He hasn't thought much of the pain in his lower abdomen other than the fact it's becoming a real annoyance. He's no stranger to digestive issues, his system not as tolerant of stress and bad eating habits as he'd like. Coffee is an agent's best friend, in more ways than one but these days, it's worse than usual, possibly because the stress is too. Bad cases won't stop coming because he's not feeling well.
He ignores the thing because what's he gonna do? Take a day off because he's got a belly ache?
Right.
The morning starts in relatively normal form, with the pain in his lower abdomen like a light pinching and pulling. He's taken a notch out in his belt because he's bloated as hell and it's beginning to hurt more but still, it's just irritating. He inhales 2 cups of coffee, hoping it helps because something's got to give, sooner rather than later.
He gets into the office feeling slightly worse, the pain forcing him to hunch a little so he stays at his desk and plods through paperwork while the team chases leads. The coffee trick didn't work. He's been to the men's room twice, feeling like the dam's about to break, making him break out in a cold sweat from the pressure and pain but it's all for nothing.
By ten, he's in a lot of pain and every churn in his gut makes his stomach burn with nausea. It's really starting to get crippling at this point. He can't stand up straight at all, not without gasping in pain, so he stays behind to run tactical on the raid instead of leading the team in the field. He's not stupid and he won't risk his agents lives because he's not in top form and too proud to sit on the sidelines. Instead, he just grinds out orders from the war room. It goes smoothly nonetheless and everyone is back in one piece by one P.M.
His team knows something's up. They've started giving him looks and he knows he's pale and it's hard not to notice he's in a foul mood. His undershirt is damp with sweat and he's beginning to feel like he's running a fever which does nothing to improve his disposition. He glares back when their worried looks linger but he's got a feeling he's not his usual intimidating self because they keep doing it despite his withering looks.
Lunch consists of some ibuprofen, antacids and tons of water, hopefully moving things along and drowning out the nausea.
By two, he's feeling rougher by the minute, the pain making him pant and huff. He feels hot, dizzy and sick and he wonders when he lost control of this. Or even, what this is. Constipation's not supposed to make you feel like you're dying.
His gut is throbbing viciously and it feels like that knife blade he had in his chest is slicing through his abdomen, again and again, the spasms traveling upward to his gelatinous stomach. Suddenly, there's bile in the back of his throat and he's clamping his jaw jut and pushing his chair back before rushing off to the restroom, fast as he can, afraid he won't make it. He does and once there he wishes he'd just stayed home and maybe salvaged some dignity. He doesn't remember ever being so sick in his life. It just doesn't stop. He retches, again and again and again, bringing up bitter bile and a whole lot of nothing, his stomach purging and contracting harshly until he can't breathe, until bright pinpricks dance in front of his eyes just before it all goes black.
He comes to with Colby inches from his face. Granger's got his fingers on his carotid and his cell is jammed between his ear and shoulder. His agent's eyes lock on his but the relief he sees there is overshadowed by a sense of worry he shares.
This isn't normal. Not by a long shot.
He knows where he is and why, mostly. He's on the floor of the 7th floor men's room because something's really wrong with him and he has no clue what. He's shaking with pain and fever and he's getting really scared.
He forces himself to answer Colby, tell him what hurts and that yeah, he knows where and when he is. He just nods and closes his eyes when he tells him EMT's are on the way, knowing his passive acknowledgement is just another reason for Colby to be concerned. The unit medic shows up a minute later with a blanket and oxygen. He pushes the man off him and stumbles forward, overcome by nausea again.
He doesn't recall much of the ambulance ride, other than the excruciating pain over every bump in the road and the horrid, unrelenting nausea.
He hears someone tell him to calm down, to breathe slowly and to relax, that it'll help with the pain and that they can give him something as soon as he answers some questions. He bites down on his lip and realises the moaning he was hearing is his. He forces himself to breathe through his nose, as deep and slow as he can. It lasts five seconds and he's panting again, the agonizing sawing in his abdomen too much to take.
He answers questions on the last few days, exhausted and in more pain he thinks he can bear for much longer but the unbearable pressure and fullness in his gut, like a constant, throbbing, fruitless urge to "go" won't stop. Tenesmus, the doctor calls it.
The man palpates his abdomen and he can't contain a howl of pain when he reaches the lower left. The pain races up his entire being and twists his stomach into knots until it more bile floods up his throat and he chokes on it, until too many hands are on him, rolling him to his side.
Then comes the ultrasound, crushing his throbbing abdomen and making him sick again. His awareness becomes patchy and fragmented after that but there are clear bits and pieces; he knows his father's here, calling his name, a warm hand on his arm. He feels tears falling from his eyes and pleads for them to make the pain stop.
After that, there is a big, black void.
He wakes up in a private hospital room, his father again dozing in the chair beside him. The pain is muted and he feels the sluggishness of narcotics in his blood. There are two IV's in his arms, one on each side and one has two different bags attached to it. He guesses something's really wrong with him, that he wasn't just constipated after all. It would make him feel better if he wasn't so completely miserable. He shifts and grunts, trying to get comfortable. The pain's starting to get worse again.
"Hey. How are you feeling?" his dad asks.
"High," he enunciates carefully, aware he's slurring his words. "Pain's... agh... getting bad again. Wha's wron wi' me?"
"I'll get the nurse."
He watches through hooded eyes as his dad presses the call button, flames of hot pain liking at his innards. A couple minutes later, a petite chestnut-haired nurse walks in with a syringe.
"Mr Eppes. Dr. Deaves will be here soon. How's the pain, scale of one to ten?"
"Seven... Ahhh... eight."
