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The average city block in the US ranges from 250 to 1250 feet, usually falling on the shorter end of the spectrum. Grid-based city blocks are typically around 330 feet– not too long, not too short. A perfect Goldilocks of a block, if you think about it. 

Pittsburgh blocks, on the other hand, are whatever the fuck they want to be. Dennis had done a fair amount of research about Pittsburgh when he first moved to the city. He needed to know the public transit systems, the walking time from shelter to ED, the easiest routes, and safest areas for squatting. So, naturally, he’d learned about the lack of a standard grid system. He vaguely recounts a report about the abnormally challenging, hilly topography of the city– too many inclines, rivers, and unnatural terrains for there to be much organization in the street’s layouts. It’s called a colliding grid, he thinks, or something along those lines. 

To the ongoing list, he adds:

8. Colliding grid blocks 

Because of course the two blocks between the bus stop and the ED have to be the longest blocks imaginable, much closer to the 1250 feet range than the blessedly short 250. The slight uphill gradient doesn’t help, nor does the uneven sidewalk with more cracks and bumps than flat surface. 

Equally as unhelpful is his nose's inability to stop running. He has to stop every twenty or so paces to wipe at the appendage, refusing to blow it and forgo his last functioning tissue unless it proves to be absolutely necessary. 

Sneaker-clad feet drag against the pavement, their ache increasing with every break he has to take. Dennis has grown rather fond of his shoes, even with Trinity’s teasing that he shares the same style as her deceased grandmother. ‘They support my arches’ had been Dennis’s defense in buying them, stylish or not (definitely not). Afterall, he’s on his feet all day at work, he might as well make an effort to accommodate his body. 

Despite these efforts to make his body more comfortable, he can feel it staging a full fledged protest to being upright. Every time his foot meets the ground, the force of the concrete reverberates up through his leg, pinching at every joint it meets. Then, his legs propel him forwards with a stilt-like, uncoordinated gate, only for his other foot to hit the ground. And so on and so forth. 

Upon making it to the ED, Dennis plants himself on a bench just outside the ambulance bay. He knows he should buck up and go inside. People have it worse off than he does; he’s not bleeding, not broken, not needing medical attention. He’s just… cursed. 

The bench’s metal feels cool against his skin and he presses both of his palms to it, ignoring whatever germs are clinging to its surface. A brief reprieve from the heat works its way from his hands up his forearms, leaving a spattering of goosebumps that disappear after a few seconds. He shivers, and they reappear, intermixing with the light freckles speckled over his upper arms. For a second, he stills, and then another shiver sparks through his spine, his body caught in a dance between hot and cold. 

Dennis internally groans, wishing he’d thought to put a long sleeve beneath his scrub top as his overstimulated system settles on another shiver and a sudden chill. He knows he needs to stop sulking outside, to pull himself together and clock in, but the idea of spending all day on his feet is enough to keep him seated. Just one more minute, he reasons. What’s the harm in taking one more minute for himself? 

A distant ringing of sirens echoes through Dennis’s mind as it draws nearer– is the ringing from the sirens? The sound isn’t quite right, not the typical chorus of ambulance blaring, but something louder, harsher. It ricochets from one ear to the other before bouncing back, working its way through Dennis’s brain in piercing jolts. 

“Whitaker?” 

Dennis’s eyes open, adjusting to the sight of a man standing in front of him. He hadn’t realized his eyes had closed; they must have slipped shut of their own volition. After a painfully slow second, Dennis recognizes the figure that addressed him, mentally scolding himself for not having done so sooner. 

“Dr. Abbot– whadt are you doing here?” 

“Massive MVC. Six incoming patients with severe injury, countless others still on scene.” Jack answers, recounting the medical details that had slipped from Dennis’s mind. “All hands on deck.”

Right. There was a reason for Dennis having dragged himself out of bed and to the ED. Work. He’s working. And yet his mind lingers for a second too long on the number six, the mention dredging up thoughts about the man from the bus and his evident curse.

Jack’s eyes flick over Dennis’s form, scanning him head to toe. The older man’s lips curve into a slight frown as he catalogues the obvious signs of illness afflicting the other doctor; Dennis remains oblivious to the expression. He’s too busy willing himself to stand, silently egging on his legs to do the things they’re supposed to do– such as taking more than one step without stumbling and functioning non-mechanically. 

