A/N: So currently I'm freezing in subarctic temperatures out here in the Midwest right now, which is why this feels all the more appropriate! Ha. More like fanciful denial. Really, I just found this old thing (from the summer) on my hard-drive and it wasn't terrible and I was due to post something or another – life has stolen my ability to write fic these days – so here you are.
A story about heatstroke in the middle of an apocalyptic winter. Never let anyone tell you that my timing isn't impeccable.
Heatstroke
By: Zayz
"Is it still conked out?" Jess asks weakly, as she walks into the loft holding a bag of groceries. Her usually pale face is flushed a deep red; the back of her neck is sticky, her hair simultaneously stringy and frizzy in its ponytail.
Winston, Nick and Schmidt – all three of them sprawled at strange angles on the couch – nod mutely, miserably. It is too hot even to use words.
Jess sighs dramatically, and dumps her grocery bag on the counter, and flops on the couch next to Nick. He makes a pathetic whining sound, wriggling as far away from her as the sofa will allow. It's too hot even to touch Jess. The men stripped down to bare chests and boxers hours ago – and as it is Saturday, they cannot even escape to their air-conditioned workplaces. Even Schmidt, who usually believes that the day cannot be faced without an expensive designer suit.
Schmidt had tried, earlier that morning, to wear his usual starched, preppy attire – but within minutes, he went cross-eyed from heat and took off his clothes immediately. He claimed that the material was too luxurious to be marred by a thing like sweat, and that he could survive if he wanted to, but Nick and Winston simply shook their heads.
Of course, it was during the worst heat wave in recent Californian history, that 4D's air conditioning puffed its final farewell, and died. Not even handyman Nick was able to resurrect the machine. The temperature situation is desperate enough that Winston (after losing several games of rock, paper, scissors) was forced to call Remy and put in a maintenance request. He hasn't called back yet, and none of them has much faith that he will. For now, the ceiling fan is going at its highest speed, slicing the thick humid air and providing at least a little relief.
"Why can't we go to Nick's bar again?" Jess asks crossly, fanning herself with her hand. "I could use a drink. And some cold air."
"Our air conditioner is getting fixed today, it went out yesterday," Nick manages to rumble. He takes several deep breaths then, as though he has just run a great distance. "It's okay. I'll fix ours too. Somehow. Later."
"How about now, Nick?" Winston requests. He is sweating even more than Nick, a glistening sheen covering every inch of his skin, as though he has been dunked in a pool.
Nick merely grunts, and closes his eyes against the cruel, overheated world. And so oppressive is the cruel, overheated world, that neither Winston nor Schmidt pursues the issue any further.
Jess beholds Nick, Winston and Schmidt with some distaste. "You know, it's really not fair that guys are allowed to take off their clothes whenever they want, but with girls, it's not okay," she announces. "I'm hot too, but you guys get to sit around in your underwear, and I'm stuck in this gross sweaty t-shirt and shorts."
"You can be in your underwear if you want, Jess," says Schmidt, with a valiant attempt at his usual seductive grin. But it wilts fast in the heat, and he merely looks mournful.
Jess rolls her eyes, too hot to be annoyed with him. "You know what, I'm going to get a bikini, and you guys will just have to deal with it."
"Do you see anyone complaining?" says Nick.
"You guys better not look at me weird," she warns, as she negotiates herself off the couch and, with gargantuan effort, rises to her feet.
Winston's eyes are glassy; Schmidt's head lolls back behind the couch, as the blood rushes to his head. Nick looks up at Jess, smirking, and says, "I'm allowed to ogle you, right?"
In spite of herself, Jess smiles slightly. "I'll think about it."
Jess emerges from her room a few minutes later, clad in a red polka-dot bikini, her hair twisted into a tight frizzy knot on top of her head. It is a testament to the heat that neither Schmidt nor Winston look twice at her; they are too concerned with fanning themselves with their hands, staring at the ceiling, and trying to endure the rest of the day. Only Nick grins at the sight of Jess, and even condescends to sit up, giving her more room on the couch.
"So maybe heat waves aren't all bad," he teases, and Jess laughs.
"You're a clown, Miller," she tells him, but she smiles sweetly, affectionately.
