When is that aspirin going to kick in? He caved in and decided to take a pill over an hour ago, and his head is still pounding.
"So, this six-year-old comes in breathing like an eighty-year-old with COPD who still smokes a pack of cigarettes a day. The idiots down at the ER misdiagnose it as asthma even though she's running a high fever and has no previous history of breathing problems. Her WBC count is high—it's clearly an infection. The mother says the kid had croup a little while back and was doing better. By the time she gets sent up to me, it's because her oxygen saturation is falling fast, and she's borderline cyanotic."
Gilbert pauses his anecdote for dramatic effect and takes a sip from the can of soda he stole from the fridge. If given the opportunity, the man will recount stories from the ICU for hours on end before he runs out material to share.
Arthur doesn't really mind the rambling because while Gilbert prattles on, he gets to work on trying to make soup, despite his increasingly irritating headache. His cooking capabilities are notoriously bad, but he's fairly sure he can manage to put together a pot of chicken noodle soup if he follows the recipe he printed out from a website. It may not be as savory and delectable as Francis's dishes are, but it will have to do.
Nevertheless, standing over a steaming pot of soup isn't doing his headache any favors.
As he starts adding sliced carrots into the broth, Gilbert continues his tale, "Of course, I do a laryngoscopy and what do I find? God damned bacterial tracheitis. Poor kid had to be intubated until the antibiotics started to work… Moral of the story? Some people shouldn't be doctors because they're more likely to kill a patient than to save them."
Arthur hums to signal he's still listening and that he agrees. His throat, however, is rebelling more and more by the minute, and the more he tries to rid himself of the scratchiness, the worse it gets. However, he's still under the impression that if he goes about his tasks for the day, his symptoms will dissipate as a result of his sheer stubbornness.
"She turned out fine, thankfully… Had another kid with abdominal pain that turned out to be intussusception and—let me tell you—getting a nasogastric tube into a screaming two-year-old who is scared out of his mind is not an adventure I'd wish upon anyone."
Arthur hums again and buries a string of coughs into the crook of his arm, grimacing at how deep and hollow the coughs sound. When he's done, he's left with a slight burning sensation in his lungs.
"You okay?" Gilbert asks, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why don't you just admit you're coming down with the virus, too?"
"I'm fine. Something in the air is irritating me," Arthur rasps before filling up a glass of water for himself and chugging it. It helps.
"Feel a fever coming on by any chance?"
"No," Arthur assures curtly, stirring the soup with greater intensity than before. It's quite remarkable really—he deals with dozens of patients on a daily basis, and he comes into contact with everything ranging from pneumonia and malaria to norovirus and tuberculosis, and yet, he hasn't contracted a virus from a patient in years. A little enterovirus, however, and he's rendered exhausted and miserable. Already, he can feel his sinuses clogging, and soon, his nose will be running.
He's almost forgotten what it's like to be ill. He can't remember the last time he's contracted anything worse than a common cold.
"Daaaaaad!"
He sets the burner on the stove to the lowest flame and ambles over to the stairs with Gilbert trailing just behind him, wondering what's wrong this time, and, goodness gracious, he must be getting old because his knees are starting to ache from all of the back and forth stair-climbing.
Alfred is standing outside of his room, soaked in his own sweat and white as a sheet. He's a little wobbly on his feet, tottering forward as he tries to come closer, and Arthur instantly raises his hands to the boy's waist, steadying him.
This isn't good.
"Alfred? Tell me what's wrong."
"I feel weak," the boy mumbles, eyes half-open and noticeably drowsy.
Sirens go off in Arthur's head. Early signs of diabetic shock, perhaps? Is he dehydrated? Is he going to lose consciousness?
He doesn't waste too much time pondering the possibilities, choosing to steer Alfred back into bed first, lest he collapses and hurts himself. They make it to the boys' room without any problems, and Arthur carefully helps Alfred lie down flat on his back while simultaneously creating a mental checklist of all of the things he needs to do to ensure this sudden bout of weakness isn't anything more serious.
"Gilbert, can you elevate his legs?"
"Already on it," Gilbert replies, stacking pillows beneath Alfred's calves.
From across the room, Matthew props himself up and watches with growing worry. He needs to make sure everything is in order, it's his duty as Alfred's brother. "What are you going to do? Is it gonna hurt him?"
