Wes.
It starts with a cold, or what Wes thinks is a cold. He isn't one to get sick very often, but when he does he makes it count. This cold in particular knocks him off his feet for over a week and he uses up three boxes of tissues in that space of time. His wastebasket overflows with the nasty tissues but he doesn't have enough strength or energy to pull himself out of bed to empty the thing. He spends days bundled underneath the weighty comforter, trying to pretend his head doesn't feel like it's about to explode. Travis calls at least once a day to ask how he's doing and if there's anything he needs, and while Wes appreciates his partner's concern, the ringing of his cell phone sends his migraine to new heights. Silencing the phone seems to solves the problem but the first time he's asleep when Travis calls, the other man winds up at his house to make sure he hasn't "died or something". And people call Wes the dramatic one.
When Day Nine passes and Wes manages to make himself a bowl of chicken noodle soup and eat it, so he figures he's on the mend. His appetite is returning and he can stand for longer than five minutes at a time without feeling lightheaded. He takes joy in the long awaited recovery stage and maybe rushes things a little bit. It was probably a bad idea to shower, then try to clean up around the house. He's tired enough after his shower but now that his head isn't blindingly aching, Wes can see clearly and he can't stand it. Tissues are everywhere and dust has gathered over every surface and he can practically see himself breathing the stuff in. Wes grimaces and starts with the wastebasket. He needs another plastic bag to fit the remaining stray tissues in and then he quickly heads outside to throw it all in the garbage can by the curb.
It's brighter outside than he remembers and he lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight, stumbling a little bit. He's getting more tired with each step and he hates himself for it. How pathetic. Right now, all he wants to do is go back inside and lay back down, but the house is such a mess and it's driving him insane. How many germs are currently floating around his hotel room right now? Too many, Wes decides as he stubbornly gathers a few cleaning supplies together. He'll just dust for now and leave the rest for tomorrow when he's really starting to feel better.
But then one things becomes several and he's doing it again: The counting. One, two, three sprays of Lysol. Four, five, six, seven swipes of the Windexed cloth for each window. Old habits die hard and as tired as Wes is, he slips so easily back into the old routine. Dr. Ryan has been working with him, trying to get him to break these habits but it's hard enough when he's in the right frame of mind. Now he's just focused on getting from one task to the next, but in a his stupid OCD way because it's just easier like that. He's too mentally exhausted to argue with himself. One, two, three, with the Lysol. Four, five, six, seven, with the Windex. Spray with his left hand, wipe with his right. Even amount of paper towels for each window and each wood surface. In his feverish mind, it makes sense and it keeps him going even though he knows deep down that it's not the best idea.
The ringing of his cell phone interrupts his counting and Wes scowls as he throws the paper towel away. He'll have to start over now. When he looks at his phone, he sees that it's 2:30 and that Travis is the one calling him, which makes sense. After he showed up uninvited the first time when Wes didn't answer, they agreed that he call at a certain time and if he didn't hear back by another certain time (3:00, because Travis refuses to wait any longer than half an hour), he'll stop by to make sure everything is okay. Wes doesn't mind that much. It's neat and organized. He appreciates having a sort of schedule that he can stick to even when he's bedridden for as many days as he has been.
"Travis."
"Hey, man, you're alive!"
One, two, three. "Yeah, I'm feeling better today." Four, five, six, seven "Almost human. I ate a little soup and now I'm straightening the place up a bit."
"Wes," Travis' voice absolutely reeks with disapproval. "I talked with you yesterday and you still sounded like you were at Death's door. What kind of cleaning are we talking about here?"
Wes, unfortunately, feels a fit of coughing begin to build in his chest just at that moment and he tries to swallow it, gagging a little in the process. " 'm fine." He manages to clear his throat without making anything worse. "Travis, I had a huge pile of tissues next to my bed. They weren't even in the wastebasket because they wouldn't fit."
"Uh-huh." So much judgement. "And what are you doing now?"
