In Sickness, and in Health (M, pt. 2/2)

[gay-for-the-snz]

I was possessed by something over the last couple weeks (likely inspiration from Monochrome's absolutely fantastic wedding fic), and couldn't shake the thought of Elliott being sick at a wedding. Despite the fact that the last thing I wrote was about a divorce, this is not his wedding, and also is set years after the last thing. Modern!AU, and crossposted from Tumblr! This is part one, due to length

⁂⁂⁂

He's always loved weddings. There's something about them that always touches him so deeply in his heart--seeing two people who truly, deeply love eachother, joining their lives together in front of people that they love and who love them in turn--it's always enough to bring tears to his eyes during any ceremony. That said, he doesn't know that he would like to be a part of this one. It's for a coworker, and, unfortunately, not one he even knows that well, given that they work opposite shifts. Niklas and Bolormaa are also attending--as is the Captain, though as the officiant. He didn't know he had that qualification, but apparently it's faster and easier to get that than he realized--so it's nice that he won't be alone, but he got pulled on short notice to be a groomsman.

He should consider it a great show of trust and admiration! An honor, even! But he doesn't know the first thing about being a groomsman! It seems now, the day before this thing starts, that the job involves a lot of standing around and talking to other people, and trying to get all those last minute details sorted out. Most of them seem to be something like 'where did the groom put his tie?' and 'why did only 100 people RSVP and yet suddenly everybody has a plus one?' and 'what are we going to do to seat a bunch of extra people?'. He's spent the last two hours hauling chairs and tables in the back of his  shitty little hatchback to answer the last one, at least.

He has also spent the last two hours feeling vaguely like he might sneeze. Like his nose is just starting to drip; too little to really effectively sniff back, but too much to ignore the feeling like he has to sniffle. He hauls the last chair in the doors of the weird little triplex that Matthew and Colleen have been living in for the last couple years, and jogs up the stairs to where everyone has gathered on the back porch like soldiers being mustered for battle. "I think that was all of them. Do you mind if I--snf!--if I use your bathroom before I head home?"

Matt looks absolutely frazzled, but grateful for the assistance, and visibly sags with relief that at least one detail has been fully sorted out. "Yeah absolutely, it's the first door on your left."

He gratefully follows the directions, quietly closing the door behind him and taking the opportunity to inspect himself in the mirror. He doesn't look sick. He doesn't even really feel sick. Maybe a touch of his allergies breaking through, or maybe just the chilly evening air that often teases his nose, but it doesn't really feel like it's a cold. Not yet, anyway. He blows his nose into a couple tissues, though it isn't even really necessary, and washes his hands again. Maybe he'll make a cup of tea when he gets home, and take one of those Emergen-C packets that have been languishing on the counter for a couple months because he keeps forgetting they exist.

It isn't until he wakes up the next morning that he accepts that the 'slightly runny nose and vaguely tickly feeling' were, unfortunately, the precursor to a cold. His eyes barely squint open at his alarm before he's squeezing them shut again with a shaking gasp and a--"huh--'dzhue! hu-UHDzhieww! iiIZZHH'hue!" He drags a hand out from under the covers only in time to catch the last one, grimacing as he reaches for the roll of toilet paper on the nightstand to swipe at an already drippy and prickly nose. 

It isn't quite settled in yet, he's sure he can still get himself relatively well in order if he tries. He'll be more than good enough to do the wedding and then get home, but he's sure that tomorrow it's going to be hitting him hard. The blankets are warm and comfortable, and he feels like he's shivering more than the situation would really warrant, wrapping his arms around himself with a "good-ness!"

It's a struggle through getting ready, slugging back some DayQuil that's almost definitely expired, and by the time he's on the road, having opted to avoid putting his dress shirt on and wrinkling it before the wedding starts, he is very much regretting having grabbed a tee shirt as his current wear and not a sweater. He cranks the heat way up, even though it isn't going to be too chilly today, and shivers even despite the warmth.

He's seen pictures of the wedding venue, and it's definitely beautiful, but a two hour drive is definitely not his ideal location. Luckily it's mostly interstate through bleak nothingness where the speed limit becomes a speed suggestion and everyone is free to pass him for not doing more than 75 in a 70, which gives him more leniency in how much attention he is paying, versus the jam packed snarl of junctions he'll have to hit on the way back. But it's only eleven now, and the wedding is supposed to start at one thirty, be wrapped up entirely by eight, and then he'll be home by ten, having missed the commuter traffic well enough to not add any additional time to the trip. He tears a couple tissues out of the half empty box on the passenger seat beside him, and awkwardly works to fold them with his non dominant hand enough to bring them to his nose and blow it more forcefully than he would ever dare around anyone else. The sound still makes him wince even if no one else can hear it. Gross.

He's hopeful the DayQuil will kick in sooner rather than later, and that the suggested "use by" date has more clemency than this cold does so far. But, really, it's just a cold. It would be exceptionally inconsiderate to cancel over something so minor, but especially when it's the day of. Clearly Matt was desperate if he asked a coworker to be a part of the wedding party, and especially when they aren't even very close, it would be putting him in a really tough spot to just call up and say "okay, sorry! I've caught a little sniffle, so find somebody else" and leave him to it.

He gently scrubs at pink nostrils and grimaces at his reflection in the little mirror on the visor when he flips it down to take a quick peek on a long straightaway. He's definitely going to need to touch up his makeup when he gets there, at least somewhat. He doesn't look hideous, by any means, but he definitely doesn't look like what anyone would consider "well". That vaguely sneezy feeling is still lurking in the back of his nose, crawling menacingly deeper into his sinuses and threatening to settle in for good. He wrinkles his nose and sniffs sharply, and seems to satisfy it for at least the time being. Probably not long, but hopefully long enough.

It's twelve on the dot when he rumbles across the gravel and parks at the vineyard, carefully grabbing his shirt from where he's hung it off the back of the passenger seat, and, after a second of deliberation, he reaches back over to grab a handful of tissues also, shoving them into the pocket of his slacks for later.

It's a gorgeous place, he must admit, and lets out a low whistle at the sight as he  skirts around the guard rail and sidles up next to the Captain near where the others are busy setting up chairs. The Captain--who has even gone to the trouble of trimming his beard for the occasion, and wearing what he has to assume is the only piece of clothing he owns that is not a cable knit sweater--wraps an arm around him and jostles him a little in a side hug that threatens to take him off his feet.

"I can see why they picked this place! Not as nice as the ocean, but plenty nice for a wedding anyway."

"Right! It's, uhm--sdff!--it's a really beautiful view of the valleys and stuff."

The Captain turns an appraising eye towards him, and he can feel himself blush. "Caught yourself a little cold, have you?"

"Maybe just a little one. Nothing terrible, I don't want to make a fuss over it." He shakes the little clutch he's carrying for emphasis. "Nothing that DayQuil and a little makeup can't mostly fix. I, uhm--you won't tell anyone, will you?"

"I'm not one to stick my nose where it doesn't belong. As long as you're telling the truth and it will just be a little thing, I won't say a word to anyone. But if you look like you're going to keel over, I'm not going to hold my tongue just because you're shy."

"I appreciate it. Do they need any more help with the set up?"

"They're just putting the finishing touches on it now. Shouldn't be too terribly long before we're getting everybody into position, and the guests will start arriving."

"Great! I'm going to go, uh, get myself presentable, then."

The bathroom on-site is a weird outdoor one, the stone walls enclosing it making the whole thing kind of chilly and uncomfortable, but he isn't planning on taking too terribly long for just makeup and changing. Deft fingers finish weaving silk flowers into his hair--they match Colleen's bouquet--and he ties the braid off with a little ribbon that makes him think he should make somebody take a picture to post somewhere with the beautiful backdrop. The girls on Pinterest would go wild for this one.

The makeup is another story, but luckily it isn't the worst thing he's ever done. He's wary of doing too much--Matt is a nice enough guy, but he's never given the impression of being particularly a fan of his effete tendencies, and he doesn't want anything to get awkward. A little foundation to conceal the worst of the redness, and a little mascara, because no nice occasion is complete without it.

He's never been one much to wear red, but he does think he cuts a rather handsome figure like this. It's nice to get a little out of his comfort zone.

Somebody pushes the door open and he jumps, before sighing with relief as the familiar form of Niklas materializes. He may have a solid few inches over the Swede, but he more than makes up for it by being built roughly like an ox, streaks of grey running through a thick beard and mustache that are a fair sight shorter and cleaner than when he saw him at work a few days ago. He supposes the Captain wasn't the only one who's trimmed up for the occasion. "Niklas! You look nice. I think this might be the second time in about a decade that I've ever seen your hair without a bandana."

"Marsh." He jostles Elliott in a friendly manner, scooting past him to access the sink and wash the blood off his palm. "Scoot away before I end up making your pants red, too."

