A/N: I'm going to commit the cardinal sin of beginning a new story before 'Hunk of Burning Love' is finished, but I absolutely promise you on my copy of Gilligan, Maynard and Me that both will be completed. This one will be short and sweet and I'll divide it into a couple of chapters because it's too long for a one-shot, which I always like to keep under 5000 words, if possible.
This fic is for (and quite obviously inspired by) Doll Girl, ChocolateChipCookie26 and all you proponents of Skipper maybe being a bit more gentle with his hapless First Mate. Now, I know Skipper loves his Little Buddy, I know Alan Hale and Bob Denver were bffs and they were like Laurel and Hardy and played it for laughs. But sometimes I see that cap come down and I just want to jump in and take the blow for G Man :)
I'm relaxed about reviews. (No, really, I am!) You know how when you're busy and you've just reviewed someone and they update almost right away and you feel obliged to review again. You don't have to. I mean it's lovely if you do, obviously, I love and cherish reviews as much as the next scribbler. But I'm just writing this one for the fun of it.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to the majestic Sherwood Schwartz, without whom we would not have these wonderful characters to play with. All fanfiction writing is for fun, not profit.
Enjoy!
Cap Slap Fever
Gilligan had lately been complaining of aches and pains, dizziness and nausea and sore, tender headaches that came on without warning, no matter what time of day it was. Seeking out a diagnosis from the Professor, he perched nervously on the edge of the supply hut table swinging his long legs back and forth while the esteemed man of science examined him with his giant stethoscope (made from coconuts, bamboo and not a small amount of blood, sweat and scientific tears). Gilligan breathed loudly in and out as the Professor placed the cup of the stethoscope against his slender chest and adopted a solemn expression.
"Hmm. Your heart rate seems slightly elevated, Gilligan."
"Huh?" said Gilligan, slack jawed.
"Your heart is beating faster than normal."
"Oh." Gilligan thought for a moment before continuing. "Maybe that's because I ran all the way here."
The Professor frowned. "Why did you run?"
Gilligan smiled sheepishly. "To get away from Skipper. He was gonna hit me with his hat for dropping the firewood all over his feet. But Professor, he knows I always drop the firewood on his feet. Why does he always have to stand so close to me all the time? I'm sick of being hit with his dumb hat." Gilligan's voice rose a notch and the Professor could hear the rising panic as Gilligan became even more fidgety on the table.
"Calm down, Gilligan," he said, alarmed. "Your heart rate is going through the roof!"
Gilligan looked up at the greeny brown palm frond ceiling. "It is? I can't see it!"
"It's an expression. Just... just calm down, Gilligan. You're getting yourself all worked up." The Professor clamped both hands onto Gilligan's knees to get the boy to stop jerking around like a moth caught in a jar.
Right then, the loud voice of Captain Jonas Grumby could be heard yelling, "Gilligaaaaaan!" from somewhere out in the jungle.
Gilligan clapped a hand to the side of his head. "Ow, ow... Professor, I'm getting a headache. Ow, my neck hurts, too!" The First Mate rolled his head from side to side. "My neck and my shoulders and all of my ribs, and ow, Professor! I feel terrible! Do something!"
The Professor let go of Gilligan's knees and put his hands firmly on the boy's shoulders, deftly dodging a kick to the groin as Gilligan kicked and flailed. "Gilligan! Stop it, calm down! I can't help you if you don't calm down!"
But Gilligan was too far gone. He scrambled down off of the table, landing on the Professor's foot in the process. As the Professor yelped and began hopping around, Gilligan bolted through the door with his hands on his head, crying ow, ow, ow, all the way across the clearing.
The Professor sighed and removed the clunky stethoscope from around his neck just as Ginger peered around the door.
"Everything all right, Professor?"
The Professor gave Ginger a purposely dazed expression which made her smile. "Everything's just fine, Ginger. Fine for this island, that is!"
oOoOo
At lunch, Gilligan sat with one bony elbow on the table, chin in hand, ignoring the mildly disapproving looks of Mrs. Howell while he picked at chunks of beautifully grilled fish, pushing them around the plate instead of eating them. Mary Ann glanced at him constantly on her trips to and from the kitchen area, worried about his lack of appetite. The Professor tried to catch the First Mate's eye but Gilligan kept his gaze firmly on his plate. Meanwhile, at the head of the table on Gilligan's right, the Skipper wolfed his fish and roasted vegetables like he hadn't eaten in three weeks.
"Are you going to eat that or just play with it?" he boomed, his fork already hovering halfway between his plate and Gilligan's.
