June of Doom day 15 - "You'll be fine. Maybe."
Grace is made to push through a bad flu bug at a conference because Eva expects him to still give his presentations. Carl does what he can to help, but when Grace passes out in his third lecture, he has to put his foot down.
Carl respects Eva, but he doesn't always agree with her, or even really like her, not always. She can be great, when things are easy and she's getting her way. But when hard questions come up, she makes hard decisions, ones where Carl would hate her a little no matter what she chose. She put herself in that role because she can handle that. Though she likes to act like she doesn't care, he knows that deep down, that's not true. She's just already resigned herself to facing the consequences. What's another layer of hell if she's already damned, right?
Sometimes, though, he thinks she gets a little too comfortable at the top of her glass cliff. He understands when she's cold and callous because the world is at stake and someone has to be the villain who saves it, but she can't claim that for everything. Sacrifices made for the greater good, he can empathizes with. It's the sacrifices she asks them to make for the lesser evil that get to him.
He's standing outside the bathroom in a conference center in Germany, waiting for Grace to finish vomiting. If he's not out in five minutes, he's going in after him. Grace caught some kind of flu bug on the plane here, and ended up miserable in his hotel room not 48 hours after they landed. He'd gone from a little achy and distracted when they went out for dinner to shivering and sweating in his hotel bed, horribly sore and unable to keep anything down in two hours flat. The walls were thin and Carl's room was right next to Grace's, so he stopped in to check on him and ended up sleeping in the other bed in his room because he felt too guilty to leave him alone. With an unscientific lack of supporting evidence, Grace hypothesized that this was just a little food poisoning. Then, it settled in his chest, so he scrapped that theory. He moved on to the next idea, that it was a 24 hour bug that would start getting better by the next afternoon and go away completely by the start of the conference the day after. He clung to that even as his stomach got no better, his body became so painful it hurt to sit up, his cough wormed deeper, he got so crushingly exhausted that he couldn't stay awake for the duration of an episode of Wheel of Fortune, which appeared to be the only actual show on any of the channels of this hotel television while the rest were all commercials, and and his brain tried to escape through his eyeballs.
Carl didn't leave his room other than to bring him necessities: food he didn't touch, Gatorade he couldn't keep down, medicine that didn't help. At one point, his fever got so high that Carl wanted to haul him to a doctor, but when he ran it by Eva, she made it sound like he was being dramatic and, in his opinion, made Grace feel a little guilty for even considering it, so Grace changed his mind and insisted that he would sleep it off. He'd be fine before the conference, he promised. Surely, he will be well enough to give the same lecture in three different time slots over the course of an eight hour conference, plus attend other panels while he's not speaking.
When Grace staggers out of the bathroom, Carl is at his side immediately, offering a Gatorade bottle. Though he can't drink much, lest he throw it up again, they've been trying to keep him as hydrated as they can with slow, regular sips. Grace shakes his head. He's so tired of vomiting. He's so tired in general.
"You okay?" he asks, a question he knows the answer to, knows the answer that Grace will give, and knows they're not the same.
"Yeah." He wipes sweat from his forehead and pulls his cardigan tighter around him. At first, Eva had wanted him dressed in a shirt and tie, but he'd been sweating so much that his back became visibly damp, plus he was shivering, so she allowed him his cardigan, probably purely for optics. It's not enough.
"One down," Carl encourages. He managed to pull through the first presentation, though he had to sit and his voice was pretty weak.
"Two to go." He pinches the acupressure point between his eyebrows, a sign that the ibuprofen didn't stay down long enough to make a dent in his pain.
"Let's sit for a while. The room you were in isn't booked until your next presentation."
"Eva wants me to--"
"Eva wants you to live," he curtails, "at least until the end of the conference. Come on."
Grace follows him back to the empty room, where he sits down heavily in one of the office chairs and puts his head down on folded arms. He seems so genuinely miserable that Carl debates calling Eva and trying to suggest once more that he see a doctor, but he decides against it. Grace wouldn't want him to, anyway. Not to mention, she'd probably say no. When he notices that Grace is shaking, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over his back, earning himself a grateful hum, the closest he could get to words without picking his head up.
