-on top of an allergy to lilies and a specific cologne, m/arch is real sensitive to dust, which is funny given his detective work revolves around old people's cases a lot. he gets all sniffly and runny nosed while sitting inside old ladies undusted houses. he'll warn them with a very polite "scuze mbe" with a finger raised in the air before unleashing into a sneeze loud enough to make them flinch (into his suit if he can react fast enough)

-very bad at taking care of himself, if he drinks to suppress emotions he'll drink to suppress symptoms too. which ends up leaving him real sloppy. it's worrying when it's just him and h/olly, and his guilt over this makes him retreat to his room to ride out the worst of it so he isn't worrying her so much

-will still show up to work while feeling under the weather because he loves the extra attention h/ealy gives him when he's really out of sorts, be it critically injured, black out drunk, or bogged down with a bad cold. of course, h/ealy will kick his ass if he's drunk but his voice takes on a more subtle tone of caring when he notices m/arch is sick. h/ealy will know it's really bad when m/arch is actually hiding from him instead of putting on his wilting flower act in front of him

-however, he'll still act stubborn about being sick until he reaches the point where he's as sick as a dog, it's a challenge to him to deny how bad he actually feels or to attribute it to waking up on the wrong side of the bed even though he's coughing and sneezing up a storm. or, in the case of allergies, he's not actually allergic, that was a one time sneeze (to which healy reminds him it's like, his eleventh since this morning plus his nose is bright red and his eyes are watering)

-loudddd loud loud (and messy) sneezer. i mean, this was present in my fic but i have to reiterate it because i love it so much... h/ealy telling him to knock it off since they're loud enough to wake the dead. he can't stifle them for shit either which leads to scenarios where he'll pinch his nose shut but still sneeze obnoxiously loudly, then complain that it made his ears and throat hurt

-he does own many handkerchiefs/silk squares as they come with his impulse full suit purchases, but he will still opt to blow his nose with shitty diner napkins instead. h/ealy points this out as a sign of his stupidity. he also tries to hand off his own handkerchiefs to m/arch, who will usually refuse them on grounds of sharing hankies being gross before openly sneezing into the air and getting snot all over his moustache (despite being in general quite gross in so many other aspects. mr. frequent hangover who also is constantly getting himself injured and bleeding all over everything)

-he loves to share! what i mean is, he isn't the best about germ control. he'll share drinks and share colds. there's a joke somewhere in there that he's picked up more colds from bars than he has chicks

-morning sneezer. also still smokes while ill/suffering from allergies

Sherry pulled her scarf so it covered the top of her snout, that was buried in a fresh medical mask, her third one that day.

"Please don't tell me you're going out in this blizzard, in the state you're in," said Boss. The sheep had a hoof poking through the blinds to assess the weather, and was now peering judgmentally down her half-rimmed glasses at Sherry, who was bundled head to toe, a bump indicating where her snout was.

She pulled it down to address her boss, her voice dry from how strained her throat had become. She had to swallow before she spoke, squinting against the pain, and her voice came out at half the volume it usually was at. "I wadt to ndap... er, sleep a bit for mby ludch break," she breathed out, throat clenching from the sting of using it when it was so sore. "Car's ihd the garage." She punctuated her explanation with a few pathetic coughs.

Boss waved her off. "Take an extra 15. They're definitely cancelling office hours tomorrow so nothing's getting done, but I'm not having anyone drive when it's coming down this heavy."

All Sherry could do was nod in understanding, wanting to save her voice. 

"And uh. Please, send the rest of your work through to Prescott. No need to come into my office today. Or for the next several days," Boss added on, retracting her hoof from the window and taking a step back when Sherry coughed again, wheezing into her mask.

Exiting the office, Sherry decided to take a seat in front of the elevators, basking in the warm vent overhead. The awful weather made it so no one wanted to go to the garage if they could help it, and half of the office had already gone home before the worst of the snow. Holing herself up in her car to blast the heat and feel less self conscious about being a walking Nyquil advertisement was her plan, but she was taking a minute to sit, working up the nerve to venture out into the cold. As always, the moment she wasn't in work mode, her body reminded her of every ache, pain, and irritation.

