#vicmos

-

"You should call outta work. And like, the rest of the week too."

"'m fine…"

"Vic, you look like shit. Seriously."

"I'll be fine, Deimos, I just gotta… gotta…" his voice trails off, Victor sagging against the wall to his left and then Deimos is moving on reflex, hopping over the back of the sofa to catch him before he can fall.

He gets an arm under Victor's shoulders, supporting most of his weight and guiding him back toward the couch. "'Fine' my ass."

Victor makes a raspy, groggy noise of protest, somewhere between a curse and a whine, but doesn't have the strength to actually fight his way out of Deimos's arms. "You're gonna get yourself sick too," he complains, voice harsh in a way that makes Deimos wince.

Pale. Eyes glassy and unfocused. His legs throw in the towel as soon as they reach the edge of the couch, Victor resting his head back against the cushion and staring blankly at the ceiling. Deimos presses the back of his hand against Victor's forehead, then frowns.

"Do we have something for fevers lying around somewhere? You're hot as fuck."

"Not too bad yourself."

"Vic, I am so serious right now."

"Hm? Oh… uh… I dunno. Just check the uh… the thing."

The thing. Not helpful. There's a million things in this stupid little apartment.

Deimos starts with the kitchen, leaving a blanket at Victor's side so he can go rummage through cabinets and drawers, digging through cans and spices and bottles with labels he can't pronounce. Vic will be upset later about his organization being messed up, but that's a future-Deimos problem.

No meds.

He spares a glance toward the couch on his way to the bathroom. Victor hasn't moved. Usually things are the other way around, Deimos delirious with fever while Victor takes care of him and frets over his health. He's good at that. Deimos feels stupid when he rounds the corner and his eyes immediately land on the medicine cabinet on the wall. He probably should've checked there first. The box of pills is right there on the middle shelf. Deimos tears off two of the little foil packets, then heads back to the living room.

"Where'd you go?" Victor asks, now lying on his side and using the blanket as a pillow.

"Got ya some drugs. Need water?" Deimos gets a single nod in response, stepping back into the kitchen for a moment to fill a glass before bringing both to Victor.

"I'm gonna be late to work," he says as he sits up, hand held out for the pills.

"Nuh-uh. I'm calling you out sick."

"We've got rent coming up-"

"Ssshshshsshsh. Rent ain't real. I'll deal with it."

Victor stares at him, worried even through the haze of illness, but doesn't press the issue. He takes the pills without further argument, face screwing up in discomfort as he washes them down with the water. "You're a pain. It's prob'ly just allergies."

Deimos rolls his eyes. "Vic, I ain't never seen an allergy that makes people faint."

"Peanuts."

"That's different."

"Shellfish."

"Those just kill people. Doesn't count."

It gets a small smile out of Victor at least, even as a shiver wracks his body and he starts unfolding the blanket. "Cold," he mumbles, hands uncoordinated and giving up easily when Deimos stops him.

"Hey, hey, let's get you outta your uniform and into something comfy first." It makes his heart clench just a bit to watch Victor deflate, then slowly nod, reaching for Deimos to help him up.

---

"Uh-huh…

"Yeah, no, there was so much blood…

"Yep…

"The doc says it could take days. A whole week, even…

"Dunno, Gil. Maybe hire on a few more people while he's out. I can promise you don't want this spreading to everyone else though. Pretty sure hurling blood into the deep fryer is an OSHA violation or somethin'…

"Yeah… Yeah, he says he's sorry. Good luck."

The bathroom door creaks open as Deimos hangs up the phone. "Why are you lying to my boss?" Victor asks, leaning heavily against the doorway.

"Because your boss is a dick to my boyfriend. Should'a told him you had ligma." It doesn't get the smile out of Victor that he'd wanted, rather an unamused frown. "Man, good thing I'm studying nerd shit and not trying to become a full-time clown."

The frown stays only for another couple seconds before Victor huffs out a quiet laugh and shakes his head. He pushes away from the wall to wrap his arms around Deimos, sinking forward into the embrace. "You're already a full-time clown."

---

It's been two hours since Victor passed out, head resting on Deimos's chest and drooling only a little bit, the two of them laying on the couch under a blanket. His breathing is rough but steady, a thin layer of sweat along his hairline, and the dark bags under his eyes contrast starkly with how pale he is right now. But he's resting. Peaceful.

Deimos sits up a bit so he can kiss Victor's forehead, frowning at how warm his skin still is against his lips. They probably have a thermometer lying around somewhere…

---

103.4° is… it's not good. It isn't the worst according to everything he's read online, but it's definitely not good.

Victor would actually strangle him over a hospital trip. But Victor has also barely been coherent enough to drink some water and get his temperature taken periodically before going right back to sleep.

Groogle says ice baths will make it worse.

The medicine doesn't seem to be knocking it down though and they're already at the three hour mark.

"Deimos…" Victor mumbles against his chest, voice groggy.

"Mm?"

"Th'fryer's left on…"

"…The fryer?"

"Mhm…"

Deimos frowns, carding his fingers through Victor's hair. "Vic, we don't have a fryer. You're at home."

"Oh…" is all he gets in response, Victor drifting back off into soft snoring.

Of course he's still thinking about work, even now. Deimos has an interview coming up soon though, and if he lands the position then maybe Victor won't have to take on so many shifts. Maybe they'll be able to have lazy days at home like this without one of them being at death's door with illness.

---

At some point Deimos must have fallen asleep because he wakes to Victor squirming out of his arms rather roughly, shoving the blankets away and then yanking his sweater off like it offends him.

"You good?" Deimos asks, sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Victor's color looks a lot better despite him being drenched in sweat. With any luck, his fever broke.

"I'm so fucking late—" he starts to stand but Deimos grabs his hand to stop him.

"Nuh-uh, we called you out, remember?"

Victor stares at him like he's grown a second head. "Are you sure? Gil never gives us sick days and—god, Deimos, we can't afford a sick day. I need to-"

"Vic, I handled it, I promise. Don't worry about Gil or rent, I—"

"What did you do?" It's phrased as a question but they both already know the answer. Something illegal.

Deimos doesn't say that though, instead shrugging and smiling a bit sheepishly under Victor's gaze. "I just called in a favor, nothing serious."

"Nothing stolen?"

"Nope."

"No one dead?"

"Scout's honor."

Victor sighs slowly out of his nose, lips pulled into a tight line, but then his shoulders droop and he reluctantly sits back down. "I'm not posting bail if you end up getting arrested."

"I ain't gonna. This guy owes me like, at least three favors. We're all good."

A nod, and then Victor scoots over to curl up at Deimos's side, the brief panic seemingly sapping whatever energy he'd gained from resting. "You're a pain," he says, eyes falling shut when Deimos starts petting his hair. The blanket gets pulled back over his shoulders, and then Victor leans up just enough to kiss Deimos's cheek. "Love you…"