    9. Legs

When Dennis finally does stand, he chances a quick glance at Jack– the timid, hesitant kind of glance that he reserves for the twice-his-age-attendings that he finds particularly attractive– and, to his surprise, is met with Jack’s unfaltering gaze. An embarrassed flush blooms over Dennis’s cheeks, mixing with the previous fever pink tint and making him look even more overheated than he previously had. 

“So… shall we?” He gestures towards the ambulance bay doors, silently cursing himself for saying ‘shall we’ to his attending; he hasn’t even entered the ED yet and he’s already proven himself socially incompetent. 

“We shall.” Jack juts his chin towards the doors, a small movement, but one that Dennis reads clearly enough as a prompt for him to enter first. 

The chaos of the ED hits Dennis all at once, sending a surge of adrenaline through his body the second he steps inside. As always, there’s a chorus of medical equipment beeping, blaring, and ringing, but that’s just the undercurrent to the swell of shouting. Everyone is working over one another, weaving around gurneys with clusters of doctors and nurses working to the MVC patients– at least, those who have already arrived. 

Across the room, Dennis catches a glimpse of Trinity performing CPR on a seemingly unresponsive patient, but he doesn’t have the time to give her a second thought. Jack’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing firm before he disappears into the mess of medical professionals. 

Dennis joins the frey too, his body’s autopilot winning over his brain’s fever muddled antics. He jumps onto a case with McKay– a 25 year old male, responsive at the scene, car shrapnel penetrating the chest, broken ribs from the crash’s impact, lung sliding on the left. The patient crashes twenty minutes into treatment; Dennis reclaims his title as the ED’s resident LUCAS machine. 

Robby swoops into the patients room just as they get the patient back, his pulse thready but present. “Who’s this?” He asks, already slipping a pair of gloves over his hands as he approaches the patient’s bedside. His eyes flick from the patient’s vitals, over their chest and abdomen, to McKay, and then to Dennis. It’s only when his gaze reaches the younger doctor that he falters– not from the protruding foreign body in the patient’s chest, nor the blood soaked sheets, but rather the sight of Whitaker sweat soaked and swaying beside the patient’s bed. 

“Marcus Haynes. 25,” McKay rattles off the patient’s known demographics before diving into his physical traumas, symptoms, and treatment. Robby’s hands work their way over the patient’s torso, carrying out an exam as if by instinct as he listens. 

“Good. Page surgery again.” Robby peels off his gloves with a snap. “Tell them it’s urgent. This patient can’t afford to wait for their hour-long stroll down the stairwell.”

The sharp sound of the gloves breaks through Dennis’s reverie. He had been standing idly by, barely cognizant of McKay’s words in the wake of exerting himself to perform CPR. Beads of sweat slip down the center of his back, pooling above the waistband of his scrub pants and slowly seeping into the fabric. Sweat collects on his face too, threatening to form full drops and roll over his flushed cheeks; he swipes absentmindedly at his forehead before they can reach that point. 

“Whitaker. You alright?” 

Dennis looks towards Robby, nodding belatedly. “Yeah.” Another nod. “Yes, I’m good.” 

The attending pauses, eyebrows raised as he watches Dennis wipe his forehead again. “Alright. You’re with me then. Another rig is four minutes out.”

Dennis nods once more, trying to ignore the evergrowing sinking sensation in his stomach. Whatever spurt of adrenaline had carried him through the first patient has left him high and dry– or, rather, feverish and sweat soaked. He follows Robby towards the ambulance bay, weaving through the crowd with much less coordination than necessary. He bumps into at least three people on the way, nearly trips over his own feet, and lets his hip collide with a passing gurney. If he was in a contest for socially and professionally inadequate doctors, he’d win by a long shot, he’s sure of it. 

By some miracle, he manages to make it to the ambulance bay without completely humiliating himself. He didn’t faceplant in front of the nurses station, at the very least. Plus, the air is cooler outside, fresher, less suffocatingly sterile. As the automatic doors slip shut behind him and Robby, they leave a pleasant quietness in their wake. Sure, the sounds of ambulance sirens are ebbing closer with every passing second, bringing with them the promise of more chaos, but at least there’s a pleasant breeze, right?

“So, called in on your day off, huh?” Robby’s tone is conversational, but his eyes narrow as they take in Dennis’s appearance. 

“Yeah, I guess so– er, well, I know so. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, obviously.” 