"Geez! What are you doing in there?" Niklas begrudgingly allows him to take his hand and inspect the cut that runs cleanly across his skin.

"Little mishap with the hors d'oeuvres--don't eat the first batch." His expression is grimly amused as he tacks on the last part. "We're going to make more, but Bolormaa's running to the store to get more vegetables to replace the ones seasoned with a little extra iron."

"You don't look like you need stitches, but you're gonna wanna watch this one for sure. What were you even doing?"

"There's a reason you're advised not to cut something while you're holding it in your hand. Their knives are not as sharp as mine, pushed too hard to get it to cut through, and voila. Don't worry your pretty little head over it though, son."

"If you're sure..."

"What about you, though? Captain says you've caught yourself a cold."

"That--he promised he wouldn't say anything!"

Niklas laughs as he presses the paper towels to his hand. "Yes, well, evidently he lied. He does that on occasion."

"Well, then I'll rely on your discretion instead. We're trying to keep this show on the road, it's going to be everybody's weekend but mine. And," he adds more softly, "I don't want to add any stress to their wedding day. It's going to be stressful either way, but I'd like to limit what I add to that as much as possible."

"I hear you, I hear you. I'm not going to the hospital, you're not going to the drug store, and we're only making one trip to the grocery store." He picks up Elliott's little clutch, twirling the lip liner thoughtfully between his fingers. "You're going to be fine, though?"

He looks at his reflection in the mirror, inspecting the work he'd done. He looks passable, more or less. Still a bit pink at the nose, but he always looks like that, and he doesn't think there's anything he can do fix that completely even if he didn't, especially when he's only working with the little travel bag and not any of the actually nice stuff back at the apartment. "I will, I swear. It's just a cold, but if people start getting too antsy we can, er, be a smidge less than honest and tell them it's my allergies bothering me. I'll keep this to myself, I won't go spreading it around, and nobody has to fret that the last second replacement is going to have to back out also."

"I'll take your word for it, then, but I'll be keeping my eye on you."

"Keep your eye on the cutting board instead--the one I'm sure you'll be using, right?"

"Yes, mother."

"Oh, you quit that! You've gotta have at least twenty years on me!"

He cracks a smile. "Son, I'm twice your age and then some."

"And in all that time they've never taught you to cut cauliflower for crudités...it's sad, the state of the world we live in."

"You get out of here or I'll tell everyone you're in here sneezing like we just hauled you out of a field of flowers."

"You're a cruel, unkind, beast of a man."

"You speak so sweetly to me. Alright, go ahead, finish dolling yourself up."

His broad frame disappears from view, leaving him standing alone once again. Christ, this is gonna be harder to keep quiet than he'd anticipated. Luckily he doesn't look particularly sick, and he isn't particularly symptomatic, either. Maybe he can get away with this cleanly and just pay for it in the morning. And, besides, the wedding will start soon, and he'll be home in his warm cozy bed and sleeping it off like a champ before it's too terribly late.

⁂

Perhaps "soon" was an optimistic start time for the wedding, as was "one thirty". It's already nearly three, and they're only just starting to get things started. He knows these things always run behind, but he's prepared to start tearing his hair out. The caterer was late, but that's alright, because so was the florist, and the DJ, and half the guests. The downside to having a remote location for a wedding is that no one on earth can find it with their GPS, because there is no service this deep into the weird pseudo-mountains and valleys of the vineyards, which means no one is calling to figure out where anyone else is, nor are they really figuring anything out without sending someone up the road a couple of miles to start directing traffic.

He is thankful that, for once, nobody has tapped him as the tallest person here to go stand like a lamp post or a stop sign so he can point and say "it's over there, ten minutes down the road!" about a hundred times in a row. His throat is already feeling a bit tender without having to add this task to it.

Most everyone has shuffled into their places, and they look to be preparing to actually get this shindig in motion, which means he has to awkwardly stand in front of everybody while they wait for the groom to get in his place, and the bride to assume hers. He blushes at the attention of Niklas very conspicuously tapping the side of his nose with a questioning little look, and his best approximation of a stern expression in response and a mouthed "knock it off" that just makes him laugh. He would text him if he could, but since he can't, and he can't exactly cause a fuss without everyone seeing, he resigns himself to just frowning at him.

And the cold medicine is definitely starting to wear off--"all day relief" is a bold claim considering it's been less than half of one and he's already feeling the symptoms creep back in. He can feel that awkward just starting to run type of running that has him awkwardly sniffling every so often to try and stave off anything actually dripping, and that little sore feeling in his throat is starting to feel more raw as the time is wearing on. He clears it somewhat painfully, and coughs a little into his fist in response.

They're all in their place when the music finally starts, and the frustration of the wedding melts away when he sees the expression on Matt's face when Colleen walks through those doors, and the way she's looking at him in return. Oh, gosh, he can already feel himself tearing up, which only serves to make his runny nose worse, but he at least can consider that an excuse for now.

He can feel that tickle deep in the back of his nose, and this time it doesn't seem satisfied by wrinkling or rubbing at it. He's going to sneeze. His breath catches, and he brings a hand up to pinch his nose and shudder into near silence--he can't stop himself from that instinctive, purely vocal "choo" on the end that serves no purpose, except that he can't seem to help himself attempting to complete the action. After five of these in a row, he sighs, the feeling retreating enough that he's confident in dropping his hand enough to fish the tissues out of his pocket to wipe at his nose and attempt a snuffle--but, no, he's too congested for that.

Are people looking at him? He hopes not, but he swears he can feel a couple pairs of eyes on him, because even if he's been trying to be as quiet as he can, he can do nothing to stop the jump of his shoulders or the awkward way he dips into it. He swipes at his nose as quickly and inconspicuously as he can manage, but keeps the tissue held in clasped hands. He knows, much to his chagrin, that he's going to have to use it again sooner rather than later.

It's difficult to pay as much attention as he's hoping to, but he's glad that he's at least on the very end of the groomsmen, farthest from the happy couple and, hopefully, farthest out of anyone's prying eyes. Hopefully no one is actually looking at him instead of the reason they're here. Hopefully no one is too pressed that he's sure he's starting to look more cold-ridden, especially with the way he's now tending to his nose so frequently. He can feel the shade of red, even if he can't see it, but he knows that other people surely will. His tissue is tinged with his foundation that he's been swiping off with every bit of attention he's been paying to his nose with it.

The whole room seems to be teary-eyed, and so is he, genuinely, but the irritation of his nose running is proving to be entirely too troublesome. "iIDZH--!" One sneaks out halfway before he can stop it, the end crushed into silence in the tissues that are being reduced to a disgusting pulp in his hands as the next several sneezes that follow are reduced to entirely dissatisfying stifles that make his whole head feel stuffy and painful, and he knows people are looking this time, because the sound was so sudden and desperate and attention grabbing that he hardly gave them a choice. He gives his best approximation of a sniffle, clogged and useless as it is, and holds up a hand in apology and surrender with a rather muted "excuse me" that betrays just how congested he is.

He's thankful that they're at the part where they kiss and are announced as the happy couple, because he finally has the chance to beeline to the bathroom. It's all harsh light that seems to swim a little in his vision as he squints against it, and he ducks immediately into the stall. He's still fiddling with the latch when he's cut off with a shuddering gasp.

"hH'DZZHHue! iIZZHHieww! Oh...hh-! huH-!? 'GZHhue! iIGZZHhue! ...sdff! Oh my goodness." He can see the speckles of moisture all across the sleeve that never quite made it up to cover, and tears a handful of toilet paper from the roll to awkwardly try and swipe up anything that it may stop from dampening his fabric, and folds it into oblivion until he's sure he's got nothing but clean surface before swiping at watery eyes.

When he finally emerges from the stall and takes a proper look at himself in the mirror, he winces. Mascara is spiderwebbed beneath his eyes, streaks of it rolled down across fever flushed cheeks. His nose is a distinctly irritable shade of red, especially deep at the nares, and he knows there is absolutely no hiding it right now. Maybe with a little bit of makeup...

It's a terrible idea, certainly--the makeup brush tends to get him even when he isn't already sick--but he's so close to getting out of here that it seems worth a shot. He'll blame the glassy eyes on the tears and the emotion, or a touch of hayfever, and he'll be plausible enough to skate out of here before anyone really notices anything is truly amiss. Surely. Surely.

Just the sight of the brush makes his nose feel especially itchy, and he holds his breath to steel his nerves before the first attempt. It's barely made contact with his skin before he's braced against the sink to sneeze openly, twice, and nearly a third that has the gall not to materialize after the fanfare of making him gasp for it. This bathroom is certainly nicer than the other one, not stone walls that seem to be custom built for the purpose of making the sound echo, but he keeps shooting nervous glances towards the door out of fear that someone's going to hear and come investigate.

