Work Text:
November 11th
Blackquill-Fulbright Residence – Bedroom
Simon awakes in the middle of the night to a pounding headache and nausea surging through his abdomen. He sits up slowly, pressing a hand against his churning stomach, yet the simple movement makes the headache worse. He lets out a groan before he can stop himself, wondering what is going on.
But his thoughts start to drift towards yesterday, when he got a headache in court (the situation not helped by Wright-dono smacking his hands against the bench every five seconds) and felt rather nauseated after a simple evening meal. And he thinks about how familiar, if far worse, he currently feels.
Blast.
Is he ill? Was his immune system trying to fight off a gastrointestinal infection yesterday, but failed and has led to him developing some sort of stomach bug? How pathetic. He didn’t get ill once in prison, a place not known for its hygiene, yet he has gotten sick simply from going to buy food and standing in court? For goodness’ sake.
Who even gave this to him? His main suspect is Fool Bright—
Wait, Fool Bright! If Bobby accidentally gave him this illness, then maybe his partner is sick too?
Simon considers waking up Bobby, who is currently fast asleep beside him, curled up on his side and facing away from Simon (because he is a ridiculous fool who has found himself extremely overprotective of Fool Bright these past few months, ever since they exposed the phantom and got the real, if slightly traumatised, Bobby Fulbright back), but he doesn’t have time. Because the nausea suddenly gets a lot worse, and Simon realises that he is going to vomit.
He stumbles out of bed and rushes as quietly as he can down the hallway (this house used to be just Bobby’s, but Simon knows his way around easily now) and into the bathroom. A hand covering his mouth just in case, he opens the bathroom door, fumbles with the light, and leans against the basin.
He breathes through his nose, noting how clammy and pale (even for him) his face is. Simon had hoped that the nausea would subside, but it just seems worse than before. And then vomit rises in his throat and he staggers over to the toilet – and vomits.
When he finally stops vomiting, Simon flushes the toilet and sits on the closed lid. His mouth tastes foul and his throat burns, and his hands tremble as he rests his head against them. He had forgotten just how foul vomiting bugs are, but he certainly remembers now.
Once he feels a bit better, Simon washes his hands and face, and brushes his teeth. And as he walks back to their bedroom, his gait reminds him of a zombie, his feet stumbling and his arms uncoordinated. His head throbs, and he just wants to sleep for hours.
Finally reaching the bed, Simon sinks back onto it and gets back under the blankets.
“Simon?”
Damnation! He thought Bobby was still asleep.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?” Bobby asks.
“Of course, Fool Bright,” Simon says, hating how hoarse his voice sounds. “I just got up to urinate.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Now go back to sleep. We have court tomorrow.”
Bobby chuckles, and rolls back over. And Simon stares at the ceiling through the darkness, hoping he will be able to stand in court tomorrow. He has to be.
And that is when he makes the decision: no matter how ill he feels, he is going to go to court tomorrow, and no one will find out about this ridiculous illness of his.
---
November 11th, 9:59AM
District Courthouse, Courtroom No. 3
By the following morning, Simon is even worse. The nausea is almost constant, ripping his insides into shreds with cramping pains, and he has already vomited twice. He has even begun to run a fever, shivering despite his higher than average body temperature. To be frank, he feels utterly awful.
And now, as he stands behind the prosecutor’s bench in the courtroom, Simon’s cheeks shine with his fever and he has to lock his knees out to stop them buckling. He leans against the bench far more than he would normally do, ignoring how Bobby keeps staring at him.
His partner has been suspicious of him since they got up earlier, wondering why Simon’s movements are slow and why he looks so dreadful – and why Simon wouldn’t kiss him before heading off to prepare for the trial. Of course, he wouldn’t kiss Fool Bright because he didn’t want to infect his partner (on closer inspection, it appears that Fool Bright isn’t ill), but now Fool Bright appears to think Simon is annoyed with him.
The judge bangs his gavel and Simon almost flinches. Taka suddenly seems very heavy on his shoulder, and he sends her off to sit on Bobby instead. Bobby gives him a weird look as the huge bird lands on his head, but doesn’t say anything.
“Court is now in session for the— I say, Prosecutor Blackquill, are you all right?” the judge says, cutting himself off. “You look very flushed.”
“It’s hot in here, Your Baldness,” Simon says, glaring at Justice-dono for looking at him with concern. “There is nothing wrong with me.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” the judge says, and he carries on, saying the opening statement for Simon as usual.
