Request: Tumblr (Possibly for Bronny9 and their sister).
Characters (in order of most featured): Caleb Knight, Ethan Hardy, Robyn Miller, Max Walker, Charlie Fairhead.
Rating: K.
Warnings: Mention of vomit.
Prompt: Caleb gets sick and Ethan has to look after him (taken more lightheartedly - if this isn't your thing, the next chapter is characteristically darker!).
Two cups for two people. Only one teabag.
Sacrifices must be made.
Ethan gives up the teabag for Cal begrudgingly. He doesn't want to. He'd much prefer to have tea to coffee - the latter definitely isn't as loved by him as it used to be - but that'd mean running down to the little Tesco down the road. And it's much too early for that.
The task of making hot drinks begins. Ethan switches on the kettle, with over two cups worth of water in it. Then he prepares the cups in advance: two spoonfuls of sugar and a teabag in Cal's; barely enough coffee granules and sugar to be classed as coffee in his; and then the cartoon of milk is left on the side.
Ethan pouring the steaming water into the mugs when there's a noise from behind him. He turns, seeing his brother walking in the kitchen mid-yawn. He smiles at him.
"You look exhausted."
Cal drags out a stool from the breakfast bar. "Hmm, and you look awful. Who's the coffee for?"
"Thanks a bunch," Ethan says, tutting. "Coffee's mine. I gave up the last teabag for you, which I'm regretting."
Cal smiles tiredly as Ethan puts the tea mug in front of him with a clunk. "Cheers. God, giving me the last teabag... how kind."
"You wouldn't have made the same sacrifice," Ethan says knowingly.
"You don't know that."
Ethan laughs. "I do." He takes a sip of his coffee. It's predictably weak. "Ugh."
"Don't pretend just to make me feel bad. Thought you liked coffee?"
"Only because it makes me feel alive if I haven't slept. You know, insomnia and all that," Ethan says. "I've found an alternative. Energy drinks."
Cal raises an eyebrow. "Or you could, like, sleep?"
"That's rich, coming from you," Ethan says, offended by the lack of sympathy but unsurprised by it. It's too early to be anything but apathetic. "You don't look like you've slept an hour last night."
Cal shrugs. He drinks about a third of his mug and then puts it down. "I'll have you know I slept like a baby."
Ethan doesn't believe a single word of that. If the pale mask upon Cal's face is anything to go by, Cal didn't sleep at all. His eyes are reddened, shadows under them, and his hair is flattened. There's a red tinge on his cheeks and on the very tip of his nose. He doesn't look very well at all.
"Better get ready," Cal says. He pushes his tea away and then wipes his nose noisily with his hand. "Have you seen my jacket?" And then he sneezes as well.
Ethan groans instead of replying. Called it. He props his chin up with his hand and lets his face slip into moodiness.
"What?"
"You're ill, aren't you?" Ethan says miserably. "Great. The entire department is going to hate us both when we're both inevitably infected with it."
Cal's face goes stern in defiance. "I'm not ill."
"Really?" Ethan walks to one of the highest cupboards and hops to get the thermometer down. He'd been keeping it close, as the months are getting progressively colder - which means that getting ill is inevitable, especially with Cal's stupid habit of forgetting to wear a coat before venturing outside. "Let me check your temperature, then."
Cal begins to back away. He laughs nervously. "Ah, no, thanks."
"It's not a rectal thermometer, Cal, I'm not that mean. Just let me check. You look ill."
He shakes his head. "Nah."
Ethan breaks into a run but Cal is faster. He's locked himself in the bathroom, laughing. Ethan bangs at the door. "So childish! Let me check, Cal! You're not going to work if you're ill."
"You're not the boss of me!"
Ethan rests his forehead against the door, ready to crawl into bed and just... give in. Cal has never been easy when unwell. And Ethan knows he's unwell, because when is he ever wrong about anything medical? Barely ever. "Just come out."
"Fine, I'll come out," Cal says. He sounds too eager to leave the haven of the bathroom for Ethan to believe him. He was right to be sceptical. "I'm straight."
"You're not funny," Ethan says moodily. "I mean come out of the bathroom, not come out like- Ugh. Alright, if you're not at least going to let me check you're not dying, please let me in anyway. I really need a wee."
