Wes.
"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in!"
"There's the migraine. I thought I finally got rid of it."
"Good to see you too, partner." Travis' grin is a mile long and blindingly white. "You still look like hell though."
"Feel like it too." Wes collapses into his chair, slumping a little. "Though less today than I have been." Automatically, his gaze skims over the surface of his desk, satisfied to see everything in it's proper place except for. . . he reaches out and straightens a pencil a minute degree. There. He looks up just in time to see Travis rolling his eyes, but decides to ignore it. "Do we have anything?"
Travis shakes his head and gestures to the captain's office. The door is closed. "We've been waitin' on you, Wes. They've been bringing stuff in, but not for us." His blue eyes stare intently at Wes, studying him. "Are you really feeling better?" he asks skeptically.
"Looks worse than it is," Wes replies shortly, though he still feels completely awful. He looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in days this morning and even now he can't shake the image from his mind. Pale skin, dark circles carving deep hollows underneath his eyes. Like Johnny Depp in a Tim Burton movie. Scary doesn't quite cut it. "I went to Urgent Care and they gave me an antibiotic. Sinus infection with a touch of the flu, they said."
"What, you couldn't pick one?" Travis' eyebrows shoot up. "Did they say you were okay to be out in public? The way you look right now, I'm afraid you're the first round of the zombie apocalypse."
"Hey, after they said flu, I realized I probably caught it from you." Wes points an accusatory finger at his partner. "You were sick a couple weeks ago, remember? You used my stapler."
Slapping a hand over his chest, Travis gives him a wounded look. "Wes!" he exclaims. "Are you blaming me?"
Wes turns away and coughs into the crook of his elbow. "I blame you for everything," he rasps out. He doesn't really mean it of course and when Travis pokes him with a box of tissues he accepts gratefully. "Almost everything," he amends after blowing his nose.
"So glad for that," Travis mutters sarcastically. "Wes, when did you go to Urgent Care, this morning? At least give the antibiotics time to work."
He calls Travis stubborn, but Wes knows he's even more so. "If I have to sit at home for one more day, I might just start a crime ring just for the excuse to get back into the action. At least I know you wouldn't be able to figure it out."
"Jerk." Travis kicks his desk chair a little, sending it sliding backwards a few inches. "I'd be on to you in a second. The crime scene would be spotless. I'd probably catch you cleaning the windows before you leave." He breaks into a another grin and extends his hand towards Wes. "Good to have you back, though. Just don't pass along the plague, okay?"
"I'd rather not shake your hand then," Wes waves him away, allowing a smile to cross his face. He's glad to be back too even if he still feels like crap. "But thanks." He claps his hands together, smirking a little when Travis jumps slightly at the sound. "So, what first?"
"Mitchell! You look like death warmed over, what are you doing here?"
The sound of Captain Sutton's voice grates on Wes, sending little bits of pain dancing from his forehead all the way down his spine. He grimaces, reaching up to try and rub the headache away before it escalates into another migraine. "I'm on antibiotics and cleared to work, sir."
Sutton's expression doesn't change. "Who cleared you?" he asks suspiciously.
"Um." Wes stiffens. He doesn't exactly have the best excuse. "Urgent Care." Holding up a hand to stop the captain from protesting, he tries to explain himself. "It's a case of the flu and that's already gone around the office. I haven't had it until now so," he shrugs. "I guess it's my turn."
"Uh-huh. And exactly how long have you been on these antibiotics?" Sutton doesn't look any more convinced, but Wes can hardly blame him.
"Since this morning," he admits. "Listen. I'll do desk work. Run errands for you. Clean my desk. Clean Travis' desk. Anything to keep me out of my apartment. I'm going stir crazy in there lately." He realizes that he sounds pretty pathetic, but he can only care so much. He's that desperate.
"Go for it," Travis gestures at the mess before him and nods at the captain. "Seems like a good idea to me. I even have hand sanitizer so I can touch everything after he does."
