When Gabriel woke up, he was covered in regular sweat. His throat was absolutely killing him, and his nose was still annoyingly stuffed up. He writhed around a bit until the blanket gave way and became loose enough for him to slip out of it. He checked his phone for the time, and found that it was 9:27, which was actually rather late considering he went to sleep before 5 PM. Not that he was about to complain about rest.
His bladder was screaming for his attention, and his lower back was in that I-haven't-pissed-in-more-than-12-hours pain, so he strode to the bathroom and resolved to check his temperature after that.
Relieving himself didn't make his back feel better right away, but then, it never did. Something like that took an hour or so, less if you were lucky. He searched through his medicine cabinet for the cheap thermometer he had pilfered from his dad when he moved out after high school and found it hiding behind a bag of cough drops.
He set the end of it under his tongue and pressed the button, then waited for the beeps. When it was time, he pulled it out and read the little screen. 98.7. He punched the air in triumph, and discovered there was still more than enough soreness leftover from yesterday creeping in his bones and muscles. Exasperated would be an understatement. He rubbed the side of his neck, testing to see how swollen his lymph nodes were today. Not nearly as terrible as yesterday.
Then he had to deal with the matter of his throat. He tried to examine it himself in the mirror, but he couldn't angle his mouth and eyes and juggle the flashlight on his phone to get a really clear idea of what it looked like back there.
Moments later, he was sitting at the kitchen table, listening to the dial tone coming from his cell phone and waiting for the clinic to pick up.
"Thank you for calling St. Anthony's. Our walk-in hours are from 9 AM to 7 PM. To make an appointment, press 2. To consu-" Gabriel hung up. He went back to his room to pick out some fresh clothes. He went with black pajama pants that he figured were acceptable for wearing in public and a Noshville Bagels t-shirt. Why not advertise while he was out and about? He examined his hair in the mirror and decided it was adequate after a bit of combing. He tucked his wallet and phone into his pants pocket and slipped on some flip flops.
He patted Ichabark on the head before swiping his keys off the kitchen counter and leaving the apartment. "I'll be back before you know it, buddy."
His drive to the walk-in clinic took him just under half an hour, and there wasn't much of a line once he was inside the building. He made sure his insurance card and ID were ready before it was his turn.
"How can I help you?" The man behind the desk was somewhat nerdy looking, with short blond hair and an almost too-bright smile. His nametag read "Samandriel."
"Ah, yes," he stopped, his voice came out quiet and crackly from a lack of use. He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I think I've maybe got something viral? Sore throat, fever, stuffy nose. Everything but a cough, really." And thank god I don't have a cough, because my throat would probably start bleeding.
"Okay. One moment," he answered politely. "Have you received care from us before?"
"No."
"Okay. I need your name, birth date, last four of your social, address, valid phone number, and if you have insurance, proof of insurance."
"Sure thing," Gabriel rattled off all of his information. He was rather at ease, since he didn't exactly have anywhere to be at the moment.
"Thank you so much. You're checked in and ready to go, if you'll take a seat, your name should be called soon!" Samandriel clicked something and moved on to the person next in line. Gabriel took a chair in the corner and leaned back. He realized he had slept so much that he was still tired, and he had almost drifted off when his name was called.
"Gabriel Novak?" A nurse stood in the doorway between the waiting room and a long, white hallway with doors all over both sides. He rose right away and blinked away the slight dizziness that accompanied his movement. He stepped up to her and offered her a smile, following her to the back. She led him to an office and went through all the routine questions, jotting down notes. She finished checking some boxes and informed him Dr. Richings would be with him any minute.
He was alone in the room for less than 10 minutes when there was a knock on the door, a brief heads up to let him know the doctor was entering. He was tall, and his hair was black and neatly combed back. His presence seemed to demand respect and nothing less. Gabriel sat up straighter without thinking about it.
"Good morning, Mr. Novak. What brings you here today?" Gabriel ran through his symptoms hopefully for the last time that day. "I see. Hop on up here and we'll take a look at your throat," he patted the examination table, and while Gabriel moved, Dr. Richings removed an ear scope off of the wall rack and placed a new, sterile cover on it. He flipped the switch so the light was on, instructing Gabriel to open wide and say "aahh."
"Well it's very red and inflamed, and it looks like there are some pus pockets. You most likely have strep, and technically we would have to do a blood test to be entirely certain. However, I think I've done my job long enough to know that you have strep throat, and as such I'll be prescribing you some antibiotics. What pharmacy do you prefer?"
Gabriel left the clinic with a prescription. He stopped at the pharmacy between his apartment and the clinic to pick up his drugs. He waited in line for more than ten minutes, and then had to wait fifteen more for the staff to fill his prescription.
He paced around the drugstore, eyeing everything lined up on the shelves. He picked up a jar of sinus relief rub and scanned the label, despite being mostly disinterested. For once he had no desire to look at anything in the candy aisle. If water hurt his throat to swallow, he couldn't imagine what any sort of sugar would feel like.
After aimlessly wandering through the aisles of over the counters, hygiene products, and seasonal decorations, he finally heard "Prescription for Novak."
He brought himself back up to the pharmacy counter, gratefully accepted the white paper bag, and paid in quick succession. "Thankyouhaveagoodday" he rasped and left.
Back inside the safety of his own apartment, he read the instructions on the bottle. Take with a full (8 oz) glass of water every 6 hours. Do not drink alcohol or use other drugs with this medication. Gabriel sighed and looked at the clock. 11:53 AM. He reasoned that if he waited 7 minutes, he could take the first dose at noon, and then from there it would be easy enough to keep track of six hour intervals. As long as I don't miss a dose, he thought smugly. He set the bottle back on the counter with a rattle, going to Ichabark's bowl to refill it again.