Cal laughs from in there. Ethan can hear him cracking the hair gel container open. "Sucks to be you. I'll be a long time yet."
Ethan groans, pressed against the door. If this morning is anything to go by, it's going to be a long day.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Cal isn't entirely sure if he is okay or not, but he'd do anything to prove Ethan wrong. So, for today, he's perfectly fine. He keeps this facade up and acts like he doesn't need the pack of tissues or cough sweets when he's given them - "Ethan, you're actually delusional: I've never been less ill in my life." - but he knows, deep down, they're necessary.
They walk alongside eachother into work. Ethan, trudging behind him, and Cal, bounding along, pretending to be full of the joys of spring. It's December. It's far from spring. And Cal is far from joyful but Ethan doesn't need to know that.
"Smile any more and you'll rip your mouth," Ethan says moodily.
"I'll rip your mouth."
"Rude." He says with a glare.
Cal turns, walking backwards through reception so he can get a proper look at his little brother's face. Well, his little 'bothers' face, more like - he's being the biggest bother ever. "Aw, diddums. Is someone angry because they didn't get a shower this morning?"
"I'm not angry. Just annoyed that you never listen," Ethan says, refusing to meet Cal's eyes. "It'll be your downfall, you know. You need to be home in bed."
"As if," and with that, Cal happily bounds off. When he's out of sight, he lets his posture slump and drops that exhausting smile. Or grimace, should he say.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
"And what's up with you this morning?" Says Max, as Ethan dumps his paperwork down grumpily.
"Cal. When is it ever anything else?"
Max rests on the reception desk, deep in thought. "Hmm. Let me guess. Another argument?"
"That's not a guess, Max," Robyn says from a couple feet away, laughing. "That's always what's up. Fifty pounds bets it's about some girl."
Ethan is a couple more insults away from a childish pout. "I am here, you know. And it's actually not just a fight. I'm unhappy that he's ill and won't admit it, so," he picks up his paperwork, head held high. "Keep your money, you'll need it for medicine later when you catch what Cal has."
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Cal is actually going to die. He feels every footstep in his head. His heavy body, slumping along, each step feeling heavy, movements causing ripples in his brain. It aches. There's a hammer-like sensation up there. It's just not working right. None of his body is. Cal attempts to wipe his nose discreetly but the message about being 'discreet' is lost in translation. He ends up sneezing somehow - loudly - and scaring the shit out of everyone nearby.
Charlie stops by Cal. He pulls a tissue out of his pocket and then passes it to him wordlessly.
"Cheers, Charlie."
"No problem. You better not be contagious."
Cal forces a chuckle. "I'm not ill. I'm fine."
"And I'm Mrs Beachamp," says Charlie. He gives Cal a smile and heads off again, probably on his way to bother somebody else. Cal groans. Why doesn't anyone just believe him?
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Five minutes respite. That's all he needs, then he can keep at it. The throbbing of his head soothes a fraction as he rests his head on the dull white bed in the on-call room. It's soft like it's been stuffed with feathers. Cal turns onto his side and breathes out, appreciating being in bed now more than ever.
And then his phone buzzes. Twice. His head hurts.
Robyn: Your patient is spewing up. You're needed.
Robyn: Please try to avoid bringing your germs with you!
If Cal had that sort of Godlike power to remove germs, he wouldn't have a cold in the first place. Which is all he has - a cold. The Sniffles. That's it.
Cal: On my way. Unfortunately, the ability to do that is beyond me but I'll try not to sneeze on you at the very least.
Cal: I'm still not ill though!
Robyn: Good. And yeah, yeah, yeah.
Cal shoves his phone into his pocket and then tries to get up. The viciousness of putting his phone back, done out of pure spite at Robyn who can't actually see him, hasn't done him any favours whatsoever. By the time he's stood up - convincing himself that he isn't going to die, despite feeling like it, his head is spinning.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
After he's sneezed all over a patient with a broken arm, he's banished to the staff room. He apologises quickly and follows Dylan's orders. Well, almost. He can see Ethan in there. God, he can almost imagine the conversation. Having to admit that Ethan was actually right leaves an awful taste in his mouth and makes him want to be sick.
Speaking of being sick.
