I'm on the Highway to Sickfics

I like sickfics, I write sickfics and prompts. If you want to write things from my prompts, PLEASE DO IT (Unfortunately I don't RP, sorry :( )

[summer-oil-inactive]

forced caretaking as a trope i think is like cocaine to people who know they need to be taken care of but have mental blocks in the way like yeah please do gently force me into a state of vulnerability so my body learns it is a safe thing to feel around you

[fluffiest-fox-kira]

This has gotta be a hit with the girlies who have always wanted something terrible to happen to them just so people realize they're in more misery than their outward appearance lets on

[fangusfungs]

Another fun day at Aether Paradise....

[way-too-obsessed-gamer]

Huckleberry aside for a moment I hope this encourages some hurt/comfort fics with Gideon taking care of Kremy's wounds and treating him gently and sweetly. Him holding Kremy and trying to resuscitate him and then making sure he's alright after he awakens was so good

[sorimmm]

[taylortut]

IT'S HERE!!!

Title: I've got this broken habit I keep gluing back together

Word count: 6,569

Genre: hurt/comfort

Summary: Grace wakes up with a stomachache that he thinks is anxiety. All day, he brushes off Rocky's concerns, reassuring him that he's fine. And when he's not, Rocky is left alone, unable to fix it. Everything is good in the end!! :)

Whereas before, he'd been spending most of his free time doom-scrolling through academic papers on the laptop or taking depression naps, Grace now spends his days with Rocky, chatting to build a lexicon. It always starts out about science, but that limits them more than one would think. In order to explain scientific concepts to one another, they need enough common language to be able to put things in plain, simple terms, first, and that's hard without taking about simple things. 

More than just informative, he actually finds it fun. He's smart as a whip and, as he's coming to learn, actually pretty funny, for a guy who claims not to understand humor. He catches on to things quickly and it feels like they generally enjoy each other's company. Days that had once felt insurmountably long have turned into staying up late without even realizing it. 

However, he's not tethered to an alarm clock anymore, so when Grace wakes up feeling like he wants to do nothing but roll over and go back to sleep, it's unusual. Immediately, he becomes aware of a nagging pain in his stomach and a headache, plus the feeling of being slightly chilled on a ship that's normally quite comfortable. As he does many mornings, he forgets where he is until he opens his eyes, so he groans and rolls over, tugging his blanket over his head. 

"Grace is awake," Rocky celebrates with a little dancey dance. After a sleep cycle, Rocky is awake for around 86 hours--three and a half days--and the fact that Grace is supposed to spend 24 of those asleep is annoying to him. Often, that leads to Grace caving and staying up far too late and waking up after far too little sleep. Rocky gets bored, which makes him antsy, which makes him pace and move around until it wakes him. He's yet to determine whether it's being done on purpose, but he has his suspicions. 

"I'm going back to sleep." 

"Grace just wake up. Why would Grace sleep again, question?"

He almost says that he doesn't feel well, but he stops himself. Eridians don't feel ill often. Their hot temperatures boil any germs that might be out to get them, and their sleep cycles are strict, involuntary, and paralyzing. There isn't really any wiggle room for Rocky, which is why Grace hasn't been allowed to sleep in since they met. Introducing the concept that he feels sick enough to want to be unconscious might bring up some trauma for him. It's already a sore spot. 

"I'm just comfortable," he half lies. Now that Rocky has his ball, he can sleep in his bed again instead of on the floor of the tunnel bridge. It's been nice. 

"Breakfast time. Grace eat." His stomach is churning a little alongside the aching feeling, so breakfast doesn't sound appetizing, but maybe something light will help. 

"Let me get dressed, first. I'll meet you there." It doesn't matter that Rocky is blind nor that he has no concept of human modesty: watching him change is a boundary he's set. As Rocky scurries away to wait, he dresses, noting the way it aggravates his stomach pain, and moving around does no favors for the headache. Stress and the food must be getting to him. 

By the time he's dressed, he's already so tired and nauseous that resisting the urge to go back to bed is hard. For a moment, he considers whether it's worth putting up a fight for this one. Bed looks so nice. However, he decides against it. He'll feel more awake after coffee. 

"Grace take long time," Rocky complains. 

"Yeah, well, I put my pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us."

"Don't understand expression. Maybe if Grace let Rocky observe 'get dressed'--"

"Absolutely not." 

"For science!" 

"You can't keep using that phrase to get whatever you want."

Even teaching human middle schoolers, Grace has never seen anyone pout as obviously or as often as Rocky does. Because they've got the privilege of gravity for now, he gets the luxury of drinking coffee out of a mug rather than a bag, which is nice. Maybe it's familiarity, but he swears it tastes better that way. Mary tries to push sausage and eggs on him, something he'd normally be excited about, but the thought of forcing down powdered eggs and dried out sausage makes his stomach churn. 

"How about something else today," he suggests. "Maybe oatmeal?" 

She gladly complies, and Armando hands over a steaming bowl of way more oatmeal than he's planning on stomaching. He lets it soak as he sips too-hot coffee. 

"Alright, Rock," he says, settling into their morning routine, "tell me all about it." 

"Grace move a lot in sleep! More than usual. One side, then other side, then back to other side. So much movement." 

"That's interesting," he says absently, setting the bowl of oatmeal down beside him and hoping Rocky doesn't notice. "Maybe that's why I'm so tired". 

Every morning, Rocky walks him through everything he did and said in his sleep. Given how Eridians are legitimately paralyzed in their sleep, Rocky finds it strange and exciting. He's learned more about his sleep habits from his weird little alien friend than he has from anyone he's ever shared a bed with. Apparently he talks in his sleep, which both surprises him and doesn't. He's always talking. 

For the next few minutes, he pretends to pay attention to the detailed report of his every move, then gears up for Rocky's favorite part. 

"Grace have dreams, question?"

That, in particular, fascinates Rocky, which he supposes isn't a bad thing. Something about being watched makes him feel... well, stalked, certainly, but there's a sense of security under that feeling that's starting to grow on him. When he'd first woken up from his coma, he'd had a lot of nightmares, snippets of memories he didn't understand mixed with usual dream logic. A lot of being chased. A lot of being caught. 

With Rocky here, though, his dreams are a little lighter. He doesn't remember as many of them, but that's because he's waking up less often. It had taken time to adjust, but now that it's been a few weeks, he actually kind of finds it comforting. 

Still weird though. 

"Yeah," he says, "actually, a few. Want to hear about them?" Rocky trills in affirmative, so Grace delves into all the nonsense that went through his mind as he slept. 

After he finishes explaining his dreams (and all necessary context), it's usually time for some exercise, but he's not sure how well that will go over with his stomach. Luckily, it's not the first time he's ever skipped it--he's never been much of a gym guy--so it doesn't raise much of a red flag beyond the light scolding he receives for being lazy. Oh, well. He'd have earned Rocky's criticism somehow or another today anyway, he's sure. He usually does. 

"Time for computer?" Rocky asks, earning a laugh from Grace. He can't help it. His posture is just so universally, apologetically eager. It's sweet. "Time learn new words?" 

"Sounds good, Rock. What do you feel like talking about first?" 

"Grace explain Earth water cycle!" 

Great. He'd been hoping to coast in this conversation until he wakes up a little more. 

"You just want a puppet show." 

"Show necessary for Rocky to understand. Yes yes yes." 

"We can work on that one later. How about something a little easier to start the morning off? Something from the projection room?" Rocky perks up. Grace laughs. "Come on." 

-------

Grace might like the projection room almost as much as Rocky does. 

They're pretending to feel icy wind on their faces in the Arctic tundra when the nausea hits full force. Maybe it's because he forced himself to choke down half the bowl of oatmeal, maybe it's the projection making him motion sick, but regardless, his stomach flips insidiously. Panic follows on its heels, making him sweaty and shaky. 

"I'll be right back," he manages, getting to his feet as fast as he can and scurrying down the tunnel back to his own ship. "Bathroom."

He barely manages to make it to the toilet before his stomach contents jump up his throat. It’s certainly not the first time he’s vomited since he woke up here. Adjusting to being in space was awful on his stomach, and nausea was a constant background sensation for almost two weeks. However, it’s been a long time since he’s actually been sick like this, so it’s unexpected and annoying. 

"Ugh," he groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. When he's sure he's finished, he gets slowly to his feet, where he finds that, although it's done nothing for the abdominal pain, vomiting has actually taken away the nausea. "What was that all about?"

Though the projection room hasn't made him feel sick in the past, he guesses it's probably what threw him over the edge. His head aches, too, so maybe stress is the underlying factor. It's not like he can really catch a stomach bug up here in isolation, and his food is all precooked. Oh well, he decides. If it's anxiety, then ruminating on it isn't going to help, so he does his best to shove it from his mind as he rinses his mouth out with water and heads back to the tunnel. 

Rocky is waiting for him, as always. Seems as though talking with Grace is the best part of his day--well, likewise. One of the first and most terrible things that Grace has learned about him is that, before the Hail Mary came along, Rocky had been floating alone up here for about 46 Earth years. Longer than Grace has even been alive. He can't imagine how lonely he must have been. 

By the time Grace returns, he finds that Rocky has gotten bored of the projection room without Grace there to describe what's going on and to move around to deepen the simulations. He likes to be doing something with his hands at all times, and he gets antsy when he sits still for too long. Grace can't tell if that's an Eridian thing, or he's just an engineer. 

"I see we're getting to work," he announces when he steps into the lab. 

"Grace be lazy long enough." 

"A guy has to go to the bathroom one time, and he never hears the end of it," he mutters. "Alright, what have we got?" Rocky gestures to the pile of transparent panels. "Oh, wow. Are there more of these than the last time I saw them?" 

"Yes. Rocky build while Grace bathe and exercise and--"

"Okay, okay, I see. Jeez. This is..." daunting, crazy, exhausting, "impressive." That, more than anything. Rocky looks proud, as much as a sentient rock can. "Where do we start?"

---------

They work for over three and a half hours, Grace placing things where Rocky says they should go, then replacing them where Rocky says they should actually go, constantly tuning out the frustrated criticisms. The whole time, his stomachache is doing nothing but getting worse. At first, it's nothing he can't push through, but it becomes less bearable as time goes on. Eventually, he knows that if he doesn't go lie down soon, he's going to be sick again. 

"I think I need a break." 

"We just start working."

"Maybe to you, but it's been almost four hours. That's a long time to go without a rest, for a human. I'm exhausted." Rocky ponders this. 

"Okay. Grace take break." 

"Thank you." 

Nausea washes over him, worse than the background noise that it's been while they worked. Hopefully, that's just because he's allowing himself to think about it. He's always been bad about being in touch with his body when he's wrapped up in something. A vague memory washes over him of his days in astrophage research, one of a man bringing him a spare sandwich from the deli only to have him get woozy from low blood sugar when he stood to retrieve it. The man hadn't seemed surprised, either. 

"Grace need lunch, question?" 

Ugh. He probably does, but that's the last thing he wants to do right now. Given how well breakfast went over, he has a hypothesis about the result of putting more food into his roiling stomach. 

"I think I'm gonna skip lunch today. Stomach's feeling a little choppy." Before Rocky can ask, he finishes, "Means I'm a little nauseous." 

He's a little afraid of how that's going to go over, given what happened to Rocky's crew, but he doesn't react much. Grace realizes that he's only known the word "nauseous" in relation to causes like zero gravity and going too long between meals after getting wrapped up in work. To him, there's no reason to associate nausea with illness.  Another wave hits him, hard and intense. He swallows thickly, hoping he can will it away and frowning when he realizes he can't. One hand clamps hard over his mouth and he bolts upright. He would excuse himself, but he's pretty sure that if he removes his hand from over his mouth, he'll lose his tentative grip on the contents of his stomach, so instead, he just hustles out of the room as quickly as he can.

Just in the nick of time, he slams the door behind him and once again vomits, though this time there's nothing in his stomach to lose but what little water he'd managed to force down. This time, despite coming away soaked in sweat, he realizes that the trembling he's doing isn't just shakiness from his ordeal, but cold shivers. This really takes him back to his grad school days. Is he having a panic attack? So out of nowhere? In school, he'd stretched himself so thin all the time that he'd be hit with waves of sheer anxiety out of the blue, ones that made him shiver and sweat and, occasionally, vomit. He supposes that it's not exactly unwarranted, given his circumstances, but it's still startling. This is the last thing he thought he'd still be dealing with, after all the healing he'd done once he left research and became a teacher. The job isn't easier, not by any means, but at least he can see the impact he's making. In research, he'd just been forming, voicing, and defending one wildly unpopular opinion over and over. 

When he's sure his stomach is calm, he rinses his mouth out again, this time spitting the water out rather than swallowing it. Maybe he shouldn't try to eat anything else until the stress stomachache subsides.

This time, when he reenters the lab, Rocky has stopped working and appears to be waiting for him, staring at the door.

"Hey, Rock," he says slowly, wincing when his voice sounds torn up and shaky. "Taking a break?"

"Grace is hiding something."

"Ha--what?" he asks, aiming for nonchalance and hoping that Rocky isn't good enough at reading his tone yet to hear an obvious lie when he hears one. "What makes you say that?"

"Heartbeat too loud and too fast. Breathing too fast. Shaking. Weird all day. Grace is sick, question?"

Grace sighs. It figures that Rocky is too astute to pull off lying to him.

"Oof, okay. I wasn't trying to hide it, I just didn't want to stop working just yet. I should have said something." Rocky's tone shoots up an octave in panic.

"Grace is sick question?"

"No, I'm not--not exactly. It's just--it's called anxiety. Feeling anxious. Like fear, but there's nothing, like, dangerous going on to be afraid of. It's just your brain overreacting to stress and dumping the same chemicals that cause you to feel scared. Do you have anything like that?"

"Scared for no reason?" Rocky parrots. Grace nods, ready with the laptop in the hopes that his friend might understand the feeling. "Eridian word is," and a little musical trill that Grace enters as "anxiety" into the program. "Anxiety make Grace sick, question?"

"Yeah. It can't kill you or anything, but it can make you feel sick. I think I've been feeling anxious since I woke up."

"What does it... feel like?"

Hm. That's a good question. He's used to divorcing his mind from his body during times like these. It had started as a survival mechanism, then ended up being a habit, as most coping mechanisms do. This just happens to be a bad one that he can't seem to shake. 

"It feels like fear, I guess. Your heart rate and breathing increase, you get all cold and sweaty, sometimes nauseous. It can feel like a whole lot of things, really." 

