Elliot's Drabbles - Original

[kendisima]

Hi everyone - 

It's been MANY years since I've posted anything on here, but I've gotten back into writing original sickfic and needed somewhere to post it, so I'm back and posting.  I've written a story on here before (I think) featuring two of these characters; these little pieces feature three main characters.  

Elijah - restaurant owner.  

Greyson - restaurant chef (also former assassin, but that doesn't really apply in these drabbles).

Mark - restaurant manager. 

The world is the restaurant Elliot's.  These are ''''drabbles''' only in the loosest sense - they're about 1,000 words a piece.  Also, they are much more sickfics than sneeze fics - so far one of the pieces doesn't even have sneezing (oops).  I'm basing them off some prompts I found a looong time ago, which I'll post at the end of each fic.  

Let me know if there's anything in particular anyone would like to see.  I'm feeling creative lately, and want to write more with these characters.

Onward!

 

Open Secret

“So… is anyone going to say anything?”

Mark gave Greyson a deadly look.  “Not unless you want to get your arm chewed off,” he said offhandedly.  Greyson raised an eyebrow slowly; he hadn’t worked for Elijah for that long, but he figured the guy couldn’t be as stupid as he seemed to be today. 

Elijah had shown up, as he always did, at noon on the dot.  Greyson had been in since ten a.m., prepping up for the busy Saturday night they had ahead of them before the rest of the team came in.

“Hey man,” he said, using his chef’s knife to wave at Elijah as he walked in.  “How’s it goin’?”

“Going,” Elijah muttered, shutting himself in the chef’s office and erupting with a huge sneeze that Greyson could practically feel, even with the door closed.  He winced when he heard it; Elijah must have finally come down with that awful cold everyone else in the restaurant had had last week.  It might have been a little bit funny – Elijah had laughed and laughed as Greyson, Mark, and every server coughed their way through preshift and service, gloating about how amazing his immune system was – if the way Elijah was blowing with nose didn’t sound so painful.

Greyson put his knife down and strode over to the office, tapping lightly on the door. “Hey, Lij,” he said to the closed door.  “Anything I can get you, man?  I can make you some of that tea Lexi brought over last week.”

Without notice, Elijah threw the door open and gave Greyson the dirtiest look the man had ever seen. If possible, Elijah looked even worse than he sounded – his eyes were rimmed red, nose was leaking, cheeks were flushed – but instead of taking Greyson up on his very generous offer, he just gave him a dirty look.

“I have paperwork to do,” he growled, his voice at least three octaves lower than usual.

Greyson raised an eyebrow as Elijah pushed past him, laptop in hand, towards the dining room.

“Uh,” he said once Elijah had exited the kitchen, “okay.”

 

“I know you’re new here,” Mark said, sounding annoyed, “but this happens every time he gets sick.”

“What?” Greyson asked, spinning in his chair, “everyone just acts like everything is fine?  He sneezes and coughs around everyone and we all just pretend like he isn’t?”

Mark shrugged, sat back in the chair across from Greyson and put his arms behind his head. “Pretty much.”

“That’s fucking bizarre, man.”

 “Yep.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, until the sound of Elijah sneezing – hard, three times – into his elbow made them both turn towards the open door.

“What?” Elijah snapped, sucking in hard through his nose.

Mark just shrugged.  “Nothing,” he said, turning towards the computer and pretending to type something into an email.  Greyson didn’t look away from his boss.

 “You sound like fucking shit, dude,” he said to Elijah after an awkward beat of silence.  Mark gave him crazy eyes without turning his head.  Elijah rolled his eyes, which looked more painful than it ought to.

“Whatever, Greyson,” he said, turning to leave the kitchen.  He only has to stop once on his way to the kitchen doors to sneeze again.

 

It was post-service, and Elijah was coughing so hard that Greyson had seen him gag once.  He couldn’t breathe out his nose, and the high spots of color on his cheeks implied that he was sporting an intense fever – and yet still no one said anything.

“Have a good night, boss,” one of the servers said, pulling her coat on and waving goodbye to Elijah.  Elijah put one hand up in a meager wave, the other hand covering his nose and mouth.  He was back in the chef’s office, sitting in Greyson’s chair and pretending to do work while he slowly depleted a whole box of Kleenex.  Greyson was watching, fuming, from the chef’s table, where he was cleaning off his knives.

He knew what he had to do.  He just had to wait until everyone was gone.

It took about twenty more minutes – minutes that Greyson spent very slowly wiping down the expo line, each of his tools, and even the grill – but eventually all the staff left.  Mark took the laptop into the dining room with a glass of wine to do the nightly paperwork, giving Greyson a don’t try it look as he left the kitchen.  Finally, once they were alone, Greyson turned the stove back on and boiled a pot of water.

He knew Elijah wasn’t watching him.  He was too busy sneezing every other minute and groaning into the severely-contaminated arm of his button-down shirt. 