     10. Making conversation with my boss while feverish cursed

Robby’s eyes soften slightly, a fondness easing his evident concern; he’s always enjoyed how easily Dennis blushes. 

“Hopefully you’re not here for too long. Except I can’t make any promises, these–”

“kzXCHh!” 

The sneeze takes the two doctors equally by surprise– Robby at having been interrupted and Dennis at having absolutely no warning for the expulsion. He raises a hand to his face, catching the second, “isXSch’ew!” against his wrist. 

“shifts tend to––,” Robby resumes, continuing his sentence in the brief gap before another “h’txCh–itSch!” double gets muffled by Dennis’s sleeve. 

“–drag on much longer when our systems get bogged down,” this time, Robby pauses his speech rather than being interrupted, allowing just enough time for Dennis to hitch twice and sneeze another fittish triple, “hih’hhH–ksxch’sch’tzch!”

“But for all we know,” Robby stretches his arms above his head, though his eyes remain trained on Dennis, “we might both make it home in time for dinner.”

Dennis buries his nose in his elbow, once again wishing he’d worn an undershirt beneath his scrubs as he feels a bead of moisture press to his skin. He waits, the tickle dancing just beyond his reach, enough to make his breath hitch and eyes water, but not enough to heighten the sensation into anything more than irritation. 

Dennis teeters on the edge, remaining tucked in the same position as he waits. He can feel Robby’s gaze on him and it makes his cheeks flush a darker shade of pink. 

Finally, his breath snags in something more than just a breathless gasp, spurring a light cough and then a half-stifled, “h’gtch!” He hadn’t intended on stifling, but the sneeze gets caught behind the wall of congestion solidifying in his nose. The following sneeze makes more of an effort to escape, but it still gets stuck behind his teeth, failing into a breathy, soft end: “ig’ksst!”  

Unsatisfied with the unexpelled half-sneezes, he shakes his head lightly– a bad idea in retrospect, it does nothing more than make him dizzy. Then, his head bobs forwards with a final vocal, “ik’tSSHh-ue!” that leaves the crook of his elbow dusted with a light spray. 

Dennis gives an involuntary sniffle afterwards, the pent up congestion now threatening to run over his lip like some post-fit humiliation ritual. 

    11. Sneezing in front of my boss

“You done?” Robby’s voice falls somewhere between amused, endeared, and concerned– not upset though, miraculously. Dennis nods and emerges from his elbow, remembering the crumpled excuse of a tissue he has shoved in his pocket from this morning and fumbling to retrieve it. “Bless you.”

     12. Being blessed by my boss

“Thangk you.”

The tissue does a poor job at cleaning him up. Already crumpled from inhabiting his pocket, its structural integrity isn’t nearly as strong as he needs it to be. He resorts to half sniffling, half wiping his nose with his body turned away from Robby as the sirens draw nearer. 

Robby watches, mentally toeing between the ideas of pointing out Dennis’s illness or giving him the benefit of the doubt– although it’s becoming evident to him that the younger doctor doesn’t know when to call it quits. “So,” he begins, but he’s interrupted. He’d underestimated how close the ambulance was to the bay; he’s been at the pitt long enough to be able to identify when a rig is going to pull up to the second, but he’s been uncharacteristically distracted. 

The sirens’ sound grows tenfold as they approach at haphazard speeds, spinning around Dennis’s head as he stares loosely in the direction of the ambulance. He shoves his sodden tissue unceremoniously back into his pocket and finds a pair of gloves held just before his eyeline. With a quick nod of thanks to Robby– a disjointed, slow jerk of his head– he accepts them and starts fumbling to pull them over his clammy hands. 

“What’ve we got?” Robby snaps into action, meeting the paramedics at the rig’s back door and immediately beginning his examination of the patient. Dennis tries to keep up, rushing to follow Robby’s lead and nearly bumping straight into his back in the process. Smooth, Dennis, he mentally chides. 

“50 year old female. She was an unrestrained passenger in the vehicle when–” 

Dennis prays that his adrenaline will take the reins again, silently willing his body to listen, to move, to attend to his surroundings, and to practice medicine– easy, right? 

“Dana, we need a room!” Robby calls across the ED once they make it past the entrance, his hands already carrying out a partial exam. 

“Trauma Two’s open!” Dana bellows back. As always, she’s working in the center of the chaos, acting as the pillar that keeps the whole damn place upright. 