He plays quietly on his phone while Grace dozes uncomfortably for the next hour. Sometimes, he wakes up to shift positions or to cough, but mostly, he's out cold. Eventually, Grace's phone alarm goes off, and he sits up, rubbing his eyes with a groan, which ends in soupy coughing. It leaves him rubbing his sternum.
"Hey," Carl greets.
"Hi."
"Feeling any better? You don't look good."
"Yeah, don't feel good, either. Nap didn't help much. I'm just sweatier."
"Think you could drink a little more Gatorade?"
"After. I don't want to throw up while I'm presenting."
Carl sighs. Before he can try to convince him, though, Eva strides into the room.
"Good," she greets, "you're already here. How are you feeling?"
She might care, but she's not going to do anything no matter what his answer.
"Does it make a difference?" Grace asks. Carl quirks an eyebrow. The fever is making him bolder.
"I brought you these." She hands him a package of mints, and he pops one obediently. She hands over one of the two cups in her hands that they'd assumed were both for her. "Tea, as well. For your voice."
"He can't keep anything down," Carl objects. She grimaces.
"When was the last time you drank anything?"
"Don't worry, I've already thrown up all the liquid I have in my stomach, so I'm not gonna ruin the presentation," he replies, rolling his eyes irritably.
"That's not what I meant." Carl isn't sure he believes her. Before he can say another word, the first attendee enters the room and sits down, cutting off any hopes of being able to talk to Grace until after he's finished speaking.
-----
Somehow, he keeps it together for the duration of his presentation. Only because Carl knows him, he notices him starting to come undone a little during the Q&A afterward, but he doubts that anyone else would be able to tell, save for Eva. He's just a little slow, a little bleary-eyed, and very, very pale. He emits exhaustion like a bulb emits light, so much so that Carl is feeling tired just watching him. His posture is stiff with pain, moving as little as possible to avoid jarring painful joints. The only thing he can't hide is that terrible cough, but his years of teaching experience show, and he pushes past it so fast every time it happens that you almost don't even notice. By the time everyone is filing out, Grace is totally and utterly spent. Even though he's sitting, one hand is gripping the table to keep him from swaying.
"Grace," Carl frets as soon as the last of the guests have left the room. "You did good. Here." He forces the Gatorade bottle on him, which he accepts. "Slow."
As soon as he's had a few sips, he pushes it away, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. For a second, Carl thinks he's going to be sick again, but he just takes a shuddering breath in and out. It might be fever chills, might be anxiety. Either way, it's concerning. Carl places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
"You're doing good, Grace. Almost done."
"I don't know if I can do it," he admits. Well, Carl wasn't going to say it.
"You can, Doctor Grace, I assure you," Eva offers, what she hopes is helpfully and most certainly isn't. It doesn't read as encouragement: it reads as denial.
"A pep talk isn't gonna fix this, Eva. Just look at him."
She looks. Grace doesn't move apart from the trembling.
"There's still an hour and a half before the next presentation. You may go back to your hotel room until then. Get some rest, try to take something for that cough. I'm afraid that's the best I can give you."
"Gee, thanks," Grace mutters, but he's not about to turn down the only offer he's going to receive. When he gets to his feet, he wavers, one hand flitting to his temple as Carl steadies him. Carl walks him out of the room and down the hall, then presses the up button on the elevator panel, seeing him go stiff out of the corner of his eye. He hates elevators.
Grace fumbles so hard with his room key card that Carl has to take it and swipe it for him, then opens the door and watches as he settles slowly in his bed, achy and nauseous. He curls up on his side facing away from Carl, who gets the hint and resumes his phone game from the chair on the opposite side of the room.