Nobody ever does.

He supposes he should consider it both a blessing and a curse that several of these people are coworkers who are used to hearing this from him, enough so that it doesn't register as something that would ever require their attention to come look after and investigate, and the rest of them are people who certainly have better things to do than figure out who is sneezing in the men's room and why, but part of him feels oddly hurt that no one comes, even if it saves him the trouble of having to gently bend the truth to avoid ruining things.

After a little hemming and hawing, he finally decides to blow his nose, and then does it one more time for good measure, before he recommits to his attempts at buttoning up his appearance a little.

It becomes, after a certain point, an exercise in futility, trying to balance between getting any makeup onto his skin and not immediately wiping it away with the tissues, or undoing his work with the sneezing, and he finally just throws his hands up in the air and calls it good enough. He's been gone long enough that he's sure people are wondering where he went, and he can feel the fever creeping in deeper because he's so tired already and just plain over it that he wants to cry, and he knows he's being over emotional, and probably a bit of a brat throwing a tantrum at someone else's party, but he just wants to go home. He decides he doesn't care if he looks presentable--an impossible benchmark at the moment--but he looks passable, and that's all he's really aiming for. His nose is sort of covered, and the mascara is mostly off his cheeks and under his eyes, and that's it. He's done fussing with this.

He shivers when he steps back out of the bathroom and feels the cool air of the reception hall hit him. He regrets that the wedding attire didn't include a jacket, because he could really use one. Would it be suspicious to ask someone to borrow theirs...? Probably. And besides, he would feel bad depriving someone of theirs just for his sake. So instead he just awkwardly attempts to scope out his seat, hands shoved into his pockets for warmth and an attempt at looking light and breezy and casual as he squints at the name cards on the table in an exceptionally difficult to read at a glance calligraphy type writing.

Bolormaa waves at him from halfway across the cluster of tables, pointing to an empty seat between him and Niklas, and he's never been so grateful in his life to be flagged down like a lost traveler. He catches his knowing grin, and watches as he leans over to his wife to whisper something that makes her laugh and whisper something in return at his approach. Part of him aches at being so surrounded by people who clearly love eachother, and so very single while he's here.

He sinks more heavily into his chair than he means to, and overcompensates by resting his elbow on the table and resting his head against his hand like a bad impression of Gene Wilder. "Did I, uhm, miss any of the speeches yet?"

"Not yet, they're still fucking with the mics." Bolormaa leans back in his chair, the sleeves  of his dress shirt rolled up over his elbows in a way that shows off enough of well muscled arms that he understands exactly how he pulled a femme like his wife, Erdeni. Were he a woman, or Bolormaa a man, he's certain he would be swooning. "What kept you? Is something, perhaps, the matter?"

"Ohhh, leave the poor whelp alone. He's already suffering enough, isn't he?"

Elliott stiffens at the handful of smiles that meet him, ranging between "sympathetic" and "shit-eating" across them, but all very clearly knowing. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, come on, Elliott, we're not stupid. You can't think that you're really going to hide this from anybody who has eyes or ears? You're sick, we all know."

He's certain they can see how flustered he is--he's always been a far more open book than he's wanted to be. For better or for worse, he's been advised to never take up poker, because his every thought and feeling are visible on his face. "It sounds worse than it is. I just--sdff!--I want to keep this as quiet as possible, and none of you are very helpful on that front. I don't need anybody fussing, or any extra attention for it." God it's cold in here. He can't help the more violent shiver that wracks his frame.

"You'll at least take somebody's coat, then, in exchange for our silence." It's not a question so much as a command, and his attempt at protest is cut off before it even begins by Bolormaa twisting in his seat to shout for the Captain's attention.

He holds his hands up in surrender, looking anxiously to see if anyone is actually looking over at their table from the threat. "Alright! Alright, alright, we can be civil about this! No need to involve anyone else, and especially no need to shout about it! I will take someone's coat, and you'll have it back in the morning, I swear. Just--you swear if I take it, no one will say a word to anyone else?"

"Cross my heart."

"Niklas?"

"I swear it."

"...then alright." He doesn't know if he actually believes any of them, because Lord knows that nobody gossips as much as coworkers who are bored stiff and about to start gnawing their arms off for sustenance while they wait for their food, but he doesn't exactly have much of a choice. He knows they'll say something if he doesn't agree, and they still might anyway, but this gives him the best chance at avoiding that outcome. And, even if he feels guilty for it, he can't deny the immediate relief when Niklas sheds his jacket and drops it around his shoulders like a cape.

"I'm going to go eat the caterer himself if we don't get our food soon. We started late, it's not like he hasn't had extra time to cook."

"Right." He knows he probably should be hungry, considering he hasn't eaten anything except for a granola bar on his way out the door this morning, but he doesn't really find that he has much of an appetite. He nudges his plate of the little hors d'oeuvres closer forward. "You guys can share these, if you want. I'm, uhm, not really that hungry."

Niklas shrugs as he takes one of the little spring rolls. "Well if you're twisting my arm, who am I to refuse?"

"Right. Wasting food would be a crime, considering he bled for these and I had to make a grocery run for them." Bolormaa bites one in half, and offers the rest to Erdeni, who  gratefully takes it without any complaint.

Fevers always leave him feeling weirdly devoid of any appetite, and he supposes that right now that's probably a blessing more than it's a curse. Evidently he's the only person here who isn't hungry, judging by the general agitation in the room when he looks around at the other tables. Watches are being checked, tabletops are being drummed on by fingers, shoes are being tapped. Nobody looks especially pleased, including the now only happy-ish couple.

"Should I go check on the kitchen and see what the hold-up is?"

Niklas places a hand on his shoulder and looks him directly in the eye. "Elliott, son, I don't think a sick man is the one I would personally send into the area where food for a hundred and fifty people is being cooked. No offense, of course. Besides, I don't think anyone actively cooking really wants to be bothered."

"Besides," Bolormaa nudges his back, "I don't think anyone going in and hassling them is going to make it go any faster. I'd rather it come slower and right than about the same speed but also to find someone's spit in it."

"I guess. I just hate to think that I could be doing something to make things go better, and because I'm not, they aren't." The toilet paper he snagged on the way out of the bathroom is gross and not very usable by this point, and he debates getting up to get more. "Do you think I have time to run to the bathroom before speeches start and food is out?"

"Probably. It doesn't look like anything is in any hurry to get started anytime soon. Don't take forever in there, though, because I'm not going to be locked out of the bathroom or  have to use the women's room because you're busy fixing your makeup again."

It's a fair point. A more than fair point, even. He still feels like he's being scolded for something that can't really be helped, and can't bite back the cough that he smothers into his elbow and rumbles more deeply and productively than he'd like it to. Maybe a little fresh air will actually do him more good. He ducks in just long enough to grab another handful of toilet paper and then slips out of the side doors.

It isn't quite sundown yet, and nobody else seems to be outside, and, admittedly, the privacy of being outside and away from everyone else is absolutely heavenly right now. The party is starting to get somewhat overwhelming. Everyone is mad, and he can't shake the smothering feeling of guilt and anxiety that comes with that, even if they aren't necessarily mad at him.

Here, away from everybody else, he grants himself a second to just cough as harshly and deeply as he needs to. It scrapes terribly over an already sore throat, but it does at least seem to loosen some of the congestion that's settling into his chest. The same can't be said for his sinuses, but he supposes he can't be too greedy in what he's asking for. He'll take his gift horse and not look at his teeth, or however that saying goes.

Niklas's jacket isn't the warmest thing on earth--after all, it's meant more for fashion than it is for function--but it staves off the worst of the cool evening air, and he's grateful to have it, even if he has to keep in the forefront of his mind that he absolutely must not use it to be gross in. He's avoided fully putting it on for exactly that reason. It's difficult to sneeze into the sleeve of something that isn't actually on his body in a way that makes that the most likely to happen.

The Captain strolls out casually and sits himself down on a nearby rock with a grunt. "You know," he says as he lights a cigarette, "these are much worse than a pipe is."

"Then why are you lighting one?"

"If I just stand in there twiddling my thumbs for a minute longer, I'm going to be eaten by that crowd before the food comes out. Best to just come out and have a smoke and give myself a minute to cool off, even if they don't." Ash clings to his pants as he taps off the end. "I might just have to leave before they serve dinner."

"Oh." He sniffs, attempting to dab at his nose as delicately as possible to leave whatever amount of makeup remains as undisturbed as he can. "You're leaving early?"

"I'm an old man. I want to go to bed, and you're not the only one who works tomorrow. I'm taking Bolormaa and his wife with me, and Niklas if he doesn't want to just stay the whole time. I would take you, but that leaves the little matter of how your car is going to get itself home."