“Alright. Whitaker, you’re with me,” Robby casts a quick glance around, “McKay! Javadi” 

The resident and student doctor join them in the trauma room at record speed, immediately getting the patient’s run-down, which, admittedly, was helpful for Dennis to hear again. A portable ultrasound is shoved into his hand, his other clutching loosely at a bottle of gel– when had he grabbed that?– “Dennis!” Javadi whispers, giving his elbow a slight nudge and snapping him out of his reverie. 

“Right– uh. Checking for lung sliding,” he spurs into action, his medical knowledge still miraculously intact despite his growing fever. “No lung sliding on the left,” he reports as the other doctors attend to Robby’s instructions, “the right’s clear too. Checking the abdomen next.” 

Robby steps back, allowing Dennis to take his place by the patient’s abdomen and position himself for the ultrasound. The room swirls around him for just a moment, its white walls blurring into a bright haze that forces Dennis to blink a few times to right his vision. One of Robby’s hands settles on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

As distracting as Robby’s touch can be, it brings Dennis back to his body for a moment, back to the fact that he’s actively treating a patient. “Uh– the gel’s a bit cold, sorry,” he announces to the (unconscious) patient out of habit as he begins the ultrasound. McKay and Javadi exchange a look of concern. 

Dennis glides the ultrasound wand across the patient’s stomach, eyes straining to focus on the screen, “there’s free fluid in the belly.” That gets Robby’s attention immediately. He peers at the screen, reaching over to adjust Dennis’s hand ever so slightly before nodding. 

“Yep. It looks like a splenic injury. Javadi, what are our next steps?”

Dennis stares downwards, watching as Robby’s hand once again steers his own to get a different angle. He shouldn’t need help with an ultrasound, but his hand melts under Robby’s, suddenly incapable of moving without guidance. A tingling sensation pools in the tips of his fingers, and Dennis is unable to decipher if it’s from the fact that Robby’s hand is dwarfing his or if it's from the dizziness tugging at his consciousness. 

Another nudge to his elbow– harder this time– makes Dennis jerk his head upright. All three of the doctors have their eyes trained on him, so he sputters out a quiet, “sorry!” 

Before anyone can acknowledge Dennis’s behavior, Mohan opens the door in a rush, “Robby! We need you in Trauma One!” and with that, the attending is gone and McKay takes the lead. 

Luckily, she knows to delegate most of the tasks to Javadi, giving Dennis simpler instructions and double checking his work. Within thirty minutes, the patient is stable and awaiting surgery, and he’s off the case. 

Within the same thirty minute period, however, his symptoms start hitting him over the head like bricks one after the other: dizziness, headache (which makes the dizziness worse), congestion (which makes the headache worse), and body aches (which make the whole damn day worse). 

    13. Worsening symptoms of my cold curse

As Dennis finally steps out of Trauma Two, he’s met with a resurgence of the pitt’s chaos. More rigs have arrived since he’d last been in the bay, bringing with them emergent patients, some of whom were overflowing into the main halls. 

His eyes flick from patient to patient, his brain lagging as he tries to deduce who to help first. The decision is made for him when Abbot spots him standing idly by, “Whitaker!”

Dennis crosses the sea of gurneys, nurses, and doctors to where Abbot is treating a tearful patient. 

“She has an anterior shoulder dislocation. You’re going to help me reduce it,” Abbot instructs, eyes narrowing as he meets Dennis’s gaze, “got it?”

Dennis nods, looking over the patient's dislocation before recounting, “there’s skin tenting, most likely due to a bone fracture, so… traction-counteraction is needed. Then we can treat the break after.”

Abbot gives Dennis a onceover before bracing himself by the patient’s head and getting into position. “You’re going to provide counteraction. Make sure you’ve got a sturdy stance.” 

He tsks at Dennis, tilting his head to the side and gesturing with a nod of his head for Dennis to shift. “Spread your legs wider. Your feet shouldn’t be aligned with your hips.” 

Dennis adjusts, earning a nod of approval as he tries desperately not to think about the way Jack’s voice had sounded when he instructed him to spread his legs; fever or not, his attraction to his attending persists. 

The reduction itself goes relatively smoothly all things considered, but it seems to zap Dennis’s remaining energy. Sweat is still dripping down his back and pooling in his scrubs, and he’s certain that the pitt has never been hotter. He swipes his wrist across his forehead, collecting an embarrassing amount of sweat and wiping it against his scrubs– thank God they’re dark. He doesn’t need everyone to know just how incapable his body is at regulating its temperature right now. 