Greyson took two generous scoops of the natural cold-remedy tea that the restaurant owner next door had given them last week and spooned them into two teabags.  Once the water came to a boil, the chef placed the bags into the water and let them steep.  He allowed himself another glance at Elijah, whose cough was quickly dissolving from an irritating wheeze to an unhealthy sounding bark, before turning the stove off and pouring the tea expertly from the pot into two of the largest mugs the restaurant had.  He took a deep breath and headed into the office.

Elijah had also been poured a glass of wine when Mark opened the bottle, but he hadn’t touched it.  Instead, he’d pushed it off to the side and stared into the blank face of his computer screen, hardly moving.  Greyson sat down with the two mugs in hand and pushed one over to Elijah.

 “I made this for you,” he said.

Elijah gave him the dirtiest look he could muster.  “I don’t need tea,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now.  Greyson shrugged and took a sip of his tea.

“Made extra,” he explained off handedly.  “I was feeling a little run down.  Thought you might want some as well.”

Elijah swallowed compulsively and placed a hand on his aching throat.  “Thought you were sick last week,” he said, looking down forlornly at the tea.  Greyson blew on his steaming cup and looking Elijah in the eyes.

“Yeah,” he said.  “I was.”

Elijah looked at him for a moment longer, and finally picked up the tea.  “Thank you,” he managed, taking a sip.  Greyson just nodded.

“Whatever you need, boss.”

 Prompt:  "everyone knows (character) is sick, but they’re trying so hard no one has said anything"

 

Irreplaceable

“You need to go home.  Like, now.”

Elijah crosses his arms at the chef – who at this point is more biohazard than man – and tries to look as in-charge as humanly possible.  Maybe if Greyson is afraid that he’s going to get fired, he’ll put on his coat and leave.

The chef swallows around tonsils that he’s sure are the size of golf balls and manages to squeeze an answer out.  “Shelly… quit.”

Elijah’s arms drop from their authoritarian position and his eyes widen – fuck.

“You’re kidding.”

Greyson shakes his head, thankful that the sentence doesn’t require a verbal response.

Elijah stares at Greyson for another moment, and then says it aloud:  “Fuck.”

Greyson just nods.

Fuck.

 

This had started five days ago, when Greyson was complaining of a sore throat during his, Elijah’s, and Mark’s post-shift drink.

“Just order me a shot of whiskey,” he’d said to Elijah when they got to the bar a few doors down from the restaurant.  “My throat’s killing me.”

"Heard,” Elijah said, nodding and pushing through the crowd to get to the bartender.  Greyson and Mark found a coveted corner booth and sat down while they waited for their boss to return with the drinks.  Greyson massaged his lymph nodes with two fingers while Mark laughed at him.

“Dude, you need to get it together,” he said, taking a pull from his vape.  “It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday.  Take some Airborne or something.”

“Already did,” Greyson said, pulling a half-empty package of Airborne out of his back pocket.  “For the past three days.  Not helping.  Help yourself, though.”

Mark did, wordlessly, and they both sat in awkward silence for a moment.  “Well, at least you have a sous.  Remember on Christmas, before we had Shelly?  That shit was fucking rough,” Mark said.  Greyson laughs a little.

“Yeah, you think I could forget doing 400 covers with nothing but a five-man line?” Greyson said, laughing.  Mark smiled.

“Fair enough,” Mark said.

After another minute or so, Elijah returned with the drinks and they all sat, silently sipping their drinks, until Elijah pulled something out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Greyson.

“For your throat,” he said, placing it on the table next to Greyson’s whiskey.  It was a single cough drop.  Greyson almost spit out his drink laughing.  “What?” Elijah asked.

“Dude,” Greyson said, “how fucked up did you have to be to actually go to the store and purchase cough drops?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Elijah said, rolling his eyes and shooting back his shot of tequila.  “Just eat the damn cough drop and shut the hell up.”

 Greyson did as he was told, gently placing a hand on his swollen throat after placing the drop in his mouth.  He’d be fine by Sunday – and if he wasn’t, Mark was right: at least he had Shelly.

 

“How in the fuck did you let Shelly quit?!”

Greyson wasn’t 100% sure he was going to be able to speak for long enough to explain what had happened to Elijah – how Shelly had walked in this morning, clearly drunk, and Greyson had told her that she needed to pull it the hell together, that it was one of the biggest restaurant days of the year and he expected more of her, only to have her almost immediately pick her stuff back up and flip him off as she walked out the door – so he just shrugs. “Difference… of opinion.”

“That makes no fucking sense, Greyson,” Elijah says, pulling one hand slowly down his face.  He takes a deep breath and looks Greyson over, hard, from head to toe.  The chef is sweating, shivering, and barely able to stand – in fact, one of his hands is placed firmly on the chef’s table, steadying the rest of his body.  It’s nine a.m., and in 45 minutes floods of people are going to be filling the restaurant.

