When HR had woken up that morning- the room spinning, his head and heart pounding in harmony- he'd had to flop back down onto his bed, breaths short and wheezing. He'd buried his face in his pillow soon after, groaning and curling into a ball to compensate for the rapidly growing pain in the pit of his belly.
It had eventually ebbed off, but it led to a deep-set exhaustion that he wasn't used to letting himself feel. He couldn't hold it at bay this time, he'd discovered, after trying to force himself awake and quickly failing.
He hadn't been able to think much more before he had drifted off again, utterly swallwoed up in blissful darkness.
He woke after what seemed like mere moments, his stomach flipping painfully, over and over into itself. But this time he hadn't the strength to curl into a ball, so he simply laid there, in pain and unable to move.
It was surprisingly better than one would think, since he was lying on his stomach and his inability to move kind of drowned out the reality of pain.
It was just beginning to die out again, and he was starting to relax, to fall back into the sweet release of temporary death, when the clicking of heels began to ring from the hallway leading to his room.
His brain felt muddled and heavy, as if it were stuffed with cotton, so it came as no surprise that he didn't quite register the fact that anybody was there until a gentle presence was abruptly pressing subtly into the space beside him.
A voice was talking, asking him something, but it was too muffled to hear. All he could do in response was groan, burying himself further into the bed which had somehow managed to trap him in a burning burrito of his own blanket, in spite of the harsh shivers racked his frame.
A cold hand graced his forehead, and he arched into it, letting out a grateful whine. Another muffled question, and then the hand was gone. He almost complained, then thought better of it when his stomach cramped again and vomit rose in his throat, unpleasantly hot.
He whined again, and suddenly more blankets were swaddling him, shoving more heat into him.
He gasped, struggling for air. No, no, too much heat, too much, let him OUT-!
The hand was back on his head now, as well the second voice, but this time he could hear it, "He's got a fever; the flu, maybe." It wasn't talking to him, that much was obvious, so who else was there?
Where was he, anyway?
Another voice (the first one, he'd determined) chimed in right above him, sounding grim, "I don't know how much this is going to affect him, considering he's from a different earth. For all we know, the Influenza doesn't even exist on Earth-19."
From a different earth? Had he jumped dimensions? No, he would never do something so rash; dimension-jumping was severely outlawed, had been for centuries. . .
Another voice perked up right beside him, kind and sympathetic, "HR, are you with us? Can you look at me?"
He could only manage to slit his eyes open a little but before another misery-groan pushed its demanding way out of him.
He began shivering harder, ice flooding his veins and rooting itself within his heart until all he knew was cold, and pain. His breath caught on the breach of a coughing fit , only serving to drive bile further and further up his throat.
He had no warning before he was suddenly leaning over the side of the bed, bringing up the food from just yesterday and blearily watching it splatter into the trash bin just below him.
His eyes were tearing up, heat tearing at his throat and clashing painfully with the freeze which swelled like a virus through the rest of him.
"HR, come on, man, breathe," Another voice, closer to his ear and right in front of him.
Who the hell were all these people?
Someone helped him back up onto the bed, and he found he could pull his eyes open, now.
Shadowy figures were standing over him, tall and arcane and more than a little terrifying. His breath caught as he flinched away, and he had to force himself to swallow around the quickly forming lump in his throat.
The kind voice spoke up again, but not to him, "Everyone, move back a little; I think he needs some air."
All but one of the figures obeyed, and he found himself struggling not to flinch again as the kind voice- what he could vaguely make out as a gentle-looking woman with dark hair and brown skin- continued to crouch at his side.
He huffed out a breath, confused but a little less panicked now, "What-?"
His voice was hoarse and it hurt terribly to talk, rubbed his throat raw when he tried, and drew a pained whimper from his cracked lips.
He desperately needed water.
He groaned in protest when someone pulled him up, leaning him against something warm and soft. Against his will, his body stayed lax, his head falling back into the crook of a shoulder. Heat rose in his throat again, insistent, but he managed to swallow it down. For now.
"Cisco, be careful," the kind voice said worriedly.
"I'm trying," the mass beneath him rumbled, nearly drawing a delirious laugh from his dry lips.
A hand tried to coax water into him, holding a cool glass to his lips and murmuring softly into his ear. He didn't hesitate to accept it, draining it within moments. Another cup nudged at his lips.
Something cold graced his forehead as he finished off the water again, and he sighed in relief. A muffled voice tried to ask him something, but his head was lolling uselessly again, and a soft darkness was beginning to pull itself over him.
There were too many questions; much too high was the bar set for him; he would never be able to fill those shoes, any of them.
Especially not when he was so tired.
Tired, tired, tired.
He sighed again, softly, and slipped under the darkness.
After that, he had a difficult time separating reality from. . .well, he wasn't sure what it was.
But it was terrifying, he knew. And painful.
One time he knew for sure that he was awake, because there were bright lights, and pain, and soft, soft voices. Voices that sounded familiar, sounded kind, sounded sure of him, somehow. Of all people to certain and sure of, it should be. . .
Somewhere- he still wasn't sure where, exactly- he caught something along the lines of "just the flu", and, "He'll be fine, Barry."
Barry. Julian. Francesco. Caitlyn. Joe. Iris. Wallace. Jesse.
Harry.
Harry: the constant reminder that HR had no place on the team, that he was a liability, that he was ultimately useless in helping the team become faster, stronger, better. That he was the odd one out, that the only reason he was here at all, was because of deceit, and lies, and because of of vain vain vain hope that maybe he could be more than- than himse-
He remembered when he'd first arrived on this beautiful, unique, different Earth. This Earth One, as Cisco had called it. He could recall clearly when he'd first met Team Flash!
The suspicion and the lack of the like factor towards him had been obvious from the start. He knows that he doesn't have much to offer, that he simply desired to meet new people, to make a new life, to start over. He'd wanted- needed, even- people who didn't know how much of a utter nuisance he could be.
People who might give him that warm feeling of acceptance and family again, before he would have to run away again, to another city, to another Earth (although he wasn't sure how many Earths he could manage jumping before he was tracked down, especially if he kept broadcasting the way he had been the past few weeks-).
But the team had simply wanted a replacement for Harry.
Harry: the genius, the inventor, the other father of the team.
And HR had tried, he really had.
And then they'd found him out, and he thought for sure he would have to hit the ground running within the next hour, to find another set of new people.
But. . . they were okay with his deceit, accepted it in a way that he hadn't thought was possible for human hearts.
Yeah, and then Harry had come back, shattering that image. He knew it wasn't Harry's fault. It was his own for breaking the law and for deceiving his friends.
And, as "unsciency" as HR was, he couldn't argue with logic. Harry was a genius, no doubt about it, and a good father. And HR had meant it when he had told Harry that he was handsome, excluding the fact that it was indeed his own face. . .
Because despite his many flaws, HR tried to be kind, tried so hard to be kind. There was always that quote from that one philosopher: Be kind to whoever you meet, for you do not know the battles they may be facing.
And everyone here was too kind to him, too patient with him, too thoughtful. It made him wary, knowing they would eventually tire of him, and constantly finding himself wondering when, when, when.
It was absolute torture, knowing the outcome without all the little in-betweens.
He shivered miserably, a grimace etched into his expression like an engraving on ancient stone and lone tear slipping down his warm cheek as he fell back into the all-encompassing darkness.