"No, it's not going to hurt." Arthur pledges as he secures a blood pressure cuff around Alfred's arm and tells him to hold still and relax—this won't take more than a minute. He presses his stethoscope to the crook of Alfred's elbow, listens for his pulse, inflates the cuff, and watches the readings on the meter. "Eighty-three over fifty... Hypotension."
"What's hippo-tension?" Alfred asks, furrowing his brows as Arthur takes the cuff off.
"Hypotension," Arthur corrects before prepping Alfred's index finger for yet another finger-stick, so he can check his blood sugar next. "It means your blood pressure is low, and low blood pressure can make you feel dizzy and lightheaded. It's likely being caused by the fact that you haven't been drinking enough fluids and haven't had much to eat."
Alfred sticks his bottom lip out and says, "But I'm not thirsty or hungry."
"You should be eating and drinking regardless," Arthur insists, pricking Alfred's finger and guiding it to the glucometer yet again—only 40 milligrams per deciliter now. "Your blood sugar is low as well. That explains why you're feeling weak. I'll get you some juice—it'll help."
He leaves Alfred in Gilbert's care for a minute or two and returns with a tall glass of apple juice, which should help to bring his sugar up. Arthur also has some glucagon in case he can't hold down any liquids and goes into shock. Thankfully, it doesn't seem as though that'll be necessary because the color is already returning to Alfred's cheeks simply from lying in bed and having his legs elevated.
"Take small, slow sips," Arthur instructs as he hands him the glass. "If you don't start hydrating yourself better, you'll have to go to the emergency room for fluid and electrolyte replacement, and I know you wouldn't enjoy that."
Gilbert affirms the warning with a grave nod in Alfred's direction and adds, "And then I won't be a happy camper because I'll have to sit with you in the ER since everyone else is sick, and I hate being in the ER."
Alfred swallows some juice and winces at the pain in his throat. "Dad's sick, too?"
"He sure is," Gilbert confirms.
"No, I'm not. I told you I'm fine," Arthur huffs, clearing his throat indignantly.
"Uh-huh. Then why is your voice starting to get all nasally?"
"It's not."
"It sure is."
Arthur then has to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve, caught off guard by the itch in his nose. He sniffles afterward, clears his throat again, and murmurs, "I'm fine."
"Bless you," Gilbert says with an I-told-you-so grin.
"No, I refuse to accept your blessings."
"Dad, you need to drink water and rest," Matthew suggests from his end of the room, looking genuinely concerned by the news.
Gilbert's grin gets even wider, which shouldn't even be possible. "The kid's right. I've taught him well."
"You've taught him? I don't think so," Arthur grumbles, turning his head to the side for a moment to cough into his sleeve. Damn…His chest aches from the fit, and it leaves him a little winded. He also desperately needs a tissue so he can blow his nose, but he's not going to do it when there are witnesses around. "I need to check on the soup. I'll be back."
He sweeps out of the room, yearning for a bit of privacy. When he's a safe distance away, he makes a grab for the nearest box of tissues, holds a wad of them in his hands and allows himself a rattling sneeze that makes his eyes water.
Bloody hell…
"So I put my hands up, they're playing my song, the butterflies fly away," Gilbert sings to himself as he washes the dishes piled up in the kitchen sink. It took him a total of twenty-two minutes to convince Arthur to let him help clean the house, and they very nearly broke their friendship in the process because of their shared bullheadedness. The only reason Gilbert won the battle at all was due to the fact that Arthur surrendered to his splitting headache and was in too much pain to continue bickering. After a bit more prodding, he'd convinced the man to sit on the couch.
So, that's one point for the amazing Gilbert Beilschmidt and zero for his colleague. He cleans one last plate, sets it on the drying rack, and treats himself to one of the cookies in the cupboard. He's about to get himself a glass of milk to go with it, but as he's opening the fridge, he hears the creak of the floorboards in the living room and realizes Arthur is up and about again. What's he up to now? Can't he just sit down and not do anything for a little while?
Gilbert storms onto the scene and crosses his arms, feeling almost insulted when he sees Arthur grabbing his car keys and making his way to the door. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold it right there! Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm going to run out to the store to get more tissues, cough syrup, and throat lozenges. Could you check Alfred's blood sugar in ten minutes and let me know if he's doing any better? I should be back within an hour."
Has he lost his mind? "You're sick, and it's raining. I can go to the store. You stay here."
"No, no, you've done plenty already."