He slunk to his couch with a glass of water, the pills, and his phone. He set alarms for noon, 6 PM, midnight, and 6 AM. They were set to go off every day. Gabriel leaned over, reaching for the blanket folded up on the other end of his couch. He covered himself up with it and snatched the remotes off of his semi cluttered coffee table, pressing buttons to turn the TV and the DVD player on. He relaxed and hit play when the title menu for Beetlejuice displayed itself on the screen.
His phone buzzed, playing music. He dismissed the alarm and took his first pill, and he hardly had the motivation to finish the water. His lips were papery and red from the lack of hydration, but his throat protested every sip. He watched Barbara and Adam accidentally drive themselves off of that bridge as he took pathetically small drinks from his glass.
When the glass was finally empty, he set it on the coffee table. Ichabark joined him on the couch, curling up at his feet, his belly full. Gabriel smiled at him, a small curl of one side of his mouth. Beetlejuice wasn't even halfway over when he drifted off into sleep again, still mostly upright on the sofa.
He woke up with cricks in his neck and back, tightness in his shoulders, and no less dehydrated than he was to begin with, despite drinking a glass of water before falling asleep. He didn't want to get up to get water, and he didn't want to drink water. He wondered if ibuprofen counted as "other drugs." What was he really risking, anyway?
He managed to convince himself the ibuprofen was worth getting up for. Gabriel's oven clock read 3:49 He poured himself another cup of water and rummaged through the medicine cabinet again. Reaching up to the shelves made his shoulders hurt more, and he was doing what he could not to say "fuck it," and return to the couch to pass out until 6.
He withdrew his hands from the cupboard with the bottle he wanted, filled his mouth with water, popped two pills, and swallowed them down with a grimace from the twinge in his throat. He needed to pee, and he was glad he'd realized this before sitting down again. He went to the bathroom and frowned at his reflection, irked about the way his hair and face always seemed to get ridiculously oily when he was sick. He laughed quietly to himself when he thought what if my body is aching because it's like a car and the oil's leaking, so now I'm running rough and inefficiently? Maybe his fever was making a comeback.
He flushed the toilet and washed his hands before dragging himself back to the living room. He put a different DVD in, and this time he laid on the couch and pulled the blanket up to his chin. This way he probably wouldn't wake up with so much added stiffness. He turned away from the TV, lying face up and sniffling. He forgot to blow his nose while he was up and moving. He huffed out a sigh before he started to fall asleep again, thinking maybe he should make an appointment with a chiropractor. He hadn't ever done that before, but he had heard good things about chiropractors. But then, the thought of someone pressing quickly and harshly on his back with the intent to crack it wasn't appealing. Gabriel decided he should definitely wait until a time when he didn't have the chills and when showers no longer felt like he was being shot repeatedly...
His alarm jerked him awake again at 6, and he begrudgingly took his next dose. The credits for the last movie he'd put on were rolling, and he considered taking a walk. He stood and stretched, and he felt like someone had just slid a knife between his ribs on the back left side. He swore and stopped stretching, moving to the front door and putting some flip flops on. He left his apartment unlocked while he went up and down the hall three times, trying to gauge exactly how he felt in those moments. He was at a bit of a loss, and his state of mind was probably too shattered to give him a true reading.
He returned inside, locking his door again. He went to the bathroom one more time, and remembered to blow his nose before going back to the living room.
"Come on, Icky," he patted his leg and used the remote to shut the TV off. Gabriel went to his bedroom, Ichabark on his heels, his collar jingling softly, breaking the silence of the otherwise empty apartment.
Three days later, he was back at work, slathering cream cheese on bagels and running the register, flitting back and forth.
"You're pretty chipper," Meg commented, covering a cinnamon bagel with strawberry cream cheese for a little girl with braids on the other side of the counter. Gabriel gave a customer their change and passed them a brown paper bag.
"Maybe because I no longer feel like I'm about to die, but actually it's probably just how warm and welcoming you always are to me," he laughed. Gabriel had free range of movement again and he felt brand new.
"Well you know me, I love being around you for the majority of my waking hours," she quipped. "You light up my life."
"I'm touched, really." He moved over to help another woman, filling her order as hastily as he could.
"What can I get for you?" He dutifully and kindly asked her. She brushed her hair away from her face with one hand, her gaze moving from the menu to Gabriel's face.
"I'd like a wheat bagel with veggie cream cheese," she answered.
"Yes, ma'am," Gabriel nodded and took a wheat bagel out of the warming rack. He coated the insides with the requested cream cheese as his attention shifted back to Meg. "We should do a karaoke duet together or something, it would bring tears to the eyes of everyone listening. Because we have such a meaningful, deep connection."
"Yeah, they'd cry 'Please, somebody remove that short little goblin from the stage, his howling is deeply disturbing.'"
The rest of the workday passed in stride, and no amount of mealtime rush or rude customers put a damper on Gabriel's mood. He remembered he wanted to try calling a chiropractor when he arrived at home, because when he tried to remove a pot from a lower shelf, his back reminded him it wasn't quite up to speed.
He googled chiropractors in his area, and chose one with 4/5 stars. He dialed the number listed under it.
"Good afternoon, West Side Chiropractic Arts Center, how may I help you?" The woman on the line had a calm, smooth voice.
"Uh, hi, yes. I was wondering if there are any appointments available this week? And if you take new clients?"
"Yes, we do accept new clients. Do you have insurance?"
"I sure do," he replied.
He answered some more procedural questions, feeling a pattern coming on. The final question was, "What time of day works best for you?" before the receptionist ended with, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Novak. We expect to see you on Thursday at 4 PM. Have a good afternoon."
Gabriel was satisfied, because Thursday was only two days away. If he could survive the last part of today, the entirety of tomorrow, and most of Thursday, he would be in business.