I'm on the Highway to Sickfics

✯ “How many times have I told you not to take hits like that?”        “I don't exactly have control over that.”

✯ “It’s just a scratch.”        “It’s a deep scratch. Sit down.”

✯ “I don’t want to make a mistake.”        “You will eventually. The important thing is not to let it break you when it happens.”

✯ “Leave me alone! I have patients-”        “No you don't. They are now my patients and you are one of them. Sit.”

✯ “You're still here?”        “I had a patient dying. Their family wasn't here, I couldn't leave them alone. Even if they weren't conscious…”      “Come here. It's okay.”

✯ “Why didn’t you tell me?”        “I didn’t want you to worry.”      “I always worry. That's part of my job, and your job is to tell me when you need help!”

✯ “If you complain one more time, I’ll make this hurt.”        “You wouldn’t.”      “Try me.”

✯ “Hey! No need to be this rough!”        “Yes, actually. I need you conscious.”

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

Word count: 6,569

Genre: hurt/comfort

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

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

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

"Then why Grace keep looking away?"

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

"Where Grace going?"

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

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

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

"Five what, question?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How often Grace need sleep?" 

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

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

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

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

"Grace need food?"

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

"Grace can hear me question?" 

Grace nods. 

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

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

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

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

"Don't understand." 

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

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

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

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

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

"Then why sorry?" 

"Because I scared you." 

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

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

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

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

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

"Alright, alright. I'm going." 

"Slow." 

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

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

"Grace will be okay?" 

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

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

"Okay. Goodnight, Rock." 

"Sleep." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rocky is helping." 

'Rocky was helping. Now Rocky is annoying." 

"Grace still crabby."

Grace sighs. 

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

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

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

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

"Grace sleep now question?" 

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

And waits for sleep to come. 

And waits for sleep to come. 

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

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

"Sampler instructions boring."

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

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

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

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

"Grace sleep now, question?" 

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

"Something is wrong, question?" 

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

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

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

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

Rats. 

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

"Maybe if you tried leaving that chair."

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you eaten recently?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I can call an Uber." 

"Just get in the damn car, Grace." 

"Right. Okay." 

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

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

"New word." 

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

"How do we fix, question?"

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

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

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

"Medication will fix?" 

"We'll see, I guess." 

------

Medication does not fix.

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

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

"Migraine worse, question?"

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

"Good good good."

Half an hour later, Rocky checks in.

"Grace okay, question?"

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

"More medication."

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

"In meantime? More caffeine question?" 

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

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

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

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

Reluctantly, Rocky agrees. 

------

Rocky POV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Feel better, question?" 

"Starting to. Are you okay?" 

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

"Grace is one who is sick." 

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

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

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

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

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

"What would make Grace better?" 

"Water might help." 

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

"Sure. That would be good." 

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

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

"Feel okay, question?"

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

"Makes sense. Grace fall and bruise everything." 

He laughs again. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Then why Grace keep looking away?"

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

"Where Grace going?"

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

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

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

"Five what, question?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How often Grace need sleep?" 

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

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

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

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

"Grace need food?"

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

"Grace can hear me question?" 

Grace nods. 

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

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

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

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

"Don't understand." 

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

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

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

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

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

"Then why sorry?" 

"Because I scared you." 

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

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

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

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

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

"Alright, alright. I'm going." 

"Slow." 

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

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

"Grace will be okay?" 

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

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

"Okay. Goodnight, Rock." 

"Sleep." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That wasn't my question." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wait, he doesn't like me?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We would be without it," Hawkeye replies. 

"Colonel Potter, did you know about this?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She grimaces. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Something happened last night?" he asks genuinely. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---------

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he--"

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

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

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

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

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

"We?" he asks, and Charles sighs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't know if that's true." 

"Well, you're going to have to try." 

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

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

Hawkeye sighs.

'We're going to find out." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hawkeye blinks while that sinks in. 

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How are you feeling, Hawk?"

All he can muster is a groan. 

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

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

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

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

"Blankets?"

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

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