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Bernard brought the thermometer back to his ear. He’d been checking it all afternoon – ever since he began feeling odd after lunch. Every time, he refused to believe the numbers shown, because – because it surely wasn’t possible.
The thermometer beeped. The number flashed, same as it had been.
50 degrees Celsius. 122 degrees Fahrenheit.
“Fuck,” Bernard said, running a hand through his hair. Either the three thermometers he owned were all broken, or his body temperature was really, inexplicably, thirteen degrees Celsius higher than it should be. Neither option was particularly desirable.
Realistically, he should probably go to like, the clinic, or something, since he was definitely sick besides, but –
But what if the thermometers were right? How would he even begin to explain this?
He dropped his forehead to the counter. It was blessedly cool.
Well, of course it would be. The human brain wasn’t even supposed to be able to survive much more than about forty-two degrees. Which really begged the question – how wasn’t he dead?
With a groan, Bernard dragged himself to the living room, and flopped onto the couch.
Maybe he could just wait until Tim came home. He wouldn’t be that much longer, surely.
Hours slipped away from him as he lay on the couch, unwilling to do much more than wrap himself in the throw blanket.
Bernard felt his awareness dwindle. Hey, sleeping while sick was supposed to be good for you, right? Even if his sickness was being… odd, it surely wasn’t that odd.
He let himself believe that as he finally let go of consciousness.