He kisses her cheek, and says, "I seriously hate this weather though."
"I know! Is there no way you can fix the air conditioner now? Can you try again? Should I come with you?"
"Nah, it's fine, I'll go." Nick heaves himself up from the couch, his expression contorted with discomfort. This makes Winston look up, glaring as fiercely as his lethargy would allow.
"Wait, I asked you to fix that thing three times in the past couple of hours, and you just gave me one of your turtle faces! But then Jess asks, and it's Nick to the rescue?"
He shrugs as he stretches out his arms. "What can I say? She gets privileges."
Jess simply beams.
"Well, remind me to have Jess ask you for the croissants I like, or any other thing I need," Winston grumbles.
"Come on, it's getting hot, you have to fix it," says Jess. "I can't stand to be in here anymore."
"I know, I know, just gimme a sec." Nick stretches again, and his back makes an almighty crack. Jess looks baffled, but Nick is rather pleased with himself, and begins stretching out his legs.
"Is that a butterfly?" Schmidt chimes in then, chuckling loosely, borderline hysterically. He points up at the ceiling for a few seconds, before his arm collapses back down to the couch.
"Um, Schmidt? There's no butterfly up there," says Winston, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Oh, and look, there's its butterfly mate! Winston, they're having butterfly sex!" Schmidt enthuses. "On a mound of whipped cream and berries, how romantic!"
Winston raises an eyebrow. "You had an air conditioner to fix?" he asks Nick.
While Nick disappears to fix the air conditioner, Winston and Jess watch as Schmidt descends slowly but surely into madness.
Schmidt does not deal with heat well. In hindsight, living in California was perhaps not the best life decision for him. It is unclear whether this is all an elaborate prank – Schmidt has been known to play those – or he is genuinely hallucinating, but the longer it continues, the latter seems more and more likely.
Suddenly possessed of superhuman energy, Schmidt's hallucinations go from butterfly sex to more sinister plots of alien world domination. "I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE," he yells, as he attempts to pound a basket of Jess's knitting things into a pulp.
"Schmidt, stop it, okay? There aren't any aliens," Jess insists, snatching the basket away from him.
"THAT'S WHAT THEY WANT YOU TO THINK!" Schmidt picks up the lamp on the table beside him, and throws it to the ground, smashing it to pieces. "AND I KNOW ABOUT THE LISTENING DEVICES," he shouts at the ceiling, brandishing his fist at his imaginary tormentors.
"Hey, Winston, a little help here?" Jess asks, poking Winston squarely in the chest.
Winston, who is least concerned about Schmidt's outburst, who had actually been drifting in and out of sleep for the past few minutes, grunts irritably. "Hey. Jess. I think you've got this."
"I don't have this!" cries Jess, gesturing wildly at Schmidt, who is on the ground, sniffing the lamp pieces. "Can you stop him?!"
"Hey, Schmidt," says Winston, "do you mind? I'm trying to sleep here."
Schmidt runs to the kitchen, retrieves a spatula, and whacks Winston in the head with it. He then runs to the microwave, puts an apple in it, and sets the timer for two minutes, and whacks the microwave with the spatula too.
"I HAVE OUR SECRET WEAPON! IT IS ALMOST READY!" Schmidt announces.
"This is getting out of hand," remarks Jess, as Winston sobs quietly and rubs his aching head. "Winston, help me, please? I don't want to get Nick, he's working on the air conditioner, which is more important."
"OI. SCHMIDT." Winston now appears to wake up, and charges to the kitchen, where Schmidt is watching the apple melt. He stops the microwave, throws away the ruined fruit, and smacks Schmidt with the spatula in his hand. "I AM NOT PLAYING AROUND."
"NEITHER AM I!" Schmidt pulls out the rolling pin, and holds it threateningly in front of Winston's face. "THIS. MEANS. WAR."
"BRING IT!"
"Winston, this is not what I had in mind when I asked you to handle this!" Jess wails, as the two begin a vicious utensil fight in the kitchen.
It is too damn hot to be dealing with them – running after them, stopping them from smashing up the kitchen, begging them to come back to their senses. Heat does strange things to people's heads. Sighing, Jess just gives up, and collapses on the couch in her bikini, unable to muster the energy to even be frustrated for too long.