"Oh, I couldn't leave early anyway. I, uhm, have to help--h-help--? hH'DZZHHuh! IDZH'uhh! hIH--IDZZHHue! 'ZHieww! hH--!? ...sdff! Oh my gosh, excuse me." He cringes at the damp spot on his sleeve, and scrubs at still prickly nostrils more forcefully than he intends to. He always has to make Florence go smoke somewhere else, it's always irritating to his nose, but especially when he's already sick. "As a part of the wedding party, I have to help get everything broken down before I go..."

"You could always just tell them that you're sick and need to leave early. I don't think anyone will begrudge you for it--or think you're just making excuses for that matter. You--" he gestures with the cigarette, "are too nice for your own good. You need to grow a spine and learn to start telling people no. They'll respect you more for it."

"I already agreed, though. And I, uhm--h-hold on, I'm goingtosneezeagain--yiIZZHHue! hH'GZZHHue! iIGZZHH'ieww! Goodness gracious, sorry, I--hiH--!--the smoke is making me--makingme--'DZZHHhue!--making me sneeze--uUDZHH'hue!"

He backs away--Elliott wants to believe it's out of courtesy to move the offending smoke further from him, but part of him is aware that it's more likely that he's avoiding the contagious spray of those last few sneezes that were only partially caught in cupped hands, now that his sleeve is unfortunately wet and useless, and so are the tissues after the first of the fit. "Christ, kid, bless you. You're taking the day off tomorrow, and that's an order."

"I can't, I need the money."

"I'll use your sick hours."

"I don't have any."

"Then I'll give you some. You are spending tomorrow in your bed if I have to go to your apartment and tie you to it myself."

He knows this is so unfathomably kind and understanding of an offer--he knows that he goes out of his way to try and be as accommodating to him as possible, whether it's for frail health, or having let him switch his schedule completely when he suddenly had to work around the middle school's schedule, or just generally looking out for him--and he can't help but to tear up. Here he is, face half hidden by hands that he can feel the germ-laden moisture threatening to drip down, and his boss--the man who has done nothing but be good to him--is still trying to be generous and accommodating to him. He doesn't deserve it.

"I can't let you. I have to earn my pay. You already gave us today off for the wedding, and I'm already out often enough as it is, and I'm such a fucking mess--"

He's surprised to find himself pulled into a hug, in spite of the fact that he is absolutely disgusting right now. He imagines this is probably what the women's room looks like in a bar, all streaked mascara and tears and emotion, and he just melts into the embrace with a ragged sob. "There, there." It's an awkward little pat on his back, but not one that bears any resentment or ill will. The touch of someone unused to this sort of affection but trying his best nonetheless. "You'll be alright. Just stop that now."

"I'm trying, I'm sorry--"

"Don't be sorry. Just take a breath."

He draws in a ragged breath, and just hangs his head. "I should probably...ask to go home early."

"You should." He takes him by the upper arms and gently pries himself out of the hug. "I need to go back inside. You clean yourself up, and then sort yourself out before you go back in."

"Yes, sir."

"Good man." He claps him on the shoulder before he turns around and marches back inside with the authority of a man who knows he cannot stop or else he'll be drawn back into this again.

Elliott makes the brief trek back to his car, composing himself as he goes, and is disappointed to find that the bandana that usually lives in the glove box is nowhere to be found. Probably a victim of the most recent attempt at cleaning up his car a little, or already sitting somewhere in the hamper of dirty laundry he's been putting off because he doesn't want to do it.

He finally slinks back into the reception hall, and is relieved to see that people are eating, and in much better spirits than when he had left them. When he sits down, someone is in the middle of some awkwardly rambling anecdote about how he met Matt in high school when they were in the same chemistry class, and something to do with the teacher putting them together, but it's hardly a captivating story. He opts to poke at his food rather than actually eating it, aside from forcing himself to take a bite of the green beans that are nothing like the ones he liked from growing up--maybe he should actually make leather britches this year--but it's less that he dislikes the recipe, and more that he dislikes the idea of food right now in general. He shoves his plate back, and crosses his arms over his chest in a manner he hopes looks more casual than fever chilled.

It isn't terribly long before he finds that he's struggling to keep his eyes open, startling awake when there's a hand on his shoulder and a soft "hey" from his side. He clears his throat, and regrets it when it triggers a painful cough that he can only half smother in his sleeve. "Sorry."

"Are you gonna make it?"

"I will. I just--I'm just kind of tired. Sorry. Please don't worry, I swear I'm alright. This is later than I thought I would be here."

Bolormaa's wife leans over him to keep her voice low as she whispers. "You'll survive if we leave early? Bolormaa or I can stay if you need, and we'll just go home with you?"

"No, that isn't necessary, but you're very sweet to offer. I just need--sdf!--a little coffee or something in me and I'll be right as rain." He flashes a bright and hopefully reassuring smile. She seems unconvinced, but leans back nonetheless.

"We've got to get going in a second. The Captain looks like he's going to start leaving soon, and if you're sure you don't want any of us to stay..."

"I'm sure."

"Then we'll have to get a move on. Text one of us so we knows you made it home and aren't laying in a ditch on the side of the road because you flipped your car."

Erdeni swats her wife on the shoulder with horror. "Bolkaa! You're going to scare him!"

"Alright, alright! He won't flip his car! But you have to text one of us anyway."

"I can do that. Drive safe, okay? And don't worry about me. I'm planning to, uhm, sneak out of here in a minute, too, as soon as I can talk to them and tell them that I'm not going to be able to stay." He wrinkles his nose in an effort to stop it from running. The tissues he's been nursing are a shadow of their former selves by this point, but he doesn't think he could get up during the speeches without seeming rude, or, worse, being forced to make one himself. He can't think of anything more mortifying.

They don't seem to share his same anxieties, though, and slip out mostly undetected, save for a wave to the bride and groom on their way out.

Which leaves just him, now, to keep himself awake and occupied and muddle through the rest of the speeches. But he can do this. He'll be able to slide right out of here no problem, as soon as speeches are done and they move to taking photos and dancing. Nobody else seems antsy to the get to the mic, so he's optimistic that this part will be relatively quick.

Everyone else seems in just as much of a hurry to get out of here as he does. Some of them might have hotels nearby, but most of them, everyone from work and his neck of the woods at least, is looking at a two hour drive to get home, and it's already starting to get late. Later than it should have been at this point, for sure. The whole shebang should be wrapping up by now, and they still aren't even done with the speeches. He groans internally when the next person starts into what seems like it'll be an equally long and boring toast.

This time, though, there's no one to stop him from dozing. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there with his chin rested in his palm, but he suddenly comes into himself all at once, and jumps at the realization. He glances around anxiously, and finds that while his table is conspicuously empty, it doesn't seem to have drawn any extra attention that the lone figure at it is fighting for his life to keep awake. The person with the microphone has changed, halfway into a probably humorous anecdote regarding some trip they'd all been on as young adults and the misadventures therein, and he's mortified by the thought that he'd been out for so long.

Fever bright eyes alight on the cloth napkin on the table, still elegantly folded from its disuse during his meal. He shouldn't.

He does anyway.

It's scratchier than it looks when it's on skin already half raw from the way he's been scrubbing at it, and he bites back a hissing breath at the sensation. It isn't a good solution, but it's the only one he has, and he is running out of options. He blows his nose as softly as possible, and immediately regrets it when it ignites the tickle in inflamed sinuses to an intolerable degree.

"hAH-!" It drags out a ragged and sharp gasp, and he can't even hope to silence the harsh pair of sneezes that follow. "aADZZHH'yue! hIH'GZH'ue!" They're uncharacteristically loud, and his already aching throat is absolutely raw in the wake of them.

The person giving their toast pauses mid-sentence to look towards him, and an enthusiastic (and somewhat surprised) "bless you!" echoes from the mic throughout the otherwise quiet hall, and is joined by a smattering of other blessings from the remaining crowd. He sits there frozen under the attention, napkin still folded over his mouth and nose in tented hands that tremble. The blush creeps clean through to his ears, his entire face ablaze with a shame-filled crimson.

He slowly lowers the makeshift handkerchief and forces an unconvincing smile and a little laugh with a soft and somewhat hoarse, "thank you, sorry."

Slowly, painfully, the wedding seems to pick itself back up and move on. He doesn't think he fully joins them in it. He spends the next half hour snuffling miserably into the napkin, and when that one ceases to be of any use, he shoves it into his pocket and steals another one from the table next to him.

This sucks. He's in genuine disbelief at how wretched of a cold this is, how swiftly it crept up on him, and it has him somewhat worried it might actually be the flu, but he doesn't think he's achey enough to really justify that self diagnosis yet. Maybe he'll see about going to the urgent care in a few days if this doesn't approve and getting a rapid test. The thought of it makes the anxiety well up in his chest.