And as the judge talks, he realises that Athena is now looking at him, and Simon almost groans. He prays to whatever deities that may exist that she not read his real emotions and announce how ill he really feels. He has to keep this hidden. He needs to stay professional and win this case.
He isn’t going to give in to a blasted stomach bug.
---
November 11th
Blackquill-Fulbright Residence – Living Room
By the evening, Simon has been sick so many times that all he can taste is his own stomach acid, still burning his tongue despite using almost half a bottle of mouthwash. He no longer shivers, but instead burns with a rather high fever, his skin red and hot to the touch. He just wants to go to sleep, but court was adjourned for another day and he has to read yet more case notes before he can have some much needed rest and hopefully wake up tomorrow no longer feeling like death—
“Simon, want some tea?” Bobby says, appearing beside him.
Simon is torn from his thoughts, and stares up into the eyes of his partner, who holds out a mug of tea. His stomach churns, but he nods and says, “Thank you.”
He takes the mug, hating the heat of it burning his already hot hands, and doesn’t take a sip. Simon places the mug on the desk and looks back down at his notes.
But Bobby is still there. “Uh, are you okay? You’re not drinking it.”
“It’s a bit too hot right now. I promise I will drink it,” Simon says. “Now unless you have taken up the role of my shadow, would you please leave me to work?”
“Simon, there’s something wrong. You can talk to me, you know.”
“I’m fine, Fool Bright.”
“No you’re not. Are… are you sick?” Bobby says, and even though Simon isn’t looking, he knows Bobby has gripped the sides of his head. “Simon, have you been hiding how you feel and dragged yourself into work rather than just admit you’re sick and have a rest?”
“I am not sick,” Simon says, but his own body decides this is the perfect time to betray him.
His stomach starts to churn again, and vomit burns his throat. And despite being weak and wobbly and not wanting to make a scene, he has no choice but to dash out of the room and into the downstairs toilet. He barely makes it in time, vomiting into the toilet as he grips the toilet seat, his hair sticking to his head with sweat.
In fact, this all happens so quickly that he forgets to shut the bathroom door. So Bobby is stood in the doorway, watching him vomit. Which he discovers when Bobby whispers, “Simon?”
He jumps, tensing up as he hacks up nothing but stomach acid. Bobby found out. He knows Simon is ill. All of his attempts to hide his symptoms and act as normal were for naught.
Groaning, Simon hangs his head over the toilet bowl, retching. He flinches when a hand rests on his back, but it is just Fool Bright.
Bobby rubs circles in his back, whispering, “It’s okay, Simon. Just get it all up. It’ll be over soon, okay.”
Sure enough, this wave of nausea passes, and Simon slumps on the floor. As he screws his eyes up, he hears Bobby flush the toilet and run the faucet.
“Here, have a sip of water,” Bobby says, holding out a cup of water.
Simon doesn’t want a drink, but it would be nice to get this foul taste out of his mouth. He takes the cup with trembling hands and sips it, relishing the cool water against his sore tongue. He swills his mouth with it and spits it out, and then has a slow drink.
Bobby crouches beside him and rubs his back, and they both know that literally no one else would be allowed to see him in such a pathetic state.
“You should’ve said something, Simon,” Fool Bright says. “You shouldn’t have suffered alone like that.”
Simon sighs, but doesn’t argue. Fool Bright has a point, he supposes. Maybe trying to hide his illness was a bad idea.
“I think you should go to bed.”
“Fine,” Simon mumbles, and he lets Fool Bright haul him to his feet.
---
November 11th
Blackquill-Fulbright Residence – Bedroom
Now wearing his pyjamas, Simon slumps in bed. Bobby finishes putting water and painkillers on the bedside table and a large bowl on the floor beside the bed, and then gets into bed wearing his white pyjamas. It is only 8pm, but Simon is too tired to care.
He curls up on his side, rubbing his churning abdomen and screwing his eyes up. Fool Bright switches off the lights and snuggles up beside him, spooning Simon so they are very close, his breaths tickling Simon’s neck.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asks.
“A bit,” Simon says, telling the truth. “Thank you, Fool Bright.”
“Not a problem. I just want you to feel better.”
Bobby kisses his hair and Simon sighs, hoping he will feel better when he awakes – but knowing that if he still feels ill, at least he has Fool Bright to look after him.