Hi guys, I’m back after a month hiatus. I meant to make this one part, but tbh I need to break this thing up a little - it’s going to be like 2 very distinct parts, if that makes sense.
Anyway! This is per the usual a male-centric sickfic that features Elijah and Greyson, and it’s a big ol’ contagion dumpster fire. Seriously, if you’re not into contagion this won’t be your thing lol. Elijah is real bad at keeping his germs to himself. It’s based loosely on one of the prompts in my inbox, but nothing from the prompt features in this part (lol, sorry) so I’ll post the prompt at the end of the next part. Thank you to whoever is sending prompts!! I love and am inspired by all of them.
Next part will hopefully be up tomorrow or Sunday!
Onward :)
cw: male, colds, fevers, coughing, contagion, some mess
Downfall
“No fuckin’ way you’re sick again.”
Elijah rolled his eyes from behind a tissue and flipped Greyson off. “I don’t wandt to talk about it,” he said, collapsing into his rolling chair next to the chef and blowing his nose. “hhGTSHH-uhh! Snfr. And also,” Elijah tossed the tissue in the trashcan and looked pointedly at Greyson. “You stay the fugck away from mbe.”
Greyson recoiled and barked out a shocked chuckle. “Stay the fuck away from you? What, did you have a dream I tried to stab you or something?” He shuffled through their shared cabinet of medicines and plopped the dayquil and ibuprofen in front of his boss. “Or do you think I gave you this, your fourth cold in less than three months? Because I,” Greyson placed a hand on his own chest languidly, “have an amazing immune system.”
“Oh Jesus fuckigg Christ,” Elijah groaned, snapping open the bottle of dayquil and chugging.
“Well, congrats, Grey. You just fucked yourse – hhINGSTZUE! Snf. Yourself.” Elijah pulled more tissues from the box on their shared desk and blew his nose again while Greyson laughed.
“You’re so goddamn dramatic,” Greyson said, sitting back in his chair and watching his boss try to collect himself. “I would’ve loved to have met you in middle school.”
“Fuck off,” Elijah said, pressing his fingers deep into his aching eye sockets. Greyson, taking pity on him, pushed the ibuprofen towards the GM. “Thangks,” Elijah said, taking a few with a sip of an old water cup sitting next to the computer. He turned back to Greyson, his look no longer one of bemusement. “I’mb serious, though. Dond’t combe any closer than where you’re at right now.”
“I wish you were less cryptic sometimes. It’s like working with a troll that guards a bridge and won’t speak to you clearly unless you solve his riddles three.”
Elijah sighed and unzipped his jacket. “Grey, we have that wedding this weekend.”
“And?” Greyson asked holding his hands palms-up, expectant.
“And,” Elijah said, turning to cough into his sleeve, away from Greyson. “Mbatt cannot handle a fifty-persond, special mendu wedding on his own, Grey. He’s great, but he isn’t ready for that.” Elijah gave Greyson a look as if to say ‘are you getting it now?’, but Greyson was still bald-faced. Elijah sighed again.
“If you get sigck, we’re fucked,” he stated simply. “So you have to stay away fromb – hhNGSTH-ue! GTSH! Hhuuh...huhIGSTZHUE!” Elijah crumpled towards the wall to sneeze into his sleeve. He felt Greyson push the tissue box over to his side of the desk, and held out the hand not currently tending to his nose to stop the chef.
“Alright, alright, relax,” Greyson said, sitting back in his chair while Elijah pulled some tissues out and cleaned himself up. When he sat back up, he gave Greyson a watery glare.
“I’ll relax whend this week is over,” Elijah growled. “For ndow, just stay away. Okay? You cand help mbe out by leaving mbe alone and ndot getting sick. It’s our first wedding ever, Greyson, and I really wandt us to be able to do mbore. So it has to be perfect.”
“I’m sure the people getting married would describe ‘perfect wedding’ as ‘general manager of restaurant we’re getting married at sneezes through the ceremony’,” Greyson teased, standing and putting on his chef’s coat over his t-shirt. Elijah flipped the chef off, noncommittal.
