A/N: Not going to lie, this is nothing but pure bandwagon jumping. There are a lot of sick!fics out there and I'm not sure what this one has to recommend it except that it's about Arthur, and they never seem to be about Arthur; which is why I decided to write one. Also, it's non-slash, does that make it any different? XD Anyway, this is just for fun, so like Fly Away Home, it's just going to be a few short chapters updated as regularly as life will allow. Enjoy!

Also, everything I learnt about Frigiliana I learnt from Wikipedia and TripAdvisor, and everything else is made up, so anything I have wrong, please forgive me!

Disclaimer- This is purely a fanwork, by a slightly obsessive fan for the benefit of other slightly obsessive fans.

Chapter One

After being on so many flights, Arthur had well and truly mastered the art of opening the flight deck door while holding plates of food, and doing it without spilling them. In fact, Martin had marvelled at his coordination more than once, claiming 'I've never met anyone so clumsy who actually breaks so little' and Douglas had laughed and Arthur had made up his mind it was a compliment. Today, however, he noticed he had spilt some gravy onto the work surface in the galley when he had emptied out the shepherd's pie onto a plate. He'd made a mental note to clear it up before anyone saw and made his way into the flight deck.

"Food, chaps." He said. "Today it's shepherd's pie or I think this one is cottage pie. I'm not sure what the difference is."

"The difference, Arthur, is that while shepherd's pie is made with minced lamb, cottage pie is made with minced beef." Douglas said. "Although, I agree with you, if this food is up to MJN's usual standard, there probably will be very little difference."

"Oh, okay." Arthur looked down at the plates, trying to remember which was which. "Well, anyway, which do you want, Skip?" It was Martin's turn to have first choice of food.

"To be honest, Arthur, I'd quite like the cup of coffee you went to make twenty minutes ago." Martin answered. "As opposed to an evening meal, at half past three in the afternoon, when we will be at the hotel in Frigiliana in less than two hours and in plenty of time to make full and proper use of their supposedly excellent restaurant."

"Oh." Arthur said. "Um, I think I might have got a bit mixed up."

"Really?" Douglas said. "I thought perhaps you might have."

"Um, yes. But they're quite small, so… do you want them anyway?"

"Oh, go on then." Douglas gave in. "Come on, Martin, we can always just go to the restaurant later in the evening. This can be lunch."

Martin gave in surprisingly easily, which Douglas took to mean he had also missed lunch and was also starving. This flight to Spain had been extremely last minute- Carolyn had called them mid-morning and told them that a bunch of wine tasters' flight had been cancelled, and they needed to be in Spain by tonight. They had got the call just after eleven, and had just enough time to throw an overnight bag together and get down to the airfield for twelve-thirty to be in the air an hour later. The whole thing had been a mad rush and Douglas hadn't been very happy about it, but there had been upsides. For one thing, he had always wanted to visit Frigiliana, which was famous for its beauty and for its wine; wine he sadly could not permit himself to try but that would certainly go well as a sweetener to certain deals he was trying to make. Secondly, there was only one hotel in town and because of the short notice Carolyn hadn't had time to look further afield for something cheaper, which meant they would actually be staying somewhere decent for once, rather than a box room in some sort of dump-to-rent. Lastly, it was the height of summer and they were going to Spain, where Martin would undoubtedly make his already well advanced sunburn even worse, and come home looking like an enraged lobster, to Douglas' unending amusement.

Arthur passed the plates over and Douglas could immediately tell something was wrong.

"Arthur, when did you microwave these?" He asked, giving the potato a tentative poke. "It's stone cold."

"Did you actually microwave them at all?" Martin's was in no better state.

"I… I'm not sure." Arthur said.

"Oh, just get rid of them." Martin said, irritated. He really was rather hungry and Arthur's mistake with the meals had just drawn his attention to it. "Go and check on the passengers and then get ready for landing in half an hour."

"Okay." Arthur said, shamefacedly picking up the plates. "Sorry, Skip." He withdrew, looking rather miserable.

"Aww, you've upset him now." Douglas said.

"Well, if you want to eat raw cottage pie, be my guest." Martin replied, concentrating on the instruments. "I don't know what's gotten into him today. He's even worse than usual."

They were soon to find out.

ooooooooooo

By the time they reached the hotel, Martin was feeling rather guilty about being so snappy. Arthur seemed to have taken the telling-off to heart this time and was almost silent the entire taxi journey. Martin tried to make it up to him by pointing out various sights along the way, but Arthur's enthusiasm had been unusually short lived. The problem was, a sad Arthur was roughly akin to a kicked puppy, and Martin had never been able to stand it for long.

"Cheer up, Arthur." He said, as they went to check in. "Everyone makes mistakes. I'm sorry I snapped at you about it. Why don't we just try and enjoy our night here now?"