The cold working through her system had been slowly sapping her energy since she woke, and the work day had been such a slog, it wasn’t enough to distract her from her symptoms. Her throat was as dry as a desert, the sting of illness extending up her nasal cavities and out to her ears. And speaking of her nose, the way it was simultaneously congested to the point of forcing her to breathe out of her mouth, yet dripping a thin trail of mucus each time she so much as shifted sitting positions, made no sense.

She'd pull her mask down and try to blow her nose as best as she could, deep crackling noises from somewhere deep in her snout informing her of the wall of snot that was waiting to be dislodged and blown out, but as soon as she'd wipe up and place the medical mask back on, the feathery sensation of it pressed against her sensitive, wet nose would set off the urge to sneeze.

Stifled, they came out almost completely dry, doing nothing to move the backed up congestion. If her attention was elsewhere, or as it was before the first mask change, a sneeze held back for a full hour, the mess that poured forth when her nose finally unleashed was enough to slide past her chin and stick the medical grade cloth to her nostrils, making obscene squishing sounds as she removed the soiled mask and folded it up, hiding her evidence of the heaviest cold she'd gotten in ages. It was disgusting and made her shudder every time.

It was almost as if thinking about it made her nose prickle, and Sherry had to clamp her fingers against her nostrils through the medical mask, to forcibly stifle. 

"HhhHHSHHh! Khh... Ud'SHHhh! Ud'STSHh!"

They were quiet, which was incongruent to how forceful they felt. Each one brought a squelch of more snot that had nowhere to go but all over the inside of her mask and down her lip, as much as she tried to pinch her nose shut. But it wasn't over yet. The stifles took so much out of her that she panted, which lead to more coughing, which required more inhaling as her poor lungs ached, forcing fresh air through her highly sensitive nose. 

"HEUUh'shhhhh!"

It was a breathy sneeze, with her throat shot to hell, she could barely vocalize them anymore. Sherry couldn't help the whine building up in the back of her throat, hoarse and whistling. She felt horrible. And probably looked it, too. The couple of sneezes had drenched her mask yet again, and she stood up, vaguely dizzy, to find the restrooms and freshen up as much as she could.

They were luckily unoccupied, and she let out a few unopened sneezes and washed her feverish face with warm water, patting her ears down from where they kept flying back from each sneeze. Blowing her nose into the sink felt like a step too far into being a vector of disease, so she opted to try and honk out as much snot as she could into the rough paper towels, patting her nose dry and fishing out a fresh mask. Letting them out instead of stifling seemed to help abate the aggravating itch, as even with the cool air hitting her snout, she was able to inhale without it shuddering into a hitch again.

As she smoothed her hair down and zipped her coat back up, her phone rang. Sherry was already fed up, and upon seeing Scott on the caller ID, became annoyed.

"I know you're on your break, but I need like, one second to ask about this consolidation thingie you said to do," came her younger colleague’s hurried voice. 

"Text, please," Sherry whispered, her voice still breaking despite how little effort she was putting into speaking.

"Woah, are you okay? Why'd you come into the office if you're so sick?" Scott was now whispering too for some reason, and disregarding Sherry's plain request.

"Bye," she coughed through the phone, and hit the red button. Jesus Christ. Her congestion was making her eyes water, and she squinted at her text messages to attempt to guide Scott to the simple solution.

Sherry: You can google how to use excel, I can't help you More like, I don't want to right now. Sorry Scott: ok but will it look obvious that i used a tutorial? also, you sounded like shit are you okay no offense Sherry: I wouldn't have to come in today if you were able to do EOQ I thought your dad was going to teach you Scott: hes in cancun or something idk Sherry: Do I have to hold your hand in googling Scott: no...

--

The elevator bell called out in the same calming tone as it always did. The familiar yet still unsettling pressure change whistled and rang in Mark's ears as usual. Consciousness poured slowly into the nooks and crannies of his brain, and he woke up, essentially.