They are grown adults, in theory. So, in theory, they should be able to handle themselves.
When Jess drifts back into consciousness, she finds the living room in complete devastation.
Schmidt and Winston have destroyed much of the living room and the kitchen—the fridge is open, and several bottles have smashed on the floor, and the lamps are broken and there are books and utensils and some of Nick's shirts scattered on the furniture—and now they are standing on the couch where they had sat earlier. Schmidt is holding Jess's hairdryer, and Winston is holding the shower rod from the bathroom, and the two of them are glaring daggers at each other.
"BEYONCE IS AMERICA'S QUEEN," Winston bellows. "AND ADELE IS THE TRUE QUEEN OF ENGLAND."
"WINSTON, YOU UNCULTURED PHILISTINE, LADY GAGA IS AMERICA'S QUEEN," Schmidt bellows back.
"Is this seriously happening right now?" Jess mumbles sleepily, yawning. "Is Nick back yet?"
Winston and Schmidt ignore her. She sits up, hugs her knees to her chest, and watches the two with mild interest. (If she wasn't going to/wasn't able to stop them, why not enjoy the ride?)
Schmidt looks as though he's about to yell something, but he is interrupted by the arrival of a large, swollen wasp, which flies directly toward Schmidt and makes him shriek bloody murder.
"OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, WINSTON, GET IT AWAY FROM ME, WINSTON KILL IT, IT'S THE ALIEN OVERLORD!"
Schmidt slashes wildly at the wasp with the shower rod, narrowly missing Winston's head as he leaps out of the way. The wasp circles Schmidt threateningly, as though it can smell his fear—and Schmidt keeps trying to kill it, though his aim is poor and erratic. He is much too dangerous to approach, with the giant shower rod at his disposal, so Winston and Jess back away slowly, exchanging worried looks as Schmidt continues to shriek at the wasp.
With one enormous, almighty swipe, Schmidt manages to smack the wasp across the room by sheer dumb luck. In the same stroke, he also manages hit the fan—which has been working so hard for so long, that this is the last straw.
The fan makes a loud, high-pitched whirring sound, and falls right out of the ceiling and into the floor.
This, more than anything, brings Schmidt back to his senses. He stares in abject horror at the massive crater the fan has nestled into – it has most certainly smashed into the ceiling of the apartment beneath them, most likely scaring the daylights out of them. Schmidt drops the shower rod; it rolls solemnly towards Jess and Winston's feet.
Nick comes running out, shouting, "Is everyone okay? What the hell was that?!"
His eye catches Jess's. Jess points at the fan.
Nick looks from the fan to Schmidt, then back to the fan, then back to Jess.
"I was just going to tell you—I fixed the air conditioning," he says.
"Can you fix the floor?" asks Jess.
"Most likely not."
Winston, Jess and Nick exchange stunned, helpless looks, wondering what to do next.
Schmidt solves the problem by promptly fainting on top of the fallen fan.
Jess exhales slowly. "I'm going to find some pants. Nick, Winston, get him in the car, we're going to the hospital."
Schmidt has a mild concussion from falling – and had indeed been suffering heat-induced hallucinations and dehydration – but otherwise, he is all right. Of course, he milks it for all it's worth, lying in his bed, weakly requesting juice and snacks from the vending machine.
"I'm an invalid – can't you do me this one favor?" he whines, as he tries to convince Nick to fetch freshly squeezed orange juice from the grocery store. (Apparently, the juice here has pulp in it.)
"No, I'm not going to get you the juice, drink the damn hospital juice," Nick snaps.
In their haste to get Schmidt to the hospital, Jess is the only one wearing clothes; the other three came in what they were wearing, which was just boxers. Once Schmidt had been admitted, they were given hospital gowns to cover up; the hospital patrons kept snickering at them as they passed.
"Well, at least the hospital is air-conditioned," Jess remarks. "And the air conditioner will have kicked in at home by the time we get back, right?"
"Yeah, it should," says Nick.
"I swear, next time we have such a bad heat wave, I am going to squeeze myself into the freezer," Schmidt grumbles, tenderly rubbing the bandage on his head.
"Careful, Schmidt," says Jess, grinning. "We might hold you to that."