"Okay." Arthur said. "Sorry Skip." He wandered over to the desk to look at the visitor book like he always did, but with markedly less excitement than usual. Martin noticed his hands were shaking.

"Arthur." He said. "Are you alright?"

"Yes! Sorry! Yes!"

"You don't need to be sorry, Arthur, it's just… you don't look very well." Martin had to admit he was surprised. He didn't think Arthur was capable of being ill, even after consuming inhuman amounts of food. But, now that he looked properly, Arthur was a little paler than usual and there was a slight glassiness to his eyes. Nothing too bad, he hoped, but definitely coming down with something.

"I'm fine!"

"You don't look fine." Douglas said. "But I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Look, let's just check in and you can go upstairs and have a sleep. I'm sure come dinner time you'll be right as rain." Arthur meekly agreed and did just that.

He was not right as rain by dinner time. In fact, Arthur thought, he would go so far as to say he was not at all alright. He hadn't realised just how tired he was when he was on board Gerti and doing things, or when he started to fill the drawers in his hotel room, but then he had sat down on the bed to look in his bag for something, and suddenly getting up again seemed like the most impossible thing in the world. He didn't realise he had been asleep until he woke up to the sound of his door being banged on. He ignored it, nuzzling into the pillow. He liked hotel pillows. They always felt crispy on the outside and soft inside, or at least, they did in the nicer hotels that were a bit better than some of the others they stopped in. It was like resting your head on a duck, that had been wrapped inside a cooked duck. Or chicken.

Even Arthur, on reflection, didn't know what he was thinking any more.

His door knocked again, this time followed by his captain's voice saying "Arthur?", and Arthur found himself getting up. There were two people in this world he could never ignore, and they were his mum and Skipper. It did, however, take him a few attempts to get up and then walking without falling over was a bit of a challenge. Martin knocked the door again before he quite managed to get there. Finally he fell against the door with some relief, rested against it to get his breath back, and then pulled it open.

"Oh." Martin said on seeing him. "You look awful."

Arthur didn't think this was a very nice thing to say to someone, but Martin was saying it sympathetically, so it was okay. He glanced at the mirror next to his bed room door and saw himself; pale skin, red rimmed eyes like he had been crying, hair sticking up at all angles. "I do." He agreed, leaning back on the doorframe. Staying upright felt like a lot of effort. "I don't think sleeping helped very much." He added, suddenly wanting to cry for real, but he didn't. The sleep really did seem to have made everything worse. His head was spinning, and it seemed to be knocking against his skull every time it passed, like if he put a jug in the wrong place in the microwave and the handle kept knocking against the wall of the microwave and made the passengers think the plane was broken. He was also quite sure that everything was hurting at once, though he hadn't managed to concentrate on everything individually yet. He felt a bit sick and shivery.

"Hello, Arthur." Douglas said, coming down the corridor. "Are you feeling any-" He got closer and saw them properly. "Never mind." He said. "Did you take a nap?"

"Yes. I don't think it helped."

"Apparently not. Are you coming down for dinner?"

Arthur blinked and considered this. His brain seemed to be working even more slowly than usual. It hadn't occurred to him to miss dinner. Then again, he hadn't even thought about dinner, and now that he did, his stomach clenched painfully and made a bid for freedom up his throat.

"I… think I'd… maybe better… not." Arthur said, between desperate swallows. His stomach settled down in relief.

"Do you want us to get you anything?" Martin asked.

"No, I'm okay."

"Well, alright." Douglas said. "Just go and get some sleep. But you will have to have breakfast in the morning. And make sure you at least have something to drink."

"Righto." Arthur said, but his heart wasn't in it.

"And don't sleep in your uniform." Martin added. "Get changed and get into bed properly."

"Yes, Skipper."

"Don't worry, Arthur." Douglas said encouragingly, apparently also affected by the sad puppy aura. "You probably just feel worse because Martin woke you up. A few more hours of rest and you'll be fine."

Arthur believed him, because it was Douglas, and Douglas was almost always right. The two pilots left him to rest and, although he couldn't help feeling a little lonely and wishing he was well, he was mostly just relieved that he could finally go back to sleep. Or nearly. He made sure to drink a whole glass of water from the bathroom first and change into his pyjamas as he had been told, and even felt a little better. The water had cooled his throat which he hadn't realised until then had been burning with thirst, and his pyjamas were definitely a lot more comfortable than his steward's uniform. Unfortunately, they were also thinner and colder, but they reminded him of home and once he got in under the duvet (which was also clean and nice smelling and like a duck inside a duck) he really did feel, well, not exactly better, but like he might feel better very soon.

Unfortunately, he was wrong and so was Douglas.