As the elevator doors opened, Mark attempted to straighten the slouch his outie had carried in with him. He rolled his shoulders and all too quickly became aware of a dull ache down his back. Actually, his shoulders too. And the middle of his face. Wait, everywhere. 

Oh. He felt off today. He felt like shit all over.

Mark had tried his best to become adjusted to his body's bouts of so-called 'elevator allergies', lovingly dubbed so by Petey, who took whatever chance he could get to crack a joke at anyone's expense. Irving had asked all too gratingly if he needed to get Mister Milchick to get him sorted out those first few days of Mark’s stint at Lumon, where he’d arrive in a sort of disarray in the mornings. His eyes would be red and puffy and his nose a bit sniffly, to the point where his outie had apparently prepared for such an event, and lined his own pockets with crumpled tissues for him to discover. 

The so-called elevator allergies always began to clear up around the time the first pot of coffee was brewed, and along with it would leave the weird, heavy feeling he got in his core around his heart, that always made him want to sigh and breathe deeply to shake it out. The slightly disheveled hair he arrived with was easily tamed by a comb found in the supply room, but his runny nose was a task to be tended to for at least another while. He’d quickly gotten a tissue box stationed at the desks after being caught walking back and forth from the bathroom more times than deemed necessary. 

Dylan gave him the stink-eye at the time when Mark had explained that the tissue box wasn’t a work incentive or a personalized gift, but ‘task efficacy tools’ in the same category as a bottle of eyedrops or a bandage, recalling the way Harmony had described it when she personally handed Mark the item. He was willing to share them, if anyone wanted.

Petey had then denied Dylan’s request for a second pair of glasses that afternoon.

No, Mark became accustomed to those ‘allergy’ days. Some days found him symptomless, and others found him being greeted with Petey riffing off his run-down appearance, singing an awkward limerick he’d crafted in honor of Mark’s ailment, with an ever-so-chipper “don’t knock our elevator out, Mark!”

But not today. This felt like an allergy… but possibly, ten times worse. Mark had no doubt that he probably looked the way he felt, his face feeling heavy and achy, with his nose somehow feeling both runny and congested at the same time when it was usually one or the other. Even swallowing hurt, and Mark did so with a muted sense of alarm that the small actions made his ears ache too. He didn't know if his hearing could be affected by this, and the hand he pressed to the side of his head found his body temperature to be elevated. He coughed, meaning for it to be a slight action that instead developed into a hacking affair.

This was a new experience, and hopefully not a commonly occurring one, Mark wished. He has worked at Lumon for almost five months now. Allergies and the occasional minor stomach discomfort early in the morning were outie occupational hazards he'd grown to tolerate, begrudgingly, whatever their source may be. He had no other choice, anyways. This general blanket of malaise on his entire self sapped his energy step by step as he made his way towards MDR, his finger kneading at his colder than usual nose in irritation.

Mark shuffled down the hallway continuously, eyelids flinching shut at the white and expansive fluorescent lights that popped into view after each corner. He tried not to drag his feet on the pristine floor tiles, but he was so tired already. He wondered if this was an ailment that needed to be reported, and what exactly would be done about it save for sending him home for his outie to deal with. Or how big of a wrench it would throw into the work day if he didn’t. He had about two minutes to assess before he reached his destination, and his mind meandered, unhelpful and unfocused, as he painfully swallowed again. 

If it came to needing a report filed to the floor manager, Irving would probably do so the second Mark gave the go-ahead. The guy lived and breathed the Handbook to the point where no one needed to memorize protocol anymore, not even Petey, who was technically supposed to be in charge of that. There was only Dylan to worry about, Dylan who always felt the need to inform the floor that he had no time to catch bugs from them, when the monthly quota was on the line. And Petey… well, Petey was all talk and jokes when he wanted to be, but a guiding presence when not. He was the one Mark deferred to whenever things went slightly wrong. If Mark were to take his chances, he'd like to meet Petey first in the workroom, and assess from there. 

"Holy shit dude, walking corpse alert."