Wes makes a grab for the little white bottle. "Travis! Give that back!" He starts coughing and turns away from both Travis and Sutton as he tries to recover. "Sorry," he chokes out. This is not helping his case in the least.
Travis and the captain have both moved back considerably to avoid the spray of germs. Travis has this obnoxious look of pity and concern on his face, while the captain just looks irritated and frustrated. "Mitchell," he sounds like he has no idea to be here right now. "Go home."
"Nooo," and now Wes knows that he's whining. "I'm fine."
Looking slightly guilty now, Travis slides the hand sanitizer back to Wes. "Let him stay, Captain." he petitions on Wes' behalf. "His apartment probably can't take anymore cleaning."
Wes lets that go. The captain already hates their arguing and he's trying to get on the older man's good side right now. To Travis' credit, he is giving their boss puppy eyes. He's trying too.
"Figures you two gang up on me now," Sutton grumbles. At least he's glaring at both of them now.
Of course Travis has mastered the look of innocence, leaving Wes to look like the only guilty one. "Aw, c'mon, Cap. Give the poor kid a break." He reaches over and pats Wes on the back. Too hard. Wes bites back another coughing fit.
"Fine," Sutton growls. "Desk duty. There are some cases that need to be filed. I'm sure the two of you can get a lot of it done." Snapping his fingers at Travis, he points to the cabinets behind them. "You can get them. Let this sick puppy stay in his chair. Tie him down if you have to. I don't want him going anywhere if it's not home." He points at Wes now. "Home is where you should be, but it'll be more trouble to get you there then to just let you stay."
Victory shouldn't be this exhausting, especially if it's just done sitting down like this. Wes sighs and nods gratefully to the captain as he walks away. He ignores the glare Travis throws over his shoulder. He's not thrilled about being designated to work in the office all day either, but anything, absolutely anything is better than being home. "Will do, sir." he calls after Sutton's retreating back.
"You owe me big time," Travis mutters as he stomps back to their desks and drops a pile of papers in front of Wes. He takes a smaller one for himself and sits down, lifting his feet to place on the desk. "You read faster," he points out at the incredulous look Wes gives him.
"Just put your feet on the floor where they belong," Wes says under his breath and then slowly reaches for the pile. Now that he thinks about it, staying in bed might have been a better idea after all. He's really not looking forward to reading about all the action his fellow cops have gotten during his time out. He knows this is why Travis is ticked at him too. He can't really blame him. Half of this stuff should have been theirs in the first place.
"Please get better," Travis says, begs him. "For my sanity."
"Trust me, I'm trying." Wes sneezes. "For both of our sakes."
Travis.
It would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic.
Wes is sound asleep at his desk and snoring. Okay, maybe he's only snoring because he can't exactly breathe properly. To his credit, he got more than halfway through his pile of papers before he nodded off, letting the current stack in his hands slide to the floor. Almost immediately, he started snoring which attracted stares from all over the office. Travis just shrugged at them because he didn't know what to think.
He still doesn't. He's never seen Wes this out of it before. They've known each other for seven, almost eight, years now. Travis can count on one hand the times he has seen Wes actually sick before which is impressive except for the fact that they've all been really ridiculously long drawn-out experiences. He knows colds linger but normal people can shake them off in less than a week. Wes on the other hand. . .
And he's never been this bad before. Travis knows it's just his imagination, but he can practically feel the heat radiating off the other man from where he's sitting. He looks like a ghost and he clearly hasn't had much of an appetite because he looks even thinner than usual. It's all a little extreme even for Wes. Part of Travis is a little appalled that the Urgent Care people were so quick to dismiss his illness as the flu and a sinus infection. He's not sure what both would look like on a normal person, but he's certain that a). they would have gone to Urgent Care and then an actual doctor days ago, and b). they would be home. Wes should be home.
A glance over his shoulder lets him know that the captain is still in his office, unaware that one of his best officers is literally asleep on the job. Of course in falling asleep, Wes has left Travis to figure out a way to cover up for him. He has a few options. He can wake Wes up and get him back to work. He can wake Wes up and order/take him home. He can let him sleep and let Sutton catch him. Obviously, Travis wants to pick the one that will cause him the less amount of trouble in the long run, but it's not looking good. Either option leaves a ticked off captain, a humiliated and annoyed Wes, and an innocent Travis to take all the blame.
