He groaned, seizing and shivering as hot-ice swept through him.
Mark couldn't remember the last time he got this sick - couldn't tell if it was a really bad flu, or something shifting into bronchitis. Wilford whispers under the surface, promises to shoot the one responsible, and he wills him away with another groan.
"Here."
He blinks blearily, vision fuzzy. He suspects its not just because his glasses lay on the table, rather than on his face. He sees Dan, setting down a bowl of Campbell's, or some other cheap equivalent.
"Phil is picking up some chicken stock and we can make you guys something better when 'e gets back."
He huffs a pained laugh. "You guys are gonna cook?"
He senses Dan, affronted, and a tad worried. "Hey, you and Jack wanna cook. . ."
Mark whines at the thought.
He heard Jack coughing in his own room, where the sickness had hit that morning. Mark following only a few hours ago, falling on the couch and unable to reach his own room.
Out of the blue, turning glazed eyes to Dan he breathes, "If I die, donate my organs. But not my middle finger - that goes to Jack."
He flopped back down, not even realizing he had sat up. The exertion making his aches worse. Dan huffs - not a laugh, more of a sigh. "Just eat the stupid soup. I'm gonna go take Jack some."
"Tell him if I die it's his fault."
Dan rolls his eyes, muttering as he leaves. "Big drama queen."
A/N:
Original prompt: "If I die tonight, donate all my organs to those in need - but not my middle finger. Send that to the king."
(Dunno the source, but it's not mine.)