"Oh." For a blissful moment, he thinks he's going to leave it at that. "Why Grace did not tell Rocky, question?"

"I didn't want you to worry. Like I said, it's nothing harmful, just a feeling. Uncomfortable."

"Cause pain question?"

"Sometimes. My stomach has been really sore since I woke up."

"Grace should have said something. Work done for today so Grace can rest." As much as his brain doesn't want to, his body has been begging for this all day. 

"Sure. I think I might take a nap. It might help me chill out a little. 1,800 seconds or so, and I'll be good as new." 

"Grace chill out. Rocky watch." 

Rocky follows Grace to the dormitory and assumes his position beside his bed while Grace settles in and rolls over to face away, curling in on his aching stomach and drifting off almost immediately.

-----

When he wakes, it's because Rocky is tapping on his glass ball, calling his name. 

"Rocky? What is it? What's wrong?" 

He's fretting, Grace can see it in his stance. He's upset about something. 

"Grace say Grace nap 1,800 seconds. Grace been napping 8,100 seconds." 

It takes him a moment to do the mental math that should normally be easy. He's been asleep for over two hours? He never naps that long. Heck, sometimes he doesn't even sleep that long. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to. Must be more tired than I thought." 

"How Grace feel, question?" 

Honestly, he feels worse than before. The stomachache is no better--in fact, it's sharper, more like a knife in his gut than the earlier feeling of having taken a punch. He's shivering proper now, freezing and weak with chills. More than that, everything is starting to feel muddled, floaty, and dizzy, like he's waking up from being drugged. Overall, it's the worst he's felt since he woke up from his coma, even worse than that first day. 

"Uh, not great," he admits. 

"'Not great' is usually Grace way of saying 'very bad.'"

"No, it's--"

Actually, he can't argue with that. 

He desperately wants more sleep, but Rocky is worried enough as it is, and really, now that he's awake, he's not sure if he could even fall back to sleep in this kind of pain. Stifling a groan now that the cat's out of the bag would be more effort than it's worth. 

"Grace need medicine," Rocky insists. 

"Nah. All it'll do is make me sleep more." 

If he could only just relax, he's sure he'd feel better, but it's hard to do that when he can't even pinpoint what's making him feel so stressed in the first place. Is it the pressure finally getting to him? He doesn't feel particularly anxious, but there was a time right after the publication of his paper, when he was hearing nothing but arguments tearing him apart and calling him an idiot, when he was throwing up just about every other day, first thing in the morning, from pure dread. He'd tried medication then, but it hadn't done anything but take him from being nervous to being groggy and nervous. He's already groggy enough, now. 

"Projection room help Grace chill out, question?" 

Despite how awful he feels, he smiles. Rocky loves that room, now that he has his little tactile projector, and knows that the craggy, foggy beach is one of Grace's favorite simulations to go to. Sometimes, he'll queue it up after a particularly long day in the lab and stay there until he unwinds enough to fall asleep. 

"That sounds like a great idea." 

He follows Rocky there, then selects his favorite program, sitting down beside Rocky. This close, he can feel the slight heat radiating off his ball, and he leans into it until he's resting against it entirely, pressing himself to as much surface area as possible to soak up maximum warmth. It feels fantastic, almost enough to stop his shivering. As much as he calls Rocky clingy, and he is, it's Grace who needs the physical contact. Even when it's just a little fist bump here and there. 

Pain or no pain, watching the soothing waves, combined with the exhaustion from feeling ill and the warmth coming from Rocky, soon lulls him again into a light, restless sleep. 

Rocky’s POV

Grace is once again napping, this time without even giving Rocky the courtesy of a warning. He does that sometimes, falls asleep without realizing he’s doing it, so he doesn’t worry that he’s dead like he had the first time. Usually, it's after long nights and short sleeps and long hours in the lab. Today has been the opposite. Rocky feels like he’s been asleep more than he's been awake. Even then, he's acting strange. He insists it's anxiety, and that anxiety isn't dangerous, but can he really be this sick from something he swears is physically harmless? 

He's worried, but Grace finally seems comfortable for the first time in hours. His shaking has reduced significantly, and he's not so tightly wound against his aching abdomen. He hates when Grace is hurting. He hates when he lies about it. Why does he feel the need to do that? Rocky is all Grace has, and vice versa. They need each other. 

Grace tends to move around in his sleep, but this shifting is different. Restless, like he's trying to find a way to sleep that doesn't hurt. One hand keeps coming up to guard his abdomen, which is worrisome. Rocky is watching him sleep, so he shouldn't feel vulnerable to attacks. What does it say that even in his sleep, he's trying to protect his internal organs? What threat could he possibly be facing? 

"Grace," he prods, wiggling the ball in an attempt to rouse him without startling him. "Wake up. Your heart." 

"Hm?"

"Heart is beating so fast, like while exercise. Rocky never heard it beating like this while sleep." 

"It's fine, Just lemme sleep a 'lil longer. You're warm." He's listless and speaking strangely, his words slurred and more difficult to understand, like when he gets very tired. Stupid tired. But this isn't Grace being stupid, it's Grace being ill. And Rocky doesn't know what to do. There's very little he can do, given that he can't survive in Grace's atmosphere to touch him or bring him medicine. If he wants Grace to get better, he's got to convince him to do the work himself, and it might be too late for that. It's getting harder to wake him every time he tries, and this time, he's barely awake even though he's talking. His eyes aren't even open.  

"Don't like this. Something feels wrong." 

"You're overreacting," Grace reassures. However, not a moment later, his eyes shoot open, and he smacks one hand over his mouth like he had earlier. In the same rushed flurry by which he'd departed a few hours ago, he forces himself to his feet, but this time, he seems unsteady. He wavers, only managing not to fall by steadying himself on the wall of the ship. Rocky cries out his name, but it doesn't make a difference, and he goes staggering out of the dormitory.

This time, Rocky isn't about to let him run off alone. He doesn't care whether Grace lets him follow: he's coming in. Luckily, he's got bigger concerns than making sure that the door is locked, and Rocky manages to trail closely enough behind him that when he tries to slam it shut, it instead just hits the ball and bounces off. He watches in horror as Grace makes terrible, pained coughing sounds he's never heard before, purging water from his stomach through his mouth. 

"Grace!" he can't help but cry, even knowing that Grace doesn't want him in here. He knows he's lucky that the microphone on the computer is even sensitive enough to pick up on his trills this far away. Grace probably has to strain to hear it, but he hopes it's loud enough to get the gist. "Grace, how Rocky help?" 

He can't reply as he begins coughing again, though this time, he must be out of water, because nothing comes up. That doesn't make it less horrible--in fact, it might make it worse. Grace moans in pain, burying his face in the crook of his elbow as he rests his arm on the toilet.

"Get outta here," he commands roughly without looking up, but there's no heat behind it. There never is. 

"How Rocky help?" he repeats. He hates that he can't modulate his tone, because he knows that his panic comes through the computer speakers, and that makes Grace feel like he has to reassure him. He sits up straight, rubs at watery, red eyes, and sniffles. 

"M'fine, Rock," he reassures. "Be out in a few." 

"No." Rocky has to draw the line somewhere. "No more excuses. Tell Rocky what to do." When Grace sighs, still hesitant, Rocky adds a rare, "Please." 

Slowly, gingerly, he turns, angling his body toward Rocky's ball and leaning against him once more. This time, though, rather than supporting him from the side as he's accustomed to, Rocky finds himself staring at Grace's torso as he presses himself up against the ball from the front. Rocky shifts around in discomfort. This can't be all he needs right now. 

"This is helping?" 

"Mhm," he murmurs. "Not as cold." It's not enough of an answer to assuage his fears, but it's enough to interpret as an affirmative. The physical contact is helping the shaking, but he's still barely coherent, barely responding to his questions, and his heart is still pounding hard and fast. Treatment has to be more complicated than just making him comfortable. 

"Rocky want Grace to see medicine robot." Grace starts shaking his head before he even finishes his request. 

"Told you, he'll just--"

"Grace is sick and tired and stupid. Judgment bad." Grace pulls away from the ball, winces, and looks at him. 

"You're really worried, aren't you?" 

"Yes yes yes. Never seen Grace act like this before. New and scary." Whether it's guilt or finally seeing reason, Rocky can't say, but finally, he nods with a deep, resigned breath. 

"Okay."

"Okay what, question? Grace agree to see medicine robot?" 

"Yeah. Just... gimme a second to stand up." 

"Careful," he says, "go slow." The last thing he needs is for him to stand up too fast and get dizzy, which happens sometimes when he goes long hours in the lab without drinking water. Rocky knows he hasn't been drinking water. His hypothesis is proven correct when Grace wavers upright, leaning very heavily on his ball for support and balance. Why would he let things get so bad that he can barely stand before letting Armando look him over? 

Even once he's on his feet, he's not standing upright, not all the way. He's hunched forward, hand still protecting his stomach. 

"Grace go see robot, now," Rocky prompts when he doesn't move for a long moment. 

"I think I need'a sid'down another sec," he slurs, easing himself into a seated position once more. 

"No. Grace say he see robot. Grace is sick." 

"A li'l too sick to stand yet," he says worryingly. "Just need'a minute." He sits like that for a moment, on the ground with his head between his knees. When he decides, possibly arbitrarily, that he can try again, he does so, once more using Rocky's ball for support. It doesn't seem to matter. He still sways on his feet.

"One more second," he implores, moving to sit again, but Rocky can't let that happen. 

"No," he says sharply. Grace steadies himself, but doesn't sit. For all his complaining about it, he really does do most of what he's told. "Grace has had enough seconds. Grace go. Now now now." 

"Ugh," is the only reply he receives.  "Going. Jeez." 

It's a rough trek. Rocky has never seen him so clumsy, and he's naturally pretty clumsy. After just a few steps, they reach the doorway. 

"Watch step." 

Then, something horrible happens. Without warning, Grace's foot catches on the little ledge, sending him careening forward with barely enough time to throw his arms out in front of him as he falls. Rocky shouts his name, but it's too late. He hits the ground hard on his hands and knees, crying out in so much palpable pain that Rocky flinches. 

"Grace!" 

There's nothing he can do from his stupid space ball. He should have built something different, should have insisted he get himself checked out earlier, should have learned more about human anatomy so he might have any idea of what's going on--

Grace pushes himself to his knees and leans to one side, catching himself on the wall. Then, that terrible sound again, the awful coughing that had earlier brought up mouthfuls of water. All Rocky can do is get as close to him as possible in the hopes that maybe he was right, maybe the heat could help him, and a few more minutes of clinging to the ball might give him the energy to stand up and get to somewhere Armando can examine him. 

However, he has a sneaking suspicion it doesn't work like that. 

"Grace get up," he demands. Grace's face is pinched in pain, his posture rigid with it. Even his words are pushed out through a clenched jaw.

"Can't." 

"Grace get up." His tone is somewhere between frantic panic and irritable impatience, triggered by the aforementioned panic. Grace's heart is hammering so fast that he loses track of the beats, and breathing shallow and quick. "Have to. For Rocky." 

For Rocky. It's a long shot: a Hail Mary, as Grace has explained it to him. Something that's said or done in a desperate plea for victory against insurmountable circumstances. Grace is too sick to walk. He knows this. But he also knows Grace has to walk to get help, if that's even possible, anymore. He can't even think about that. All he can do is hope that by some miracle, Grace can muster up what little strength he still has and do this for him. He needs it. Needs Grace. 

And, by whatever means, Grace stands up. He's not steady, but he takes a shaky step forward, catches himself on Rocky's ball, and then takes another. Rocky keeps up the slow pace, always there to keep him from falling every time he looks like he might. Finally, excruciatingly, they make their way to the medbay, where Armando is able to step in and help him onto the bed.

"Grace very sick, bad bad bad sick." But the speaker is too far way to hear, and it just comes out as panicked trills that Mary can't decipher.

"Physical distress detected. Examination of Doctor Grace initiated," Mary announces, the best words Rocky has ever heard. He waits, sticky fear sensation oozing out of every crevice. He hasn't felt this scared since--well. That's not a thought he wants to relive right now. 

"Core temperature highly elevated: 103.6 degrees Fahrenheit." Because Rocky holds onto every word Grace says, he recalls one of their earliest conversations about species biology. Human body temperature is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Not just that, but they have a very narrow range of survivable temperatures. Get too hot or too cold, and things begin shutting down, not the least of which being the brain. But how hot can he get before that happens? Has it started already? Grace seemed stupid, when he was conscious, which he barely is, now. Only enough to try to swat away the probes as they whirl around him in a flurry of motion, placing a cannula into his neck to administer medicine and fluids. 

"Heart rate elevated: 136 beats per minute. Respiration rate elevated: 25 breaths per minute. Blood pressure elevated: 131/84. Blood oxygen saturation: normal. Likely diagnosis: infection and dehydration. Scanning for cause." 

Rocky sits, being as patient as he can be when all he can think about is how quickly Grace's condition had deteriorated.

"Rocky?" Grace calls, his tone helplessly lost. "S'happening?"

He's squeaking furiously, trying to explain to him that he was wrong, that this is not harmless and that he's very, very sick, but he can't. The laptop is in the other room, and Grace can't understand him without it. 

"Scan in progress," Mary informs him. "Please hold still."

Armando is trying his best to work around his flailing, but Grace is faster.

"Grace stop moving," Rocky implores. "Grace is safe. Rocky watch." The calm in his tone is 100% forced and possibly not even believable, but it doesn't matter. Sometimes, it's just nice to hear something familiar, he hopes, so he keeps chattering until Mary speaks again. 

"Underlying cause of illness determined," Mary announces. Rocky moves closer in anticipation. "Doctor Grace is experiencing: infection of the appendix." Appendix? What's an appendix? "Treatment course: immediate removal of affected organ." 

Three questions. It's an organ? It's infected? And, most terrifyingly, they have to remove it? As far as Rocky has understood so far, those are all pretty important. Worst of all, he can't ask any questions, not of Grace nor of Mary, before Armando is injecting something new through his cannula and beginning the process of surgery. 

----

It's surprisingly short and simple. About half an hour later, Armando places a few incisions into the abdominal punctures, then bandages them, and just like that, he's replacing his gown and ending calling the procedure successful. And it does appear successful. Grace's heart rate and respiration both begin to return to normal, and he's no longer squirming around in agony (though whether that's the surgery or the medicine is anyone's guess.) 

