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Lemony Snicket, while in the middle of investigating the Baudelaire children and their possible whereabouts, may or may not have acquired a mild case of insomnia. Insomnia is a word which here means "forgetting to sleep for days at a time, until he was unsteady on his feet and feeling poorly."
He was certainly feeling poorly now as he pored over countless documents that had been rescued from the recently burned hospital. The Snicket file, as everyone had known already, was missing, and that was likely because one of the file's subject's archenemies had snatched it. The ash from the papers was heavy as he breathed in, making him choke and cough as he studied the grayish paper over and over as he attempted to decode the cipher within it. His hands were shaking just slightly.
Suddenly, though, he heard footsteps. It seemed he would have to escape after all. Hopefully, he would be able to put his volunteer skills to use. It had been a while, and though he was tired, he had always enjoyed a challenge.
Carefully and quietly, he wedged open the window as the rain poured outside, and in a flash of movement he stashed the papers under his coat and promptly climbed through. He made sure to close the window behind him, and cautiously, he shuffled himself over to the fire escape. Dropping down onto it was easy, the clang of his boots on metal unexpectedly noisy through the pounding of rain and the pounding of his head. He climbed down slowly and jumped to the ground, nearly landing in a dumpster but instead landing hard on the concrete. His ankles throbbed but he ignored it.
Lemony took off down the street, rain whipping in his face and drenching his hair. Ignoring the burn in his chest was harder, but he kept going, randomly turning down backstreets and alleys and even somebody's garden until he finally reached the place he was unconsciously heading for.
His legs were shaking beneath him at this point, but he managed to go inside, utterly soaked and freezing cold and shivering, and climb a flight of stairs up to a hallway. He managed to find an inconspicuous, ordinary apartment door. He managed to knock.
He did not, however, manage to say anything to the owner of the apartment when his eyesight failed and his breathing stuttered, knees buckling beneath him as his overwhelming exhaustion got the better of him. The only thing he did was cough a few chest-burning coughs and faint, a word which here means "lose consciousness with a terrifying floating feeling overwhelming him."
Lemony did not wake up quickly. Rather, he felt things first. Something cold and clammy being pressed to his forehead, too-familiar in a way that should have made him panic, but for some reason, he couldn't. The energy for that just wasn't there. A soft weight against his palm, cool and dry and oddly grounding.
The exhaustion was still bone deep, and he could barely will himself into wakefulness. Suddenly, the clammy thing was gone, replaced with a gentle hand. Then the coldness again, and it was enough to make him take in a sharp, painful breath. There was an odd hum in the background, like he was underwater and hearing people speak on the surface. Words started to filter through, little by little.
"..were you thinking?" A familiar, irritated voice said quietly. It wasn't a real question, he could tell. Just rhetorical. But Lemony was a student of rhetoric, and he frowned slightly. From an unknown source, he mustered the energy to open his eyes, lashes fluttering as the room blurred into view.
Thankfully, the room was fairly dark, only lit by soft light from a table lamp. It was still raining, and Lemony could hear it pouring down. He wasn't quite sure where he was for a few seconds, other than the odd fact that he was tucked into someone else's bed. He was able to focus on a face, and a familiar one at that. His-no, the editor. The primary one, anyway. He breathed a soft sigh of relief. "How are you feeling?" His voice was soft. Lemony simply let out a quiet groan, which apparently sufficed as an answer. The editor's lips quirked up in a semblance of a smile. "You were out for a while, but you should probably get some more sleep."
"How long?" Lemony managed, and it hurt his throat quite terribly to speak. His voice was hoarse from disuse and it made him cough, which made him quite dizzy. The editor looked at him with a worried expression.
"That's not important," He said quietly, and Lemony didn't realize his hand was in his until it was gone. With the physical contact ended, he felt sick and lightheaded, like he wasn't real. "What's important is you getting better. You were certainly unwell when you got here, and your fever hasn't gone down." Suddenly his hand was back. With the weight returned, the weight of sleep could return as well, and Lemony slowly slipped back into oblivion.
The next time Lemony woke, it was a little bit quicker. He'd just had an unprecedented, feverish nightmare involving an unseen figure chasing him and, inexplicably, a shoe store. He let out a gasp and opened his eyes, the room blurring before him. He tried to sit up, but something held him back. "Take it easy, Setnick. There's no need for hurryupping," Right, Kel- his editor was here. He blurrily saw him press a cool hand to his forehead. Lemony felt cold, colder than he had before. He was still shivering, chills wracking his body as his editor wrapped the blankets closer around him.
"Editor, I'm-" He tried to apologize, but just ended up coughing. The editor frowned.
"Lemony, it's alright, you don't have to call me that," The fact that he didn't call him Setnick meant he was worried, which meant he was still sick. Not that he hadn't gathered that from the chills rolling through him. "Besides, you're just going to tear up your throat trying to talk. You need to use that energy to keep getting better." He fretted, and Lemony wasn't about to argue with him. Thinking too much made him feel sick and overstimulated, and he was glad he hadn't eaten for a few days. Kellar pressed something cool to his forehead, biting his lip in worry. "You're burning up," he murmured, half-under his breath. With that, Lemony fell back asleep.
