling to C, of all people, would be funny if their eyes weren’t glassy with unshed tears. The poor thing looks terrified.
C doesn't know what to do in this moment of unexpected vulnerability, so they shift to sit at A’s bedside. A’s trembling hand is still clinging to their wrist, their breath coming in short, shallow wheezes.
“What…happened?” The question is a stupid one that they’re not sure A can answer in this state, but it’s the only natural icebreaker C can think of after finding someone sprawled on the floor.
A shrugs. “Kinda….fuzzy. Medicine ran out last night”—they gesture weakly to an empty plastic bottle of flu medicine on the nighstand—“and then it hurt. All night.”
“This morning....bad. Got desperate." A half shrugs, and their thousand-yard stare cracks something in C. "Then jus’ remember….standing…walking…then the ground. Couldn’t move.” A’s voice cracks a little on the last word. “Then….you.”
In their head, C pieces together a timeline that has a feverish, terrified A lying on the floor for hours, and it makes their stomach do a little flip.
“Why….you?” A eyes C warily.
“Oh.” C scratches the back of their head awkwardly. “You didn’t pick up when B called in the morning. So they called me.”
“Shit. B.” A’s hand rakes over their face and flops down on the covers, and C instinctively wants to tuck it back under the blankets. “Was s’posed to call back…” A glances at their bare wrist for a watch that isn’t there, then squints at the wall clock. “Numbers…don’ work right.”
“That’d be your fever.”
“Forgot to…the numbers are all….mushy.”
“Ohhkay, A. Shhhh.” C palms their forehead again and winces at the heat. “I need to take your temp and get you medicine.”
“Don’t leave.”
“It’ll take 30 seconds. promise. Here.” C slides their watch off their wrist and puts it in A’s hand. “Count to 30.” They severely doubt A can, but they’re hoping the watch’s novelty is enough to distract their fever-addled mind.
C sprints back to the front door and grabs the bag, then jogs back to A’s room. A’s intently staring at the watch, like it’s an object of reverence, and jumps when C gently touches their arm.
"C'mon, you. Let's get you drugged up."
———————————
After establishing a 103-degree fever, ingesting a cocktail of OTC drugs, and downing both a glass of cold water and some hot tea, A's zonked out—in bed, this time, under C’s watchful eye, covered with a fourth blanket that a pitiful, shivering A had conned C into giving them.
C didn't really know what to do after that. They've done their job. They've checked in on A, and done what they could. For B, they tried to tell themselves. But they couldn't just leave A alone in this state. So they find a spot on the other side of A's bed on top of the covers, and just…wait.
And despite trying to distract themselves with a book from A's side table, they can't stop looking at A.
They're curled up on their right side facing C, blankets pulled up to their chin. C can see the dark shadows under their eyes, their ghost-pale pallor, the occasional shiver that ripples through them. Gone is the brash bravado and the easy charm that’s always grated at C’s simpler sensibilities.
They look so young.
In their sleep, A whimpers once, twice, and C immediately puts a hand on their forehead, shushing them. A blinks awake with a start, breathing heavily before their eyes catch on C.
"You're still here,” they rasp.
"I am." C smiles.
A heaves a sigh of relief. “Dreamed…I was alone again. But you’re here.” Their red-rimmed eyes are so wide and genuinely grateful that C can barely stand to look at them.
So they swallow the lump in their throat and force a smile again. “C’mon. In this state, you can't be trusted on your own."
A grins sleepily at that—then, lets their eyes fall closed and nestles closer to C.
“Glad you’re here.”
A drifts off again. C lets their head tilt back against the headboard, fingers lazily tracing through A’s hair.
B’s never gonna let me hear the end of this, C thinks with a wry smile.
That thing where the character got their ribs beat the hell out of, but they're being stoic about it, and then someone frendly slaps their back or side and they just cry out in pain and curl in.
Passed an empty ski resort on my very long car ride and it got me having brainrot about the potential of skiing whump.
Finally a scenario I have a bit of personal experience with! In middle school a friend of mine and her mom took me skiing with them one weekend and I 1) had a cold for half the time and 2) did a slippy slidey summersault down the majority of one of the hills and ended up with thankfully no broken bones but absolutely shredded the skin on my wrist. So naturally I AM NOW CONSIDERING the many variations.
Personally I adore the thought of a whumpee being invited by friends (preferably ones a little more well off than they are so they Don't Know How To Act and it just adds to their awkwardness) to this fun winter experience --but of course So Many Things go wrong:
They could catch a cold/flu
They could get sick and then continue to ski while pretending they're fine so they don't "ruin" things
Depending on how big the place is, they could get lost
Maybe they're not even in the same country that they're from and don't speak the same language as the locals?