To make things worse, Dennis’s sinuses prickle angrily as he inhales, enough to make his eyes water. The sensation takes root in the left side of his nose, worsening with the next inhale, which stutters halfway through and falls into a fluttering exhale. Still standing by the patient’s bedside next to Dr Abbot, Dennis stalls; his feet plant themselves stubbornly in place, refusing to move until the itch is attended to. Two soft hitches build on one another and Dennis presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

He can feel his brows knitting together, eyes slipping shut just as the third and fourth hitches make it past his lips. The final hitch is determined, filling his chest with its inhale. Nose buried in his elbow, Dennis shudders with a congested stifle, “n’kGXt!” 

His head bobs down hard and quick, the action unplanting his feet and causing him to stumble towards Jack a few steps. The attending’s hands land on Dennis’s sides, bracing him with a surprised, “Jesus, kid.”

Dennis leans into the touch, his body overwhelmed by– “hn’gxXt!”– the itch that’s now searing through his sinuses, having traveled from just the left side to what feels like his entire nose– “ih’ngXCch!” 

By instinct, Dennis tries to stifle, but his attempts just worsen his body’s need to expel the cold from its system, resulting in a quick gasp and then a cluster of sneezes that tumble out over one another, “ig’ksSst! ngXch-ksch!iih’ksSCHh! kK’tTsSCHhy’w!”

The fit leaves Dennis panting, dizzy, and with his nose running into the crevice of his elbow. He keeps his head bowed and hidden, but an embarrassed blush reddens his ears and neck. 

“Bl–” Jack begins, but Dennis cuts him off with a belated, “t’sSXch’ehw!” to which an older man raises an eyebrow. Abbot hesitates for a second, letting any final sneezes make themselves known before attempting to bless the younger doctor again. 

“Bless. You trying to set a record or something?” 

“No, I’m— sorry. I’m nodt—,” Whitaker begins, words falling from his mouth without any real coherence. The itch lingers in the back of his throat, each word egging it on until, “hnGjXch! S-hihh’iSZSHh!—sorry!” 

A liquid sniffle follows Dennis’s apology, and he shoves his free hand into his pocket in a vain hope that it would contain a tissue. No such luck. He sniffles a second time, then a third, his nose still tucked into the crook of his elbow. Luckily, the sniffles are lost to the chaos of the ED, stamped out by sounds of medical machinery and a chorus of voices. 

Dennis pointedly avoids Jack’s gaze, his eyes skirting around for the nearest exit from the overcrowded room. He can feel the attending’s hands over his scrubs, bracing him with a sturdiness that he desperately needs. 

The nurses station is crowded as ever, as is the rest of the pitt. An overflow of patient beds lines the hallways, blocking the exit nearest to Dennis. Fine, that’s fine. He just has to cross by South 15, pass the breakroom, and take a few minutes in the stairwell by the family room. 

“Sorry,” Dennis offers again, his brain churning out the same useless apology as it works through the molasses clouding his judgement. 

“Whitaker.” Jack’s hold on Dennis’s waist continues, his grip growing firmer as the student doctor takes a step forward. 

Dennis’s fever-addled brain miscalculates. Lifting just a few inches off the ground, his foot collides clumsily with Abbot’s sneaker, missing the ground entirely and instead landing on the toe of his prosthetic. 

Fumbling to find his footing, Dennis feels the room spin as he tries to lift his leg again; the limb shifts off of Jack’s foot, landing on solid ground by some miracle. 

The heat that’s been sitting dormant beneath Dennis’s skin now sears to the forefront of his mind, blurring his vision. His body practically wilts: legs shaking, posture slumping, and head swimming. 

Oh. Shit. 

He just barely registers, “Alright kid, stay with me. You’re alright.” 

Dennis tries to nod, to get his tongue to do anything more than sit like a rock in his mouth. He wants to agree– yes, I am alright– but all he manages is another whispered apology as he slumps further towards Abbot. 

“Fuck!” Jack hooks his arms beneath Dennis’s, keeping the younger— surprisingly buff— doctor upright. He barks, “Robby!!” as he casts a glance over his shoulder, catching his fellow attending in his line of sight. 

that's all for now ~ any and all comments/tags are appreciated :) thank you for reading!