Dylan it was, then. Mark tilted his head in greeting and nodded briskly, then regretted it instantly as parts of his face he didn't even know had that many pain receptors throbbed. His hand shot to his temple, meeting a thin layer of sweat that caught onto his unruly bangs. One shoe after the other found the dark haired man all but stumbling into his office chair, with a shiver wracking his lopsided frame.

"D'you-fuck-"

Mark barely recognized his own voice as it wheedled into a congested cough. After the poor attempt to clear his airways, he tried again. “Be honest. How bad does it look?”

Dylan's expression could only be described as offended. "Like you wanna spread a plague amongst us all?" 

Mark could barely suppress an eye roll as the mere act of dragging his office chair forwards made Dylan scoot his own chair backwards an equal amount.

"Probably not as bad as it looks or sounds then. Don't get all worked up," Mark croaked out, his palms splayed out placatingly. In the haze of what something within the recesses of his mind brought up as a ‘fever’, he couldn't tell if he was trying to convince Dylan, or himself. Because yes. He felt like shit. A small part of him hoped that somehow, simply feeling this bad would get him out of work, and back into the care of Mark from the outside, to deal with this rather than him. At least that guy got a reprieve from feeling shitty for eight hours of the day.

The Lumen logo flashed across Mark’s computer, and he took the time to rub his clammy hands together as it booted up, chasing any warmth he could get. The office temperature never bothered him this badly before, so he chalked it up to yet another symptom he was becoming increasingly aware of. 

He sniffled twice and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, trying to alleviate the odd pressure he felt. The ensuing cough earned a glance from Dylan who was pointedly leaning far away from their little cluster of cubicles. He could see Dylan’s cup of coffee from between their desk dividers, and Mark realized his congested state had also robbed him of his smell, as the pleasant scent of coffee was nowhere to be found.

"Hello, kids." Irving's spin on his awkward new greeting he’d been trying fell flat as usual as he entered. The man nodded at the nest of cubicles before zeroing in on Mark with a barely disguised look of surprise. Because of course. Mark cleared his throat unproductively and his eyes flicked around as he watched Irving stride over, his fluffy gray brows set in worry in a way Mark didn’t like.

"You look positively dreadful," the older man observed. "You cannot come to work in this condition, Mark! It's… it's-"

"Contagious," Dylan supplied helpfully.

"Disadvantageous," Irving rhymed, a scholarly finger raised in the air. 

Mark blinked slowly. “And not my fault. I-I didn’t- plan on coming in like this…” his voice tapered off. The pitying expression Irving wore made Mark feel a displaced sense of guilt. 

"Of course not." Irving clasped his hands together. "But Dylan is also right. Productivity will decrease while in this state of illness, and it may even spread-"

"Thank you, so let him get the hell outta here already-"

Their overlapping speech was cut short by an obnoxiously loud sneeze from Mark that seemed to catch even him by surprise, as the hand that instinctually flew to cover his nose lingered there as he felt the wetness from his mistake in his cupped palm.

“--hhg’RRRSHHhhhoo…”

"Dude…" Dylan scrunched his face, his gums visible in his deep sneer.

"Sorry, ‘scuze mbe," came Mark's reply, dazed enough to the point where the embarrassment hadn't settled in just yet. His free hand rummaged in his blazer's pockets and found the usual convenient wad of tissues shoved unceremoniously in there. He still had half a mind to shoot out another apology over his shoulder as he swiveled in his chair, and proceeded to blow, just as loudly. 

And for what seemed like ages too, as a handful of honks wasn't enough apparently to clear whatever felt trapped in his sinuses. The silence that followed the outburst made heat creep up his neck and across his cheeks. He admitted defeat to his nose as the tissues were making more of a mess than containing it, still unable to breathe in without it making a gross gargling sniffle.

“Hhuh… hh’UDSHHHhuuu!”

His hand shot out behind him and it groped for his tissue box distractedly, bumping into the keyboard. Irving ever so helpfully nudged it towards Mark with a delicately held pen. Mark could only raise his eyebrows in gratitude as his eyes fluttered shut before another sneeze took hold of him, now aimed at a fresh yet quickly dampened handful of tissues.

