TITLE: Sick Day
AUTHOR: Erin Giles
RATING: PG 13
DISCLAIMER: No one belongs to me that is the pleasure of God (Mr. Whedon) and Jesus (Mr. Greenwalt) Please don't sue... or yah know... smite me down with the flu... wait that's already happened!
SUMMARY: Wesley's ill and Wesley being Wesley he still manages to drag himself to work. Wesley's POV
A/N: Ok, so Wes is the centre of pain... AGAIN! But what's a girl to do when she's ill anyway? Make her favourite character ill of course!
FEEDBACK: Definitely welcome. Need some positive feedback in my ill state.
*********************************************************************
The alarm cuts into the serene atmosphere of my blissful visit to the seaside with Cordelia, Angel, Gunn and Fred. When I come to my senses I can no longer smell fish and chips or feel cold ice cream on my nose and sand between my toes or taste the salt of the sea. In fact I can't taste or smell much of anything, my throat feels like sandpaper and although I'm hot enough to be on the beach the only water I can feel is the sweat plastering my torso.
I can remember the last time I was sick; normal sick that is. I remember walking home from the train station for Christmas. It was my last year of university. It was a really cold winter, pouring down with rain, father said he would pick me up but he never came and so I walked home with my luggage. He said he had been waiting in the wind and the rain for over an hour. I was a grown man and still...
I've been lying here for half an hour and I'm already nearly an hour late. Cordelia will be in work by now. The effort it takes me to drag myself from the sheets is almost pitiful as I wrestle with them, remembering how only last week I wrestled with a demon twice my size. Granted I have the bite marks to show for it, but Gunn would have told me if I was this pitiful last week.
I feel as if I'm on the waltzes at the fairground, like Gunn's taken me on them just one too many times and I'm not sure whether I'm going to throw up or not. I sit with my head between my legs anyway, waiting for the nausea to pass before I search the chair beside the bed blindly for a pair of jeans. I relish in the cool fabric next to my clammy skin, but it makes me shudder as I stand in bare feet on my wooden bedroom floor. I stumble over the rug in the middle of the room as I make my way to the chest of drawers and I find myself in a heap on the floor, coughing violently while I hold my ribs that are still abused from last night's run in with the... the...
The name of last night's demon that seemed to take so much pleasure in making Angel, Gunn and myself into sushi evades me at this moment in time. My heads so fuzzy I feel as if someone had stuffed cotton wool down my ears, replacing my brain with mashed potatoes and gravy.
The coughing fit eventually subsides and I sit there for a long moment regaining my strength as the cold of the floor seeps through my jeans making my teeth chatter. Motivation is the key to success; I can here that voice in my head as I stumble to my feet, pulling a white t-shirt from the drawers. Cordelia will no doubt make a comment about my clothing as soon as I walk into the lobby but I don't really mind the playful teasing and today I doubt I will even notice it.
As I stand at the front door nearly an half hour later, nothing in my stomach, not even the glass of water I tried to drink to cool my dry throat, I realise I'm missing something. It's only when I open up my mailbox and try to read the fuzzy name of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce do I realise that my glasses are still sitting on my bedside table.
"Morning, Wesley." I turn at my name, peering at Sarah, the girl whose father owns the general store on the corner of the street.
"Morning." My voice sounds gruff and hoarse like it's ready to give out on me.
"Are you alright, Wesley?" she asks, concern evident in her voice as she turns away from the mailbox and comes towards me.
"You don't look very good." She dips her head as she stands in front of me. She's a very shy girl, in her first year at college and she seems to revel in showing off her language skills when ever I come into the shop. Gunn nudged me in the ribs when we were in the shop last week buying supplies for the film night we had planned, smiling knowingly as he pointed in the direction of Sarah.
"Got yourself an admirer there, Wes."
"I'll be fine thanks, Sarah." I smile at her unsure if she heard me my voice is so faint. She smiles back at me shyly.
"You really don't look very well." I take another coughing fit at this point and I find a hands on my shoulders, which are immediately withdrawn when I stop coughing.
"You know you don't have your glasses on." I nod at her.
"I'm just going back..." my voice fades into nothing. She nods at me and smiles once more, picking up her mail.
"Take care of yourself, okay?" She disappears up the stairs and I gather up my own mail before following.
Car keys would also be a useful thing as well, I realise as I exit my flat for the second time that morning, by this time wondering if I will ever make it into work before the next apocalypse decides to poke it's head above the ground.
It's been abnormally busy lately and none of us have really had a decent nights sleep in the past fortnight, no wonder I feel so rotten. It could also be due to the advertisements we've been putting out causing us all to be very widely spread, even Lorne's taking on cases now and there's hardly been a peep out of Holtz since Conner was born.
It gives me that sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach that something's about to happen and it's not going to be good, of course that could just be the sickening feeling that I'm going to throw up and crash my car into the lorry coming down the other side of the road.
I pull up outside the Hyperion, diving out of my car in the morning glare, stumbling towards the nearest bushes as my stomach heaves and there's that burning feeling in my throat because my stomach has nothing left to throw up. It feels oddly like an extremely bad hangover but I don't drink that much anymore. The nightmares are few and far between and so I don't need to drink as much, but it still helps in a goodnights sleep of four hours.
I drag myself up the stairs into the Hyperion and find them standing in the lobby, Angel giving out orders. I cringe as they all look my way and I try to put a brave face on.
"Sorry I'm..." My voice in hoarse and disappears half way through my apology. I cough and try again, this time getting the whole sentence out but sounding very much like Kermit the frog that Gunn is more than happy to point out.