Cal clamps a hand over his mouth. The Chinese he had yesterday is coming back up. He barely makes it to the bathroom before he'son his knees. It came on quick. And with it comes a horrendous headache, probably induced by the volume of his own retching. His knees are cold and numb by the time he can finally breathe again.
He feels awful - truly and absolutely. His eyes are watering and all he can smell is the gross scent of vomit. There's a ringing in his ear and a cold sheen of sweat across his forehead, lined like studying paper.
All he wishes for is a bed in a quiet room. And if the genie to grant that feels generous enough, he'll have a hot drink with a headache-relieving tablet too. His throat is croaky and sore. In a couple more sentences time, he'll be spluttering and coughing til his throat is bleeding.
Cal spits into the toilet. His mouth tastes awful. The hot drink better materializes quickly.
The worst of it isn't over. Cal's stomach heaves again and he's crouched over the bowl so strongly that his back aches, throwing up a whole weeks worth of meals. His eyes are watering by the time he's done. He feels worse at the knowledge that he'll probably be sick again. It'll be days before he even feels marginally better.
Cal wants to scream in utter frustration out but he has no energy. He blames his tears on his violent vomiting. They slip down his face alongside beads of sweat. He's sure he's never felt worse.
Before he can reach for a piece of scratchy toilet paper, a hand rests on his shoulder. He doesn't even flinch at the surprise at it. Another from behind him offers a softer tissue. Cal takes it. He wipes his mouth and then falls back into the person's arms, because he knows who it is. Who it always is. He'd pretend to be fine, despite falling into the person's arms, but there's obviously no point in it. They know. They've known all along.
"I feel sick," he mutters croakily. The arms wrap around him comfortingly.
"I know," Ethan says, his voice soft. He swipes another clean tissue against Cal's sweaty forehead. "Let's go home, yeah?"
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
His bedroom is made into a palace for the contagious. The curtains are pulled, the only weak light coming from a lamp, and his bed has not one, but two duvets on it.
It's the sort of place Cal desperately needs after that car ride home. Ethan had been thoughtfully silent, giving Cal a bucket (Cal had no idea where he got it from but he was glad he did) and no smug smiles, but Cal's stomach had hated him. He'd thrown up a few times but it was just bile. Ethan had tutted, not going as far as to tell him off about skipping breakfast, and said that he'd make Cal soup as soon as they got back. Cal hadn't said anything, pre-occupied to try falling asleep. It hadn't worked.
"I want to sleep!" Cal had whined.
Ethan actually sounded very sympathetic. "I know, I know. Almost back, Cal. Five more minutes and we'll be home."
"But that's hours away!"
Soft laughter, but not cruel, had escaped Ethan. He'd looked ashamed straight away. "Sorry. I'm not laughing at you. It's just..."
Cal huffed. "What?"
"Sweet. Somehow, you're sweet."
Cal presently crawls into bed. He buries his head in his cushion. The room smells distinctly different - the admittedly delightful scent of cleanliness. Cal has no idea how Ethan managed to make the room smell like that but he's not complaining.
"Chicken or vegetable?"
Cal wrenches one eye open. Just one. He can't manage two. "Uh. Chicken. Cause vegetables can't cluck." Ethan looks confused. "What, nibbles?"
"I didn't mean-" Ethan pauses to chuckle. "I meant what type of soup do you want, not what you prefer in general. Sorry, Cal. I forgot you had flu brain."
What? He's got the flu? Well, of course, actually. That makes sense. A cold has never made Cal feel so close to death before. He's got no doubt it's the flu and that Ethan's right. "Chicken."
"Thought so," Ethan says. He smiles at Cal and then heads off into the kitchen, whistling. Or attempting to, anyway. Ethan can't actually whistle that well.
Cal groans and turns over. He's not sure what he's groaning about because the heavenly softness of the bed makes him feel like he's been blessed. Perhaps it's because he still feels unwell - maybe worse than before. Progressively, this cold is finishing him off. His head still throbs. His stomach is still churning and he still can't smell anything (besides the cleanliness of the room, of course, but barely). Oh, he probably won't be able to taste his soup either. All he can taste is vomit - still, after many cups of water.
A small slither of light comes in through the curtains. Cal chooses to ignore it. The light then chooses to be a pain in the ass. It glares through Cal's closed eyes. He combats it by putting the duvet over his head. The world is engulfed in a welcome darkness. It's warm and stuffy in there, but he enjoys it. Cal curls up like a child and falls asleep.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
He wakes up with a start about half an hour later.