"This is killing the workflow,” Dylan observed, the sarcastic lilt to his tone flying over the other two men’s heads as his fingers flew across his keyboard. “I think this needs to be reported. You know. So I can continue with my oh so glorious work uninterrupted.”

"Speak for yourself Dylan, what about Mark?" came Irving's simpering reply. Mark was wilting under the opposing points of attention.

Irving rustled in his desk drawers. “I’ll go ahead and fill the form out right now. You are in no fit state to work.”

Mark turned back around in his chair slowly, eyes half open. From below the clouds of general malaise that knocked around his head, the ailing man had registered that Irving was indeed filling out a request form. Which meant Mister Milchick might get involved since Petey wasn’t in yet to deliver it as MDR chief. Oh how he wished Petey would come in already. 

The part of his mind that wasn’t busy fretting over how wrong everything felt, recalled snippets of memories of his friend. While never giving up a chance to tease, he had his own way of guiding Mark through the various conditions he'd turn up to work in, ready with a paper cup of water in lieu of coffee on days where Mark was unsteady and wavering, or make a point to stand outside the restroom doors, as Mark battled whatever residual hangover caused ailments his outie loved to subject him to. He’d probably be nicer about Mark’s current condition. Not that Irving wasn’t nice, but it was a bit… much.

It hadn’t even been five minutes since Mark arrived which meant that Petey unfortunately wouldn't be arriving yet, which made sense and made no sense at the same time since it felt like Irving came in ages ago. Mark suddenly felt exhausted and slumped forwards, settling his aching head in the crook of his elbow, even if it was uncomfortably warm. He thought about peeling his blazer off, but shivered.

Irving rattled off the checkboxes of the health incident form in a level tone as Mark squinted at him sideways. The questions bounced off his skull and he pressed another tissue to his still streaming nostrils. The small action set his nose off again, and he jolted forwards into yet another sneeze, the follow up coughing ending in a soft groan of pain.

“Have you experienced an increase in body temperature? Decrease in body temperature? Itching or irritation of the throat? Decrease in state of consciousness? Vertigo or-” “What if you just checked all of themb,” came Mark’s tired reply.

“And submit an erroneous form? No no no, all four pages back to front must be read thoroughly…”

---

The little scene in the MDR office danced silently across the small security screen. Horizontal lines flickered across the display, offering a square sized glimpse into the department from her secluded space in the severed floor managerial offices. Harmony Cobel watched the fuzzy screen intently, still as a stone, eyes unblinking. The door was shut.

Irving B. conversed with Mark S. animatedly, the latter slouching in his chair in a slovenly manner. Any other day would have Harmony denoting Mark’s office etiquette transgression to be brought up in a behavioral check in the future, nipping it in the bud before it became habitual again. Today was not an ordinary day, Harmony observed, as Mark wasn’t carrying himself the way she had instructed him to. 

Today’s slouching Mark was tilted against the green dividers of MDR’s cubicles, the blob that denoted his unruly hair sticking up, and his hunched back facing the single security camera. Harmony found herself playing back memories of his bewildered and darting eyes after the very first time Harmony had sternly commanded he straighten his spine. A sweet memory. He has stood taller ever since. But not today.

She pressed a finger to the array of buttons before her. Not long after, a strong announcing knock sounded at her door.

“Mister Milchick.”

“Ms. Cobel, has there been an issue?”

The kind eyes of the employee liaison officer met Harmony’s icy gaze.

“Yes. Peter K. is not due to arrive for about another three minutes. You will be getting a request order soon to bring Mark S. to the medical department for a health examination. He’s claiming illness. So early in the day, too.” “I see. If that’s true, then that is a pity,” Milchick said, his face twisting into a slightly disappointed look for a moment before easing back into its smile. “His outie hadn’t made any mention of it to the front desk. We should hope it will pass.”

Harmony began tapping out an impatient staccato against the cool wooden desk. “Do bring Mark here instead please, before the day is wasted with needless running between departments.” Harmony’s finger stilled. “I’ll assess his state myself and see if he really needs a medical check as the MDR chief isn’t signed in to do so.”