"Arthur, if you don't sit back down on that couch in the next five seconds…I'll…I don't know what I'll do, but you won't like it. Don't make me go and get Francis to come and set you in your place."
"Don't threaten me!"
Gilbert tries to snatch the car keys out of Arthur's hands but the man dodges him and makes a run for the front door.
This is getting ridiculous.
"Arthur Kirkland! Get back here! Who's going to be stuck slaving away at your bedside when you come back with pneumonia? Me, that's who!" Gilbert shouts as Arthur sprints to the parked car in the driveway. It's raining so hard that his umbrella doesn't do him any good. "Mein Gott, I'm beginning to sound like my mother. I knew this day would come…"
Serves Arthur right. If he wants to be a dummkopf and get himself twice as sick, then that's his problem. He'll be right here to tell him "I told you so" when he gets the chance.
Still, he frowns at the relentless deluge of water spilling from the sky and can't help but feel a little worried. The tissues, cough syrup, and throat lozenges could have waited until tomorrow.
He checks in on the rugrats, and, fortunately, they're both okay. Alfred's glucose levels are stabilizing, and both his and Matthew's temperatures have come down a bit. They're feeling well enough to play a videogame together, so that's definitely a good sign. The real test, however, won't happen until nightfall because that's when viruses notoriously get worse.
"Francis, are you alive in there?" he asks, knocking on the door to the master bedroom and pressing his ear against the wood.
"Oui. Where is Arthur?"
"He went to the store. He's sick and still went out into this rain."
At that, the bedroom door comes flying open so fast it almost smacks Gilbert in the bridge of his nose. He looks up to an irate Francis standing in front of him, blue eyes clouded with fever.
"You let him go out in this weather? Why didn't you stop him? He's going to be soaked to the bone!"
"I tried to stop him."
"You should have tried harder. Just wait until he gets home," Francis growls, tightening his robe around himself to ward off his chills. He takes his cellphone off of the nightstand, and Gilbert tries not to snicker. He's looking forward to hearing Arthur get told off, and to his great satisfaction, Francis even does him the service of putting the call on speakerphone.
"Hello?" he hears Arthur's gruff voice say.
"Don't 'hello' me! Where are you?" Francis demands with an angry sniffle.
"At the store…"
"Come home right now!"
"I will as soon as I buy what we need."
"I can't believe you would be foolish enough to go out into this storm, especially when you're unwell!"
"I feel fine!" Arthur continues to insist.
"I cannot believe the nerve of you! You always do this—deny, deny, and deny some more until you're on the brink of collapse, but I'm not having it any longer! Do you hear me? I won't allow myself to be worried sick over someone who doesn't take my concerns to heart! I'm feverish, semi-dehydrated, and emotionally hollow from the stress you're putting me through at the moment! I'm sick and tired! Do you understand me? Sick and tired!"
Gilbert bites his tongue to keep from howling with whoops of victory and laughter because it seems like Francis has won this war for him.
After several seconds of white noise, Arthur sucks in a breath and murmurs a meek, "Fine."
"You had better be here in twenty minutes, Arthur!" Francis says with a tone of finality before hanging up with a resolute "Hmph!"
"Well, I think that's taken care of," Gilbert remarks once Francis has cooled down. "Good job."
"No, this isn't the end. Someone's going to have to tend to him when he returns."
Francis sweeps out of the room and gets some spare towels out of the closet before he jogs down the stairs and goes about making tea. For a good while, he stands around and silently seethes about this and that to himself, waiting impatiently for his husband's return so he can hit him over the head and yell at him some more. When their car comes cruising down the road and pulls into the driveway, he swings the front door open and glares at Arthur from a distance over the whipping wind and spray of rain.
When Arthur reaches the doorstep, Francis nabs the grocery bags from him and leaves them with Gilbert before yanking Arthur by the collar of his shirt and dragging him inside. He slams the door closed behind them and drops a clean towel over Arthur's head—the man is sopping wet and shivering. It'd be endearing if Francis wasn't so aggravated.
"I'm going to kill you," Francis hisses at Arthur, helping to wring his hair out and wipe the water off of his face and arms.
"No, you won't," Arthur croaks hoarsely, fairly confident.
"You're losing your voice."
Arthur shakes his soaking head and tries to deny this as well, but it doesn't work out in his favor because the moment he opens his mouth to speak again, his throat protests and he has to grit his teeth against the soreness.