"Um." Wes' hand stills over the roll of paper towels. His chest still feels too tight. He abandons his cleaning station for the time being to make himself a cup of tea. Kill two birds with one stone this way. "Making tea."
"All right, well then as soon as your tea brews or whatever tea does, get back in bed." Travis is obnoxious when he's bossy like this. "Seriously, man. At least for the sake of getting better quicker so we can get back out there."
Travis is even more obnoxious when he has a point. Wes fills his teapot with water and sets it on the stove, turning the temperature to high. He turns and gazes around the apartment, unable to just turn a blind eye to the mess that's still there. He can't tell if it's related to his cold, or the fact that he's breathed in an unhealthy amount of cleaning agents, or a combination, but his nose is burning and his chest feels like it's trying to climb out of his throat.
"So?" Travis breaks his concentration. "That sound like a plan?"
If Wes opens his mouth right now, the only sound that's going to come out is the sound of him coughing up a lung. He squeezes his eyes shut, fingers rubbing at his temple as if he can somehow rub the coughing fit away. "Mhm," he hums because it's all he can muster. He takes a deep breath but it's a mistake and then he's doubled over, coughing so hard that it sends the room spinning. It hurts like hell and tears actually come to his eyes. Wes staggers over to the closest chair and sinks into it, feeling all of two feet tall right now. He hates everything.
"Are you done?" Travis asks. "Because you just about blew out my ear drums."
Wes finally catches his breath, nodding at first until he remembers that Travis can't see him. "I'm 'kay," he sputters. He needs that tea now more than ever. "Just a tickle in my throat." He appreciates Travis' pretend complain because the alternative is having him be concerned and Wes has decided that that's the most humiliating thing ever. "I'm getting my tea now."
"Good." There's a long pause and Wes wonders if Travis hung up or if the call was dropped. The hotel for all its high-end amenities and great rooms has really lousy cell reception. "Can I bring you anything?"
"No." Wes bites back a groan. He'd give anything to be back at the station with Travis pestering him about a million different things. "No thanks. I think I'm just going to call it a day." The tea kettle sings and he snatches it off the stove, pouring himself a mug of the boiling water.
"Sure?"
"Positive." Wes peruses his tea selection, disappointed to see that he's in dire need of a shopping trip. He chooses a bag of Earl Grey and dips it in his mug. Once, twice. And stir. Three, four. . . If he can't clean then he can at least have his tea just the way he likes it. "Thanks, Travis."
"Okay." Again Travis is quiet. Too quiet. Wes never thought he would long for Travis to keep talking, preferably if it didn't have anything to do with him being sick. "Well, call if you change your mind."
"Thanks," Wes says, the back of his neck heating up. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, can Travis do that for him? "I'm gonna head back to bed for now though." He waits for Travis' reply, carefully stirring the tea around. One, two-
"Feel better, man. We miss you around here."
Wes hates sentiment. He's not used to it. Especially from Travis. He hums noncommittally and then ends the call, shoving his phone across the counter before he can feel too guilty.
He can't wait until he gets better. He just wants everything to go back to normal. He wants to go back to the station, wants to get back on the job with Travis, Travis who will annoy him and drive him crazy rather than treat him like a helpless infant. He sighs and cups the mug of tea between his hands, enjoying the warmth that it spreads throughout his chilled limbs. As he heads back to the bedroom, Wes resumes his stirring.
One, two, three, four.
Travis.
Leave it to Wes to get the Kiss of Death with a simple cold. And leave it to Travis to be annoyed with his partner for being so sick. He feels a lot about Wes' illness actually. Annoyance and boredom because it's been more than a week since they've done any kind of work at all, guilt because he's also worried about Wes (seriously, the man overdoes everything, does he have to overdo getting sick as well?), and frustration and impatience because how long is this going to last? He sighs as he puts his phone down and shoves it off to the side. Apparently forever.
"Marks! Was that Mitchell?"