"Okay. This might make you a little dizzy," she tells him, injection something into his IV. It takes a few seconds and he feels the warmness flood his veins and up his carotids, as if his neck is collapsing into his shoulders. He hasn't felt the rush of morphine in a few years, ever since he got stabbed and he can't say he missed it but gosh, it's good stuff. The fires in his abdomen die down to a tolerable simmer, his lids heavy and his mind drifts somewhere between sleep and awareness. His nose itches so he lifts a hand to scratch it, again and again. His stomach quivers, nausea rearing its head again, drawing a moan from his lips.
"Mr Eppes-
"Agent," he interrupts, a force of habit he can't quell when his mind's this fuzzy.
"I'm going to give you an antihistamine for the itching and something for the nausea too. It'll make you sleepy okay?" the nurse finishes, unfazed.
"Uh-huh," he whispers, hoping the second thing works fast. He feels a sudden cold in his veins and his whole being goes numb. He gets lost in the blackness again.
The cycle repeats itself for what feels like days but it's actually about only one before he's lucid enough to catch up to what's going on.
He's got some sort of infection in the lining of his intestines. He's not sure about the details. He vaguely remembers mentions of weakened muscle layer creating some sort of pocket but he does recall the name: diverticulitis.
He does care about the fact that it's treatable, most of the time with medication, sometimes with surgery but they won't know for a couple days. In the mean time, he's suck here, on tons of IV antibiotics and on a complete fast, till they know what side it'll take.
He doesn't care about the fasting. The mild but the persistent, relentless queasiness has annihilated his appetite anyway. He's allowed water but he can't even fathom the thought of swallowing anything.
His father's worried, making his hovering worse than usual. He's glad his dad's there for him but all he wants is some privacy, to sleep mainly but just so he can drop the encouraging façade and bitch and moan in peace. He's tired, in pain, sick and miserable. He doesn't want to put up a front to reassure his dad. He just doesn't have the energy to.
Somewhat surprisingly, it's Charlie who saves him. His brother convinces their dad he needs rest and food, that the smell of anything he consumes here in the room will likely make Don sick. It's undoubtedly true but still a dirty trick. It works nonetheless and he's glad. He gives Charlie what he hopes is a grateful look before he struggles to his side, curls into a ball and lets himself drift off. He calls for more pain meds soon after, fighting off tears of exhaustion. He apologises to the nurse for his emotional state but she shakes her head, telling him it's common with the drug combination he's on. She winks and tells him she won' tell a soul, that his tough-as-nails FBI agent cover is safe with her.
He smiles a little at her before succumbing to the drugs. He really, really hates this. He's never felt quite so wretched in his life and for now, he can't see the end. They told him it'll take a few days before he feels better. He's not sure he believes it at the moment. He sighs and lets himself sleep, knowing it's about the only thing he can do.
Maybe he will feel better in the morning.
He lies there, feeling weak and tired, more wrung out than he ever remembers feeling. He knows he should eat something but he still has no appetite at all. He feels heavy, achy, used.
It's been five days and he isn't feeling remotely better, aside from the pain being mostly gone. He's getting discharged later today but he has no desire to go home, for once. He just wants to sleep. They tell him the IV antibiotics did their job and that surgery's off the table, so they switched him to pills last night. They tell him the vomiting is an expected side effect of the Cipro but somehow, that's not really comforting. They say it should pass in a few days and that it'll be easier if he eats before taking the damned pills but he can't bring himself to. The Metronidazole gives his mouth a permanent taste of rusted metal, making even a drink of water stomach-turning.
He sighs and drops back to his pillow, closing his eyes, exhausted.
He wakes with a start when a hand lands on his arm.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. It's time to go home," his dad says from the bed's side.
"Yeah," he mumbles, sitting up. It takes too much time and effort to dress because by the end of it, he's dizzy and panting. He wishes Robin wasn't stuck in a closed-door trial in Wisconsin of all places. He'd much rather have his girlfriend's gentle touch than his father's helping him right now. He's aware that's selfish and that it says something about his love life and how he's becoming domestic but he really doesn't care. He craves comfort right now and despite his father's well-meaning gestures, it's not the kind he wants.
An hour later, he regrets his thoughts as his dad places a bowl of homemade matzo ball soup in front of him. He knows just from the smell it's his mother's recipe, the one his father hasn't made once since she died, at least until now. It makes his heart ache with renewed loss and he suddenly misses his mother as much as the day she died. There's moisture in his eyes and a warm hand on his shoulder.
"Thanks, dad," he says softly, picking up the spoon. He doesn't eat it all but most of it. It's the first thing he's eaten in days, the first time he's actually wanted to eat. It brings him back to his childhood and it's kind of ironic that this thing meets the strict diet he's on for the next few weeks.
"You're welcome, son. I... thought your mother would want me to... take care of you like she would."
"Yeah. She'd be proud. You didn't over-salt it this time," he says, a half-smile on his lips. He knows what his father is trying to say, but he's never been that good with feelings. So instead, he chooses humour. He's sure his dad knows it too.
His father gives him a look, eyebrows raised. "Look who's feeling better!"
Don chuckles. "Not so much. I'm gonna go lie down." He gets to his feet and pauses, catching his father's eye meaningfully. "Thanks, Dad."
It takes another five days before he really starts feeling better, and a total of twenty days before he can go back to work. In the end, what happened and why doesn't stand out in his memory. The one thing he does remember is why family's always been so important to him, whether blood or not.
It's because in the end, it doesn't matter what gets you down. What matters is who's there to help get you up and back on your feet.
And he's lucky; he's got plenty of both kinds of family.