The storm rolls in like it has a personal agenda. It starts as a low grumble somewhere beyond the horizon, the kind you can ignore if you try hard enough, hope against all hope that it might blow over without making a fuss. But of course, Pittsburg rarely has such luck, and the sky over the city has gone slate-dark within minutes, the rain coming down in sheets so thick it blurs the world beyond the windows into something abstract and shifting.

Jack Abbot is safely home, warm and dry, draped over his sofa half asleep with a blanket flung over his lap and crutches conveniently within arm’s length. His shift, though not particularly exciting, had been draining in a way that doubles hadn’t been ten years ago. But he really can’t complain, considering that he managed to escape before the storm—and its accompanying pathologies—started piling up at PTMC. There is truly no where else he’d rather be, especially considering his company—

“het’tKXxT!”

A certain dark-haired doctor, sitting cross-legged on Abbot’s carpet in the process of re-organizing Abbot’s CD collection, has his face buried in the collar of his crew neck. He’s twisted (somewhat uselessly) towards the wall with one had still clutching the Bruce Springsteen CD he was in the middle of criticizing. He gives a thick sniffle, then twists back to face Jack again, staring at him for a moment.

Robby arches a suspicious eyebrow. “What, no bless you?” He sniffles again.

Abbot gives an exaggerated long-suffering sigh. “Why bother? You’ll never stop at one. Take a look out the window, my friend.”

As if on cue, a loud clap of thunder rolls in the distance. Abbot starts a bit, embarrassingly, and if he didn’t know better he might have thought he saw Robby’s face soften just a fraction. But no sooner than that (alleged and highly contestable) affection crossed Robby’s face did it disappear, his features falling into a dazed 100-yard stare. Clearly not listening.

“You okay there?” Abbot asks, raising his brows.

Robby doesn’t answer. There’s a very specific silence that follows, a tense, anticipatory kind, until:

“heh—hh’EStCHHhu!”

“You want me to grab you a benadryl?” Abbot asks, instead of laughing.

“I sneezed twice, Jack,” Robby drawls from the floor. He looks entirely too attractive for someone in a 15-year-old sweatshirt and the beginnings of a very pink flush creeping over his nose, surrounded by CDs like some kind of advertisement for Radioshack. “I’m hardly having an allergy attahh—ahem—an allergy attack. You don’t need to bother getting up.”

Abbot stares at him for a moment as he paws at his nose rather aggressively. “…Right.”

And as much as he would love to argue (let it be know how much Jack loves to argue), his eyes have been getting awfully heavy, and the rain is plinking softly against the window panes, and there’s a pleasant smell wafting from the general direction of the kitchen (did Robby bake something earlier?), and he really was enjoying listening to Robby berate him for owning no fewer than six copies of Born To Run, and if Robby said he was fine then surely—

“ETSCHH! het’EtCHUU! hhhah… hhh— hehh—HeH’RESHHUUu!!”

BRRBOOM!! Another clap of thunder.

Jack snaps up on the couch, startled. “Jesus, Robby.”

Robby has the grace to look sheepish at least. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t know why I’m so irritated right now.”

Abbot slumps back, narrowing his eyes. “I could think of at least one thing—” he starts to say, casting another glance at the window.

“Don’t even snf start with that bullshit.” Robby grumbles, congestion starting to creep into his voice.

“Mm,” Abbot says, burrowing deeper into the couch.

Robby points at him immediately. “No.”

It’s becoming difficult for Abbot not to laugh. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a noise.”

“It’s an observational noise.”

Robby sniffles indignantly. “It’s a judgmental noise.”

“It’s a correct noise,” Abbot posits, already half-asleep again.

Robby scoffs, scrubbing at his nose. “It’s a coincidence.”

There’s a crack of thunder overhead, loud enough to rattle the glass. Right on cue—

“heh—hh’KeTSCHHu!”

Abbot doesn’t even try to hide it this time. He laughs. Loudly, fully, hard enough that he has to sit up again. “Bless you, Michael.”

“Fuck off, Johnathan.”

Abbot sits up fully now, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on his knees. Openly gazes at his disgruntled guest. Up close, it’s even more obvious: the pink flush across his nose, the watery eyes, the way he keeps blinking like the air itself is irritating.

“You came over clear,” Abbot says, thoughtful.

“Yes.” Robby feigns disinterest, turning back to the veritable mountain of CDs.

“No symptoms.”

“Nope.” He pops the p, still refusing to look up.