They finally break apart to start dancing and sharing cake, and he knows the photos will come soon. He does not want to be photographed like this. He can't quite make the numbers on his watch align, the whole thing swimming a little in his vision now that the lights are harsh and colorful and moving, and he's shivering so hard that it's making his teeth chatter, despite the relative warmth of the room. Everyone else has shed jackets for the most part, but he could swear that he's going to freeze to death before he leaves here.

He approaches the bride during one of the only moments tonight that he's seen her alone. He just needs to offer his apologies, and he'll be on his way to his warm bed and a few solid hours of sleep. "Colleen, hi--"

"Oh, Elliott!" She's practically glowing, all warm smiles and effusive joy radiating from her whole demeanor. "Listen, I just wanted to thank you. I know you aren't feeling well, Matt's boss said your allergies are acting up, but it's so sweet of you to have volunteered to help us clean up. We were worried no one was going to actually stay to help out, especially since everything seemed to be going wrong, but the fact that you're still here means a lot. I wasn't sure who we could count on, but it's nice to know that you really are just like he's told me--a man of your word."

His heart sinks. He smiles nonetheless. "...of course! I uhm--I know it isn't your fault that things worked out like they did. It would be pretty selfish to hold that against you and back out." He takes her hand between his and gives it a gentle squeeze. "I'm always happy to help. I hope you still enjoyed your special day?"

"I couldn't have enjoyed anything more. I've gotta get back there, they're antsy to start the photos, but I just wanted to say thank you again. I know you probably don't want to be in them--Matt said you're not really a fan of having your photo taken--but if you change your mind, you're more than welcome, and we'd be happy to have you in them." She flashes him a thousand watt smile, and disappears into the throng of ladies that are all lined up against one of the walls and laughing uproariously between them all.

This is...going to be a long night.

 

[dwaekki]

I feel so bad for him 😭😭 looking forward to the next part already! 

[Sneeziestofthemall]

Looking forward to the next part:)

[gay-for-the-snz]

Thank you guys so much for the kind comments, and to everyone who's been nice enough to give this a read! Part 2 is finished, and this has been an absolute blast to work on here's hoping that this is a sign of productivity to come

⁂⁂

By the time the bulk of the clean-up has taken place, he isn't sure how he's still alive. He's got his face down on the only table that isn't getting packed up to go, having already helped to fill his trunk and that of everyone else who stayed. It's past ten thirty, nearing eleven, and this is so far past his usual bedtime it's absurd. More than that, he's exhausted. The kind of weariness that's seeped into his bones and has him struggling to keep upright, let alone keep his eyes open.

"Hey! Thanks again for being such a huge help. I know it's late, but you're a real lifesaver." One of the men--one of Matt's brothers, he thinks--pats his back, and he has to haul himself to his feet before he's going to be actually sleeping at the table here. Something gets set on the table in front of him--a little bottle of some store brand cold medicine that expired years ago--and he leans down to murmur something in his ear. "I know it's not allergies. I found this in one of the cabinets in the back. You drive safe, okay?"

"I will. I appreciate it." He follows everybody out and watches them lock up, and when the night air hits him, he's shivering so violently that he's half afraid he's going to shake apart at the seams. The trek back to his car is made with the aid of his phone flashlight, and trembling hands fumble with his car keys badly enough that he drops them into the gravel, has to awkwardly half lay on it to scrabble around underneath the car to try and find them.

The prospect of attempting to drive back like this hits him like a truck. He absolutely cannot drive like this. Which means he has to weigh his options. He could call someone to try and come pick him up, but that leaves him with the fact that his car will be stuck here, not to mention that that would mean begging somebody to come make a four hour roundtrip to come pick him up, even if something coul be done with his car. They wouldn't get home until three in the morning. He wouldn't get home until three in the morning. He'd have to wait for them to get there, on top of making them come and get him.

No. The only real choice is that he'll have to just...wait it out.

This is fine. If he just curls up here, he can sleep for about four hours, and then make the drive home, get ready for work, and be into his shift on time. Perfectly manageable. His trunk is currently packed to the gills with chairs he still has to get home, but that just means that he was reminded of the blanket he keeps back there, and it's now flopped into the backseats.

The backseat of his Subaru Impreza is not the most ideal space to sleep--especially not a 1994 station wagon when he's a very leggy 6'3--but he's intent on making it work. The blanket, a somewhat scratchy woolen one, doesn't stretch to cover all of him at once, but the way he's folded up to fit makes it get pretty close, and with Niklas's jacket as a pillow, he can almost pretend that it's comfortable.

The shift in position brings with it a shift in congestion, and laying down like he is, it's got his ears feeling clogged and crackly just like his sinuses, threatening to spark that ache behind his eyes and his teeth, but it isn't there just yet. He's mostly out of tissues, having burned through most of his stock on the drive here, but he affords himself a handful of them to awkwardly prop himself up on one elbow and blow his nose forcefully to try and do as much damage to the wall of congestion as he can in one shot. How effective it is is debatable, but he feels like he has to at least be able to say that he tried.

Some animal makes a sound out in the distance--probably a coyote, if he had to hazard a guess--and he is viscerally reminded that he is laying in a tin can in the middle of God-knows-where, with no cell reception, an almost dead battery, in the pitch dark. He starts the car in such a panic that he almost forgets to throw it into reverse, and sends gravel flying as he practically floors it to a spot in front of the building that is definitely not a parking space, bathed in the dim light of a single fixture above the wall to deter break-ins.

He withdraws a small amount of his disdain for moths. He understands their fixation with lights now.

God, he's feverish. He's dimly aware of the heat of his skin against the jacket, sweaty and smothering, even if he's still so cold he feels like he may as well be stark naked in a snowstorm. He doesn't have anything in the glove box that will help, though, so he really doesn't have much option aside from grinning and bearing it until morning, and hoping that whatever sleep he manages to snatch from tonight will ease things enough to make the drive safer and more bearable.

He doesn't get much actual sleeping done, though, it feels like every time he starts getting comfortable, something wakes him again, whether that's a nagging need to cough, or discomfort enough to need to roll over, or the fact that he is still feeling that nagging, desperate tickle that just won't seem to leave him alone. It backs down occasionally, just enough to make him think that it might be satisfied, and then it returns with a vengeance and a handful of sneezes that set his eyes to watering and scrape at an already raw throat.

He rubs at his eyes and has to practically crawl into the front seat to get enough light to read his watch. Twelve oh three. It's past midnight, now. He groans, and it triggers a rough cough that has him having to lean forward to feel like he can take a full breath and end the paroxysm. When it finally tapers off again, he hangs his head wearily. Maybe he should just start driving now, since he clearly isn't going to be getting much sleep?

No. That's a foolish idea. He can still feel the boiling heat of his skin, even if none of that heat seems to have transferred to the rest of him. He should at least try and rest, even if he can't sleep.

He lays back down, half propped up now to try and ease the congestion in his head and his chest.

He can't keep the numbers straight. What time was it? He squints at his phone instead of the awkward gymnastics like last time, and--ow! Maybe he should have remembered to turn the brightness down, the light has him feeling like it's searing his eyes. He can feel that telltale prickle in his nose, that wave of irritation that always accompanies the bright light, and despite his best efforts, he's never been good at holding back, but especially when he's in the grips of an absolutely hellacious headcold.

"hH...hUH-!? uUDDZZHHyue! 'DZZHhue! hu-UZZHHieww!" It elicits a whimper of discomfort as he rubs at his throat, trembling fingers settling over sweat-slick skin. His nose threatens to drip, a droplet of moisture clinging to raw nostrils and shivering with every breath. It's so ticklish that it steals his breath away again. "Please don't--hIEZZHH'hue! 'DZZHHyue!"

Fingers scrabble uselessly over the floorboards until they catch hold of the tee shirt he was wearing this morning, and he brings it to his face to muffle the last sneeze into, and then blows fiercely in a zealous attempt at delaying the next fit as long as possible.

For all this, he still doesn't manage to catch the time. He braces himself, angling the screen away from himself enough to give a couple attempts to turning the brightness all the way down, before he finally looks at it again. Twelve twenty-seven. He slumps back against the seat and just lets himself lay there shivering.

He finally dozes off sometime around twelve forty-five, one o' clock, and isn't sure when he actually opens his eyes again. Someone is knocking on the window, shining a flashlight in that makes it impossible to see their face from the glare. He raises a hand to half shield his eyes, squinting at the figure to try and make anything out about them. "Hello?"

"Sir, please step out of the vehicle."

"Am I--am I in trouble?"

"Sir."

He awkwardly acquiesces, untangling himself from the blanket and the way he's been folded up as best as he can, fumbling to unlock the door and get himself out of the vehicle. The beige of the uniform and the vague outline of the patches look like it's probably a park ranger. Or was it a state trooper that'd regulate out here? Did they wear beige? Maybe they wore blue? Either way, they're getting aggressive, banging on the window more forcefully as they bark to get out of the car.