Rocky only leaves for a minute, just long enough to get the laptop and push it across the floor so he can talk to Grace when he wakes up. Other than that, he sits by his side, waiting. He talks to him. He tells him to rest, but secretly, he can't stop hoping he'll wake any second now. This is awful. It's just like how he'd felt when his crew were so sick, helpless and confused. Not only does he not really understand what was wrong, but he has no idea what happens next. 

To his surprise, Grace actually only stays unconscious for about another hour and a half. It seems as though the meds only briefly sedated him, and the fever and exhaustion did the rest. Rocky is torn between worry that perhaps he should be healing for longer than this and relief that he's okay when his fingers twitch and his head rolls from one side to the other.  

"Grace," he calls as softly as the computer program will allow without any real control over volume. "Grace can hear me, question?" 

"Hmngh," is the response, so Rocky decides that okay, sure, maybe he's not all the way awake yet, and waits a little longer. A few minutes later, Grace's eyes flutter open. At first, they're not fixing on anything in particular, but when he sees Rocky on the ground in his ball, mere inches from him, he musters up a sloppy, loopy smile. He looks ridiculous.

"Hey, Rock," he greets deliriously. 

"Hi," he replies. "How Grace feeling, question?" 

He surveys himself, which is more thought than he's given to his body all day, so Rocky is hopeful that maybe he's getting a real answer this time. 

"Better. What happened? My memory is a little... fuzzy."

"Fuzzy mean stupid?" 

He barks out a laugh, which jars his abdomen. This time, the wince is subtle, not gut-wrenching. 

"Probably that, too, but I just meant I'm having a little trouble remembering." 

"Because Grace stupid. Appendix infected. Grace was bad bad bad sick. So scary." 

"Oh, jeez. Guess I was way off, huh?" 

Rocky realizes in this moment that, beneath the joy at seeing that Grace is going to be okay, he's angry. He doesn't respond, doesn't move. But Grace knows him too well, and he can't hide anything from him. He picks up on it immediately, even in his weakened, slightly inebriated state. His eyebrows furrow and he frowns.

"You mad at me?"

"No," Rocky lies, because he doesn't want Grace to have to deal with that right now, not mere moments after waking from surgery, not when his temperature is still far too high and he's still got to feel seriously ill. "Rocky was worried. Rocky is worried." 

"But you're also mad," Grace says. He's sobering up quickly despite everything. Now that he's a little more with the program, Rocky decides that maybe, since he keeps pushing, he is clear headed enough for the truth. 

"Yes." 

"Because I scared you?" 

"Because Grace lie," he snaps. "Rocky say Grace is sick. Rocky say Grace is sick over and over again, and you lie." 

Grace is quiet for a long moment. 

"I understand." 

"Why Grace lie, question?" 

It takes conscious effort, but he calms himself down enough to be ready to listen to Grace's answer and hear out his side of things. 

"It wasn't a lie at first," he says defensively. "I used to get really bad stomachaches from anxiety, a long time ago. Felt sick just like I did this morning. That's all I thought it was, I promise." 

"And then later, question?" 

"Later, I..." he trails off for a moment, "yeah, I lied. In my defense, I didn't know it was this serious. I didn't want to worry you over nothing."

"Pain is something," he retorts sharply. Grace sighs. 

"I guess you're right." He looks directly at him, now, which Rocky knows means he's being serious. Genuine. He perks up a little. "I shouldn't have done what I did. I should have just gone to the medbay when you asked me to. I was wrong."

If Eridians could cry like humans, Rocky is sure he'd be on the verge of it. How can he possibly explain how badly this had hurt him?

"Rocky was alone for long, long time. Rocky and Grace only have each other. It's only us. Rocky can't," the voice over the speaker breaks, "lose Grace."

"I'm sorry, Rock. You have every right to be mad at me."

"Rocky... accept Grace apology. Promise Rocky."

"Promise you what, buddy?"

"Promise next time Grace get help sooner."

He offers a tentative thumbs up, not sure how well it will go over.

"Deal."

Rocky offers a thumbs up in return. It's still not right. 

"Rocky forgive. Grace rest." 

"Sure. Thanks, pal. For keeping me safe." 

"That's Rocky job. Now, Rocky watch Grace sleep."

"Happily." 

Rocky settles in for a long, much calmer night. 

[taylortut]

*extends my hands revealing the crumpled up The Characters of my new hyperfixation*

"Grace," Rocky prods, not for the first time since they started working today. Or was it last night? It feels like days, but it's hard to count up here, especially when Rocky scolds him every time his attention wanders for more than a second. "Grace, astrophage is down here."

"Thank you, Rocky," he replies tightly, sarcastically, "I know."

"Then why Grace keep looking away?"

"Because my eyes hurt. Humans are supposed to close them every once in a while." 

"Grace close his eyes every few seconds," he argues. 

"That's blinking. I was talking about sleep." 

"I know."

Grace sighs. He's had rough bosses before, sure, but he didn't exactly apply for this job, and he's certainly not being paid. Rocky is bossier than any supervisor he's ever worked for, more demanding than any PI he'd ever had in grad school, and more overbearing than even the most difficult of his students' parents. Even if he does everything he's supposed to do exactly as he's supposed to do it, Rocky still isn't satisfied.

The long hours are starting to get to him. It's not Rocky's fault, not all of it. He doesn't understand human needs, and Grace has been a little lax at enforcing them, sometimes. He's less "insisting on meeting the demands of the human body" and more "complaining about Rocky's overbearing orders." He gets how Rocky could misconstrue one for the other, especially when Grace ultimately ends up caving every time he applies more pressure. 

On top of all that, he's right. The stars are dying, and the pressure to save them is in their hands. Well, his hands. Rocky's... whatever. He sips at old coffee that hasn't been hot for hours and hasn't been good since the beans were picked from the plant. It's doing very little to make him feel less tired, but it's making his heart hammer and his hands clammy, so clearly it's having some effect, right? Maybe it will keep him awake for a few more hours, just so they can get through this paragraph of the sampler instruction manual. They've been fighting it for hours, but it's been fighting back. Grace takes off his glasses and cleans them on his shirt, hoping that it helps the blurriness and frowning when it doesn't. He rubs his dry, tired eyes. He probably needs to drink more water. When was the last time he drank water? His head is killing him. 

"Where Grace going?"

"To get a drink, Rock. Can I do that, or do you need to come with me?"

"Grace crabby," Rocky says, and he can't tell if it's a tease or a jab. Either way, he shouldn't let it get to him, but it irritates him, makes him feel like all his needs have been reduced to just whining. The annoyance sends a spike of pain through his temples that stops for a chat on its way past his eyes before cutting straight through the other side. 

"Grace exhausted," he replies. "I need five." 

"Five what, question?"

Grace doesn't reply, just grabs his mug and brings it to the area what he's been generously been calling a kitchen, but is really more of a food storage area that also gives him water. Armando whirs to life from rest mode--even the robots are sleeping more often than he is--ready to be helpful. 

"Doctor Grace, it's late. You should be sleeping."

"Hear that, Rock? Mary agrees with me." he calls. Armando is pouring a cup of water before he even asks, so she's probably been waiting for him to remember he needs one. He holds out his mug of coffee, which Armando begins cleaning after handing him the water. 

"No, no," he says, "another cup, please, pal."

"I do not advise you intake more caffeine than you have already, Doctor Grace," Mary says, and her word is law. He's not about to try to talk his way into one more. If he falls asleep face first into the bench top they're working at, it will at least prove a point to Rocky. 

He's got to put his foot down somewhere Rocky won't roll over it in his ball. He's got to march in there and tell him he's not reading another line of the sampler instructions until he's slept. 

Another 45 minutes later, Grace's vision is swimming again, blurring the words of the sampler instructions so badly that he can't even read them. This time, it doesn't go away when he rubs his eyes. He lets his glasses hang from one ear and leans back in his chair, scrubbing his hands over his face, fingers making a second lap up to massage his temples.  

"I need a break," he says. "My brain is leaking out my ears." He regrets it as soon as Rocky jumps in alarm.

"Grace brain leaking?" Rocky exclaims in alarm. "Grace die, question? Grace die? Grace--" 

"No," he curtails, "no, I shouldn't have said it like that. I just mean I'm exhausted. My eyes hurt. My head is pounding. I need to eat and sleep." 

Rocky hesitates, now properly spooked enough to take the complaint seriously, though he appears to have calmed down a little at the explanation.

"How often Grace need sleep?" 

"More than I have been. Eating, too. That's, like, every five hours or so, when I'm awake. Sleep, every 16 ish, and water throughout the day." 

"Grace has done none of those things in many hours." Grace chuckles.

"That's what I'm saying. I know this is important. I'm trying. Just give me a few hours." 

Rocky does an approximation of a nod, and Grace gives a sloppy, unenthusiastic thumbs down.

"Grace need food?"

"Later. After I sleep." He should probably eat something before he goes to bed, but his stomach feels choppy, and he doesn't want to put anything in it that might come up later. Sleep will take care of the headache, which should help the nausea.

He stands, and as soon as he does, he realizes he should have done so a little more slowly, given how long he's been sitting in the same position, when the ship spins around him. He reaches out blindly and steadies himself on the nearest surface. Based on how warm it is, it must be Rocky's ball. 

"Grace?"Rocky calls. "Grace, what is happening?" 

He doesn't even have time to respond before everything goes dark. 

-----

His senses cut in one by one. First, he becomes aware that his headache has gotten considerably worse, and now his body feels bruised, too. His cheek is pressed against something cool. 

Hearing comes second, which informs him that Rocky is beside him, panicking so hard that the computer is only occasionally spitting out words from the lexicon, meaning that he's using language they don't have and probably don't want common words for. The rest is just frantic squeaking and tapping on the inside of the ball, intermittently punctuated by his name. He tries to offer a thumbs down, but he can only make his fingers twitch. Rocky notices, anyway. 

"Grace? Grace can hear me question? GraceGraceGrace."

Finally, he's able to pry his eyes open, slow and fluttery, which elicits excited squeaking from Rocky. The cool thing against his cheek, he learns, is the floor.

"Grace can hear me question?" 

Grace nods. 

"Yeah, I can hear you." He groans as the pain comes to him in waves. "That really hurt," he mutters under his breath to himself, even though Rocky can hear it. 

"What just happened question? Grace fall and would not wake up."

He sits up, one hand flitting to his temple as he feels lightheaded again, but not enough to lose consciousness again. 

"I think I fainted," he replies. He doesn't remember it, but that's the only explanation for what just happened, and it makes sense why he feels so bruised. Because he is bruised. Because he hit the ground.

"Don't understand." 

"Yeah, sorry, new word. Not the best way to introduce it. It's... kind of like sleeping. But it's a surprise." 

"Surprise," Rocky repeats. "Grace never fainted before. Grace always sleeps in bed."

"Well, I've never been this exhausted before. It's a biological thing. Anatomy and all that. I'm too tired to explain it all right now, but it's a fun little way for your body to tell you to rest."

"Not fun at all. Grace hurt. Rocky scared."

"I know. It was a joke. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to do that."

"Then why sorry?" 

"Because I scared you." 

Rocky moves around in a contrary gesture that Grace knows means he's about to argue. He braces himself to be scolded, but it's not what happens. 

"Rocky should apologize. Grace said he need rest and food and water, but I ignore." 

It's a little surprising to hear him say it. He'd been expecting anger, but what he's getting is guilt. It's not much better, and makes him feel guilty in return. 

"I could have stressed it a little more. This is just so important, and... it's interesting." He doesn't mention that he also doesn't want to disappoint Rocky. "I can get wrapped up, sometimes." 

"Never do that again. Grace eat. Grace sleep. Now now now."

"Alright, alright. I'm going." 

"Slow." 

Rocky comes closer so he can use his ball to help him stand, where he wavers again. With Rocky there, however, he has a stable surface to steady himself on, and he makes his way to the makeshift bed, covering himself up as Rocky moves back to his side of the ship. 

"Gonna watch me sleep?" Rocky trills an affirmative. "Yeah, I guess that's fair."

"Grace will be okay?" 

"I'll be fine when I wake up. Just need to take it easy for a little while." 

"Grace rest." That's big. It had taken a long time to explain rest, the concept of not moving but not sleeping, either. In fact, this might be the first time Rocky hasn't called it "lazy." 

"Okay. Goodnight, Rock." 

"Sleep." 

It takes him no time at all to comply. 

[taylortut]

A BONUS SURPRISE MIGRAINE CHAPTER?????

When Grace wakes just a couple hours later, his stomach is no calmer than it had been before he'd fainted. That's to be expected--he probably should have eaten something before sleeping--but it's still inconvenient. He grabs a rather tasteless shortbread cookie from his treat stash, and ignores Mary when she tries to push a nutritious meal on him. 

"Later," he promises. He figures that if he primes his stomach a bit with something bland, it'll reactivate his appetite, and he'll feel ravenous later. In fact, he's counting on it. He nibbles at it slowly, but in the meantime, he nabs a glucose tablet out of the med kit and pops it in a cup of water. It can't hurt. He probably needs it, if the weakness in his knees is any indication. 

"I need you to back up, Rock," he says. Rocky is mere inches from his legs, has been since he stood up from what was supposed to be a good night's sleep but ended up being a glorified nap. 

"Grace say Grace sleep long time. Grace only sleep two hours." 

"I know. I think I woke up because I feel nauseous. It's probably a sign I need to eat something." 

"Don't like this," Rocky frets. "Worried."

"Yeah, it's not exactly my idea of a good time, either, but I'll pull through. You don't have to worry so much and you don't," he says, shoving Rocky's ball as hard as he can and only managing to move him a few inches because he's as heavy as a refrigerator but not nearly as likely to be running right now, "have to be so clingy."

"Rocky is helping." 

'Rocky was helping. Now Rocky is annoying." 

"Grace still crabby."

Grace sighs. 

"Yeah, I guess I am. Sorry. You're just trying to take care of me. This isn't your fault."

"A little my fault." He furrows his eyebrows.

"No, I promise it's not." He reluctantly finishes the last bite of his cookie, though his plan to want to eat a meal after has backfired. His stomach feels overfull from just that, like it's sitting in his stomach and not moving. "Ugh. I still feel terrible. I think I'm going to try to sleep some more. Come on. It's time for the show." 

Rocky sticks to his side until they get to his bed in the tunnel, where he only detaches himself from Grace's legs when he's nestled down and covered himself with the blanket. 