“If it’s only three minutes, I highly suggest we-”

“I suggest you get a move on now, if you were fucking listening, because the walk down to MDR takes a little longer than three minutes, and productivity is tanking with every suggestion you make,” she followed up coldly, her hand balling into a fist.

At Harmony’s loaded command, Milchick nodded and exited the office, leaving the door open.

Harmony sighed out the breath she held as Milchick left. She ran a hand over her perfect silver hair and stilled. Then, she rose from her seat to rearrange her office a little in preparation.

---

Mark felt a cold sense of dread as he was escorted to the managerial wing, with Milchick choosing to walk in front of him this time. Back at the MDR office, he’d asked why Milchick was skipping the part where the health examination department would look him over, but he got no meaningful response from the enigma of a man other than the declaration that he had been summoned by Ms. Cobel, with an empty assurance that she knew what she was doing. 

“Don’t worry, you’re in good hands,” he’d said, his incredibly neat mustache framing his smile. Mark worried a bit anyway.

Irving had been no help as usual, surrendering his fellow colleague to whatever was about to happen with an annoying sense of fulfillment, and Dylan merely nodded, immersed in his work once more. Somewhere beneath the feverish haze, Mark felt like he was on his way to be punished as he turned the white hallways.

It was after the third turn of a hallway that Mark realized the incoming dilemma of forgetting to bring tissues with him on their little trek. Or maybe it was the fifth turn. 

They were lightly discouraged from counting the steps along Lumon’s halls, but Mark couldn’t hold count in his head for more than a handful of numbers before he’d rub an unhelpful finger under his irritated nose, then switch to lightly pressing the sleeve of his white button-down shirt to it. It was already getting dampened with each time he sniffed against it, trying to abate the flow. He hoped Ms. Cobel would have tissues in her office. 

By some miracle, Mark had managed to ward off any further outburst from his nose by the time they stopped at the cold blue doors of the managerial offices. When Milchick knocked on the door to alert Ms. Cobel of their arrival, he hadn’t made any expressions or movements to indicate that he noticed Mark’s condition, and kept the same easy smile he wore almost constantly. Somehow, this did worse things to the anxiety ramping up in his veins. 

“In,” Ms. Cobel demanded. 

When Mark shuffled forwards, hands shyly clasped behind his back, she waved dismissively at Milchick.

“Go brief MDR on the changes to today will you. The work day has already been interrupted majorly.”

At Ms. Cobel’s words, the two were suddenly alone. Mark wasn’t ready to start the conversation, dreading the reason he was summoned and the shitty condition of his throat betraying his voice. So he stood there, shivering slightly under Ms. Cobel’s scrutiny as she sat behind her desk, imposing as ever, with a manicured hand placed firmly on the wood.

“Sit,” she stated simply with a tilt of her head.

He sank down onto the plush seat. Ms. Cobel produced a file from under the desk, and then, a small white plastic packet. Mark still said nothing, his red-rimmed eyes blinking rapidly. With the wet irritation in his nose, he hoped that a way to ask for tissues would spring up soon. He sniffed unproductively, and clenched his hands in his lap to stop them from instinctively rubbing at his now sore nose. 

He sniffed again as his nose now threatened to drip down his shirt. Surely it would be seen as unsanitary. But at this point, Mark figured simply being here and breathing counted as a strike against sanitation guidelines. He wished he could have been taken to the health department instead, or that his outie made the right decision and stayed home, to save Mark from the tendrils of humiliation that crept down his back. His eyes watered again as his breath slightly hitched.

Ms. Cobel easily filled out the form, which Mark surmised was the same one Irving was trying to fill out as it had the same lines spaced out. Her pen confidently moved along the paper, far faster than the older man ever had. Her eyes flicked upwards to scan him over briefly when he hitched again, flipping the page and checking whatever she saw fit. 

When Mark’s breath swelled in a way he was having trouble stopping, he nervously licked his lips and cleared his throat before finally asking.

“Do you-Could I gehhht a-” Ms. Cobel tapped at the only other object that lay on her desk. “Right here.”

