Work Text:
Gun wakes up uncomfortably hot and aching all over, the imprint of his dreams still fading - familiar hands branded on his waist and ghost kisses peppered along his jaw. It’s a dream he’s become well acquainted with, but it still stings.
Reaching out, Gun turns off his alarm and sits up. Or tries to - the moment he’s upright, the room starts spinning, making bile rise to his throat. Squeezing his eyes shut, Gun swallows. That’s - not good.
Once the room stops moving enough for him to open his eyes, Gun reaches for the bedside drawer and pulls out the thermometer. Sticking it under his tongue, he waits for it to beep, then tilts his head down, inhaling. Every single part of his body hurts, and he feels grossly clammy, and Gun really hopes he doesn’t throw up on his bedroom floor.
Beep, beep. The thermometer in Gun’s hand lights up, and blinks, focusing on it. 39.5 degrees. He stares at the number. That’s…a fever, right? He thinks so. It feels like a fever.
Maybe he should just stay home and rest. Gun doesn’t know if he has the energy to get up and go to work, let alone take a shower.
Putting the thermometer away, he looks at the bed. (The bed that still, if Gun pretends hard enough, smells like -)
But he has a job to go to. Gun can’t just not show up to work, he’s the boss - and the fever will break faster if he’s active. Plus, it’s not like anyone is likely to notice and berate him for it.
(If Cher had been there -)
Work. Okay.
—
Gun manages to get dressed, somehow, stumbling through his morning routine. He tries to have breakfast, but only manages a toast.
He doesn’t quite remember how he gets to work - he remembers calling a cab, but Gun has no memory of getting in or arriving. But it’s fine because he’s here now, so he pushes open the door and tries to ignore the way his head is pounding. Gun just has to get to his office.
(He remembers Cher on the other side of the door, waving excitedly and smiling -)
His office. Gun can do that much.
—
There’s a meeting today with the whole team. Gun considers cancelling it, but - he’d overheard how everyone was excited to show the results of their research at the meeting, and it wouldn’t be fair to cancel it so last minute.
Gun sits in the chair and tries to remember what he’s talking about, hopes it’s not too obvious he feels like throwing up.
“Boss, are you okay?” Jack asks, concerned.
“I’m fine,” Gun manages. “Thirsty.”
Jack stares at him for another moment, but then nods and backs off.
(If Cher had been there, he would have pried it out of Gun and forced him to go home and -)
(Well. He’s not.)
(It’s -)
Gun wants to keel over and maybe collapse. Instead, he looks at his laptop and exhales. “What were we talking about?”
—
Everything in Gun’s life reminds him of Cher and it’s not fair, he thinks vaguely, because he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to just live with the hole in his chest. Cher is supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be -
Gun doesn’t know why he’s at work. (Being at home is worse.)
—
By the time he gets home, Gun feels like hell. There’s no way he’ll be able to go in tomorrow, but -
At least this way he might be able to have a dreamless sleep.
…he misses Cher. So much.
The medicine tastes like regret.