"Cat got your tongue, Arthur? Or will you finally admit to having enterovirus?" Gilbert mocks him as Francis tries to get him upstairs to take a warm shower.
Arthur sends him a scathing glare but can't respond with a witty and snarky reply of his own.
Silence has never sounded oh so sweet.
"Well, now that you're down for the count as well, I'm officially in charge!" Gilbert happily announces, twirling the tubing of his stethoscope around his finger, "and I'm declaring quarantine, so nobody gets in or out of this house until you've all recovered."
Arthur manages to whisper something that sounds angry and baneful, but he's hard to understand, and so, Gilbert merely shrugs his shoulders and grins, "Sorry, can't hear you. Take a shower, and I'll deal with you after. You have no idea how nice it is to not have you talking back."
Had Francis not been holding him back, Arthur may have lunged at Gilbert and demonstrated his fury instead of verbalizing it, but thankfully, Francis tames him and marches him into the bathroom. Once the sound of running water can be heard, they all have a chance to regain their composure, and Gilbert can consider his next plan of action.
By the time Arthur has showered and changed out of his dripping clothes, Gilbert is waiting to greet him in the hallway, thermometer in hand.
"You know what to do."
Looking like he's just swallowed an entire lemon, Arthur aggressively snatches the thermometer and puts it under his tongue, frowning. They stand there in the hallway for a minute or two, and when Arthur's temperature registers at long last, he stares at the reading and groans, slumping against the wall behind him.
"Let me see," Gilbert orders, prying the thermometer out of Arthur's grip…102.5. "Well, you can take yourself straight to bed with that fever."
"Daaaaaad!"
Arthur starts walking toward the boys' room, but Gilbert tugs on his arm and pulls him back.
"I'll take care of it. Go lie down," Gilbert says, and Arthur can't argue even though it seems like he desperately wants to.
In the end, Arthur trots off to his own bedroom and Gilbert nods approvingly before peering in on the kiddos.
"What's up, my munchkins?"
"Mattie's gonna be sick," Alfred declares.
Gilbert scours the room for the nearest trash bin, finds one, and holds it in front of Matthew, making it just in time. A moment later, he's soothing the crying boy and patting his back over and over again. "Awww, kid, it's okay. I know you're not feeling too hot right now…Did you know I once puked in front of everyone at summer camp when I was twelve? I ate one too many spritzkuchen—they're kind of like doughnuts—during our trip to the carnival…Wasn't fun. Ludwig still teases me for it."
He cleans up the mess, gives Matthew a cup of water to rinse his mouth, and tells the boys to call him if either one of them feels nauseous again.
"Where's Dad?" Alfred asks.
"He's not feeling too great, so go easy on him, 'kay? Unless you really need him specifically, call me instead."
"Oh…" Alfred frowns, disappointed. "Is he gonna be okay?"
Gilbert smiles. "Sure, he's gonna be fine. I, on the other hand, might not survive his wrath."
This is hell. It must be. He's supposed to be on vacation, and when he'd planned to get more sleep and rest, this is not what he had in mind. Now he's lying on his side, unable to relax because his throat feels like it's been scraped with a razor from within. His nose is now completely blocked, and he's been forced to breathe through his mouth, which has only served to make his throat even dryer and more agitated. One moment he's burning up to the point where he feels like he's melting under the covers of the bed, and in the next, he's freezing cold and sidling up to Francis for extra body warmth.
"Arthur? Are you all right?" Francis asks him, sleepily rubbing circles into his shoulder. "Your breathing is worrying me."
It's late now. They all had a serving of soup before deciding to turn in early for the night, and, fortunately, the dish was edible—probably because Gilbert had ended up finishing it for him. It's around one o'clock in the morning now, and he hasn't been able to get a wink of sleep. Every five minutes or so he's wracked by a fresh coughing fit, and with every additional expulsion of air, his lungs ache more and more. His breathing has turned into wheezing. In the course of a few hours, he's gone from being a little rundown to as sick as a dog, and to make matters worse, he's been keeping Francis up as well.
"I'll sleep on the living room couch, so I don't keep waking you," Arthur whispers thinly with a heaving inhale. He starts to rise, but Francis grabs his arm to stop him.
"Wait. You shouldn't be alone like this. I'm going to look after you."
If he weren't so ill, Arthur would be tempted to laugh. Francis is clueless when it comes to medicine.
