Sick

by FaceLoaf

Spy is sick but still pushing forwards on the battlefield, working himself to the bone. Medic has to say something to put a stop to it, as a doctor and as a friend.

For once the room was untidy; clothes sat on the sofa in crumpled piles , open files and loose paper scattered the desk and floor, light streamed in from the barred window and fell in even, bisected patches on the worn, navy blue carpet. The covers were heaped haphazardly on the bed and formed a hollow cocoon. A knife lay on the bedside table, half sheathed and glinting. Someone thumped at the door.

"WAKE UP MAGGOTS." The soldier shouted, stomping down the hall. "0500 RISE AND SHINE BUTTERCUPS."

The spy groaned. He peeled the duvet away in a lethargic manner, his head heavy, feeling like it was full of wet sand. A thin sheen of sweat covered the skin of his bare chest despite the morning being cold. He opened his eyes and sat up slowly. God he felt awful; his head hurt, his chest hurt and his stomach rolled.

Slithering out of bed the tall, lanky man got in the shower, letting the water wash over him as he stood under the jet. After a long while he was dressed, he slipped his heavy coat over his suit and walked out of his room locking the door with a quiet click.