"My patients!" Cal shouts, alarmed, a tuft of his hair sticking up. "Shit, my patients!"
He hears the sound of fast running footsteps. The door is pushed open and Ethan's there. He comes to Cal's side. "Hey, relax! They're fine."
"Who's taking care of them all?"
"We're lucky to have kind colleagues, Cal. Everyone was happy to help when I said that I had to take you home, due to illness," Ethan says, smiling. "It was lovely. Well. It's lovely if you ignore the slight selfishness of it. They don't want to get ill too, so they were happy to send you home."
He breathes out. "Fine by me. Well, thank God."
"Look at you, praising God. Didn't have you down as religious," Ethan says, eyebrow raised. He offers Cal a tissue. Seconds after, Cal's nose is dripping. It's like Ethan's world is a couple seconds ahead of everyone else. Great at predicting.
"I'm not. I'm still angry at God. Why'd he even invent the flu?"
"Don't ask me," Ethan says, getting up. "Now, hush before you ruin any chances of getting into heaven - presuming heaven is a thing."
Cal slinks back into bed. "Alright. With how bad my head is throbbing, I'll probably die soon, so it's probably intelligent to keep quiet. I can feel death looming."
"Stop it, you," he says, hands on hips. "Is the headache hurting? Do you want some medicine for it?" Cal notices how Ethan is very suddenly starting to speak to him like he's the older one. Obviously, Cal isn't acting as grown-up as he wants to.
"A bucket load, please." And there's a whine in his voice as well.
"I don't know about that, but I'll give you enough to feel better. I'll bring your soup and tea in here."
Cal doesn't have the energy to nod. He buries himself in the duvet as Ethan heads off. He gets a couple seconds of falling into dreamworld before Ethan shakes him awake again.
"Sorry, sorry," Ethan says. He gently pushes Cal's hair out of his face. "You need a haircut."
"Not today," Cal grumbles.
"No. No, not today," he says softly. He gives Cal a sympathetic smile. "Up you get, please. You sound croaky. Tea or water with the tablet?"
"Tea." Cal begins to prop himself up against the bed headboard. He takes the drink, murmuring a thank you, and then manages a couple sips. He just hopes that the tablet will soothe his headache quickly. "Ethan?"
Ethan sits next to Cal, resting against the headboard too. "Yeah?"
"Where'd you get the teabag from?"
Ethan laughs quietly as if to avoid Cal's headache flaring up even more. "Shop. I dashed down there whilst you were asleep. I didn't want to, though."
"Sorry. I forgot you'd have had to run down there, or I'd have said to not bother making a hot drink."
"You never actually asked for one. And I didn't mean it like that anyway, you got it wrong," Ethan says. "I meant that I didn't want to because... well, that'd mean leaving you, wouldn't it? Didn't particularly want to. Not when you've got a bad case of the flu."
Cal can't think of much to say to that. He's touched. He gives Ethan a little smile, which is returned shyly, and then tries another mouthful of tea. The hot liquid soothes his throat immensely.
"Nice?"
"Very nice. Thank you, nibbles." He says earnestly.
"It's just a cup of tea," Ethan says, smiling as he puts it on the side. "Soup now or later?"
"Late, sorry. Not sure if I can stomach it yet," he says with honestly. He doesn't particularly fancy spewing up again, especially when the room smells good for once. "And you got it wrong this time."
"I got what wrong?"
"What I meant. I didn't mean thank you for the tea," Cal says. He looks away. "I meant thank you for, well, you know... I, I dunno." He plays with the edge of the duvet. Spit it out, Cal. "Thanks for not saying 'I told you so' and looking after me. It's nice."
Ethan places his hand on Cal's shoulder, going as far as to squeeze it softly. "It's my job."
Cal had expected that answer. He smiles, appreciating the patting that followed the shoulder squeeze, and watches Ethan as he stands up. "Hey, you don't have to go."
Ethan smiles. "If you want me to stay, say the words."
Cal swallows his pride. "I want you to stay."
Ethan sits back down. Cal rests his head on his shoulder, happy when Ethan leans into him. "Then of course I will."