“It’s only Mbonday,” Elijah said. “I’ll be good by Saturday.” He gave Greyson another very pointed look before the chef walked into the kitchen to begin the day’s prep. “You better be, too.”
“Oh, please, boss,” Greyson said, strolling out of the office and towards the prep table. “Like I said; my immune system is incredible.”
***
9:13AM
mornin, boss. just checking to make sure ur among the living.
10:42AM
hellooooo, lij, u good?
11:24AM
where r u??????
Greyson looked down at his phone for the tenth time in as many minutes; Elijah had read his texts, but hadn’t answered any of them. He tapped his foot impatiently and stared at the computer screen until he heard the ding of a new text.
11:36AM
Not coming in today. Sleeping off this plague so I’m 100% for the weekend. Did you need something from me?
The chef raised an eyebrow at his phone before typing out a response.
11:37AM
oh! k, nope im all good. feel better, if u need i can drop some soup or smthn off to u??
11:38AM
I’m alright. Thx. Text me if the numbers jump up, I’ll come in for service for anything over 100 covers.
Greyson clicked his phone off without responding; he wouldn’t text Elijah even if the covers jumped to eight million. If that man was taking a sick day, he obviously needed it.
Although he was surprised, Greyson couldn’t say he didn’t think his boss needed this sick day; Elijah had basically huddled in the office all day yesterday, only to be roused for the rush around 7PM. After an hour or so of table touching, he’d retreated back to his chair to cough and sneeze in peace.
“Christ, boss, where the hell did you pick this shit up?” Greyson had asked around 8 when he’d come into the office to do some paperwork post-rush. He’d leaned towards the GM to place a hand on his pale face, only to be rudely waved off.
“Dond’t touch mbe,” Elijah had croaked. “I’mb ndot risking you getting sick.”
Greyson had rolled his eyes. “Lij, please,” he said, “I haven’t caught any of your other thirty colds you’ve had this year, why would this be THE ONE?”
Elijah just shook his head, clearly too exhausted to answer. “Just trust mbe,” he said. “We ndeed you to be here for this wedding. I cand barely stand, Grey,” Elijah said; a rare moment of vulnerability. “Just give mbe the peace of mbind of you staying healthy.”
The chef sighed through his nose and took a step back. “Alright, boss,” he said, putting his hands up in defeat. “I won’t touch you. Just…I mean, just like, stay there. I’ll drive you home as soon as the guys are done cleaning.”
And that was exactly what he did. At ten, Greyson was waving to Elijah as the ill man trudged up the steps to his building, wondering how the hell he was going to make it all the way to the twentieth floor. By midnight, Elijah had stopped responding to his texts making sure he was alive, and now here he was, wondering who the hell this creature that slept in and took sick days was, and what it had done with his boss.
Greyson shoved his phone into his pocket and headed back into the kitchen. To his shock, Mark was standing at the prep table, obviously looking for him.
“The hell are you doing in my kitchen?” Greyson joked, clapping a hand on Mark’s back. The other man didn’t move, so Greyson walked around to face him. “Helloooo, earth to Mar -”
“HNGSTZHUE!” Mark, obviously unprepared for Greyson’s appearance, didn’t have time to raise his elbow all the way to his face. Greyson winced and attempted to step back, but the deed was done; he lifted a hand to his face and wiped the floor manager’s sneeze from his eyebrow.
“Oh shidt, Greysond, Chef, I’mb so sor – hh’TSHHzue! HhNGSTTZUE!” Mark managed to cover those with his sleeve, along with a crackling cough that went on entirely too long for anyone’s comfort.
“Yikes,” Greyson said, leading the floor manager into his office and easing him into Elijah’s chair. “Elijah got you good, man,” he joked, handing Mark the nearly-depleted box of tissues Elijah had left on the desk yesterday. Mark took one and held it in his hand, looking at Greyson miserably.
“I’mb so sorry Greyson, I didn’t mbean to sndeeze on you, Christ Elijah’s going to kill mbe,” Mark said, swiping the tissue under his nose and sniffling. Greyson chuckled at the younger man.