"Grace sleep now question?" 

"God willing," he replies. He rolls over onto his side, then turns to the other when gastric acid threatens to make its way back up his throat. The left side provides a bit of relief, enough to be some semblance of comfortable, so he closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come. 

And waits for sleep to come. 

And waits for sleep to come. 

And sleep never shows. He grows frustrated with trying. He needs something to distract himself, something that will occupy his mind without being so interesting that it keeps him awake. What had he done back home when insomnia struck? 

"I think I need something to read," he announces. "Something boring." 

"Sampler instructions boring."

"Very correct." Though the process of figuring out the machine itself is... fun is the wrong word, but it's in the right family, the instructions themselves are dry as anything. If he starts at the beginning, reviewing what they've already worked through in his exhausted blur, it might just put him to sleep. 

Neither he nor Rocky love that he has to stand again to retrieve them, but the glucose tab has had over an hour to work its magic, so he's not so afraid. He's mostly just bone-deep tired, so much so that he can't figure out for the life of him why he's still awake. 

With manual in hand, he snuggles back down into his bed, as uncomfortable as it is, and opens it to the first page. As mentally and physically spent as he'd been while they were working on this, he finds that he recalls very little of it, and given how muddled his mind is now, it doesn't even make sense, so it seems to be the perfect choice of reading material to carry him off to dreamland. 

However, flipping through the pages as he goes, he becomes aware of a small, bright dot in the middle of his vision, like a camera flash. He tries to blink it away, but it doesn't dissipate. Over the next few minutes, it becomes larger and larger, taking up more of his visual field until it's sizeable enough that he can no longer read the words in front of him. He shuts the manual, blinking and rubbing his eyes in a fruitless attempt to clear them. 

"Grace sleep now, question?" 

"Uh, yeah. Just a minute." Grace is growing a little concerned with the hole in his vision, and apparently it shows on his face, or in his posture, or maybe he's just silent for longer than he thinks, because Rocky begins to pace above him. 

"Something is wrong, question?" 

"Something is wrong, statement," he replies. Suddenly, even through his current cognitive haze, a memory strikes him. 

"Did you sleep here?" Carl asks, two coffees in one hand. "Why are the lights off?" He flips them on, then back off when Grace holds his hand over his eyes like he's emerging from a movie theater on a sunny day. Has he really been in here so long that the light hurts? 

"I assume you need both of those?" Grace replies, dodging the question. He really does want one of those coffees, though. 

"You're confusing me with someone else." He hands one over, and Grace takes it with gratitude so fervent it's embarrassing. "You didn't answer my question."

Rats. 

"Technically, the answer is no," he says, but that does nothing to prevent the eye roll he receives. "I couldn't sleep."

"Maybe if you tried leaving that chair."

Grace sighs. Carl is a no-nonsense kind of guy--well, he's managed to convince him to partake in a little nonsense--and a straight-shooter. There's no way he's going to wiggle out of this. 

He has to admit, though, Carl is right. For the last half hour, he's had four different research papers open on his computer, and he's barely even been able to see straight to read them. His eyes are so dry that everything had blurred together into a bright little hole in the middle of his visual field for the better part of an hour, before it passed. Since then, his head has been pounding, like someone took an ice pick to his eye. That's why he's been sitting in the dark. He had to turn off the lights and dim his computer screen as low as it can go. Even that's a little much. Hard to look at. 

"I just have one last question I need to answer. Then, I'll go home."

"What's the question?" He opens his mouth to reply, then falters. What is the question? His brain feels like cake batter, mostly mush with a few solid clumps of thought scattered throughout, most of which are negligible enough to ignore. Even just trying to bring up the thought sends another spike of pain through his head, and he winces. "See? This is why you need to sleep." 

"Hm. Maybe you're right." He reaches for his coffee, taking a long sip, then pressing the warm cup to his temple and closing his eyes. It helps a little. "My head's killing me." 

"Have you eaten recently?" 

He has to admit that he's been a little sick to his stomach for the past hour. 

"I'll do it after the coffee. Little queasy right now."

"That's why it's dark in here?" Carl asks. "You have a migraine?" 

"Migraine?" he repeats. "No, just a headache." 

"Does it feel like your brain is coming out of your eye?" How could he possibly know that? "If you're nauseous and the light hurts, it's a migraine. My brother gets them."

"Ah. Sorry to hear that." Well, back to it, he thinks, but when he tries to return his attention to the screen, it's so bright that he flinches. "Gah," he groans. "Okay. Maybe you're right."

"I'm taking you home. Drink that; it'll help." That was the plan, anyway. He'd argue, since he still hasn't completed everything he'd wanted to accomplish for the day, or the night, or whatever time it is, but if he's being honest, home sounds good. Bed sounds good. A dark, quiet room so far from this office that his laptop can no longer smell his fear sounds good. 

"You don't have to do that. I can get home on my own."

"On what, your 12-speed? There's no way you're biking home." 

"I can call an Uber." 

"Just get in the damn car, Grace." 

"Right. Okay." 

The pain had only gotten worse from there. It had taken him several hours of lying in bed in the dark silence before he was able to get up again, and another several before he could look at a screen. In the end, he was lucky that it was Carl who'd found him, because he was pretty sure that another few hours in that office might have killed him, and nobody else would have taken him home like that. 

"It's a migraine," he realizes aloud, feeling stupid for not having clocked it earlier. 

"New word." 

"It's like a headache, but worse. I've had one before. It got pretty bad."

"How do we fix, question?"

"Caffeine," he says, even though it sounds like he's just trying to worm his way into another cup of coffee, "and rest. Dark, quiet." He reaches up to turn the light off, wincing away from it as he realizes that the sensitivity has already begun. The pain won't be far behind. "I'm going to get more coffee. I'll be right back."

Really, saying he'll be right back is a waste of his breath, because of course Rocky is coming with him as he makes his way back to the Hail Mary. She approves another mug under the circumstances, which he starts drinking even though it's too hot. A burned tongue is less painful than the migraine is going to be. 

"Medication recommended," she says, and he hears Armando whir to life insidiously. Though he's normally the type who's reluctant to even take Tylenol, if Mary's got something to stave this off, he's not going to say no. What's another mystery pill? He pops it in his mouth and swallows. 

"Medication will fix?" 

"We'll see, I guess." 

------

Medication does not fix.

Just 15 minutes after he takes them, the pain starts. At first, it's annoying. A nagging headache behind his eye that has him happy that he'd turned out the light, but well enough to be bored. He sits up in the tunnel, bouncing a ball against Rocky's wall, knowing that he's screwed if he doesn't catch it when it bounces back, because there's no way he's retrieving that this time. Rocky has never liked this game, and he especially doesn't like it now. He keeps reminding Grace that he needs to be resting, and he always complies for a few minutes, but inevitably the boredom of lying down doing nothing wins out, and he ends up with the ball once more.

Then, the pain is significant. Finally, he lets the ball hit the wall and bounce away with no effort to catch it.

"Migraine worse, question?"

"Yeah, it's starting to get bad. I think I might just lie down for a little while."

"Good good good."

Half an hour later, Rocky checks in.

"Grace okay, question?"

"Yeah, I'm hanging in there." He's thrown an arm over his eyes to block out what very little light shines through the tunnel from his ship, as it had started to sting. "Just need a little time."

"More medication."

"You can only take so much at a time, or it makes you sick. I'll get more in a few hours." Rocky trills, and he can't think straight enough to interpret it. 

"In meantime? More caffeine question?" 

"It's a long shot, but it might not be a bad idea." It might not be a good idea, either, but it's the only one they've got. Rocky skitters off to retrieve coffee, having Armando pass it through air lock. Carefully, so as not to spill it, he returns, passes it through the other one near Grace's head. 

"Thanks," he says, sitting up just long enough to take a sip. It's probably best to test a small amount, first. His stomach feels all swirly and churning. 

"Rocky calls this drink Hail Mary," he says, and Grace laughs despite the increase in pain it causes as the movement jostles his head. "Get it? Is joke. Long shot."

"Yeah, Rock, I get it. Good joke. Now, I need you to be quiet." 

Reluctantly, Rocky agrees. 

------

Rocky POV

Eventually, Grace's pain is debilitating. He asks for silence, and no longer responds with more than a thumbs down when Rocky asks him if he's okay. Rocky can't interpret that, because Grace is NOT okay, as evidenced by the aforementioned lack of verbal response. Is he lying, or is he using sarcasm again? Rocky is still hazy on the difference. It worries him. How is he supposed to know how Grace is feeling if Grace won't tell him?

He asks for quiet, but he can only be quiet for so long, especially as Grace goes stiller than he's ever been and stops talking. Grace never stops moving, even in his deepest sleep. Grace never stops talking. It's concerning. No, more than that. It's terrifying. 

Worst of all, this is his fault. Eridians sleep between three and twelve hours at a time, depending on circumstances, but humans are supposedly meant to sleep between seven and nine no matter what. Rocky doubted that, at first, given that he's watched Grace sleep for as few as two and as long as thirteen, but it's starting to make sense now that he knows they're only meant to be awake in 16 hour increments. The times that Grace has slept for more than eight hours have always come after bouts of sleeping only two over the course of several Earth days. Rocky hadn't thought that abnormal, hadn't known he was extending Grace's limits as far as he was. 

He was wrong. Every time he'd ignored Grace's complaints of being tired and called him lazy for it, he'd been making him sick. That was never his intention. Of course, it wasn't. Forty-eight hours just seems like such a small amount of time to him. He hadn't taken into account how long it is to Grace. 

Grace is still for hours. The only reason Rocky knows he's even alive is the occasional little noises he's never heard before, which he can only interpret as pain. They're infrequent, but maybe that's a good thing. At least, maybe it's better for Grace. 

Without his chatter to fill the silence, Rocky is left to his own thoughts, and he hates it. He's been alone for so long. He hates when Grace sleeps, or, at least, he did before. It's too quiet. Often, he drags Grace out of bed early just because he can't stand it any longer. He'd done it this morning, in fact, and he regrets it. Now, he's sitting here, trapped behind a wall, unable to do anything but watch as his best friend falls victim to a worsening illness that he doesn't understand. Can Grace die of a migraine? He sure looks like he's dying. How can it hurt that much if he's not dying?

Oh, no. Grace is dying. Just like his crew, just like the stars, just like their worlds. Once again, Rocky can do nothing about it. He couldn't fix the radiation sickness, and now he can't fix Grace. Nothing he's tried has worked, and he doesn't know what else to do. All he can do is watch Grace sleep, if he's even sleeping. He makes that sound again, proving that he's unfortunately not.

It takes eight hours, but finally, Grace moves. He uncovers his eyes, something he'd said he was doing because the light hurt. He doesn't sit up, not yet, but that's okay. Rocky would tell him to lie down even if he tried. In an instant, he's bursting through the airlock in his ball, rushing to his side. 

"Grace?" he calls. He wishes he could do it quietly, because Grace said sound hurt, too, but he has no control over the computer volume. 

"Yeah, Rocky, I hear ya," he replies, and Rocky can't resist a little dance of relief at the sound of his voice. It sounds different, like a combination of speaking and his pain sounds, but it's there.

"Feel better, question?" 

"Starting to. Are you okay?" 

Rocky is silent for a moment, sure he's misunderstanding the question. Why would Grace be asking about him at a time like this?

"Grace is one who is sick." 

"I know, but... after everything that happened with your crew, I can't imagine how scary this must have been for you. I'm really sorry." 

"Not Grace fault. Grace shouldn't feel guilty." 

"But I do. If I'd just--ugh," he cuts himself off with another pain sound. 

"Stop talking," Rocky commands. "Always so much talking." 

"You're one to talk," he whispers. Rocky doesn't understand the expression, but this isn't the time for a semantics lesson. 

"What would make Grace better?" 

"Water might help." 

"Yes yes yes," he says excitedly, so eager to actually be able to do something after being helpless for so long. "I will bring. What else, question? I can bring medicine."

"Sure. That would be good." 

"Stay there." Rocky hustles over to the Hail Mary to ask Mary for water and pills, then returns as quickly as he can. The faster he moves, the faster he can help Grace get better. Not to mention the fact that he doesn't want to leave him unattended while he's paralyzed with pain. Someone needs to watch over him.

He passes everything through the air lock, cheering when Grace sits up without wavering. 

"Feel okay, question?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. A little dizzy, a little nauseous. Mostly, everything just feels bruised."

"Makes sense. Grace fall and bruise everything." 

He laughs again. 

"Just about." He swallows the pills with a much healthier sip of water than he's been allowing himself for the past few hours. Grace keeps glancing over, and though Rocky realizes he's staring at him, that does not deter him. He'd really thought Grace's brain was shutting down. That he might die. "Hey. Seriously, I'm okay. Migraines are painful, but pretty harmless. They pass, and you're fine. It's passing. I would have explained it better, but I wasn't really thinking straight." 

"Good thing. Very good thing that Grace is okay. Relief relief relief." 

"Yeah, definitely a relief." He lies back down, but this time, his face and posture are much different. Less stiff, less strained. More normal. "I think I could sleep, now. This was pretty exhausting. Assume the position." Rocky hops back into the tunnel and perches above him. "Goodnight, Rocky." 

"Goodnight, Grace."

[taylortut]

*extends my hands revealing the crumpled up The Characters of my new hyperfixation*

"Grace," Rocky prods, not for the first time since they started working today. Or was it last night? It feels like days, but it's hard to count up here, especially when Rocky scolds him every time his attention wanders for more than a second. "Grace, astrophage is down here."

"Thank you, Rocky," he replies tightly, sarcastically, "I know."

"Then why Grace keep looking away?"

"Because my eyes hurt. Humans are supposed to close them every once in a while." 

"Grace close his eyes every few seconds," he argues. 

"That's blinking. I was talking about sleep." 

"I know."

Grace sighs. He's had rough bosses before, sure, but he didn't exactly apply for this job, and he's certainly not being paid. Rocky is bossier than any supervisor he's ever worked for, more demanding than any PI he'd ever had in grad school, and more overbearing than even the most difficult of his students' parents. Even if he does everything he's supposed to do exactly as he's supposed to do it, Rocky still isn't satisfied.

The long hours are starting to get to him. It's not Rocky's fault, not all of it. He doesn't understand human needs, and Grace has been a little lax at enforcing them, sometimes. He's less "insisting on meeting the demands of the human body" and more "complaining about Rocky's overbearing orders." He gets how Rocky could misconstrue one for the other, especially when Grace ultimately ends up caving every time he applies more pressure. 