He straightens up and is surprised to find that they're nearly the same height--the figure behind the flashlight still obscured, the hat shielding their face in shadow. "Do you know why I'm talking to you?"

"Oh. It--I'm not drunk, if that's your fear. I'm not sleeping off anything worse than a cold and some expired cold medicine."

"Did you really think you would get off that easily?"

"I don't understand--"

"Man, he wasn't kidding. You really are an idiot."

"What are you--"

"Come on, Elliott. Did you really think that this little game was gonna last forever?"

His blood is like ice in his veins. "Who are you?"

"Friend of your husband's. Well, former husband's. In the eyes of the law, anyway. You broke your vow to be married, you know that?"

"I didn't do anything wrong, I--this isn't any of your concern!?"

He flinches when they grab him by the collar--

--and wakes with a horrified gasp, hands gripping at his shirt and at his collar to push away the hands that aren't there. He looks around in a panic, and is met with nothing but the interior of his car, the sound of his alarm chiming merrily on his phone from the top of the center console. He buries his face in his hands with a shaking exhale, his heart thudding in his chest and threatening to leap right out. "Oh, God have mercy."

He is absolutely cloaked in sweat, his clothes sticking to his body weirdly, and he extracts himself from the backseat with a groan of pain. His back, finicky at the best of times, is absolutely livid with him for the mistreatment. Leaning against the side of his car, he stretches as best he can, and grunts with satisfaction when he can get a couple good cracks from his spine that seems to make things a touch less angry. It won't do anything for his neck and sleeping at a weird angle, but he can spend tonight curled up on the heating pad.

His nose twitches, and he just braces against the car to let the inevitable fit wrack his frame. "YIZZHHuue! hH'HIDZH-! IDZZHH'ieww! Huh--! h-hUH--!? UDZZHH'hue! uDZH'iew! 'GZZHHyue! hH--!? ...sdf!" He sneezes openly towards the gravel, feeling his nose dripping freely, before he drags a sleeve beneath still quivering nostrils. Mornings are always rough on him, but he has to admit that this fit feels particularly harsh, and only half finished. He needs to find something that's not his clothing to contain this with.

He half shuffles towards the bathroom, and thanks God that they don't lock it at night. The glaring lights sting his eyes, and he knows he's going to sneeze from that, too. He barely catches sight of himself in the mirror, before he's forced to squeeze his eyes shut again.

"iEZZHHieww! iIDZZHH'hue! 'DZZHHue! Ohh...hh...h-hHIIZZHHyuuee!" He holds frozen in place for another couple of seconds, before he sighs with not exactly relief, but at least he's sure he's done for the time being. He opens his eyes and grimaces, the mirror now speckled with the contents of a cold. Paper towels squeak against the glass as he wipes it away haphazardly, and when his reflection is revealed through smudged streaks, his nose is practically the same shade of dark red as his dress shirt is.

The toilet paper is scratchy against his nose when he swipes a handful of it, but it's much softer than the paper towels, or damp fabric, so it's the best he's got for the time being. He's stopping at the first 24 hour convenience store or mini-mart or whatever it happens to be that he passes, and buying another box or three of tissues, and some cold medicine that isn't horribly out of date.

The first step, though, is getting out of here and back towards civilization. He washes his hands thoroughly, and then washes his face somewhat to try and do something about just how bad he looks, all smudged makeup and exhaustion and feverish sweat, and calls it good when his efforts are barely rewarded. He'll hardly be the worst thing somebody's seen walking into their store at three in the morning. He should really keep a change of clothes in the trunk again. He doesn't remember what he used the last set for, but he definitely forgot to replace them.

He rolls slowly for a few miles, knuckles whitened from just how hard he's gripping the wheel, afraid he's gonna miss his turn and be stuck out here in bumfuck nowhere, with no idea where he is or any ability to call somebody for help.

He finds the stop sign and hooks a sharp left, and nearly jumps out of his skin when the silence is broken by his phone suddenly dinging a half a dozen times in the passenger seat. Evidently he's crossed back into reception. He throws it in park and hits the hazards to check them, because it's not like there's much happening out here that's going to demand his attention.

Messages from Matt and Colleen, thanking him from being a part of the wedding, and a copy of a couple of the photos they took. One of them requests his address to send an official thank-you card. A handful of texts from Bolormaa, Niklas, and the Captain, asking him if he made it home safe since he never let them know (like he PROMISED, one reminds him). A reminder from Corben that he has to go to work early tonight so he needs to pick Warren up the instant he gets off of work, or else lock up when he leaves if they don't overlap and see eachother.

His head aches. That heavy, sharp pressure-y sort of pain in his sinuses that makes his teeth ache like they're going to be forced out of his skull. The fabric of the tee shirt, still damp and somewhat chafing over already raw skin, is brought to his face as he blows his nose for what must be the millionth time since yesterday morning, and he's somewhat relieved to find that for once it seems to actually have done something useful for him. He can still feel the sinus pressure--he's probably not escaping this one without an infection, which means there's likely a trip to urgent care in his future--but it's less painful and more just tight and itchy.

He sniffs thickly and swallows the last few sips from a water bottle whose age could probably be carbon dated at this point. Right. First thing's first. As much as he really doesn't want to, he should...probably make at least one call.

His phone screen is lit up as it rings, displaying the phone number and "Captain (Work)" with a little emoji of an anchor and a sailboat. The tickle that's been satisfied up until now flares to life again as he waits for him to pick up. It is, to say the least, inconvenient.

A groggy "hello?" greets him.

He means to say 'hello' back. Instead, he responds with a disgustingly productive sneeze, half of an apology, and then another three sneezes that leave his nose running like a dang tap.

"Bless you."

"Captain, don't be mad."

"You know, no one ever calls me at three in the morning for good news, do they?"

"I'm probably going to be late this morning."

"I already gave you the day off?"

"I--I didn't think that we ever agreed--"

"You didn't agree. I was clear. You sound awful. Worse than yesterday by a longshot, for sure. Did you fall asleep before you could let the three people in my car beside themselves with worry know that you were home safe?"

He doesn't know how to respond, feeling the shame creeping up his neck, so he doesn't, aside from wet sniffles.

"...Elliott."

"Yes, sir?"

"You did make it home safe, didn't you?"

"Uhm..."

"Elliott."

"Not--not...exactly?"

"What does 'not exactly' mean?"

He fiddles with the button by his collar, nervous fingers instinctively finding something to busy themselves with. "I'm, uhm...still up here?" He rushes through the last part quickly and softly, as if this will absolve him of the reaction to it.

"STILL UP THERE?" He has to hold the phone away from his face at the sudden increase in volume, which is doing nothing to help his headache. "You mean to tell me you're still up at the venue?"

"A couple miles away to get reception..."

"So when we offered you to drive you home, to have any one of us take your car or go with you and you just drop us off and then take yourself home, and you swore you were fine--"

"Please don't be mad--"

"I'm not mad, I'm concerned. Hold on, I need to put my eyes on. Do not hang up."

"I'll be fine, I just--I might sneeze, sor-ryhh--?" He holds up a finger in warning, as if it would actually be useful to someone a hundred miles from his car, but he sags with a sigh that the Captain mirrors. "I can drive myself, I'm--well, I'm not feeling better, but I'm a little less tired, and I'm stopping somewhere to buy medicine, so that should help, and when I get home I promise I'll try and sleep a little more."

"And?"

"And then...be into work?"

That's the wrong answer. He can practically feel the disapproving look through the phone. "And then you will take another dose, pick up the bairn from him, and then go back to sleep. She's old enough, she can mind herself. Leave a little supper in a dish and she and the cat will be happy to take their dinner the same way."

"I'm not feeding my daughter like a cat?"

"Well you're also not coming to work, so you can decide if you'd rather do both, or neither."

"I hardly think--"

"Elliott Anthony, if you come into work, I am picking you up and throwing you over my shoulders like a sack of potatoes and carrying you back to my car, and if you're too heavy, I employ enough strapping men and women that one of them will be capable in my stead. Go home, SAFELY, and call me the instant your feet hit the threshold. Do I make myself clear?"

He cows under the use of his middle name, and finally offers little more than a sheepish "...yes, sir."

"Good. I am going back to sleep now, but if you feel at all like you're not going to make it, you call me, or someone else, and we will make sure you make it back safe and sound."

"Thank you. Uhm, Captain...?"

"Yes?"

"I just...you were right. I just wanted to say I was sorry."

He sighs, the sound hazy through the crackle of a poor connection. "Son, I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to be safe. I don't want to have to put 'hard-worker' on your epitaph."

"You're so old that I doubt you'll outlive me--I mean--that's not what I meant--?"

"I'm holding you to that. I expect to be long gone before you are. Drive safe, y'hear?"

"Loud and clear, O Captain my Captain."