“O-oh. Thangk you.” Mark hesitatingly grabbed the unmarked plastic packet, looking to her for any further clarification. She gave none, and he opened it with a curious frown. 

Inside it were tissues, interestingly enough. They didn’t look like the standard ones she personally issued to him, the ones that came in a blue box that was unhelpfully about a hundred hallways away. They were softer to the touch and were void of the Lumen pattern that was across his own. Mark pulled one out, pressing it to his nose and opting to not begin a whole honking affair just yet, just a quick clean up.

Only to find that when he wiped at his face, a strong buzzing had blossomed, and his fingers instinctively clamped the tissue around his nose to muffle as much sound from the sneeze that flew out, his lungs clenching to stifle it.

“Hhuh’tcgshhh!” Instead of alleviating the tickle, somehow it only intensified. Mark’s breath pitched again in preparation for another sneeze, and realized hazily that even underneath the thick congestion in his head, he could make out a strong scent, something he couldn’t name. 

“-- hh’ghshh- HRR’SSHh!”

“Don’t do that,” Ms. Cobel suddenly said. Mark squinted back up at her, not quite ready to sit back up as the urge to sneeze was prickling across his sinuses, shallowing his breaths in an attempt to stave it off. She was now fully focused on him, locking him in her gaze. “If you hold it in, you will damage something,” she warned.

Mark could only nod, and as instructed, tried his best to push shame aside as an even louder sneeze gripped him, leaving his throat feeling raw. 

"Hh– hhh… hh'iEGSHHHooo!"

The effort left him a bit winded, and he slouched in his seat before remembering where he was, pulling his shoulders back up with a shudder.

She hadn’t returned to the file yet, still staring Mark down. “Blow your nose.” With an unsure pause, Mark searched her face for any sign of contempt, but did so after being unable to decipher her expression. His cheeks lit up as it was embarrassingly loud, and gross, and he tried to turn in his seat to spare her the display.

“See, isn’t that much better?” Ms. Cobel’s voice dropped its severity, and Mark nodded dumbly again.

“Thank you," he repeated, a bit clearer. "Are these-” “From medical, yes.” That didn’t answer the question Mark had on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed anyway, uncomfortably aware of how badly his throat hurt. Whatever ended up being in the tissues did seem to help in a weird way, as Mark’s sinuses weren’t as blocked as they were a few moments ago. His ears also weren't aching as badly as they did when he stifled his sneezes.

---

Mark kicked his snow-dampened boots off haphazardly, making a beeline to the side table hugging his couch. He plucked a fistful of tissues before honking into them, itching at his nostrils furiously.

His wish to come back from work having wrung out the worst of his headcold out of his system backfired. He had felt worse stepping off the elevator than when he entered it. With all the times in the past where he'd show up hungover, he'd get back to his car after the day passed by with a blink of his eyes and only a lingering tiredness and none of the nauseous shudders. He figured a cold would be a bit of the same, sneeze the worst of it out while not being mentally present. 

No, they apparently took one look at him and sent his sorry ass back home before thirty minutes had even passed. Waste of effort, waste of gas, waste ohhhf-

"HURRSSHH'hooo…"

He sank onto his couch, the train of thought completely lost. The hand clamping the tissues trembled, and he opted to run the back of his hand across his face instead.

Mrs. Selvig had gifted him a box of Vicks tissues and lozenges over the weekend, after hovering on his doorstep, nosy as ever. 

"Not to be a bother, but I could hear you from all the way over there!" she'd tittered in her airy voice, pointing to her house as if Mark didn't know they were neighbors. "Please take them, it's the least I could do."

She refused to leave him alone until he popped one of the candies in his mouth. She clapped her neatly trimmed hands together when he muttered a "yeah, 's good" around the citrus taste.

"See, isn't that much better?"

The tissues were nice, he guessed as he lay in his quiet home, at least they didn't leave the rims of his nostrils chapped. But the scent of the Vicks always set him off for the first few minutes of use, and Mark rolled over on the couch, flicking the television on and preparing to spend the day tending to his stupid nose instead of getting to sleep it off as his severed self worked through it.