Travis jumps a little at the unexpected appearance of Mike Sutton. Who knew the man could move so quietly? "Yes, sir." he replies as the captain settles himself down in Wes' chair. Travis bites his lip to keep himself from protesting. The chair sags under the captain's weight, accustomed to Wes' thin build. Sutton absentmindedly toys with the pencils that sit just off to the side, exactly the place Wes wants, needs them to be.
"Well?"
Jerking his eyes away from the pencils, Travis forces himself to spit out some sort of information that will get the captain out of here as soon as possible. "He's starting to feel better, sir, but he still sounded pretty sick."
Sutton sighs and the chair creaks in protest as he leans further back into it. "Next time you talk to him," he says, giving one of the pencils a push that sends it rolling to the edge of the esk. Travis' hand shoots out and catches it before it can fall to the floor. "If he's not feeling better next time you talk to him, tell him he's under orders from me to see a doctor. I need my best team out there."
Travis is still holding the pencil, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. "Will do, sir." He nods dutifully, making a mental note to give Wes a hard time about this later. Because what is he, the messenger? Why can't the captain call Wes himself? Is this another couples' therapy exercise for Travis? He stifles a groan and nods as the captain finally stands up, pats him on the shoulder, and leaves. As soon as he's out of sight, Travis slumps down in his chair, still staring at Wes' stupid pencil.
He's trying his best, really he is, to stop making fun of Wes' OCD. Just like Wes is trying to overcome his half-crazed impulses to clean and keep things just so. Sometimes that isn't a huge problem. He washes his hands three times whenever he uses the bathroom and his obsession with hand sanitizer is a little annoying, but it's stuff that just Wes deals with. But when it affects more than just Wes, like when he has to have an even numbered amount of steps in and out of every room or building, when he shortens his stride to do this and Travis walks smack into him from behind, when he throws a hissy fit because Travis borrowed his stapler one time for five staples, or when he can't have any of his food mixing on his plate and glares daggers at Travis for smashing french fries on his burger, then it becomes a little much. Then Travis just wants to throw his arms up in the air and demand of Wes "will you just try to be normal and less of a control freak?" only to have another argument break out between the two of them.
But yeah, that's part of one of their many compromises. Wes backing down on his need to control every little thing and Travis backing down on the pressure he puts on him. It was Dr. Ryan's idea, but honestly Travis doesn't get it. Wouldn't it work better if Wes had someone constantly reminding him to let the little things go? Why is it such a big deal when Travis hides his hand sanitizer or serves him up a plate of macaroni and cheese, sliding into the broccoli? Dr. Ryan claims that Travis needs to figure out the line between helping and antagonizing Wes first. "Taking control from someone like Wes is similar to removing krill from the food chain. It would upset the entire ecosystem. There needs to be a balance."
Travis mostly accepted this because she essentially compared Wes to a tiny shrimp. Or maybe he was the whale and his control was the shrimp. Whale or shrimp, it was pretty funny. But that didn't make any of it less than a nuisance. "Slow and steady," Dr. Ryan had reminded him, making it his daily mantra. Wes' was the same. Apparently, it would serve as a way to unit them against a common enemy. Why did Wes' issues have to be Travis' though?
He rolls his eyes, trying to shake it off. He leans forward and places the pencil back on Wes' desk, exactly where it should be. He can't help himself because as much as Wes' OCD drives him insane, he knows that a lot of what he does drives Wes insane and so it's the least he can do. Besides, he would never admit it to anyone, especially anyone in therapy and never ever in a million years to Wes, but he's starting to miss his partner. They spend most of their time together fighting over everything but they really do work well together. They balance each other out and form a team that cannot be beaten. Now they're just stagnant, useless and getting out of shape until Wes decides to get over his stupid cold. Travis is going out of his mind sitting around the station like this. He just wants everything to go back to normal. He'll take Wes and his OCD and his bossiness and arrogance and stubbornness.
Travis is okay with that.