On top of all that, he's right. The stars are dying, and the pressure to save them is in their hands. Well, his hands. Rocky's... whatever. He sips at old coffee that hasn't been hot for hours and hasn't been good since the beans were picked from the plant. It's doing very little to make him feel less tired, but it's making his heart hammer and his hands clammy, so clearly it's having some effect, right? Maybe it will keep him awake for a few more hours, just so they can get through this paragraph of the sampler instruction manual. They've been fighting it for hours, but it's been fighting back. Grace takes off his glasses and cleans them on his shirt, hoping that it helps the blurriness and frowning when it doesn't. He rubs his dry, tired eyes. He probably needs to drink more water. When was the last time he drank water? His head is killing him. 

"Where Grace going?"

"To get a drink, Rock. Can I do that, or do you need to come with me?"

"Grace crabby," Rocky says, and he can't tell if it's a tease or a jab. Either way, he shouldn't let it get to him, but it irritates him, makes him feel like all his needs have been reduced to just whining. The annoyance sends a spike of pain through his temples that stops for a chat on its way past his eyes before cutting straight through the other side. 

"Grace exhausted," he replies. "I need five." 

"Five what, question?"

Grace doesn't reply, just grabs his mug and brings it to the area what he's been generously been calling a kitchen, but is really more of a food storage area that also gives him water. Armando whirs to life from rest mode--even the robots are sleeping more often than he is--ready to be helpful. 

"Doctor Grace, it's late. You should be sleeping."

"Hear that, Rock? Mary agrees with me." he calls. Armando is pouring a cup of water before he even asks, so she's probably been waiting for him to remember he needs one. He holds out his mug of coffee, which Armando begins cleaning after handing him the water. 

"No, no," he says, "another cup, please, pal."

"I do not advise you intake more caffeine than you have already, Doctor Grace," Mary says, and her word is law. He's not about to try to talk his way into one more. If he falls asleep face first into the bench top they're working at, it will at least prove a point to Rocky. 

He's got to put his foot down somewhere Rocky won't roll over it in his ball. He's got to march in there and tell him he's not reading another line of the sampler instructions until he's slept. 

Another 45 minutes later, Grace's vision is swimming again, blurring the words of the sampler instructions so badly that he can't even read them. This time, it doesn't go away when he rubs his eyes. He lets his glasses hang from one ear and leans back in his chair, scrubbing his hands over his face, fingers making a second lap up to massage his temples.  

"I need a break," he says. "My brain is leaking out my ears." He regrets it as soon as Rocky jumps in alarm.

"Grace brain leaking?" Rocky exclaims in alarm. "Grace die, question? Grace die? Grace--" 

"No," he curtails, "no, I shouldn't have said it like that. I just mean I'm exhausted. My eyes hurt. My head is pounding. I need to eat and sleep." 

Rocky hesitates, now properly spooked enough to take the complaint seriously, though he appears to have calmed down a little at the explanation.

"How often Grace need sleep?" 

"More than I have been. Eating, too. That's, like, every five hours or so, when I'm awake. Sleep, every 16 ish, and water throughout the day." 

"Grace has done none of those things in many hours." Grace chuckles.

"That's what I'm saying. I know this is important. I'm trying. Just give me a few hours." 

Rocky does an approximation of a nod, and Grace gives a sloppy, unenthusiastic thumbs down.

"Grace need food?"

"Later. After I sleep." He should probably eat something before he goes to bed, but his stomach feels choppy, and he doesn't want to put anything in it that might come up later. Sleep will take care of the headache, which should help the nausea.

He stands, and as soon as he does, he realizes he should have done so a little more slowly, given how long he's been sitting in the same position, when the ship spins around him. He reaches out blindly and steadies himself on the nearest surface. Based on how warm it is, it must be Rocky's ball. 

"Grace?"Rocky calls. "Grace, what is happening?" 

He doesn't even have time to respond before everything goes dark. 

-----

His senses cut in one by one. First, he becomes aware that his headache has gotten considerably worse, and now his body feels bruised, too. His cheek is pressed against something cool. 

Hearing comes second, which informs him that Rocky is beside him, panicking so hard that the computer is only occasionally spitting out words from the lexicon, meaning that he's using language they don't have and probably don't want common words for. The rest is just frantic squeaking and tapping on the inside of the ball, intermittently punctuated by his name. He tries to offer a thumbs down, but he can only make his fingers twitch. Rocky notices, anyway. 

"Grace? Grace can hear me question? GraceGraceGrace."

Finally, he's able to pry his eyes open, slow and fluttery, which elicits excited squeaking from Rocky. The cool thing against his cheek, he learns, is the floor.

"Grace can hear me question?" 

Grace nods. 

"Yeah, I can hear you." He groans as the pain comes to him in waves. "That really hurt," he mutters under his breath to himself, even though Rocky can hear it. 

"What just happened question? Grace fall and would not wake up."

He sits up, one hand flitting to his temple as he feels lightheaded again, but not enough to lose consciousness again. 

"I think I fainted," he replies. He doesn't remember it, but that's the only explanation for what just happened, and it makes sense why he feels so bruised. Because he is bruised. Because he hit the ground.

"Don't understand." 

"Yeah, sorry, new word. Not the best way to introduce it. It's... kind of like sleeping. But it's a surprise." 

"Surprise," Rocky repeats. "Grace never fainted before. Grace always sleeps in bed."

"Well, I've never been this exhausted before. It's a biological thing. Anatomy and all that. I'm too tired to explain it all right now, but it's a fun little way for your body to tell you to rest."

"Not fun at all. Grace hurt. Rocky scared."

"I know. It was a joke. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to do that."

"Then why sorry?" 

"Because I scared you." 

Rocky moves around in a contrary gesture that Grace knows means he's about to argue. He braces himself to be scolded, but it's not what happens. 

"Rocky should apologize. Grace said he need rest and food and water, but I ignore." 

It's a little surprising to hear him say it. He'd been expecting anger, but what he's getting is guilt. It's not much better, and makes him feel guilty in return. 

"I could have stressed it a little more. This is just so important, and... it's interesting." He doesn't mention that he also doesn't want to disappoint Rocky. "I can get wrapped up, sometimes." 

"Never do that again. Grace eat. Grace sleep. Now now now."

"Alright, alright. I'm going." 

"Slow." 

Rocky comes closer so he can use his ball to help him stand, where he wavers again. With Rocky there, however, he has a stable surface to steady himself on, and he makes his way to the makeshift bed, covering himself up as Rocky moves back to his side of the ship. 

"Gonna watch me sleep?" Rocky trills an affirmative. "Yeah, I guess that's fair."

"Grace will be okay?" 

"I'll be fine when I wake up. Just need to take it easy for a little while." 

"Grace rest." That's big. It had taken a long time to explain rest, the concept of not moving but not sleeping, either. In fact, this might be the first time Rocky hasn't called it "lazy." 

"Okay. Goodnight, Rock." 

"Sleep." 

It takes him no time at all to comply. 

[fangusfungs]

Here's a compilation of the disjointed doodles I did based on @ethereousdelirious 's Guzma sick fics--->HERE~ Also the last 2 are just long standing headcanons I've had about their relationship. I just jumped at the chance to shove it into a whump scenario~

[fangusfungs]

I'm allowed to return to something a year later if I want...ain't nobody tell me I can't.

[fangusfungs]

2 days before.

[highwaytosickfics]

Waltz For Eternity sickfic prompt 2

So I've noticed it being outright mentioned a few times in the campaign that Renn will sometimes either eat less than the others because he's not a fan of the food, or he skips meals entirely when he's studying, and I think this should have consequences~

So Renn wakes up one morning feeling sluggish and not knowing why. He decides to continue his day as normal bc he'd rather pull cybernetic teeth than admit something might be off with him. He spends most of the day studying, wondering why he continues feeling worse over time.

Then Jace challenges him to one of their usual sparring matches. For some reason Renn finds it more difficult than normal, but still wins in the end. Right when Jace is making a comment about Renn going easy on him, Renn ends up feeling lightheaded and faints.

Jace then freaks out and rushes Renn to the med bay. His habit of skipping meals combined with the stress of their everyday lives and Operation: Waltz caused Renn to develop a fever that the Solari refuses to acknowledge because then he'd have to REST and they have a MISSION coming up Jace, he can't skip training over a stupid illness-

He ends up spending a few days in bed with at least one other member of Elm squadron babysitting him 24/7 and he is NOT HAPPY about it.

[highwaytosickfics]

Waltz For Eternity sickfic prompt

A key part of Jace's fighting strategy involves pushing at the heat limits of his mech. This consequently makes the cockpit of his mech incredibly hot.

While Jace is pretty tolerant of heat on account of his days playing fleen and working summers in the corn fields, but he is NOT immune to heatstroke.

Cut to the rest of Elm squadron post-battle wondering why their leader isn't responding, only to see him passed out on the dash cam and they have to quickly drag his mech back to headquarters to get him treated.

[ethereousdelirious]

Publishing a casual request from @fangusfungs ! I am a month late teehee

Okay so, I kind of went insane when I was researching for this oneshot. I TOTALLY FORGOT that Hala takes Guzma under his wing after SuMo/USUM and that made my brain go BRRRR, but it's also entirely NOT what you asked for sooo what I did was write TWO oneshots that are meant to sort of thematically parallel each other

1) Post-canon, Guzma gets sick after babysitting some kids with norovirus, Hala looks after him. This one is more fluffy, which is not at all what you asked for, which is why I put it first, so it's more easily skimmed

2) The actual request! (For my other readers: Nanu "detains" Guzma to keep him from passing on norovirus to the rest of Shady House)

Basically uhhh yeah I thought it would be fun to use Hala and Nanu as narrative tools to explore Guzma's character development pre- and post-canon. And also make Guzma puke a lot 💕

Thank you for the request! I've been a big fan of yours since like 2015 😁 I hope you like the fill(s)!

I

Plumeria had that look in her eye. That squinty, hard look that usually meant she was about to tell Guzma it was his turn to take out the trash, even though everyone in Shady House knew that he was above all that stuff.

But the Shady House days were behind them, and besides, what was there to argue about?

Guzma's stomach lurched, as it had been all morning, and Plumeria's look grew more suspicious.

“Jeeze, Plumes, what?” Guzma looked away from her, to the retreating form of the island challenger they'd just seen off. “You're lookin’ at me like I just stole your wallet.”

She looked at him a moment longer, then shook her head. “Forget it.” She started back to the mansion that had once been Shady House. The hostel thing had been Plumes’ idea, once Hala had explained how squatters’ rights worked. The whole place was barely recognizable now, bright with the fresh coat of paint Hala and Guzma had applied.

Guzma's stomach turned again as he turned to follow her, his heels dragging on the flagstone. “Plumes, what? Don't you hold out on me.”

She stopped suddenly, her hair whipping around her. “Are you feeling okay? I noticed you're looking pale.”

Okay, well, that was pointed— Another cold wave of nausea crashed over Guzma. Oh, she'd just been giving him shit about not washing his hands. He couldn't stop the shudder that ran over him, couldn't stop the nasty pressure through his guts. “Don't worry about— Ulk!” He gagged, knocking shoulders with her as he doubled over. “Fuck—” Another gag, stronger. He turned to the side and just barely missed painting Plumeria's tennis shoes with a long stream of bile. “Hrk—”

With a sigh, Plumeria took him by the arm and moved him down a few steps, pushing down on his shoulders to make him sit.

Guzma folded like a lawn chair, curling his elbows around the backsides of his knees. Pain rippled through his stomach, and the Alolan breeze cooled the sweat on his brow.

“I told you to wash your hands more.” Plumeria smacked the back of his head, though not very hard. “You don't take care of six vomiting kids and not wash your hands before you eat.”

“Man, lay off.” Guzma sighed and pressed his head to his hands. He probably wasn't sick, anyway. Probably just ate a bad malasada or something.

“Don't you go sneaking off anywhere,” Plumeria said sharply. She brought her hand down as if to smack Guzma again, then let it rest on top of his head, fingers pushing through his hair. “And don't you argue with me. I'm calling Hala to pick you up.”

“Plume— Nnk—” Another gag, and a wave of tears to Guzma's eyes. He wiped them away and shut his mouth.

—

Hala came by Charizard, and called another for Guzma, having seen firsthand what the ferry did to him, even on relatively calm waters. Even still, Guzma was swallowing back thick mouthfuls of salt-tinged saliva by the time they touched down in front of Hala's house.

He dismounted roughly, and the painful shock of his feet slamming into the ground had him staggering for the bushes. He dry-gagged into the dirt, fingers curling into the bark of some tree casting a shadow over Hala's house. “Unnngh…” A long stream of saliva dripped onto the roots, and cramps jerked outward through his stomach and deep down into his guts.

“My boy.” Hala's voice came close, though not too close. “Come inside with me.”

“One, uh… Hk— One second, old man.” Guzma stared at the ground, his free arm wrapped tight around his middle. The waistband of his sweatpants, usually loose around his hips, dug into the soft flesh of his belly. He shoved it down, tugging ineffectually at the knotted drawstring when the taut fabric stubbornly stayed put.

Hala made one of his old man noises, a breathy grunt through his nose. “Are you alright?” His feet shuffled in the dirt, getting closer.

With a groan, Guzma forced himself to straighten, though he couldn't quite get his weight off the tree. “I'm not some punk kid, alright? I'm fine.”

Still, he let Hala lead him into the house and sit him down on the couch. The old man lived alone, and split his time between this house and Hau's parents’ place. Kahuna duties must have been slow this week, because he had a bunch of fishing equipment and magazines all over the living room.

Guzma fell onto the couch and leaned forward to hold his stomach, which was starting to cramp like he'd taken a hard kick dead center, right in the softest part of his belly. A glossy fisherman leered up at him from one of Hala's magazines.

“Stay put,” Hala rumbled, after beaming Guzma for a long moment.

Guzma just grunted. A particularly sharp pain shot out from behind his waistband, and he scrabbled at the knot until the ends came loose in his hands. He shoved the waistband down below the irritated bloat of his guts and kept his hand there. Fuck this. Hala obviously had some ideas about babying him, keeping him from crawling off under the porch and dying like a dog…

Hala's heavy tread preceded him by a few songs, his footfalls rattling the pictures on the walls. Usually, he was good about not getting up in Guzma's business. Today, he came up next to him, towering over him on the couch, and held out a thermometer. “Take this.”