"Go ahead, Skipper," sighed Gilligan. He edged his plate over to the Skipper, who could barely conceal his delight as he stabbed his fork down into the biggest piece of fish he could find and shoved it into his mouth.
Mary Ann put down her platter of fruit and vegetable medley with such a clunk that a piece of pineapple bounced off the platter and into the Professor's lap. She placed her hands on her hips and everyone drew in a breath.
"Skipper, you shouldn't eat Gilligan's lunch. He's hardly touched a bite!"
"Well, maybe he's not hungry!" Skipper mumbled around a mouthful of Gilligan's lunch. "No sense wasting good food!"
"It'll keep for a while longer," Mary Ann insisted, as the Skipper scooped up yet another forkful from Gilligan's plate. "Perhaps he'd like it as a mid-afternoon snack!"
Gilligan shook his head miserably. "No, Mary Ann. No offence but I won't want it later. I've had a stomach ache all morning. I think I'm just gonna go and lie down for a while." He made as if to get up but the Skipper raised his voice around his mouthful of food and started talking before he'd even swallowed.
"Gilligan, it's very bad manners to leave the table before everyone else has finished eating!"
"It's also bad manners to speak with your mouth full," muttered Gilligan, as several small pieces of half chewed fish sprayed onto his shirt sleeve.
"Gilligan! Why, you..." Skipper jumped to his feet and all three of the women automatically winced as they anticipated what would come next. Sure enough, not two seconds later-
-Whoosh-
Slap!
Mary Ann was dismayed as the Skipper's peaked cap connected squarely with the top of Gilligan's head, knocking his own floppy sailor's hat to one side.
"Sit down," ordered the Skipper. "Sit down and wait for us all to finish."
Gilligan's butt hit the chair with an audible thump. He glared at the Skipper, who brandished his hat again. After that, Gilligan hunched his shoulders and sat with his arms folded, eyes downcast, staring at nothing.
The other castaways tried to get on with their meal as though nothing untoward had happened, darting their eyes nervously at each other, forks scraping self consciously.
"This is a simply wonderful dish, Mary Ann," Mrs. Howell said, brightly.
"Why thank you, Mrs. Howell!" Mary Ann accepted the awkwardly delivered compliment as graciously as she could, whilst trying to keep her eye on Gilligan.
"Yes, you must let me have the recipe," Mrs. Howell continued, while the others fidgeted. "One gets so tired of caviare and truffles!" She waved her hand through the air as though boring old caviare and truffles made up most of her staple diet back on the East Coast.
"Well, it's just regular grilled fish and fresh picked vegetables from the garden," Mary Ann began, keeping the small talk going. "I soak the fish in a marinade made from..." she broke off mid sentence as Gilligan emitted a long, low moan.
The castaways put down their forks and leaned forward as one.
"Good heavens, dear boy, are you all right?" asked Mr. Howell, genuinely concerned.
The Skipper rolled his eyes. "Don't coddle him, Mr. Howell. He's fine. He's sulking because I wouldn't let him leave the table."
Gilligan moaned again. He slumped forward with his head in his hands, his fingers buried in under his hat. "My head hurts," he whimpered.
"Your head will hurt in a minute," the Skipper warned.
"Captain, I don't think you need to be so harsh," said Mrs. Howell, sternly. "Can't you see there's something the matter?"
Gilligan slumped forward even further and the Skipper let out a gusty sigh. "There is nothing the matter, Mrs. Howell. Aren't we all used to Gilligan's dramatics by now? No offence Ginger, but he's a better actor than you are!"
Ginger, who was seated on Gilligan's left, gave the Skipper a haughty look which instantly made him regret what he'd said about acting. She smoothed the slightly dampened hair back from Gilligan's forehead to get a better look at him. She peered under his hat and stroked the side of his face. "He doesn't look fine to me," she observed. "He looks a bit green."
Gilligan groaned louder and rested his head on his forearms and the Skipper ran both hands over his face.
"Always making me out to be the bad guy," he muttered, half to the castaways and half to himself.
Ginger looked across the table at the Professor, who nodded. "Gilligan, take yourself off to bed," he instructed. "I'll come and see you in a minute."
"Thank you P'fess'r," came Gilligan's mumbled reply.
Ginger helped Gilligan to his rather shaky feet. As the First Mate lifted his head from his arms, they all got a look at how pale and nauseous he appeared. Without another word, Ginger began walking Gilligan to the Boys' Hut. When Skipper made to get up too, the Professor raised his hand, palm facing outwards, stopping the Captain in his tracks.
