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All his life, Cliff has felt like a burden to others. He spent his years in high school squeezing himself between the gaps in the lockers while hordes of students rushed past him to class in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be an inconvenience to them. Almost didn’t pass his driving test first time because he kept letting everybody in front of him out. And when he found out he had a PA in his new job at the firm- God, he knew he would spend the rest of his days there apologising to her for even existing.
When he’s sick, it’s even worse- this feeling of being a weight for somebody else to drag around. If he were to psychoanalyse himself and trace it all back, the roots of the issue would likely be the same ones as the roots to all of his other issues as well. His mother.
Ellen Gilbert is about the least caring woman Cliff’s ever had the displeasure of interacting with, which is all the worse given that he’s related to her. His whole childhood was a steady stream of incidents all flowing towards the same end: a crippling belief that he isn’t worth the clothes on his back. Sharp looks whenever he dared to speak in front of her. Patronising comments about his intelligence (‘God, you think you’re so smart... why don’t you just become a lawyer, Cliff? You’re already great at defending pieces of shit’) to stinging slaps across the face. Perhaps the roughest times, though, were when he was sick. God knows he’d feel like a burden then.
The word- burden burden burden- rattles around in his head as he crumples up the tissue in his hands and hazards another glance at Heather, sitting at the other end of the couch. She’s looking at him with a slight frown on her face, the one that makes guilt and shame curl up in his stomach.
“That’s the third time you’ve sneezed in five minutes. Are you sick?”
He feels himself stiffen, throat bobbing anxiously, fingers tugging at one another. If he tells her the truth- that yes, he’s been feeling rough since he woke up this morning but he couldn’t possibly cancel date night- past experience foretells what will happen, but he can’t lie to her either. As a result, he’s left revealingly silent, and the truth comes to the surface anyway, on the wings of another harsh sneeze.
“Oh, my God.” Heather says, standing. “You are sick. Why the hell wouldn’t you tell me?”
For a moment, hope blossoms in his chest that, despite the way her arms are crossed, despite the furrow of her brow, she might just be upset that he didn’t say anything sooner. That if he keeps to himself and doesn’t excessively bother her, she might stay.
“I’m- I’m sorry, I just... sometimes I- sometimes I find it hard to speak about these things.”
She wrinkles her nose and his shoulders sink. Oh. Right.
“You find it hard to speak about having a cold?”
His cheeks flush, and he fights for something redeeming to say. “No, it’s not that- I just, well, my Mom used to-“
Heather rolls her eyes. “Of course, should have known this was about her. Christ, babe, you have to let it go. You’re a grown man, and frankly speaking about her this much is kind of... weird. You know that, right? It’s like, Freudian.”
Cliff’s throat tightens. No. No no no no no no. He screws up his eyes, counting one through ten, and tries to convince the irrational part of his brain to stop telling him that this must mean he’s attracted to his mother. He must be. Why would- fuck, why would Heather say that? No, it’s okay. If he counts this set three times, it means he’s safe. The intrusive thought will be appeased for now; it will settle down and leave him until 3 in the morning, at which point he’ll toss and turn over it.
“What are you doing?”
The pure venom in Heather’s tone forces his eyes open before he’s finished with the sets, heart pumping. From here, where he’s sat looking up at her standing there with crossed arms, it almost feels like he’s looking at his mother. He can sense the same bitter judgement in her eyes as he experienced all those years ago, before he ran from it for good.
“I... I’m just...” His cheeks flush further, because of course, there’s no rational explanation for what he’s doing and she knows it. “If I count, then maybe- it makes me, um, feel better sometimes.”
“Oh... okay.” She gives him a look of something like disgust. “Well, is it gonna make your coughing and sneezing better too, or am I going to have to carry on putting up with that?” She sighs. “God, Cliff, I really wish you would’ve told me you were sick. I wouldn’t have come.”
It shouldn’t be a surprise- of course she doesn’t want to be around him when he’s gross and contagious, it makes perfect sense- and yet the words knock the wind out of him a little anyway, and he feels tears prickle in the corners of his eyes as he brings the tissue up to dab delicately at the bottom of his nose again. He swallows thickly, avoiding her eyes just like he avoided her eyes. “Um... sorry.”
Heather harrumphs. “Doesn’t sound very genuine. Did you even think about me possibly getting sick, or was it all Cliff Cliff Cliff?”
His cheeks blaze. Of course he thought about her. It’s the reason why he’s even sat here instead of passed out on Nyquil in his bedroom.
“No, of course you didn’t. You never do.”
Whenever he blinks, it’s not Heather who’s speaking, and each time he breathes he has to remind himself where he is. He’s grateful when a familiar ragdoll comes padding into view, brushing up against the bottom of his pants, because when all else fails, Maggie is there to ground him.