Guzma looked around. Before him, Hala's impenetrable bulk. Everywhere else, the rest of the couch and the coffee table boxed him in. Nowhere to go. Golisopod might be able to— “Mmph!” Hala had shoved the thermometer under his tongue.

“It wasn't a request,” Hala said.

Guzma's hand twitched, but he managed to suppress the rude gesture against his belly. Fuck it. If Hala wanted to spend a few days cuddling him, what did he care? Maybe Team Skull had disbanded. Maybe Plumeria had gone her own way. But Guzma was always gonna be Guzma, no matter what. He'd never go soft.

The thermometer beeped. Hala looked at it, then squinted at Guzma. “You have a slight fever. You'd better lie down.”

“Or what?” Guzma managed. He almost wished for the thermometer again, anything to mask the sour taste in his mouth.

Hala raised an eyebrow. “Or you'll be miserable. You could make yourself worse.”

“Whatever. Just show me where, old man.”

A long silence stretched out. Hala seemed to grow larger, somehow, his presence spilling across the living room, his bulk compressing Guzma's chest.

“...Please,” Guzma added sourly.

Hala nodded. “Come. I'll put you in my guest bedroom.”

—

There wasn't much to do in Hala's quiet old house. He brought Guzma a stack of fishing magazines, hauled in an old CRT TV along with a stack of DVR'ed martial arts tournaments on tape. He kept checking in every half hour or so, bringing Guzma water and crackers to try.

Guzma slept a bit, watched shirtless dudes try to kill each other until the grainy TV screen gave him a headache, made an obnoxious number of trips to the bathroom, tried to ignore the mounting pain in his gut.

It got worse and worse, until at last, he curled up on his side, gasping. He'd been sick before and it had never hurt like this, but now the cramps might as well have been claws. He shuddered, fingers digging into the loose fabric of his T-shirt.

After a long, long moment, Hala's booming footfalls grew louder and then stopped, followed by the shuffle of bare feet sliding across hardwood.

“Lift your head,” Hala said, his booming voice softened to a rumble.

Guzma blinked his eyes open. Hala got closer slowly, giving him time to protest. Guzma didn't. The mere notion of doing anything that might jar his stomach was absolutely unthinkable. He wasn't moving.

“Hold still.” Gently, Hala slid a cool hand under Guzma's head and lifted it, then pressed a pill to Guzma's tongue. His hand withdrew, then returned with a water glass.

Guzma swallowed. The pill stuck in his dry throat, and he had to keep swallowing and swallowing, draining the glass though his stomach made constant groans of protest at the intrusion. “What was that?” he mumbled.

“Something for the pain.” Hala stepped back and crossed his arms. “You're pale as a sheet, my boy. Why didn't you ask for help?”

Guzma scoffed.

Hala's expression hardened. “Asking for help is not a sign of weakness. True weakness is refusing to be weak.”

“That… Unh…” Nausea. Deep and urgent. “That doesn't mean anything… old man…” Guzma pressed a hand to his mouth. He had to keep that pill down. His stomach lurched and he drew his knees in tighter, swallowing down a gag with effort. “You can g— Hk! Go.”

“I don't think so.” Hala leaned forward again and sat him up as easily as he might move a child. “There. Put your head between your legs.”

As if he had much choice. Guzma couldn't straighten up if his life depended on it. He closed his eyes and panted, choking on the weak gags forcing their way up his throat. No… no.

Something pressed into his chest. He cracked his eyes open. A trash can. “Just go,” Guzma demanded, his voice shaky.

A warm hand on his back. “I'll be nearby. Call for me if you need something. Do not go without.”

Hala, bafflingly, stroked Guzma's back before shuffling out. Guzma pressed his lips together, to no avail. His stomach gave an almighty lurch, and a hot wave of vomit spilled over his tongue, past his lips, made an awful sound against the bottom of the trash can. His ribs burned with the force of another contraction. He vomited again, this time with a pathetic little cry: “Unh—!”

Head spinning, stomach aching, he fell back against the pillows. The room whirled around him, his sore stomach the only point of stillness.

Steadiness came back to Guzma by degrees, and on its heels, a sensation of total exhaustion. He turned his head toward the door and the room rocked again, warning him against getting up.

“H-Hala?” His voice was nothing but a croaked, his throat burning with the effort to speak. “Hala?”

Booming footsteps again.

Hala came in with hands full, made Guzma rinse his mouth and spit. He pressed a hot water bottle to Guzma's stomach, took the trash can away, mopped the sweat off Guzma's face.

He had a soft white cloth folded in his hand, dampened with warm water. He ran it gently over Guzma's eyebrows and temples and cheeks, soothing away the awkward, sticky feeling of dried sweat on his skin.

Guzma should have killed him for it. He wanted to. Call Masquerain, sneak attack… He was just so tired. “I don't—” Guzma caught Hala's wrist when he tried to pull back, the cloth hanging loose in his hand. “I don't need any of this.”

“No,” Hala agreed. “You don't.”

“M'still big, bad Guzma.”

Astonishingly, Hala smiled and rested a warm hand on Guzma's shoulder. “I know you could tough this out. You probably have before, haven't you?”

“‘Course.”

Hala looked at him for a long moment. “There's no pride in unnecessary suffering, not even your own.”

“Sure, but—”

Hala shook his head. “Rest now. If you need something, call me. If not for your own sake, then for mine.”

“Yours?”

“Because if you vomit in my hallway, I'm the one who has to clean it up.” Hala chuckled and dragged the cloth along Guzma's brow, unsticking some of the hair which had matted there. “I'll come back to check on you.”

He got up slowly, with the stiffness of an old fighter. Guzma opened his mouth, moved by something he didn't even know how to name. “Old man.”

Hala paused in the doorway. “Yes?”

“I— You— You won't make me soft, okay?”

“Of course not.” Hala turned away. “Rest well, Guzma.”

II

Shady House had a rule.

Well, Shady House had a lot of rules, because sometimes Guzma got an idea for a good one, and sometimes he forgot some, and sometimes a little runt was smacking his gum way too loud and he had to instate a “spit that fucking gum out when Guzma tells you to or he'll put you in a headlock and take it” rule.

The rule Plumeria had just brought up was one that came around like clockwork every rainy season: “Any member of Team Skull who pukes must quarantine until Guzma or Plumeria says so.”

All she'd said was, “Quarantine rule,” but that was enough.

Guzma glared at her, fingers clenching around the mop pen he'd been examining. He let go of it and let it clatter into the pile on Plumeria's bed. “I didn't throw up.”

“I'm not stupid, G.” She sat up in her chair and rolled her eyes. “I heard that noise your stomach just made.”

“Maybe I'm hungry.” He'd always had a noisy stomach, loudly declaring hunger or digestion or sickness. Today, it was a queasy churning, but Plumeria didn't have to know that.

She cocked her head at him like a Salazzle on the offensive, like she already did know “Are you hungry? You barely touched your breakfast.”

Aw, shit. And that, she would know; they'd gone down to the corner store together and she'd watched him chuck his musubi at a Raticate not 10 minutes after stealing it. “Look—” Guzma began, but his stomach cut him off with a long, low growl of irritation.

“It's either lunch,” Plumeria said, “or it's quarantine. Pick your poison.”

—

The smell of the malasada shop hit Guzma like a physical attack. He stopped short, not quite able to jerk his arm out of Plumeria's grip. His stomach had been noisy and, okay, queasy, on the walk over. Like it fucking mattered. There was no rule about quarantining for an upset stomach.

Plumeria nearly stumbled when he stopped short. “What?”

“I just remembered, Plumes— You're not the boss here. I'm the fucking boss.” Big, bad Guzma didn't get dragged around by the arm.

“Oh, please, G.” She tightened her grip on his arm, nails digging in. “I'm buying you lunch, not making you clean my shower drain.”

“I don't want it!” Guzma clenched his teeth and swallowed hard, his stomach turning over as the breeze wafted over the smell of frying dough.

“I can afford it.” Her voice had gone sweet and light, just like plumeria flowers. “I just shook down a Grunt for trying to steal my nail polish.”

“Who the hell tried to steal from you?”

“Not the point, G.” Plumeria tugged on his arm. “C'mon. You said you weren't sick, so prove it.”

“I don't have to prove shit!” Again, Guzma tried to shake his arm free, but Plumeria's grip refused to break. “Damn, Plumes.”

She ignored this. “G, you're white as a ghost. If you're not feeling well, just say so.”

“Yeah, right.” Guzma's stomach gave a loud growl, churning up more nausea. He raised his voice to speak over it. “And let all the Grunts think they can walk all over me? Forget it. I'm not sick. I'm not quarantining. I'm not eating lunch.”

The door of the malasada shop opened and shut. The smell of frying dough hit him again, and the heavier scent of cooking meat. It stuck in the back of his throat no matter how much he tried to swallow. He pressed his nose into his sleeve, but it didn't help. His mouth flooded with saliva. “Plumes, let go of me.”

“What, so you can—”

“Let go.”

She relaxed her grip, and he shook his arm free, turning away from the malasada shop.

Too late.

Cold sweat stuck his shirt to his back. He shuddered. A violent gag bent him double. He pushed his hands to his knees and vomited coffee and stomach acid into the grass. “Unnnhhh…”

His vision grayed out for a moment, and his ears roared. When it cleared, he was standing upright, his gaze falling blankly on Plumeria. She had found a payphone half-hidden in the tall grass. She was giving an address.

Guzma spat in the grass and blinked hard. Plumeria… on the phone… Quarantine… What was she— The only word he could get out was “Narc?”

She flipped him off and turned away, clinging to the phone with both hands like he might try to wrestle it from her. Not fuckin’ likely. He was shaking so badly he could barely stand.

When Plumeria was done, she came back over to him and pushed him onto a fallen branch, felt his forehead, checked him over. Her hand felt cool against his skin, which was probably a bad sign. But she was silent, and looked pissy.

Guzma tried his luck. “Plumes?”

“If you ever call me a narc again, I'll have Salazzle scratch your eyes out.

“Damn, it was just a question. What were you doing, anyway?”

She looked at something over his shoulder, then smiled at him, poison-sweet. “Narcing.”

Nanu must have been close by, because the old man was never fast. Even now, he strolled up the path like he was just out for a walk. Cigarette between his lips, Meowth at his heels.

Guzma tried to get up to run, but a sharp jolt of pain through his stomach kept his ass glued to the branch. He glared at Plumeria. “What the fuck did you call him for, huh?”

Nanu must have been close enough to hear, because he took out his handcuffs and let them dangle from his fingers. “To show you what happens to naughty boys who break the rules.”

“Oh, please. You can't cuff me. I haven't done anything wrong.”

“For once,” Nanu said. “Get up.”

Guzma got up. Whatever. His stomach hurt. He'd let Nanu give his stupid old man lecture and then be on his way.

Nanu closed the distance between them and cuffed Guzma before he even realized what was happening. One moment, he was standing with his hands in his pockets, and the next, they were handcuffed together behind his back. “Hey, what the fuck?”

Unhurried, Nanu went over and stubbed out his cigarette in the payphone's change catcher. Whistling, he came back and planted a hand on Guzma's back. “Come on, let's go.”

“Plumes.” Struggling against the force, Guzma turned back to look at her. “When I get back, you're dead.”

She saluted him and turned away.

Nanu gave him a shove, forcing him to walk forward or risk falling on his belly in the damp grass.

“Where do you think you're taking me, huh?” Guzma demanded, trying and failing to jerk away from the pressure of Nanu's hand on his back.

“Well…” Nanu drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Plumeria asked me to take you to the urgent care, but I don't much feel like waiting around for eight hours.”

They weren't going all that fast, but Guzma's stomach protested the exertion all the same. He leaned back against Nanu's hand. “Hey, slow down.” Nothing. “I said slow down!”

Nanu slowed down. “What is it?”

“Nothing, damn.” Guzma pulled against the handcuffs. Fuck, he just wanted to cross his arms, apply a little pressure to his stomach. It was really starting to hurt, and his insides were still churning like he needed to throw up. “You know, you can't cuff me unless you're arresting me.”

“You're a flight risk.”

“Get fuckin’ real.”

Nanu smacked the back of Guzma's head. “I'm detaining you.”

“The hell you are! For what?”

“For asking too many stupid questions.”

The walk was quiet after that.

—

Nanu marched Guzma to his house at a speed that Guzma's stomach really did not agree with. The walk had soaked him in cold sweat, and he shivered despite the heavy weight of his hoodie and the hot, humid air.

Worse still, his stomach had really started to churn again the moment Nanu's yard had come into sight. Guzma swallowed hard, with difficulty, and once again leaned back into Nanu's hand.

Nanu staggered back, his sandals sliding in the dirt. “Now what?”

“I, uh—” Guzma swallowed again, then again. He couldn't get another word out before his stomach contracted and forced him over double. Without his hands to brace himself, he staggered forward and would have fallen if Nanu hadn't caught him with an arm to the stomach. His other hand cupped Guzma's forehead, but Guzma barely noticed.

Nanu moved his hand up to Guzma's chest, but the damage had already been done. Guzma gagged violently, hands straining against the cuffs. A thin rush of bile streamed over his lip, making a dark pool in the dirt. He couldn't help but sag against Nanu's arms, though the part of his brain dedicated to self-preservation was screaming at him.

He was being a little bitch. “Get, unh… Get the hell off me.” Nanu backed off and Guzma fell into a squat, balancing on the balls of his feet with his chin to his chest. Fuck, his stomach really hurt.

“And you were just going to walk around like this,” Nanu said, rattling something. He got in close again and started working at the handcuffs. “Imagine if you were in the middle of a battle right now. Plumeria did you a favor.”

The right cuff loosened, then the left. Guzma fell back on his ass, pushing his palms into the dirt once Nanu got out of the way. “And your genius plan was to bring me to your house?”

Nanu lowered down at him, his head framed by gray rain clouds. “Look, every urgent care on the island is already backed up with norovirus cases. Kids on their island challenge, you know.”

Guzma rolled his eyes and spat.

Nanu continued, “So anything I can do to keep your butt out of the hospital is a win. Now get up, you can crash on my couch.”

Easier said than done. Guzma's stomach was aching fiercely. It took him several tries to stand, and even then, it wasn't quite straight. He followed Nanu inside and made for the kitchen.

“What do you think you're doing?” Nanu asked.

“I need water.”

“Then sit the hell down. I'll get it for you.”