After waking up very, very briefly one or two more times, Lemony finally managed to wake up for longer than 5 minutes, his eyes fluttering open. He still felt like he'd been in a car crash, but he felt a little bit more solid now. Kellar sighed in relief when he noticed his eyes were open. "Thank goodness you're awake. I was starting to worry." Gently, he pressed his palm to Lemony's forehead once again. "Your fever's gone down significantly, which is good," He explained, and took his hand again.
"Thank you." He mustered, managing not to cough this time, and Kellar gave him a soft, radiant smile. It lit up the room, and Lemony found himself smiling back, though it probably looked more like a grimace.
"So, how do you feel?" His voice was still quiet, worry threading into his words.
"Like I got hit by a pickup truck instead of an 18-wheeler." That made him cough, and he sat up a little so he could breathe better. It made him dizzy, but it wasn't too bad. Kellar snorted, squeezing his hand.
"Yeah, you're going to be alright," He decided. "That Snicket sarcasm is the best indicator." Kellar certainly knew him well, and his eyes were soft as they met his for slightly too long. Lemony felt his face flush slightly, looking away and hoping that he would think it was just the fever he still had. He metaphorically slammed the door on his feelings and sighed. "Anyway, we need to get something in you. Even if it's just tea, it should help." Kellar said abruptly, and with a wave he was gone, presumably off to make tea.
His editor certainly was a whirlwind, a word which here means "very spontaneous, quick to act, and quite intelligent." And maybe a little bit of a mess. Not that Lemony had the right to say that; the amount of times someone had called him a dumpster fire were too numerous for him to remember in this state. He sat and thought for a few minutes, remembering when they were kids. Lemony hadn't changed too much since then, and it was easy to tell when you looked into his eyes. Now, he always looked tired, but his biting sarcasm remained.
He snapped out of his thoughts as Kellar walked back in, sitting back down beside the bed and handing him a mug of tea. His hands nearly slipped when he touched the heated surface. "It's lemon tea. All jokes aside, it's what I had, Setnick." He chuckled slightly, and Lemony rolled his eyes.
"Thanks," It was a small response, but Kellar smiled at him, and maybe things were alright after all. "I barely remember how I got here." All of it was a blur, he thought, remembering the rain on his face and his fingers slipping on the fire escape. The thought of it made him feel sick to his stomach and colder than he had been before.
"Well, it was getting dark, I was washing dishes when I heard a knock on the door. I answered it, and you were standing there, though not for very long, considering you passed out maybe 2 seconds later. You were coughing. I had to drag you to bed, and it took 3 hours for you to wake up that first time. You were pretty out of it, but it was worse later. That was when your fever spiked pretty badly, you said some, uh, kind of weird things, but then you passed out for a while. I think you only woke up once or twice after that before now?" He explained, a worried expression overtaking him.
"Oh," Lemony frowned and sipped his tea. "I'm sorry for..." He gestured vaguely at himself. "This." The look on his face was slightly awkward and slightly sad, which wasn't too surprising. That was always how he looked, in varying degrees of both. He didn't ask what he'd said, not wanting the answer. Besides, that was barely his fault. He had been feverish.
"I'm not mad, Snicket. If you hadn't, you'd be in the hospital, or passed out in an alley somewhere. You got pretty sick, you know that? What you have to work on is learning what your limits are," He chided gently, and Lemony frowned deeper.
"How did you know?"
"I know how you are when you get too sucked into your work. How long did you go without sleeping this time? Were you eating enough?" Kellar fretted, but everything he was saying was true. Lemony felt very slightly called out.
"It's fine, Kellar, it was 3 days. Maybe four if you push it. I was eating normally enough, I suppose, except I was unable to eat the day I had to come here, and I didn't eat dinner the day before that." He explained, trying to make that sound better than it actually was. It was pretty bad, he had to admit, and the talking made his throat hurt. Sipping his tea, he gave Kellar a disgruntled look.
"That's far from fine, Lemony. I know how you are, always running into trouble and away from it. I'm not sure how you made it here, though I'm glad you did," He grumbled, the unspoken you could have died hanging in the air between them. His throat still hurt, but there was also a funny feeling there, a prickling behind his eyes. He ignored it.
Lemony wasn't about to pick a fight. He kept drinking his tea and giving Kellar a slightly tired look. The editor sighed. "You just need to be more careful." He finished, and they sat there in companionable silence for a while. Neither of them mentioned that Kellar was still holding his hand. It was just quiet, and Lemony found himself getting sleepy. He set his mug on the bedside table and adjusted his position on the bed, curling onto his stomach in his preferred sleeping position. Kellar chuckled at this, but kept holding his hand.
As he fell asleep, he knew everything was going to be fine.
(well, for now.)