"Goodnight, Elliott."

"Goodnight, sir."

The line goes dead, and he sits there for another minute more. The drive is going to suck, but at least he'll be stopping somewhere to stretch his legs and get something in his system. He still isn't hungry by any stretch of the imagination, but he figures most stores have a can of soup or broth, maybe a Gatorade, something to give him a little boost and into better shape.

The drive is quiet for the most part, aside from the sounds of his own suffering, but he's pleased when the radio crackles back to life from the dull static and into what he has to assume are songs forty through seventy of the Top Hundred Hits of the Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties. His throat's still raw, but that doesn't stop him from whispering along to "Hooked on a Feeling," nor does it stop him from occasionally breaking into the least strenuous parts of "Dancing Queen". Even if he could, he never sings around anyone but himself--for their benefit. He's been assured, and would assure others in turn, that he couldn't carry a tune in a lidded bucket. The only songs coaxed from him around others are the hymns with the other parishioners where he can be lost as one of many, or occasionally "Happy Birthday" if the recipient is suitably close to him, and forgiving enough to grin and bear it.

He almost misses his exit towards the gas station because he's so preoccupied scrubbing at his nose, but he catches the sign just in time to make an inadvisably hasty turn onto the exit ramp, along with the one other soul on the road at this hour. Unsurprisingly, the middle of nowhere at three forty-five is not a popular place for a Sunday drive.

It's some little store that is, in his opinion, flirting dangerously close to the line of copyright infringement on Walmart, some weird little "Shop Mart" in a cheery blue that's only half lit by the sign above it. He parks, badly, and steps inside with the last couple of tissues out of the box pressed against his leaking nose.

The fluorescents hum overhead like a bug zapper, as he browses the aisles. It's slim pickings for most things, and the cashier's left her checkstand to hover suspiciously close behind him while he shops. Evidently he either looks more suspicious than he thinks he does, or she's just bored. He ghosts a hand over a couple different options for cold medicine--all name brands at absurd prices, before eventually deciding this is a DayQuil SEVERE kind of cold and not a Sudafed Sinus Congestion Relief Maximum Strength kind of cold.

It's awkward to finagle the things into his arms--they don't have any baskets, unless she's hiding them somewhere or they're in a goofy spot--and pins that beneath one arm so he can snag a couple boxes of tissues. One step above the worst, cheapest ones they've got, to compensate since he's going to be spending so much on the medicine. The cashier still doesn't say anything, she just watches him like he's not the most conspicuous man on planet earth. He's the only person here, the only car in the lot aside from, presumably, her own, and he stands a lanky 6'3 with an extraordinarily obvious red nosed cold and a braid that hangs down to his thighs. He would hardly be able to say 'you've got the wrong guy'.

He opts to take what he's already picked up to the counter to drop them there, in an effort to assuage her worries, but also to give his his free hand back, since the other is still occupied fussing with his nose. He squints at the options they've got for soup, which are worse than he would have hoped, and instead gets a can of Spaghetti-O's, since they're the only thing that don't need a can opener, which defeats the 'convenience' aspect of a 'convenience store' in his opinion, but he digresses, and then stands there staring at the drink options. He goes for a red Gatorade, and then grabs a light blue to go with it after another second's thought. It will be a long drive, after all.

"Hey, have y'all got a bathroom I can use?"

"For paying customers only."

"You just watched me pick things out?"

"You haven't paid yet."

"This would be a lot of effort just to deceive you into bathroom usage."

"Look, man, you've gotta pay first. I don't make the rules."

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't press the topic any further, dropping his remaining purchases onto the counter, and very pointedly pulls his wallet out of his pocket.

She scans his items at a snail's pace, denying his reach for the box of tissues. "Your total will be twenty six dollars and eighty three cents."

He hands her his card, eyeing the tissues longingly. She swipes it, and tells him, deadpan, "you card declined. Do you wanna try another one?"

"Declined? What--you know what, fine, I've got cash, hold on." Great. That means the child support is late--again. He digs through his wallet, and comes up with a grant total of...twenty five eighty six. "...hold on. Just--don't put any of this back. I have some change in the car."

"I'm trying to go on my smoke break."

"You can't give me two minutes? Can't spare a hundred and twenty seconds?"

"Fine."

Well, she is definitely not getting a good survey from the link on his receipt. He is very quickly running out of time--for the tissues in his hand, until the next fit he can feel threatening to creep up at any second, until the cashier decides to go take her break. He doesn't even count, just grabs the handful of loose change from the cubby in front of the console and hustles back in to stop her from leaving her post again. "This should cover it."

She hums in thought. "Sorry, that was a hundred and thirty-eight by the clock on the wall. I'll see you in fifteen."

"Are you--?" Oh. She is serious. She makes her way back from behind the counter to go stand outside and light her cigarette.

He follows her out to just watch her, then. "Can you at least let me open the tissues?"

"That's stealing."

She and Florence would be best friends with their matching bad attitudes, he's sure of it. He tries to always be respectful and not think badly of anyone else, especially a woman, but he is fighting with every fiber of his being to bite his tongue. "Okay."

He swipes at his nose again with the last of his tissues, well beyond their use and now just serving to further irritate his skin. He's breathing through his mouth mostly out of necessity, but also because he's too afraid to really attempt to breathe through his nose. He knows that one wrong breath is going to have him sneezing, and...

Oh. That would be terribly unkind of him, wouldn't it? Something he definitely shouldn't do?

He goes back inside to wait, feeling the lingering irritation heightened by the smoke outside, and stands patiently next to the checkstand. She takes her sweet time, drifting back in a minute or so early, and watching the clock. "Hold on. I've still got a minute left."

That's fine by him. He reaches up to rub his nose, feeling his breath scissor from that last little nudge. With nothing left to use, and the tissues being held hostage, he goes with the only option he has left. Really she's left him no choice.

"h-hH'IGZZHHuhh! uHHDZZHHyue! Hh...hyIZZHHieww! 'DZZHHuuee!" He pitches into cupped hands that are still holding the spare change, feeling the way each sneeze tears through his sinuses and threatens to bend him at the waist. "Ohh...sdfff! Please excuse me." He drops the coins, each now rather shiny, onto the counter. "Keep the change." He gives her his sweetest smile, scooping the items off the counter and into his arms and pointedly ignoring her horrified expression.

That was so gross and unkind of him. He knows he'll regret it when he thinks about it later, but right now, he feels stupidly empowered. He tears open the tissues and tends to his nose as delicately as possible, and then takes a swig of the DayQuil and one of the Gatorades. It's a little past four now, so he's still got just enough time to make it home and then shower before going into work...

Well. Maybe taking that sick day he was offered wouldn't be terrible...since it's been offered to be paid and all, and he is feeling so poorly. He supposes he'll just decide when he gets home. He's got about an hour and a half, maybe a little less, to mull it over while he's driving.

He texts Bolormaa and Niklas while he's thinking about it, just to tell them that he's still alive and on the road, and he knows when they wake up later and see it they'll be calling him up to ask what on earth he means by 'on the road' at this hour when he should be sleeping off this cold and cozy in his blankets. He'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. For now, he's got to get moving or he'll be late for whatever he chooses.

He only has to pull over once so he can sneeze--he opts to keep driving for most of the fits that overtake him, but that one was too much to really consider it responsible to be operating a motor vehicle with his eyes closed--and he slumps in through his front door at just a shade past five thirty. He feels absolutely worse for wear, and the exhaustion that's been nibbling at him hits him full force when the relief sets in that he's finally made it.

The apartment stands empty to welcome him home, but he doesn't know that he's disappointed by the lack of company. He doesn't think he's feeling exceptionally social or in good shape to be people-ing right now. He makes straight for the bedroom first, beyond eager to try and get himself into some semblance of order, and to at least grab something clean to change into Whether he's working after this or not--he still isn't quite sure what he's going to do--he'll still need socks and underwear, and can choose the rest of his outfit once he's done showering.

The first thing he does when he hits the bathroom is to strip nude, grimacing at how gross these clothes are and what he's put them through, and then he hauls his sorry self into the shower to wash up. He just stands there for awhile with his head resting against the wall, the hot water pouring over aching muscles, steam lovingly kissing his swollen sinuses. He nearly falls asleep, realizing he's dozing when he has to shoot an arm out to steady himself against the wall, and decides it's high time to actually try and clean himself up a little instead of just enjoying boiling himself like a lobster.

He doesn't want to even bother with washing his hair, but he knows if he doesn't he'll just spend the rest of the day thinking 'gosh, I ought to've' and that he should just do it and get it over with. His shampoo--one of the few things he spends an indulgent amount on as a luxury instead of a necessity--smells earthy and floral, richly scented like lavender.