“I hope you mean you’re going to kill him for getting you sick,” he said, opening the medicine drawer for Mark’s perusal. Mark shook his head, not even bothering to look at the medicine.
“Ndo,” he said. “He’s beend like completely nuts about you ndot getting this… whatever, before the wedding. That’s why he isn’t here, he texted mbe this morning and asked if I could handle the floor on my own. He said he’s afraid he’s going to cough on you or something and the whole wedding will be ruined.” Mark looked up then, devastated. “But ndow it’s for ndothing, because I’m the one who’s going to get you sick.”
Greyson slowly raised an eyebrow at Mark, then placed a kind hand on his knee. “Mark,” he said, “I say this with all the love in my heart: Elijah is a weirdo. He gets an idea in his head that something bad is going to happen and then it becomes inevitable in his mind. Trust me when I say that I have a great immune system, and I’m going to be fine. Okay?”
Mark nodded miserably and Greyson patted his knee again. “Good man,” he said. “Now, the real question is did you tell Elijah that you’re also sick as a dog?” Mark gave the chef an apologetic look, which Greyson knew meant no. Greyson pulled a hand down his face and sighed.
“Okay,” he said, digging through the medicine drawer. “Well. Take some of whatever strikes your fancy in here. I’m going to go have the hostess close the books for the night.”
Mark nodded, obviously exhausted. Greyson stopped himself halfway out the door to turn to the floor manager again. “And, uh...let’s not mention this to Elijah.”
Mark attempted a laugh. “Sure thing, Chef,” he said, swigging some dayquil. “We’re definitely ond the sambe page there.”
***
By ten PM, Greyson was more ready for a drink than anyone in the history of the world.
“Mark, go home!” he yelled through the kitchen doors when he heard the manager succumb to yet another coughing fit. “I’ll finish the damn paperwork, just gooooo.”
Mark slunk through the kitchen doors, shivering and sniffling, and barely acknowledged Greyson when he grabbed his coat and headed for the back doors.
“And don’t you fuckin’ dare come in tomorrow!” Greyson called as Mark gave a weak little wave goodbye behind his head. “I’ll tell Elijah you’re one foot in the grave.” Mark gave a thumbs up without looking back and pushed through the back doors, so only Greyson and his sous chef remained.
“Christ, he sounds like shit,” Greyson murmured, pulling a hand down his face. He turned to Matt, who was seated in Elijah’s chair looking through the schedule on the computer. “How’re you holding up?”
“Mmm, fine, Chef,” Matt said, scrolling through the document. Greyson could’ve been hearing things, but he swore Matt gave a liquid little sniffle afterward. He whipped his head towards his sous, eyes crazed.
“No,” he said, vehement. “Absolutely the fuck not.”
“It’s ndothing, Chef,” Matt said, still not looking away from the computer. Greyson audibly groaned and put both hands over his eyes, a weak attempt to escape the hell that was the pestilence Elijah had bestowed upon them all.
“Fuck, Matt,” Greyson muttered, sitting back up. “Okay, you go home. Now. I’ll finish your shit, too.”
“I’mb okay, Chef, really,” Matt said, pawing at his nose in an attempt to clear it. “I promi – ITSZH-ue!”
“Matt, oh my God, go,” Greyson said, exasperated. Matt flinched and nodded, logging off the computer and grabbing his jacket.
“I’ll be good by tomorrow, boss, I prombise,” Matt said, stifling a painful-sounding cough into his fist. Greyson gave him a look with eyes so wide that one started to twitch. Matt held up his hands and backed off. “Sorry,” he said.
“Matt, full offense, if you don’t get the hell out of this restaurant in the next three seconds, I’m going to drop kick you,” Greyson said, pointing towards the back door. “Go.”
Finally, Matt did as he was told and slipped out the back door, leaving Greyson to put his heavy head in his hands. Only one thing left to do.
Greyson picked up his cell phone from the desk and dialed his most-dialed contact.
“Hey, boss,” he said when Elijah picked up. “We, uh… we have a bit of an issue.”