“And now—”

“And now, I’m fihh—fihhne—hah—” Robby shakes his head violently, as if he could shake off the prickling irritation in his sinuses— “hhah—hhhn?!” before admitting defeat, diving into cupped hands at the last possible moment, “heh’ESTCHHHUU!”

Abbot gestures lightly. “Very compelling argument, Dr. Robinavitch.”

Robby makes a frustrated noise, one hand still lingering by his face.

Abbot softens just a fraction. “Tissue?”

Robby nods, a little helplessly. “Where, please?”

Abbot feels a smile tugging at his lips, though now for an entirely different reason. Of course, even suffering as he clearly is, Robby would never make Jack get up when he can tell how comfortable he is in his pillow-nest. “Check the kitchen.”

Abbot watches the other man as he practically stumbles out of the room, feeling an odd, tingly warmth in his chest. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you think about it), Jack doesn’t really have the mental wherewithal at the present to examine what that tingly warmth might be, so he tucks it away. When Robby returns, he’s armed with a box of tissues and two mugs of water. He sets all of it on the low coffee table, other than one mug, which he hands to Jack.

“I hope you don’t mind that I raided your meds cabinet for an antihistamine,” Robby says, settling back onto the floor across from Abbot. “I figured we could skip the whole song and dance.”

“Mm, good call, doc.” Abbot reaches forwards to put his mug on the table after taking a sip. Before he can shift up fully to reach the table, Robby stands, takes the mug from his hand and sets it down for him. Abbot blinks at him sleepily. “Rob—”

“—hehh’ETSCHH! Hh’rESCHUU!”

Abbot jumps a tad, startled out of his sleepiness again. “Bless you, bless—”

“hEH—ektCHHhh’h’SChUU!!”

“Bless you, aaaand bless you.” Abbot gives him a moment to blow his nose. “Is that all?”

“I’m going to leave now,” Robby drawls, already pulling on his coat. “You’re exhausted, and I’m keeping you up—”

Abbot moves faster than expected, lobbing a cushion at his head with startling accuracy “No, you’re not.”

Robby blinks at him. “Jack. Come on.”

“Visibility is poor, roads will be slick, and you are—” Abbot gestures vaguely toward his face, “—compromised.”

“I am not compromised.”

“You just took diphenhydramine,” Abbot says. “Can’t drive on a drowsiness-inducing med.”

“I took a non-drowsy one,” Robby counters, pulling another tissue (which really does nothing for his argument). “Zyrtec or something.”

Abbot throws another pillow, this time nailing him in the chest. “You’ve sneezed a dozen times in the last three minutes.”

Robby exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s a twenty-minute drive.”

“In a downpour.”

“I’ve driven in rain before.”

“Not the point, Rob. Just, do me a favor,” Abbot says, tilting his head toward the window where the storm is now hammering the glass like it’s trying to get in, “give me some peace of mind.”

As if on cue, lightning flashes—bright, immediate—followed by a crack of thunder that feels too close. Robby glances toward the window, seeming to consider. Then, as if his own biology wants to strengthen Abbot’s point:

“heh—hh… heh’ErDJCHUUu!!”

He sniffles thickly, looking down at Abbot with watery brown eyes. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters.

“It is,” Abbot agrees easily. “Which is why you should stay. Just until the storm passes.”

Robby looks back at him. “You don’t get to decide that.” He’s just being stubborn now.

“I do when it intersects with basic safety. I’d hate to have to say I told you so over something like this.”

Robby huffs something that might be a laugh despite himself, then immediately ruins it by sneezing again, stifled into his tissue. “hh’hkXxnT!”

“Don’t do that, Robby,” Abbot scolds, then gestures toward the couch. “Come here. Sit.”

“I’m not—”

“Sit with me.”

“I don’t take orders from you off-shift.”

Abbot cocks an eyebrow at him. “You don’t take orders from me on-shift either.”

Robby scrubs at his nose. “More to my point.”

“Then consider it a strong recommendation.”

Another roll of thunder.

“heT’erETCHhu! huh… hheh—hh’ESHUUU!!”

Abbot doesn’t say anything this time, just watches, patient, certain in a way that is somehow more persuasive than all his earlier arguments combined. He pats the sofa beside him.

“Fine,” Robby mutters finally, shrugging out of his jacket and dropping onto the couch. “Just until it lets up.”