The rest is not peaceful. Grace doesn't keep the Gatorade down for long, and even when his stomach finally settles, he doesn't have the energy to move from the floor. He spends his short reprieve from meetings with his burning forehead pressed to the hotel bathtub, cycling between hot and cold flashes. It's lucky that he sets another alarm on his phone, because Carl doesn't know how he'd have found it in him to tell him to get up and back to the conference. This time, Grace doesn't groan; he whines. Almost worse, he's silent as Carl helps him to his feet, not complaining or joking or chatting or anything. Grace is never quiet.
"If this is gonna kill you, you should stay here. I'll take the flack from Eva."
"Eva's more likely to kill me than the flu." He coughs into his elbow. "It's okay. Just another hour."
"Yeah, you'll be fine. Maybe." He's not confident.
He's proven right about halfway through Grace's presentation. Carl has been watching him closely all day, and he hasn't looked or sounded good, but for the past ten minutes, it's been getting concerning. His hands are shaking, and he keeps losing the thread of what he's talking about, starting sentences over when he forgets what he was saying halfway through. The lights in the conference room aren't doing his pale complexion any favors, but neither is the sharp flush in his cheeks, another hot flash that's confirmed when he peels off his cardigan and loosens his tie. Though it's almost imperceptible, Carl sees when his head bobs forward and back up without his permission, and it's the final straw. He's about to tap Eva on the shoulder and tell her she needs to put an end to this when Grace stops it himself.
"I think we need a five minute break," he says, his voice thin and shaking. Carl and Eva both shoot to their feet with very different intentions, but Carl beats her to him.
"Grace," he calls, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his forearm. His eyes are unfocused as he tries to fix his attention on him. "What's going on?"
Eva is stopped in her tracks, her expression still sour but now clearly second guessing the scolding she was probably about to give him for calling recess without permission. Grace's chin hits his chest for a second, then he picks it back up.
"Hey, stay awake for me. Eva, is someone calling an ambulance?"
"No," Grace argues. "No hospitals." Then, he droops forward again, stopped by Carl's grip. Eva clears the last of the conference goers from the room while Carl gets Grace sitting on the floor with his head on his knees. With his hand on Grace's back, he can feel damp heat through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"You need to be checked out." Grace doesn't reply until Carl shakes his shoulder lightly. "Grace, come on. Wake up."
"Mhm," he groans. "Just lemme go back to my room'n sleep."
"After."
"After what?"
Carl's heart rate spikes a little. "After the paramedics look you over."
"You said no hospitals."
"No, you said no hospitals." Eva, apparently off the phone, settles beside him, and he can't help but add, "I said hospital last night."
She has the decency to look guilty. "An ambulance is on the way. How is he doing?"
"Not so good. He's pretty out of it."
"Think I need to lie down," he mumbles. Carl and Eva ease him back to lie on his back, propping his feet up on a chair. He looks undeniably terrible, so bad that the fact that Eva made him push through the day like this pisses him off all over again.
"Maybe you should go wait for the ambulance," he says. She gets the hint and nods before leaving.
"You sound mad," Grace says. He laughs.
"That obvious?"
"Hm."
"Well, she should have known better. You shouldn't be ending up in the hospital for a flu bug just because you had to work. That's crazy."
"The astronauts are dying in space," he points out. Well, he can't argue with that.
"You feeling any better lying down?"
"Yeah. I just felt lightheaded for a minute."
A few minutes later, he hears commotion outside. The paramedics.
"Ugh," Grace groans.
"Just humor me. If you're really fine, they won't make you go to the hospital, but some fluids and meds would probably make you feel better."
"Probably."
The paramedics do end up advising he go to the hospital, given how high his temperature and heart rate are, and he reluctantly obeys when she tells him he probably won't have to stay the night. Carl takes a car to meet him there. When he's released, still feeling terrible but at least no longer in danger from fever and dehydration, Carl takes him back to his room and lets him sleep. Eva doesn't visit, surmising that it's probably good to give the two of them a little space. Or maybe she just doesn't know what to say and is waiting to talk to Grace until enough time goes by that she doesn't have to address it at all.
That's probably for the best. Carl wouldn't want her there, anyway. Grace deserves some time to sleep.