Usually it's quite soothing, like being wrapped up in a candle, or a field in full bloom. Usually. He groans when it makes his nose tingly as he squeezes it into his palm, but he isn't going to just waste it, nor is he going to just not wash his hair. He's already sneezed enough for his liking--more than enough, really!--but he doesn't intend to just throw his hands up because his shampoo is adding itself to the list of things that are going to set a terribly sensitive nose off.

He's only partially through lathering it into his hair when he feels the need to sneeze swell, stealing the breath from his lungs in a shaky gasp, and then is bent at the waist with a desperately insistent, "iiIZZHHyue!" that doesn't seem to put a dent into the itch that's wormed itself deep into every nook and cranny of his senses. "hAH--ADZZHHuuee! 'GZZHHieww!" Oh God. This is really going to be bothersome, isn't it? "hiIGZZHH'ieww! yiIZZHH'hue!" He's just standing there, half propped against the wall by his elbow, stuttering attempts at continuing to scrub at his scalp to just muscle through it that are interrupted by the fact that he just locks up as he sneezes. The sooner he's done, the sooner he can wash this out of his hair, he doesn't even care if he has to skip the conditioner, he can just do a slipshod job at getting his skin clean and move the heck on.

He half whimpers as another pair of sneezes tear their way out of him, clawing over his throat in abject misery, and he finally just stands under the water with the awkward tall-guy-shower-squat that reminds him he will never, ever be able to be considered sexy if he showers with another human being. It washes over him in a sudsy cascade, and he does an exceptionally haphazard job at trying to get his skin clean before calling the whole thing a wash--literally and figuratively--and shutting the water off with a pitiful "ah--hAH-!? hADZZHHyue!" that seems to, mercifully, signal the end of this for the time being.

Yeah, no, he can't do this. He will take a half day instead, catch a couple hours of sleep before he drags himself in for the second half of his shift--it would be so selfish to take the whole day when they were already closed yesterday, they'll be so behind on their orders...

He shoots a text to the Captain, then begins the process of drying off his hair. Sometimes he thinks he should just cut it all off, but he also knows that if he was ever attempted to be taken up on this offer, he would back away in a heartbeat. It's a hassle sometimes, but certainly no accident that it's this long. It took a lot of effort! He's not just going to waste that all on a whim!

He knows that it is the worst thing he could possibly do if he wants it to dry faster, but he braids his hair anyway, because at least that way he can get some sleep without rolling over onto it and darn near tearing it out of his skull in the middle of the night. Or morning, in this case. A pair of sweatpants and an honestly kind of ratty tee shirt from Warren's old elementary PTA later, and he all but collapses into his blankets. The alarm set for eleven feels absolutely cruel, but it at least gives him a little under five hours, and that probably more than doubles what he slept in total last night, so it's something.

He's dimly aware, as he drifts off, of the birdsong just outside the window, and the sunrise that's flooding over the horizon and into the crack around the shades to his bedroom window, of the fact that he has potentially never been quite so cozy in his entire life, cold notwithstanding. Hopefully he sleeps well.

⁂

When he finally cracks his eyes open, he is struck immediately by two things: the first, that he remarkably feels almost exactly the same as when he fell asleep, just markedly less tired, and the second, that it is not as bright in this room as it really should be for eleven. He rolls over with a congested snuffle and squints at the phone on the nightstand--that's dead as a doornail. Oh no.

He fights to wrestle lethargic limbs from the tangle of blankets he's found himself caught up in, enough to stagger out into the living room to squint into the kitchen at the microwave. Five thirty-three.

FIVE THIRTY-THREE!?

Oh God. He's basically missed all of work. Even if he left right now, he wouldn't even make it there before it had ended. He has to at least try--no, more than that, he has to go get Warren--no, first he has to text the Captain and apologize--

That needs a phone. He practically throw himself onto the bed like he's diving to catch a ball and swats his phone off the nightstand in his haste to grab it and plug it in. It takes a second to light up and display "0%" and a flashing battery symbol to let him know, just in case he was wondering, that he forgot to plug it in before crawling in for an eleven hour nap. He pleads with it to hurry along enough to hit the one percent that'll let him turn it on, to at least throw it on speaker and make a couple calls.

When it does blink on, it's silent for a few seconds, the anticipation weighty, before suddenly everyone on earth's messages roll in all at once in a cacophony of notification. One from the Captain, saying he hopes that he's feeling better (and that he has tomorrow off as well, whether he likes it or not.) One from Corben, some snide comment that he needn't worry about fulfilling his obligation as a father, someone else has already done it. Several from Niklas, telling him that he is an absolute fool for having refused the offer of a ride last night, and to PLEASE accept it next time, or they'll stop asking and just start forcing if he doesn't know what's good for him.

The ones that catch his attention most are the several from Bolormaa, who's never been a big texter, informing him that he and Erdeni picked up the kid and they will be having a girl's night (and he can pick her up in the morning), and a somewhat cryptic message that there is a surprise on the porch for him.

He reads through each one again for a moment, letting it all solidify in his mind before attempting to reply to them all with the most graceful and courteous responses he can manage when his head feels packed with wet cement and it's rather distracting. When he sits back up, the congestion shifts enough that he is urgently reminded that he is in the thick of this cold, and he can't help but--" 'GZZHHuu! uUDZHHyuuee!" They seem satisfied, for now, as a pair that are hastily half-caught into corner of his blankets

Gross. He grimaces as he exchanges his bedding for a handful of tissues, attempting to be tender with his poor nose as he moves for the front door instead. Porch is a rather generous way to put it, it's little more than a landing between floors and the apartment across the way from him, which typically plays host to the trash pickup and nothing else. This morning--or evening, rather--it's also currently hosting a grocery bag with a note taped to the side of it. He squats to peel it off and examine it. It's in Bolormaa's hand, a little drawing of a horse adorning one of the corners.

Elliott-

Hey you sadsack, I heard you were missing work today. Don't ever make us worry about you like that again. It isn't quite soup, but here. Bansh + suutei tsai. It's so easy you can't mess it up. Boil the suutei tsai, add the bansh, let it cook for 10 to 15 until they float, and bam! You've made banshtai tsai. It's better without precooking or letting it cool in between, but I don't have a key to your apartment, and I'm too lazy to come back over and cook once you're awake. I'll get my containers back from you tomorrow when we drop the kid off

Bolormaa + Erdeni

The bag contains a pair of tupperwares, one filled with a thick milky liquid, the other with a generous portion of what might be, in his estimation, the smallest dumplings known to man that have an additional note on the top, informing him that they forgot he was vegetarian, and they have meat in them. He's only mostly vegetarian, so it works out well enough, and he's absolutely touched regardless.

Google informs him, after looking up the individual components because "banshtai tsai" keeps trying to redirect to "banshee tsai" which is nothing, that this is a savory milk tea and dumplings, and apparently the tea is rather auspicious and a part of welcoming people to the home. That's cute. He feels better already.

He doesn't have much in the way of cooking expertise (or skill), but if there's one thing he can do reliably, it's turn the heat up and boil the devil out of something. It smells kind of odd, but when he takes a little sip, he at least recognizes it for what it is. It's what he's sipped a few times out of a water bottle that was not his--he really should look into adding a nametag to his to prevent this from happening in the future--so it's at least not an entirely new experience. The dumplings are, but that's mostly because he always brings buuz to potlucks, and these don't seem terribly different, aside from the size of them.

He's lost in flipping between a handful of open tabs of recipes and the Wikipedia page for traditional Mongolian cuisine when a pop of hot tea on his forearm informs him that it's boiling already. He awkwardly pours them out of their container into the boiling tea, using every inch of the fact that he's lanky to keep the rest of him as far away from the splash zone as he can manage. How people just plop things in astounds him.

If he could smell much of anything, he's sure it would smell great. It at least looks good, and that's half the battle, for sure. And honestly, even if it's just awful, he's going to eat it anyway, because the kindness in the gesture is profoundly touching him right now, and maybe it's the fever, but he feels so utterly loved that he can hardly stand himself. A watched pot never boils, and watched dumplings never float, so he turns heel and busies himself with trying to decide whether he thinks a mug or a bowl would be more appropriate. He eventually settles on neither, or perhaps both, and fishes the soup mug out of the back of the cabinet, all bright cheery color and charming little stripes.

When it seems ready, and has been given a second to cool enough that he doesn't think the mug will blow up right there on his counter, or, worse, in his hands, he ladles some in, and just lets himself breathe in the steam. This isn't exactly the ideal chaser to cold medicine, but it at least does a good job of getting the taste out of his mouth, and he feels his shoulders sag with relief at the feeling of warmth that blooms in his chest from it.He takes himself, tea and all, back to bed, and curls back up into his blankets with his dinner. It's sometime later, when the tea has been finished and set aside on the nightstand, that he finally lets himself once again succumb to the fatigue that's crept back into his frame, a sense of utter love permeating his being.