He flicks a wadded up piece of paper across his desk, silently congratulating himself when he nails Wes in the forehead. "Wes!" he hisses. "Wake up, dude!"
Wes starts, snorting as he sits up, hands batting at the air. "Wassa matter?" he asks, blinking heavily at the bright light overhead. "What? Travis?"
"Wes, you're practically delirious," Travis says in disapproval. "Just go home, man."
"Home?" Wes looks like he's never heard the word before. "Why? I'm fine."
Travis just snorts and shakes his head. "Fine, but fall asleep again and I'm throwing you over my shoulder and taking you home myself." He eyes Wes up and down. "You're tall but you're skinny, especially since you've been sick. Plus, you look like a breeze would knock you over. I doubt you'd put up much of a fight."
Wes just glares at him and reaches for his papers again. "I'll go home early," he says. "Deal?"
"Deal." Travis is surprised. He checks his watch. "Two at the latest."
"Three."
There it is. The stubborness. Travis somehow manages to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Whatever," he mutters. "It's your funeral."
Wes doesn't take his eyes off of the papers he's reading. "Just kick my chair if you see me nodding off again." he mutters.
"How long it is supposed to take for your antibiotics to kick in?" Travis asks. He needs to know that an end is in sight otherwise he might to stay home sick. He might not have a choice if Wes is going to insist on breathing his germs all over the place. Sinus infections aren't contagious, but the flu sure is. Even if he's already had it, Travis feels like it's pretty impossible for him to avoid getting sick all over again.
Wes doubles over with a coughing fit at that moment as if to prove a point. Travis cringes and slides his chair backwards, away from his partner. "Gross," he mutters, wrinkling his nose. "Maybe you should go home now. Or go to a doctor. You have the Black Plague, Wes."
"Thought I was starting the zombie apocalypse?" Wes chokes out.
"Save your breath," Travis replies. "Don't waste it on trying to be funny." He frowns when Wes only continues to cough. "Need a drink? Cough drop?"
Wes can't answer this time, coughing so hard that he can't even breathe. Travis finds himself getting alarmed when he sees a bluish tinge start to appear around his partners' lips and he stands up, hovering uncertainly over him. "Wes." he says quietly even though there's no way he can hear him. "Hey, Wes." He pats him on the back gently at first and then thumps him hard. "You okay?"
Wes tries to wave him away, but it only makes him cough harder. He reaches out and manages to grab the handkerchief on his desk. Leaning over, he hacks into the cloth, probably spitting up the gobs of mucus that's been sitting in his throat and making him snore so much. Hopefully it's helping, but Travis is ready to call for an ambulance. He knows how to administer the Heimlich but Wes isn't exactly choking on anything. He just can't catch his breath. At all. Travis' concern is increasing by the moment, especially now that they've attracted quite a few stares at this point. "Wes!"
Finally, Wes sucks in a half a breath. He sounds like he's wheezing now, but it's an improvement at least. The coughing begins to ease and his breathing increases even more. The hand that was gripping the armrest of his chair relaxes its white knuckled grip and whatever color was in his face to begin with starts to return. He removes the handkerchief from his mouth.
"Wes." Travis sounds a little breathless himself now. "You with me?" He realizes now that his hand is on Wes' shoulder and he can feel a rise and fall that's a little weak, but steady. "Let me get you a drink, okay?" Wes, still looking at the stupid handkerchief, doesn't answer him and though he was on the way to the water cooler, Travis pauses. "Wes?" At last Wes looks up at him and Travis feels the breath leave him for real this time.
Wes' face is as pale as a sheet and his eyes are bloodshot from his coughing fit. His chest is still heaving as though he's just run a marathon but none of that is what scares Travis. What scares him is the blood that stands out in such contrast against the otherwise milky white of the cloth in his shaking hands.