"Leave him," he said, firmly. "Let him get some rest."
Skipper huffed and blustered, as he always did when his authority was challenged. "But he's my crewman, Professor! He's my responsibility, and I'm telling you that nothing's wrong! He's gotten himself worked up, that's all! He runs around all day like a child, living on nervous energy. Of course he's gonna get sick now and again! All children do!"
The Professor shook his head. "He's not a child, Skipper. He's a 22 year old man and needs to be treated like one."
"I'll treat him like one when he starts behaving like one!" the Skipper bellowed.
Mary Ann suddenly jumped up from the table, almost in tears. "I can't bear all this arguing!" she sobbed, before rushing across the clearing after Ginger and Gilligan.
Mr. Howell looked up furtively from under his bushy eyebrows, his mouth a thin line. Mrs. Howell played with her pearls, her mouth slightly open with no words coming out.
The Professor closed his eyes for a moment while he composed himself, and then he straightened his back and set his shoulders to ease out some painful kinks of his own. "Look, Skipper. I am not trying to tell you what to do, or challenge your leadership. What I am telling you is that Gilligan is sick. There is genuinely something wrong with him. He's been complaining of headaches, nausea and flu-like symptoms for several days, and yet no one else has come down with anything. There are no viruses going around that I know of. Not even the common cold. And yet Gilligan feels ill almost every single day. I've checked his blood pressure, and it's sky high. Too high for someone of his age. What does that tell you?"
"It tells me I should have renewed his medical insurance," the Skipper joked, but stopped smiling when he realised no one else was laughing.
"I'm serious," said the Professor.
"Well, gee- I would never have guessed," retorted the Skipper.
"Gilligan is suffering from an illness," said the Professor, gearing up for a lecture. "An illness presenting itself as a general malaise that can be attributed to any number of ailments such as colds, influenza, gastro enteritis, glandular fever, allergies, anxiety, depression, chest infection, migraine headaches, ulcers, constipation, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, croup, diabetes, diarrhea..."
Mrs. Howell coughed ever so politely and put her hand in front of her mouth.
"... diptheria, irritable bowel syndrome, meningococcal disease, localised neck pain, inflammation of the..."
Skipper threw his hands up in surrender. "All right, all right, I get the picture! Gilligan is sick! My Little Buddy is sick, really, really sick!" The big man's face crumpled like a wet paper bag. "Gilligan is sick, and I should have been the first one to notice. Instead I just made fun of him."
Mr. Howell put his hand out and tentatively patted the Skipper on the shoulder. Comforting people didn't come naturally to him, and it showed. "There there, Captain, it's not your fault. Gilligan's always looked a little drawn, if you ask me."
"Well, I wasn't asking you, but thanks anyway," the Skipper sniffled, beginning to tear up.
The Professor folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "Out of all those ailments I just mentioned, my money is on anxiety. My considerable background in psychology leads me to believe that Gilligan is suffering from Acute Anxiety Disorder."
"Egads!" cried Mr. Howell. "Is it contagious?"
"No," said the Professor, glancing at the flustered millionaire. "But it can be debilitating."
"Thank goodness! I'm safe!" Mr. Howell gasped, mopping his glistening brow and clutching his hand over his wildly palpitating heart.
The Skipper blinked several times. He took off his cap and scratched his head. "Gilligan? Anxious? Why, he's the most laid back guy I've ever known!"
"Is he?" asked the Professor, pointedly. "You may think so, Skipper, but I saw first hand the way he reacted to the sound of your voice and the fear that you were going to hit him with that cap of yours. He tensed up like a coiled spring, his heart rate soared and he became agitated, nervous and panicky. Soon after he began displaying physical symptoms- headache, sweating, dizziness, neck and shoulder pain, even chest pain."
The Skipper gulped. "But that doesn't sound like Gilligan," he protested. "When we were in the Navy, Gilligan was always the one who kept everyone's spirits up. Gilligan was the joker in the pack, the one who made everyone laugh. When we bought the Minnow together, Gilligan was the one who encouraged people to take the tour by being so gosh darned funny and lovable! What on earth could possibly be making Gilligan anxious?"
The Professor made direct eye contact with the Skipper, creating a dramatic pause that had both of the Howells staring at him as though he were about to score a match point at tennis. "Not a what, a who," he said solemnly.
"Then who?" the Skipper asked, impatiently. "For gosh sakes', Professor- who?"
"You," the Professor answered, simply. "Gilligan is anxious because of you."