"I'll be all right."
"That's what you said earlier today, and now look at yourself," Francis reminds him. "At least sleep in the guest bedroom, where there's a real bed."
"I can't. Gilbert's there. He decided to spend the night, even though I told him it wasn't necessary."
"I'll go and wake him, then. I'm sure he'd understand."
"No, don't wake him," Arthur hisses as he frees himself from Francis's hold and stands up. "Just go to sleep."
Francis rolls his eyes and gives up. "Fine, if you want to be miserable on the couch and continue rejecting everyone's help, then be the stubborn mule you clearly want to be and do as you please. I don't want to fight with you anymore."
Although he feels a pang of guilt in his chest for upsetting Francis, Arthur grabs his pillow and plods his way downstairs through the darkness anyway. His husband will stop being cross with him eventually, and a full night's sleep without his constant coughing disturbing the Frenchman will do him good.
He shuffles over to the couch, collapses onto it, and suffers through another powerful cough. Hopefully, he's far enough away that the boys don't hear him. He'd hate to be the cause of their loss of sleep as well. He groans softly and stares up at the blackened ceiling, sucking in one loud breath after another. He just has to let this run its course.
"What are you doing down here?" a voice suddenly asks.
The light gets switched on, and Arthur is momentarily blinded. He throws a hand over his eyes and releases another pained groan. He was hoping Gilbert wouldn't catch him.
"Whoops, sorry about that. Anyway, I'd like an answer to my question," Gilbert says with a small yawn, stethoscope dangling in one hand.
Once Arthur is able to open his red eyes again, he mumbles, "Did I wake you?"
"Nein, I was checking in on the boys and heard you come down here. You still didn't answer my question—why are you here?"
"I was disturbing Francis," Arthur explains before he starts coughing again.
Gilbert prances over to his side, and triumphantly sings, "I tooooooold you so. How does it feel to be wrong? You're sick."
Arthur manages to quietly rasp, "I hate you."
"Hey, don't strain your throat. I'll get you fixed up, don't worry," Gilbert assures, placing his stethoscope on Arthur's chest despite his pitiful protests. "Take a big breath… Yikes—that's not good…Your lungs sound awful."
"I know."
"You're gonna break a rib at this rate…Come on, you should go to the guestroom," Gilbert suggests, helping Arthur onto his feet against his wishes. "You need to be monitored, and I wanna check your O2."
Too physically drained to stay on the couch for much longer, Arthur obediently lets himself be led to the damned guestroom. The trip up the stairs leaves him gasping and sweating, but he's in bed soon enough. He closes his eyes and all of his thoughts escape him—he's too overcome with fatigue to think about anything.
"You need to be at an incline—you're lying too flat. Ease the stress on your lungs," Gilbert instructs, stacking two more pillows under his sweating head and neck. "There ya go. That's better… The kids have got the stomach problem end of this thing, and you've got the respiratory distress."
The words sound jumbled in Arthur's head, but when Gilbert hands him a medicine cup filled with goopy cough syrup, he doesn't hesitate to swallow it. He'll try anything at this point to rid himself of the pain in his lungs.
"Good. Now have a few sips of water."
A glass is brought up to his lips, and he dutifully drinks from it. He can't tell if it's helping or not.
Then, he can feel a pulse oximeter being clamped onto his finger, and a moment later, Gilbert says, "Your O2 is still okay, so that's good. Try to fall asleep, and, don't worry—I'll be keeping an eye on everyone. Your breathing already sounds a little better."
"Keeping you up…" Arthur grumbles.
"Oh, stop. I've been sleeping in between doing rounds. Think of it like a slumber party. That way, it doesn't seem so depressing," Gilbert jokes. "Tomorrow we can all paint each other's nails and braid our hair. It'll be the vacation you've been waiting for."
Arthur opens his eyes so that Gilbert can see him roll them.
"What? You've never partied in quarantine before? I have to teach you how to have fun. For now, though, get some sleep, even though you feel like coughing up a lung."
"I'm physically incapable of having fun."
"Broke your funny bone just like Alfred did? Well, I can fix that, too, it's just gonna take some time. Goodnight, Arthur."
"Goodnight."
He doesn't want to know what schemes the man has up his sleeves, not for now, at least. Instead, he takes in a shuddering breath and miraculously finds himself falling into a gentle sleep, breaths finally evening out.