"Mornin' Kermit."
AUTHOR: Erin Giles
RATING: PG 13
DISCLAIMER: No one belongs to me that is the pleasure of God (Mr. Whedon) and Jesus (Mr. Greenwalt) Please don't sue... or yah know... smite me down with the flu... wait that's already happened!
SUMMARY: Wesley's ill and Wesley being Wesley he still manages to drag himself to work. Wesley's POV
A/N: Ok, so Wes is the centre of pain... AGAIN! But what's a girl to do when she's ill anyway? Make her favourite character ill of course!
FEEDBACK: Definitely welcome. Need some positive feedback in my ill state.
*********************************************************************
The alarm cuts into the serene atmosphere of my blissful visit to the seaside with Cordelia, Angel, Gunn and Fred. When I come to my senses I can no longer smell fish and chips or feel cold ice cream on my nose and sand between my toes or taste the salt of the sea. In fact I can't taste or smell much of anything, my throat feels like sandpaper and although I'm hot enough to be on the beach the only water I can feel is the sweat plastering my torso.
I can remember the last time I was sick; normal sick that is. I remember walking home from the train station for Christmas. It was my last year of university. It was a really cold winter, pouring down with rain, father said he would pick me up but he never came and so I walked home with my luggage. He said he had been waiting in the wind and the rain for over an hour. I was a grown man and still...
I've been lying here for half an hour and I'm already nearly an hour late. Cordelia will be in work by now. The effort it takes me to drag myself from the sheets is almost pitiful as I wrestle with them, remembering how only last week I wrestled with a demon twice my size. Granted I have the bite marks to show for it, but Gunn would have told me if I was this pitiful last week.
I feel as if I'm on the waltzes at the fairground, like Gunn's taken me on them just one too many times and I'm not sure whether I'm going to throw up or not. I sit with my head between my legs anyway, waiting for the nausea to pass before I search the chair beside the bed blindly for a pair of jeans. I relish in the cool fabric next to my clammy skin, but it makes me shudder as I stand in bare feet on my wooden bedroom floor. I stumble over the rug in the middle of the room as I make my way to the chest of drawers and I find myself in a heap on the floor, coughing violently while I hold my ribs that are still abused from last night's run in with the... the...
The name of last night's demon that seemed to take so much pleasure in making Angel, Gunn and myself into sushi evades me at this moment in time. My heads so fuzzy I feel as if someone had stuffed cotton wool down my ears, replacing my brain with mashed potatoes and gravy.
The coughing fit eventually subsides and I sit there for a long moment regaining my strength as the cold of the floor seeps through my jeans making my teeth chatter. Motivation is the key to success; I can here that voice in my head as I stumble to my feet, pulling a white t-shirt from the drawers. Cordelia will no doubt make a comment about my clothing as soon as I walk into the lobby but I don't really mind the playful teasing and today I doubt I will even notice it.
As I stand at the front door nearly an half hour later, nothing in my stomach, not even the glass of water I tried to drink to cool my dry throat, I realise I'm missing something. It's only when I open up my mailbox and try to read the fuzzy name of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce do I realise that my glasses are still sitting on my bedside table.
"Morning, Wesley." I turn at my name, peering at Sarah, the girl whose father owns the general store on the corner of the street.
"Morning." My voice sounds gruff and hoarse like it's ready to give out on me.
"Are you alright, Wesley?" she asks, concern evident in her voice as she turns away from the mailbox and comes towards me.
"You don't look very good." She dips her head as she stands in front of me. She's a very shy girl, in her first year at college and she seems to revel in showing off her language skills when ever I come into the shop. Gunn nudged me in the ribs when we were in the shop last week buying supplies for the film night we had planned, smiling knowingly as he pointed in the direction of Sarah.
"Got yourself an admirer there, Wes."
"I'll be fine thanks, Sarah." I smile at her unsure if she heard me my voice is so faint. She smiles back at me shyly.
"You really don't look very well." I take another coughing fit at this point and I find a hands on my shoulders, which are immediately withdrawn when I stop coughing.
"You know you don't have your glasses on." I nod at her.
"I'm just going back..." my voice fades into nothing. She nods at me and smiles once more, picking up her mail.
"Take care of yourself, okay?" She disappears up the stairs and I gather up my own mail before following.
Car keys would also be a useful thing as well, I realise as I exit my flat for the second time that morning, by this time wondering if I will ever make it into work before the next apocalypse decides to poke it's head above the ground.
It's been abnormally busy lately and none of us have really had a decent nights sleep in the past fortnight, no wonder I feel so rotten. It could also be due to the advertisements we've been putting out causing us all to be very widely spread, even Lorne's taking on cases now and there's hardly been a peep out of Holtz since Conner was born.
It gives me that sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach that something's about to happen and it's not going to be good, of course that could just be the sickening feeling that I'm going to throw up and crash my car into the lorry coming down the other side of the road.
I pull up outside the Hyperion, diving out of my car in the morning glare, stumbling towards the nearest bushes as my stomach heaves and there's that burning feeling in my throat because my stomach has nothing left to throw up. It feels oddly like an extremely bad hangover but I don't drink that much anymore. The nightmares are few and far between and so I don't need to drink as much, but it still helps in a goodnights sleep of four hours.
I drag myself up the stairs into the Hyperion and find them standing in the lobby, Angel giving out orders. I cringe as they all look my way and I try to put a brave face on.
"Sorry I'm..." My voice in hoarse and disappears half way through my apology. I cough and try again, this time getting the whole sentence out but sounding very much like Kermit the frog that Gunn is more than happy to point out.
"Mornin' Kermit."