Guzma pivoted and went to the living room instead, dropping onto Nanu's couch, which squeaked under his weight. “Get me a beer while you're at it.”

Nanu didn't answer. A cabinet opened and shut, the tap ran. After a moment, Nanu appeared and set a glass of water on the coffee table.

Guzma took it without thanking him, sipping it and swishing to clear the awful taste of vomit from his mouth.

After a moment, Nanu said, “The bathroom's there” and pointed toward a closed door. “I don't have anything worth stealing, so don't bother looking. My stuff’s marked, anyway. Everyone knows better than to fence it.”

Guzma would have rolled his eyes, but another mouthful of water hit the back of his throat and he gagged instead, vomiting everything he'd just drunk all over Nanu's coffee table in a surprisingly violent spray. The force of it made his eyes water, and he couldn't even pretend he'd done it on purpose.

He folded forward and put his head in his hands, breathing shallowly. Fuck, that hurt. Everything hurt, his ribs, his abs, his guts. And now Nanu was probably going to smack him and make him clean up.

“After I just told you where the bathroom is.” Nanu sighed. “Get in there.”

Guzma didn't raise his head. “Huh?”

“Get in the bathroom in case you need to vomit again.”

“You're a real hardass,” Guzma mumbled. After a moment, he hauled himself to his feet and staggered to the bathroom, where he dropped to the floor and curled up with his back pressed to the wall. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Nanu's muttering to himself while he cleaned up.

Guzma must have nodded off, because the next thing he knew, his neck ached and Nanu was kicking him lightly in the side of the leg. “What.”

Nanu dropped a pillow into his lap, followed shortly by a folded blanket. “I have to go to work.”

Guzma adjusted himself against the wall and rubbed his eyes. His stomach was still twinging, albeit not with the urgent nausea of imminent vomiting. “You're not staying to make sure I don't rob ya?”

“I already told you, there's nothing to steal.” Nanu stepped back and leaned against the doorway. “I put a bucket by the couch if you want to lie down again.”

“Hm.”

“Don't die while I'm out, alright?”

“Whatever.”

Guzma sat back and waited, shivering under the weight of the blanket. He waited for Nanu to slam the door shut, then forced himself up and down the hall. He shouldered his way into Nanu's bedroom, flopped down on the bed, and closed his eyes.

If he was gonna be a hostage, he was doing it his way.

[fangusfungs]

Here's a compilation of the disjointed doodles I did based on @ethereousdelirious 's Guzma sick fics--->HERE~ Also the last 2 are just long standing headcanons I've had about their relationship. I just jumped at the chance to shove it into a whump scenario~

[fangusfungs]

I'm allowed to return to something a year later if I want...ain't nobody tell me I can't.

[highwaytosickfics]

Once Upon a Starlight sickfic prompt 3

Torbek is stubbornly loyal to the Starlight Lounge, almost to a fault.

So when he wakes up sick that day, he doesn't even entertain the idea of calling in sick; instead he brushes it off and tries to work anyways.

Thankfully, the only thing that Torbek is more loyal to than the lounge is Kremy. And Kremy cares enough about his friend that he doesn't want him working with a hundred degree fever...he's also not going to risk his best bouncer potentially vomiting on a patron and getting a health inspector called in (it's far cheaper to just close the club for a night and let Torbek rest).

[taylortut]

HEY HEY HEY!! new mash fic! this one's going to be two chapters :) i hope you enjoy! i had a hard time thinking of any super funny jokes but i think the characterization is still there! i hope!

"Stop me if you've heard this one," Hawkeye starts. 

"That's never stopped you before," Potter replies. Hawkeye would smile if he didn't feel so awful. 

"I don't see the point in me being here. Does the guy have to shake my hand? He's performing an inspection, not campaigning for office." Potter sighs in exasperation.

"You don't have to stay, but he does want to meet the chief surgeon." 

"If you keep me out here much longer, he's going to have to use a Ouija board." 

"I'll have you back in your bed in no time, I promise. Look," he announces, pointing to the rapidly approaching Jeep. "There he is, now."

Three men step out of the vehicle as it parks: the Colonel and two Captains. The latter begin unloading the luggage as Potter and Hawkeye greet the former. 

"Good morning, Colonel Hale," Potter says cheerfully, nudging Hawkeye in the ribs to remind him to salute. Begrudgingly, he does so. "I trust your ride was smooth?"

"It was anything but. The road is so bumpy, I thought we were going to lose our luggage."

"Sometimes, we put our dead in the back of the Jeep and drive around. Half the time, it's as good as chest compressions." Hawkeye jokes, quickly dropping the salute and any facade of reverie along with it. 

"Is that a joke?" Hale asks, and Hawkeye blinks incredulously, trying to fathom any way that could be taken other than jokingly. 

He's used to people saying his name in annoyance, but he rarely hears it with pure, serious malice. 

"Yes, Sir, this is our chief surgeon, Dr. Pierce," Potter replies, steamrolling over whatever grudge that this man apparently already has against Hawkeye. "I'm afraid he's a bit under the weather today, so he won't be joining us, but he wanted to say hello."

Sure, he thinks. He'd been so, so eager to shake hands with a mean old man. Despite Potter making a pretty clear statement, the Colonel, once more, looks confused and angry. Hawkeye briefly wants to ask if the bumpy roads had caused him a concussion, but it's immediately clear that he's not addled: he's pissed. 

"With all due respect, Colonel Potter," he says in a tone that implies that he's due none at all, "I find that unacceptable." Hawkeye watches Potter's posture tense. 

"When I say 'a bit under the weather,' I mean that he's ill. He needs to rest."

"I don't think so. If we expect our enlisted men to work in poor health, then I expect the same from the medical staff."

"That's so backwards," Hawkeye interjects, against his better instincts. The more humane solution would be to stop expecting that of the soldiers, but he should have learned by now that that is not the way of the war. 

"I've heard about you. Your reputation precedes you, Captain Pierce."

"Something about your tone makes me think it hasn't been saying nice things."

"Word on the street is that you're a disrespectful, smart-mouthed drunk who thinks the rules don't apply to him."

It's no wonder he doesn't want to give Hawkeye a break, he thinks. If that's what he's known for, he isn't surprised that this man wouldn't be keen on letting him wriggle out of something like this.

"I don't think the rules don't apply to me; I just resent them. A small but important difference." 

"Hawkeye," Potter mutters, clapping a hand tightly down on his shoulder as if trying to pull his leash to keep him away from another dog. "Colonel, I wouldn't let him get out of this if he were just hungover. He's been running a fever since last night, and it's my medical opinion that he's in no shape to be on his feet."

"See this?" Colonel Hale asks, pointing at a pin on his pocket. "This is a purple heart. I threw myself on top of another soldier after he tripped a mine. I had a concussion, third degree burns, and blew out both eardrums. Nobody thought I'd ever be able to hear again. I have no patience for laziness."

Hawkeye wants to argue that allowing an ill man to rest isn't exactly, but he thinks better of it. Hale is clearly an ass, and if he refuses to go on this tour, he's going to make Potter's life hell. Colonel Potter would do it for him, if the roles were reversed. 

"I'm not going to make a sick man stand in the heat just for a routine inspection."

"I'll stay," he concedes. Potter shakes his head.

"Pierce, that's not a good idea."

"In my defense, it was his idea. I'm just complying."

Knowing how stubborn Pierce is, they only argue about it for a moment before Potter caves. 

"Fine, but if you feel like you need to stop, you speak up. See?" he asks, turning to Hale. "What he lacks in decorum, he makes up for in perseverance. He's a good surgeon and a good man." 

Hale nods smugly, internally delighted to be able to throw his weight around to get what he wants. He's probably been doing it all his life.

"Now that that's settled, I'd like to begin the inspection, starting with the surgeon's quarters. Let's hope your tent is organized and your bed is made." 

"My bed is made, alright," he mumbles, following Hale and Potter as they make their way to the Swamp. "I'd love to lie in it, some day." If anyone hears the dig, they pretend not to. 

-----

Hawkeye hopes paradoxically. It's 9:00 in the morning, so if BJ or Charles are still in their pyjamas because they haven't gotten around to getting dressed for the day, it might take some on the heat off him. On the other hand, if they're fully clothed, they might get roped into this, too, and even though he's the one with the fever, he wants to spare them that. It would violate the oath he took to do no harm. 

Hale doesn't even pretend to help his subordinates bring his luggage to the VIP tent, which isn't surprising in the slightest. He does, however, have time to bark orders at his men for taking too long, for not being careful enough, for putting things in the wrong spot. All Hawkeye and Potter can do is stand off to the sidelines and watch it unfold. 

"Imagine being drafted all the way to Korea just to be a bell boy," Hawkeye muses. Potter chuckles. 

"Are you sure you're going to be alright? I can take a little flack from the Colonel if you need to be excused. I'm half tempted to dismiss you for the day, anyway. You look terrible." 

"I got all dolled up in my Sunday best for this," he replies, gesturing toward his ratty uniform and disheveled appearance. "It'd be a shame to waste it on BJ and Charles."  

"I'm serious. Has your fever been going down at all?"

"I took aspirin this morning. I'm sure that'll take care of it." 

"That wasn't my question." 

Damn. Leave it to Potter to catch him by the scruff as he dodges the question. 

"It was a little higher when I woke up, but nothing serious. I'm strong enough to stand around for a few hours just to appease this patient saint of a Colonel." His voice breaks and he coughs, which sounds deeper and more painful than it had last night. Feels it, too. "I don't like the sound of that cough." 

"It's an acquired taste. It'll grow on you." Potter rolls his eyes. 

"That's what they said about the mess tent, too." 

"Well, something is growing in there, if it's not your affection." 

"Try to keep the jokes to a minimum today, got it? The more he doesn't like you, the more he'll go out of his way to make you miserable." 

"Wait, he doesn't like me?" 

"Alright, gentlemen," Hale announces as he steps out of the VIP tent. "How's about you show me the surgeons' quarters." 

Immediately, they're off to a rough start. If he's this ornery now, seeing the still might pop a blood vessel in his brain. The part of him that craves chaos is almost looking forward to it, but mostly, he's just afraid of how he might act when he sees his own bed. The desire to climb back into it is so strong, near irresistible. He's going to have to exercise a lot of self-control, which isn't his forte. 

"Glad to see the walk didn't kill you," BJ greets without looking up from the letter he's reading, probably from Peg. 

"It still might," Hawkeye replies, ignoring the glare it earns him from Col. Hale. When he glances up, he stands, even though he's still wearing his pyjamas.  

"Colonels," he says, rising to his feet. "Good morning." 

"What the hell is that thing?" Hale snaps, wasting no time with pleasantries. 

"Life-sustaining machinery," Hawkeye replies. The walk from the front of the camp to the Swamp wasn't enough time for him to think of a good explanation for it, so he has to settle for the first thing that comes to his mind. When he sees the stack of martini glasses next to it, his face turns red. 

"You're all producing alcohol in here? Are you insane?"

"We would be without it," Hawkeye replies. 

"Colonel Potter, did you know about this?" 

Potter stands firm, unwavering in his decision to let them keep something that's so clearly against regulation.

"Unwinding is essential, and I'm not going to tell my men they can't have a drink every now and again. I believe that a few drinks in the tent is a better image than spending every night at a bar." 

"You're not starting with your best foot forward," Hale warns. Hawkeye coughs, which is once again ignored. Hale ventures deeper into the tent, deducting points for every stupid little detail. After making an ordeal of Hawkeye's unmade bed and the three pieces of unfolded laundry on BJ's, Hale finally seems satisfied with himself. Now that he's hunted down every little mistake they could make, he looks up from his clipboard.

"Alright, men, I think I've seen enough in here. Show me where you keep your medical supplies." 

"'Men'? BJ parrots. "Hawk, aren't you going back to bed?"

"It's the bare minimum that I'd expect your chief surgeon would be present for this inspection. He should have to answer to any more non-conformaties I may find." 

"That's understandable, but he can't do that today. He's running a fever. 

"So I've been told," Hale replies. Even Charles looks outraged. 

"Colonel, please, see reason. He's unwell." 

"That's irrelevant. I want him to lead the inspection, so he'll lead the inspection."

BJ and Charles exchange a glance before BJ moves to get dressed.

"Well, I'd like to tag along, too, just to keep an eye on him." Hale whirls on Potter. 

"What in god's name are you doing that your unit is so dead set on coddling Captain Pierce?" he asks, turning to Potter.

"Colonel Potter isn't to blame," Charles interjects. "I would assert that allowing an ill man to rest is far from coddling." Hale huffs an angry exhale through his nose, then turns to BJ. 

"I accept your offer to accompany us, so long as you don't get in the way."

"I'll stay quiet as a mouse," he promises, already pulling his pants on. 

"I believe I should like to attend, as well. After all, I don't want for Captain Pierce to speak for all of us." Hale agrees to that with a lot less heat than he's been showing Hawkeye. If Charles is going to be put out just for him, he must look terrible. He had a bad night, sure, frequently waking up because of his cough, nausea, and fevered nightmares, but it's a little hazy in his mind. He remembers that BJ had fetched him water and fever reducers, but that memory feels surreal, too. Because the bottle is here already, BJ shakes out two aspirin and hands them to Hawkeye, who swallows them dry. The less he has in his stomach, the more settled his stomach will feel. Maybe, if it's empty, he won't throw them up like he had this morning. 

"Alright," Hale agrees, "Get dressed, then. I'm not standing around all day." 

-------

In a rare display of faux admiration, Hawkeye decides it's in everyone's best interests that he lead the way, but he ends up slowing down because he feels lightheaded and nauseated. BJ hangs back and waits for him to catch up, face clearly sympathetic.

"He seems charming," he says. Hawkeye laughs. 

"He picked the wrong line of work. He would have made a great sweatshop foreman."

"Such a shame. How are you feeling? Are you sure you can do all this?"

"No," Hawkeye replies honestly, "but my hands are tied." BJ sighs, placing his hand on Hawkeye's shoulder and squeezing. 

"Just let me know what I can do. I'll be right behind you."

"Thanks, Beej. I've got to get going before he deducts us points for falling behind."

-------

When they open the door to the storage room, the Colonel does not exhibit the visceral disgust he'd shown in the Swamp. That may be because the first thing that catches his attention is Margaret, struggling for something on the top shelf. 

"Oh, Colonels!" she greets with a salute. "Good morning." Hale nods and turns to Hawkeye, BJ, and Charles.