If a snowstorm blows in while they're stuck out there it could get Bad
Hypothermia and/or frostbite baybeee
Or even just mildly frost-nipped ears and fingers is Big Unpleasant
Of course, they could get injured falling/smashing into something
Anything from bruises and scrapes to broken bones to a concussion
Mild, but a wind/sunburn wouldn't be comfortable, especially on top of any of the above
Realizing they're terribly scared of heights...while halfway up the lift
"I can't get better. I can't get better when I'm not even bad, when I'm perfectly fine-"
"You're not fine." Caretaker gripped Whumpee's wrists tightly, one in each hand. "You're not fine. Stop. You're suffering."
"I'm not," they breathed, taken aback by the determination and certainly in Caretaker's voice. "I can't get better from nothing."
"It's not nothing." They swallowed hard, trying to blink back tears and bite back desperate pleas. "I can't wait for you to get worse before you decide you deserve to get better. You're already worse, worse than yesterday, or the day before, or last week. Please stop. Please let me help you, because if you don't, I'll have to help you regardless, and I don't know whether I have the strength."
whumpee having to relive their trauma in some way or another (telling the police, being thrown back with whumper, another whumpee talking about what happened to the both of them, ect.)
speaking of delirious as whump trope... i recently read a book where there's this scene where a character realizes theyre behaving erratically. they know theyre being delirious. but then they started hearing the voice of their dead father and you can see they're so out of it they dont even know theyre hallucinating anymore. they turned at where they think their father is, sees nothing, and simply assumes their dad is being evasive and steps away to the side theyre not looking at. i have to admit, whumpees recognizing that theyre losing touch with reality but being unable to stop it from happening to them is kinda hot.
I am kinda weak for like. someone otherwise being able to hide their fever well but their eyes giving them away? like maybe this is someone who doesn't go pale and whose cheeks won't look flushed (all that easily) and who's able to act normal enough despite being just. unfocused and maybe a little dizzy, but they can't hide how tired their eyes look or the glassy look that comes with a fever
Could you maybe write something for like, a bad tummy ache? Not emeto or anything, it just hurts pretty bad
i’ll give it a shot—here you go! and just a heads up to anyone concerned, there’s no emeto or related content in this! just a lot of fluffy caretaking for a whumpee with recurring stomach pain :)
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“B, you’ve been quiet all night. What’s wrong?” A lays down their silverware, eyebrows furrowed in concern.
B tries to respond, but the pain in their stomach pulses angrily, and they drop their forehead on the table. “Nothing. My stomach just hurts again.” Another sharp pain twists in their gut—it’s nothing they haven’t experienced before, but that doesn’t make it feel any better.
B suddenly feels a hand on their shoulder, squeezing gently as they ride through the wave of pain. When the sharp pain passes, B lifts their eyes to look at A, whose eyes are filled with concern.
B hates that look—hates that they’d ever be a cause for worry for A, that A would stress at all over something that’s just a normal part of B’s life. But it is what it is, and B doesn’t want A to have to trouble themselves over helping them.
“I can take care of–” B starts, at the same time A says “How can I help?”
B’s about to protest, to say that they can take care of it, when another wave of pain surges through their gut, and they cinch their arms tighter around the middle with a gasp of pain.
“B,” A kneels down, gently laying a hand on B’s arm. “If you’ve got it, I’ll let you handle it. But if I can help with anything, I will.” They rub B’s arm gently, glancing down and then back up at them. “So how can I help? Do you need help?”
Technically, B could do it alone. They’ve crawled to the bathroom before, gotten their medicine and heating pad, curled up and slept on the bedroom floor because it hurt too much to stand up and get in bed.
But oh how nice it would be to have help.
So in a moment of weakness, they accept. “If you would, please.”
A nods, and that’s that. “What’s first?”
B walks them through each step. First, the medicine, which A brings with a glass of water and a few crackers. Then, the harder part—summiting the stairs. At first, B insists they can walk on their own, that they just need a little help walking.. But halfway up the stairs, the pain is so bad that they surrender to A carrying them the rest of the way, all the way to their soft bed and fluffy quilts and blessedly warm heating pad.
Once A tucks them in, they curl up again and squeeze the heating pad to their core. It's still an especially bad episode, but thanks to A, getting more comfortable was far less work—and far less painful.
"Thank you, A." B's eyes slip shut for a moment. "You really helped a lot."
"It was no trouble." A flicks off B's bright bedside lamp in favor of some soft white string lights, which provide a calming glow throughout the room. "Anything else I can do to make it better?"
B shakes their head. "Not really. I just have to wait it out for a few hours. Although–" They swallow hard—god, they don't want to ask, but it just hurts so bad this time around...
"What can I do, B?"
B takes another short, shallow breath. "Sometimes it helps if someone's....doing something else. Playing with my hair, rubbing my back. Then I can focus on that and not—ah!" The pain seizes their insides, and B can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but clutch their heating pad tight and pray it ends soon—
And then they feel firm pressure between their shoulder blades, slowly rubbing circles in their tensed muscles.
"Just breathe, B. I'm right here." A's voice is soft, almost a whisper, gently shushing in rhythm with their movements. "Breathe through it."