“Ok,” he says, sighing and looking Greyson in the eye.  “How sick are you?  Like, scale of one to ten.”

Greyson shrugs, puts up the hand that isn’t on the chefs table and places two fingers extremely close together, as if to say, just a little.  The loopy look on his face suggests otherwise.

“Do you have a fever?”               

Greyson shakes his head.  Elijah reaches across the block of granite between them and places a palm squarely on Greyson’s forehead.  He’s absolutely steaming.

“Liar.”

 Greyson shrugs again.

 “Do you have strep?”  Elijah asks eyeing the chef in a serious manner.  Greyson pauses, and shakes his head.  Elijah sighs.  “Open your mouth.”  Another head shake.  “Don’t make me do it for you, Greyson.  That’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”

Greyson rolls his eyes, opens his mouth as far as he can without disturbing his throat.  Elijah shines his phone’s flashlight into Greyson’s mouth and groans. 

White spots.  Lots of them.  It’s like Greyson’s body took its illness directly from a medical book; looked up strep throat and copied the symptoms to a T.  Greyson closes his mouth and mouths, sorry.

 “Please, please tell me you’re at least on antibiotics,” Elijah says, already knowing the answer.  Greyson just looks down.  He’s exhausted, he’s so sick, and he really does want to go home.  But he knows he can’t.  So, this time he doesn’t lie to Elijah.  He shakes his head.

“Goddamn it, Greyson,” Elijah says, startling the line staff, who are wordlessly finishing up Mother’s Day prep.  They look at each other, but not at their bosses; the awkwardness could be cut with a knife at this point.

Elijah takes a deep breath and again regards the chef – who at this point is staring at the floor, still holding onto the table with one hand, and now holding his throat with the other.  He wishes he hadn’t yelled, wishes he wasn’t so pissed, but it’s too late for that.

“Okay,” he says, finally, “here’s the plan.”

 

It’s ten p.m., and Greyson’s hands are shaking so badly he can barely stab the last ticket of the night.

Good job, he mouths to his line cooks.  He holds both his thumbs up to reiterate the point, and then heads for the office, where he sits down, more grateful than he ever has been for a chair.

He lets out a single, painful cough into his hand, and his eyes well with tears at the pain.  Elijah comes into the kitchen – the last plate of food has been sent out, and that means it’s on to holding up his end of the bargain he made with the chef more than twelve hours earlier.

“You can’t leave,” Elijah had said earlier in the day.  “We need someone to be doing expo.”

Greyson nods, obviously in agreement.

“But you can barely talk,” Elijah continues.  “And you’re running what’s probably about a 102 degree fever.”

Greyson shrugs – these are also truths. 

“So here’s what’s going to happen:  we have three times that are the busiest; during those times, Mark is going to come back and call the tickets.  You’re going to garnish all the plates, obviously, but we need you to be wearing a mask and gloves at all times, and no I don’t care how stupid you think you look.  During the slower times, you’re going to take someone off the line and have them do expo, while you sit down and hydrate and Mark does a couple rounds on the floor.  We aren’t accepting walk ins, obviously.  And then, the moment the last plate of food goes out, I’m taking you to urgent care.  The line can close everything down, and Mark will check them out.  Understood?”

Greyson’s jaw would have dropped if the action wouldn’t have made him pass out from pain.  He knew Elijah was good in a crisis, but jesus.  The man should’ve been in his line of work – and he didn’t mean chefing.  Greyson nodded; yeah.  Sounded good to him.

So, they’d somehow made it work.  There was about an hour where Greyson was in so much pain that he thought he was going to pass out, so Elijah himself had run expo.  Once Greyson had drank about a gallon of tea, taken six ibuprofen, and shoved three cough drops into his mouth, he’d resumed his post.  His voice was completely wrecked, and after using the last of it to yell that his team needed to move faster, it was completely gone.  He was pretty sure his lymph nodes were the size of golf balls.

And now, at exactly ten-oh-five, Elijah was greeting him in the office with his jacket and a to-go cup of what he was sure was more tea.

“Well done, chef,” he says, holding out the cup.  “Now, it’s time to go.”

Greyson nods, manages to stand up, and only blacks out a little bit on his way out the door.  Elijah catches him before he hits the ground, and uses one arm to hike him back onto his feet.

“Y’know,” Elijah says, clearly trying to keep the worry out of his voice, “I know I said I was taking you to urgent care, but I think that the emergency room is probably closer…”            

Greyson, too exhausted to argue with his boss, just nods.  Elijah smiles.

“Happy fuckin’ Mother’s Day.”

 

Prompt: "(character) is the leader/boss and isn’t able to take personal time off, even when they’re under the weather"

Edited because after all these years I still don't know how to format. 

[queenie]

Good start! I’m excited to spend more time here.