“Of course,” Abbot says, far too agreeable. He makes a weak attempt to throw part of his blanket over Robby’s legs.

Robby huffs what might be a laugh. Pulls the blanket over himself, sliding a little closer to Jack in the process. Then, of course, because Robby can never win, he twists away and buried his face into his sleeve.

“Eh-heh’tcHH! HheH’etCHRUU—! H’HheTCHH!!”

Abbot sighs sleepily. “Bless you three times, Rob.” He makes a vague motion towards the table.

Robby sniffs and, because he can read Jack’s mind more often than not, knows to reach for the tissue box on the table. When he settles back on the couch, Abbot leans back even more and drapes his leg and stump over Robby’s lap.

“Good? Are you satisfied?” Robby’s voice is low and thick with congestion.

Abbot just hums in response, resting his heavy eyelids. For a moment, neither of them speaks, letting the storm fill the silence—rain against glass, distant thunder, the low hum of electricity.

“You know,” Abbot says eventually, voice barely there, actively fighting the pull of sleep, “you don’t actually have to argue every time.”

Robby blinks over at him. “About what?”

“Oh, you know what.” The he opens his eyes. “You’re allowed to be,” He gestures—not just at the sneezing, but the whole situation: the storm, the apartment, the fact that Robby is still here. “A mess. Sometimes. It’s alright.”

Robby exhales slowly. “You’re insufferable when you’re right.”

“I don’t know what you’d do without me,” is Jack’s reply as he sinks into sleep.

And if he didn’t know better, and if he wasn’t already asleep, he would’ve heard Robby’s reply,

Cameron was sat at the table in the DDX room alone, with a mug of steaming hot tea beside her and a tissue box situated very close. Her papers were strewn around, her glasses a little wonky upon her nose — her very pink nose. Every few minutes she had to blow her nose, her it seemed to provide no relief and she was all sniffly and ticklish again a few minutes later.

Who did she have to thank for this? Chase. Chase and his stupid, winter germs that he always brought into work around this time of year. She never usually caught them, either, but a particularly upsetting case had her losing sleep over thelast week or so and it had left a dent in her immune system.

So, here she was, working alone on paperwork while Foreman looked for a new case, and Chase worked down in the clinic. She didn’t even want to know where House was, because any of his rude sort of jokes would probably make her cry today.

Cameron turned a page, faltering, and grabbing a handful of tissues. ‘Hhh’EISHhh’uu!’ Sneezing into them, feeling her eyes water with the next wave of itchy congestion. Maybe she had a low grade fever, too, because she felt so tired and extra emotional.

Their patient had passed away, if that much wasn’t obvious, and having to write a report for the hospital’s board to prove there was no foul play involved wasn’t helping her current state of mind very much.

With a huff, Cam closed the file. She could work on a few other things for a little while, they had a few days to complete their reports. Foreman had finished his, and she was pretty sure Chase hadn’t even started. So, really, she was doing alright.

And, well, this was her first cold of the year. She got over it around a week later, just feeling the leftover lethargy that took a while to shake off. Once she started sleeping a little better, things went back to normal pretty much.

•

Until two weeks later, when they were in the middle of a fairly difficult case — it wasn’t upsetting this time, at least not in a personal reminder sort of way. But, they’d all been working overtime thanks to the clinic being short staffed, and maybe her body was still catching up a little from her sleeplessness a while before that, because whatever virus had snuck it’s way in, maybe during clinic duty or maybe not, was there to stay.

She was a couple of minutes late, but still the first to arrive, which was a relief. Her nose had been itchy that morning, her throat sore since the night before. Cameron was getting rather frustrated with her body and the feelings of annoyance and stress weren’t exactly helping, she knew that, but she just couldn’t help it.

As everyone else arrived for the morning, she somewhat zoned out of the conversations, only joining in when House asked for her opinion and she half-heartedly mentioned that she thought it was auto-immune three days ago. Since they had not much else to go on, he had sent Foreman and Chase off to do the correct tests needed for Cam’s theory… and chained (metaphorically) her to the desk again, demanding she do research. Despite the fact that it was her idea.

Yet, there was little resistance to the idea, and their boss knew she wasn’t feeling right. He also knew what happened to Cameron when she got sick and it was much safer and more useful if she was to stay here and work through some books. He didn’t say it out loud, and she didn’t acknowledge the fact that maybe he was helping her, because she was too tired to analyse it and he didn’t really care to hear it, frankly.