The pain lasts for a few minutes, and when it's done, B releases a shaky sigh, one that's threaded with exhaustion and overwhelm and gratitude for A all blended into one. A's behind them on the bed now, fingers tracing B's scalp in lazy circles, and B doesn't ever want them to stop.
"Feeling a little better?"
B nods. Gingerly, they ease themselves over so they're facing A, meeting their eyes. They know their own are shining with tears, but they don't even bother to hide them. "Thanks to you."
A just smiles softly, their hand flexing to cup B's head. "I mean it. Whatever you need. I'm there."
It feels like far too big of a promise, too good to be true. But for now, curled up next to someone who's been nothing but too good to be true, B's willing to believe that A means it. And they don't have the words to say all that now, so they just tilt their head onto A's shoulder in a gesture that they hope captures it all.
And from the way A squeezes B's shoulder, B thinks they get the message.
I'm not sure if you've already done something similar, but I'd loved to see something about a whumpee who gets cuts or burns on the bottoms of their feet. Just imagine them getting carried around and turned into a blanket burrito in the name of recovery. Maybe whumpee keeps arguing that they can walk, and no one agrees (and then they double down on their caretaking efforts.)
First, B hears a thud.
Then, rustling noises and a string of curse words.
B sighs, laying down the dish they were washing and heading upstairs. When they arrive at A’s door, they’re greeted with the sight of A, tangled in blankets, crawling on their hands and knees toward the door. They’re making a valiant effort, but they’re caught in too many layers to make much progress.
“A, stop. You’re gonna wreck your bandages.” B rushes to their side, crouching down the floor next to them and stilling them with a gentle hand between their shoulders.
A collapses in a heap on the floor and releases the world’s greatest sigh. “I miss walking.” It’d be comical if B didn’t hear the slight catch in their voice, the glassy look in their eyes, the trembling of their bottom lip.
It’s not just walking. It’s their independence they’ve lost, coupled with the reminder of what happened that caused it all. A hadn’t forgotten that—the nightmares that shook them awake each night and left them trembling in B’s arms were proof enough.
"Got big plans today, do you?” B’s tone is teasing, trying to lighten the mood.
“I just want a change of scenery.” A sighs again, looking forlorn. “It’s so quiet up here.”
B can’t bear the sad look on A’s face, so they grab a blanket from A’s bed. “C’mon then. I’ll carry you.”
A looks wary. “You…you sure?” They swallow hard.
B nods. “Of course.” They shift their voice into a stern, regal sounding sort of pitch. “Now, up with you and into the bundle at once.”
A rolls their eyes, and B swaddles them in the blanket and hoists A into their open arms, careful not to jostle their wrapped feet.
“I feel like a takeout burrito,” A complains, though the smile tugs at the corner of their lips.
“You are a burrito.”
A few steps later, A is settled on to the couch with two blankets, a glass of water, a cup of tea, and the TV remote.
“There. All set. I’ll just be in the kitchen doing the dishes, okay?”
A nods, and B thinks they’re in the clear—until the entire pattern repeats itself a half hour later. B rushes back in to see A in a pile on the floor, once again tangled up in the blankets and halfway across the floor.
“A, I’m serious.” B tries to keep the frustration in their voice at bay—they’re not frustrated with A, but they can’t risk infection in the wounds on their feet.
A pushes themselves up on one elbow, struggling valiantly, then giving up again. “I just don’t want to bother you. I’m already a burden—”
“Hey. Stop that. You know you’re not a burden to me, okay?” B tilts A’s chin up so they meet their eyes. A holds their glance for beat before looking down again.
B frowns. They’ve got to do more than help A recover—they’ve got to get their spirits up. An idea strikes, and they swiftly scoop A off the floor, plop them on the couch, and dart away. When they return, they hold the solution proudly lofted in their hand.
A wrinkles their nose in confusion. “A….maraca?”
“For whenever you need to go somewhere.” B smiles, rattling it gently. “Just shake it, and I’m there.”
A rolls their eyes, but a smile tugs at their lips as they take the maraca and shake it themselves, testing it out.
“Up you go!” B hoists them up off the couch, blankets and all. “Where to?”
At this, A lets out a soft laugh and gives their order— “...the kitchen!”—and B’s heart swells with joy at the sound.
“Your wish is my command!” With that, B carries them off to the kitchen, and for just a moment, it’s as if everything is right in the world again.
Whumpee is at an evening event they can’t get out of and starts to feel increasingly sick. They’ve got chills to the point of shivering and the tickle in their throat has settled into a persistent soreness. Whumpee’s exhausted, but they can’t leave, so they start texting their significant other/caretaker that they think they have a fever with a list of their symptoms. The night goes on, and as new symptoms begin to arise, the keep caretaker updated. Once the night ends and they’re finally able to get home, their caretaker is up waiting with comfy clothes, a thermometer, and medicine.
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