"Now, that's what I like to see. Poise and a firm salute. You three could learn a thing or two from...?"

"Major Houlihan, Sir." She steps aside to make space in the small room. "Don't let me be in your way. I'm just getting another box of plaster for a cast." 

"Here," Hawkeye says, easily reaching up and handing it over as the Colonels turn around to become immediately engrossed in their inspection. 

"What are you doing here?" she asks quietly. "I thought you were on bed rest." 

"Yeah, I thought so too," he replies. She turns to Col. Hale, her expression both piteous and expectant as she reads between the lines. 

"I'm going to march over there and say something. I understand that he'd like you to participate in this, but--"

"Save your breath," Hawkeye curtails. "We've told him that ten different ways. He isn't interested. I'd march as far away from him as possible, if I were you." 

"Well, I'm not going to. You're so pale; you look like you could faint." 

"That would be a relief," he replies. "At least I'd be lying down." 

"Have you been taking aspirin? When was your last dose?"

"I took two half an hour ago, but they didn't stay down." 

She grimaces. 

"I'll give you a shot, then," she insists, already shuffling through the medicine cabinet. She returns with a vial and a syringe. "Take that jacket off." It's obvious that she's worried, because she helps him out of it. "You shouldn't be wearing it, anyway. It's too hot."

"Trying to undress me? I've only dreamed of a moment like this." 

"You're incorrigible, even when you're sick." She takes his arm and plunges the syringe into it. "This should help. If you couldn't keep down pills, I'm assuming you haven't been drinking water?"

"A sip or two here and there, when my stomach is calmer."

"However much that is, it's not enough, especially with a fever." Against her better instincts, she surrenders Hawkeye's jacket to him, warning him about spiking his fever as he puts it on and frowning when he says he's having chills. 

"Your fever must be going up. This is making me nervous, especially after what happened last night."

"Something happened last night?" he asks genuinely. 

"You don't remember?" she asks, only looking more troubled when he shakes his head. You had another night terror and ran off. You made it to post-op, in a frenzy about a patient who was discharged weeks ago, and it took a lot of convincing to calm you down."

"Oh," he says. "That's embarrassing."

"No, it's not. It was out of your control, which is exactly my point. You shouldn't be out here."

"Believe me, I'm not here just to enjoy the weather. Col. Hale is forcing my hand." 

"Well, that's just cruel. You're going to be in post-op next, right? I'll do what I can to help you."

"Margaret, you've never looked so beautiful to me. What's the code word?"

"How about the thump of you hitting the ground when you collapse?" she replies. "I think the group is heading in, now. Are you steady on my feet?"

"As a newborn giraffe." It's a joke, but it's rooted in truth, she sees, as he has to grab the side of the shelf to steady himself before following the rest of the group. 

---------

Another coughing fit that makes him feel like he might be sick keeps him outside the room for a few moments too long, it seems, because Hale glares at him when he enters. He's never been hated so much in his life, especially not by a stranger. When the Colonel stops staring at him, he turns to BJ. 

"Did you see that glare? Am I on fire?"

BJ taps out a few imaginary flames and nods in approval. 

"There. Man, this guy really has it out for you, huh?"

"He's going to deduct a point for cleanliness when he swallows me whole and spits up my bones like an owl." He coughs again, and BJ places his hand on his back.

"Sit down," he coaxes, guiding him to the nearest empty bed and helping him to sit on the edge of it just long enough to catch his breath and get his bearings. He sits on the bed, hunched over, and scrubs his hands over his face in a universal cry for help. People who are alright don't sit with their elbows on their knees. 

"Is he--"

"He's alright," BJ replies softly when Charles, of all people, comes asking after him. "Just miserable."

"Any chance you could put on my uniform and pretend to be me?" Hawkeye asks. 

"Unfortunately, I somehow can't imagine that working," Charles replies lightly. "Have you taken your temperature lately?"

"What good will that do? Not like Hale's gonna care." 

"No, but it's worth knowing, even if it's just to give us a better idea of what we're facing."

"We?" he asks, and Charles sighs. 

"Never again will this be the case," he says, "and don't give it too much thought, but for once, we're on the same team. Solely, mind you, for the purpose of the inspection. A Winchester never fails, and I do not plan to allow this inspection to be the first time." 

Hawkeye appears to read between the lines, because he smiles tiredly. Before he can reply, however, Colonel Hale is bellowing his name about something, and he doesn't seem happy. 

"Would you keep it down? There are sick people sleeping in here," Hawkeye snaps against the better judgment he lacks. 

"I wouldn't have to yell if you were standing here at attention, like you should be." 

Predictably, Hawkeye's posture doesn't change, and Charles doesn't know if it's out of defiance or if his body is just aching too much to comply. 

"Fine, fine. What's the big emergency?"

"Regulation states that these bottles are to be stored in alphabetical order," he says, gesturing to the medicine cabinet before them. 

"We put the stuff we don't use as often on the top shelf. Otherwise, the nurses won't be able to reach anything from aspirin through heparin." Hale sneers. 

"Seems like you've got an answer for everything, don't you?"

"I'd have thought you'd want an answer to your questions. If you really want to confuse me, blindfold me and spin me around."

 "Down, boy," BJ mutters. Hale spins furiously on Potter.

"You just let him talk to you with that much flagrant disobedience?"

"I would never," Hawkeye interjects. "I respect him too much for that."

That triggers a tirade. After ordering Hawkeye to reorganize the bottles himself, he moves on to the beds, starting with the first one. He's looking for--well, Charles thinks, he's not even sure what he's looking for. Thoroughness? Record keeping? He finds that he doesn't much care, and Hale doesn't seem to notice that no one is paying attention to him anymore. 

Apparently, mouthing off took a lot out of Hawkeye, because he starts flagging immediately, Out of the corner of his eye, Charles sees him begin to shift his weight from foot to foot anxiously, a nervous little dance that tells him that he's anxious. When he looks over proper, he can see that the blood that had reddened his cheeks not long ago has trickled out, leaving him white as a ghost. Something is wrong, but he can't interrupt Col. Hale's tirade. 

Suddenly, he excuses himself out of the storage room with purpose. Margaret is the first to react just before Hale can see him. 

"Colonel, I'm so curious as to how other MASH units are getting and storing their morphine. It's such a scarce resource for us, and I..." 

Charles doesn't hear the rest of the question, because before he can think better of it, he's rushing out the door after him. 

Outside, he doesn't have to search for long before he finds him, leaning against a barrel with one arm and vomiting. He can't help but pity him. This is so miserable, he wouldn't force it on his worst enemy. Without examining the sudden tenderness too much, he quietly makes his way to him when he's finally brought up the last of what little water he's been able to drink all day. 

"Captain," he calls softly, acting like he just arrived so as to not embarrass him by intruding on such a vulnerable, personal moment. Hawkeye just groans, still leaning heavily against the barrel for support. "Are you alright?"

"I can't do this," he replies, his voice raw from coughing and vomiting. "I need to tap out."

"I can only imagine," Charles agrees. "With all due respect to his rank, it's deplorable to force a man as ill as you are to walk around in the heat all day. It's downright shameful, if you ask me." 

"I'm so exhausted. I'm gonna faint if I keep this up." 

As much as he'd like to write that off as a typical Hawkeye hyperbole, he can't. Not when he's standing here with shaking chills on a hot day because he's got a fever that's doing nothing but climbing. 

"You know I find you irksome," Charles says, and Hawkeye chuckles. 

"Tying to settle unfinished business before this kills me?"

"I'm building to something. As much as your constant horseplay pesters me, I can say one thing about you: you're persistent. That can be endlessly irritating, but what I know is that when you set your mind to it, you commit to something all the way to the end. That's admirable. And if you can do it for something as inconsequential as a joke, surely, you can get through this." 

"I don't know if that's true." 

"Well, you're going to have to try." 

Hawkeye nods, then pushes himself off the barrel to give him some stability as he walks. Turns out, he doesn't need that, because Charles takes him by the forearms and steadies him.

"Do you think you could stand on your own?" 

Hawkeye sighs.

'We're going to find out." 

Apparently, Margaret has done a wonderful job stalling, because when the two of them cross the precipice once again, only Potter notices. 

"Is he alright?" Rude, Hawkeye thinks. He's right here. 

"That's a relative term," Charles replies, "but he'll survive."

"Remember that if you need to get out of here, I'll stick up for you." Stick up for him, sure, but the final decision will not be his. If they fail this, Potter will be the first person they punish.

It's got to be so, so tempting, but in a display of impressive resolve, Hawkeye shakes his head.

"It's just a few more hours. I can handle it."

He's not even trying to convince any of the three of them that's true. It just feels like the right thing to say. 

Hang in there, son," Potter say, then turns back to the inspection at hand. 

~~~~~~~~

It takes almost two horus, but after deducting enough points from post-op that Margaret's face is red with anger, he decides it's time to move on to the OR. He closely observes their technique, enraged to be able to find no faults, then borrows a pair, himself. When he finally finishes, they move to the OR, at the door to make a quick, unnecessary speech. 

"Alright. This is where the real work starts. A dirty OR is a deadly weapon. I've been generous so far, but now, my standards will be rigorous." Hawkeye almost laughs out loud when he says the word "generous," but he manages to keep it to himself. 

Hawkeye isn't sure what he's checking nor, and their score. While it would be nice to be able to see how they're doing as a unit, Hale never takes his eyes off his clipboard except to complain about things. Finally, he stops at the surgical tools, all laid out under small sheets to keep them sterile. 

"Show me your instruments." he demands, looking Hawkeye in the eyes. 

Hawkeye pulls the top towel off a tray of surgical tools, but the Colonel just stares at him. He puts the towel back in place and tries again, this time with a little flourish. That, too, is met with silence. 

"Sorry, did you mean my violin and piccolo?"  

"I want to hear you name and explain each one." 

Hawkeye blinks while that sinks in. 

"Why?"

"It's a competency assessment." 'I don't believe you're competent' is implied. If he had the energy to be defensive, he might, but as it stands, it's probably smarter to just go along with it, even though he'll be shocked if Hale makes anyone else do this today. He sighs, then turns to face away from the group and the equipment when it triggers a coughing fit. When he finally catches his breath, he sighs, then starts by pointing to the scalpel, careful not to touch it with his germy hands. 

"This pointy one here is a scalpel. I use it to make myself a door to the organs." He points to the next item on the cart, then the one next to that. Halfway through identifying forceps, his voice, which has been cracking and getting weaker with every word he spoke, gives out completely. He clears his throat and tries again, but all that comes out is a painful whisper. 

"Well? I want every instrument, and that's an order." 

"He's not being insubordinate," Potter interjects before Hale's fiery temper travels down the wick and explodes. "His voice is giving out."

"My knees are next," he manages, and though it's phrased as a joke, BJ can see that it's rooted in truth. He's pale enough to be taken for a corpse, and, if he looks carefully, he can see that he's shaking. 

"You need to sit down." He considers himself a pretty patient guy, but he doesn't empathize with anyone who prioritizes their work over someone's health, and he sees a lot of that here. It seems as though the higher up the ladder you climb, the smaller the people below you start to look. They're very lucky that Potter isn't like that. 

Hale looks as though he's about to launch into another tantrum, which is a bad thing, because most of Hawkeye's weight is being supported between BJ and Charles, now. 

"Now's as good a time as any to break for lunch, don't you think?" Potter asks. 

"That's a great idea, Colonel," Margaret agrees a vehemently as she can attempting to rush them without looking like she's doing it on purpose. "Maybe you could inspect the mess while you're there and knock out two birds with one stone."

"Hawkeye's going to hang back for a few minutes," BJ says. "I need his opinion on something, and it can't wait."

Predictably, Hale has been all over Hawkeye about being present for this inspection, but he's all too eager to sacrifice him to this duty, whatever it may be, when it comes to having a meal. and a rest. 

"We'll catch up with you all, later. After you," he says, gesturing for him to Hale to exit. "I'll stall him as long as I can," he promises the group once he's out of earshot. 

As soon as the doors shut, Charles and BJ usher him back to post-op and ease him down into one of the empty beds. Immediately, desperate concern crackles in the air around him like static. 

"He needs fluids, antipyretics, and antiemetics, as fast as we can. I don't know how long the Colonel can stall for." Margaret hurries off to gather supplies while Charles begins taking his vitals. 

"His blood pressure is low, and his pulse is rapid. He's extremely dehydrated." After a moment, he plucks the thermometer back from Hawkeye's mouth and frowns at the reading. "103.2," he says grimly. 

"How are you feeling, Hawk?"

All he can muster is a groan. 

"Right. I probably could have guessed that. Just lie back."

Margaret returns with the meds and fluids, then presses her hand to his forehead as if to confirm that the number she'd just heard is accurate. 

"God, you're burning up," she frets. BJ places the IV in one arm while Charles gives the shots in the other. Normally, he'd take them orally, but he couldn't keep them down. 

"What else can we do for you?" BJ asks. "This'll help, but it's not gonna be enough."

"Blankets?"

"Your temperature is too high to let you bundle up," Charles says. "I'm afraid you'll have to settle for medication and a nap."

"I'll take what I can get." He shuts his eyes, throwing the arm without the IV over his eyes. 

"Let us know if you need anything. We'll all be here," Margaret reassures. For a moment, he's sure that he's too miserable to sleep, but he almost immediately proves himself wrong. 

[highwaytosickfics]

i always read your user to the tone of highway to hell lol

lol XD you're correct

[highwaytosickfics]

Once Upon a Starlight sickfic prompt 2

Frost knows what to do when he feels one of his "headaches" coming on: he takes one of his pills from Kremy, he spends a few minutes winding down, and then he's relatively fine.

Today's headache feels different though; rather than spawning from a panic attack, Frost found himself waking up with a minor headache that didn't seem to go away even after he took his meds. In fact it only seems to be getting worse. Why are the lights in the club so bright?

AKA

Frost gets a normal migraine and cannot figure out how to handle it since it's not tied to his esper abilities. Thankfully his friends know how to handle it.

[highwaytosickfics]

Once Upon a Starlight sickfic prompt

Kremy canonically overworks himself, running himself ragged to keep the club out of the red. Clubs also tend to be pretty big hotspots for germs spreading around.

So the new bug going around the district makes its way to the club, it hits Kremy hard and fast.

Still, a business can't run itself and Kremy just doesn't have the time for a night off. Besides he mostly just needs to get paperwork done. Surely he just needed to push through it and everything would be fine...

...his crew disagrees.