And yet, even with this small harbinger of peace that he leans down to scratch the ears of-
“Oh, right, ignore me for the cat. Great idea, Cliff... You need to get rid of that thing. She makes you sneeze and she always hisses at me. She’s a little bitch.”
Cliff’s hand stills. He opens his mouth to speak, to tell Heather that if there’s one thing she won’t get away with, it’s insulting Maggie, but he’s cut off by a bone-aching chill that has him sitting back against the couch instead and attempting to rub some warmth into his arms. God, he feels miserable.
“Could- could you please maybe g-grab the thermometer from the kitchen?”
The look that Heather greets him with is withering. “Cliff, you have a cold. You’re fine. You don’t need to take your temperature.”
His Mom used to say the same thing- admittedly, when he was feeling far worse, but still.
“P-please? I just wanna ch-check.”
His girlfriend rolls her eyes and throws her hands up in defeat. “Fine. I’ll go get it. But just so you know, this is kind of ridiculous.”
She turns on her heel and wanders towards his kitchen, and Cliff lets his eyes flutter closed, the chills seemingly intensifying by the second. At work, he’d thought the heating was just on the fritz again- he should have known Inez’s sympathetic look and the blanket she’d offered him was a sign that maybe, just maybe, he was the one on the fritz instead. He swallows down the lump in his throat and waits for the clacking of Heather’s footsteps to draw closer.
“Here.” Something drops into his lap, and he opens his eyes to find the thermometer sitting there against his pants.
He winces a little (not hygienic not hygienic not hygienic) but picks it up anyway, too exhausted to care about anything other than finding out whether he’s running a fever. Pulling the sleeve of his sweater over his hand, he swipes at the end of it before popping it in his mouth, trying to ignore Heather’s impatient stare while he waits for the result. After a few uncomfortable seconds, it beeps, and he withdraws it with a shaky breath.
His stomach sinks at the numbers flashing up on the screen.
It’s not a bad fever, but...
“Well?” Heather snaps, arching a brow superciliously.
Cliff swallows thickly. “Uh, I- I have a slight fever. 101.3.”
His girlfriend takes a step back. “Okay, well... that sounds like my cue to leave, then.”
“O-oh.” He fights the urge to ask her to just sit back down next to him, to wrap his arms around her and try to regain some sense of normalcy and comfort. Opts instead to just nod and chew on his lip, hoping the tears he can feel threatening to spill and the burning of his cheeks don’t give him away.
It’s pointless, though.
“Are you crying?”
He shakes his head. Lifts an aching arm to swipe at his eyes as if it might conceal the emotion blossoming there, but which only serves to increase the flow of tears. “N-no, I’m- I’m fine.”
Heather sighs. “Honestly, Cliff, you need to grow a pair. You have a fever, you’re not dying. You can take care of yourself.”
He nods this time, bringing a fist to his lips to disguise the hiccupping sobs suddenly bubbling up inside of him. She’s right, of course. He’s weak- always has been. His mother could sense that in him even when he was a kid, and that’s why she never looked after him either. She left him to sweat through his sheets with nothing more than a roll of her eyes. He deserved it. He should have been stronger. Should be stronger.
A scoff, and then a tissue is pressed harshly into his other palm. Through the blur in his eyes, he can see Heather’s disgust clear as day.
“Clean yourself up, and call me when you’re not contagious. Or being a manchild.”
He clutches the tissue like a lifeline, trembling fingers curling around it gratefully. She offered him it, which is good, right? She’s so good to him. He needs to be better for her.
Her footsteps recede, and after a few seconds of rustling- during which Cliff, stupidly, half tricks himself into thinking she might be reconsidering her exit- the door to his apartment clicks open, then slams closed again. The sound cracks through the emptiness like a bullwhip, and his hands shoot to his ears as his stomach lurches and his head pounds.
She’s gone.
He sucks in a deep breath and wipes hurriedly at the moisture on his cheeks, chastising himself silently for being upset, but when Maggie hops up onto his lap with a confused chirrup, his distraught sobs start back up again.
In truth, he’s not quite sure exactly why he’s crying. Perhaps it has something to do with the gaping loneliness inside of him, or the way his cat is nuzzling his hand with her nose in the gentlest expression of affection he’s experienced all day. It probably has a lot to do, though, with the building congestion in his sinuses that he knows means he’ll be down with a migraine tomorrow, alone in this apartment. He should get some blankets and pillows set up in the bathroom for when it inevitably hits, but he can’t bring himself to move from the couch or even get his sobs to slow enough for the room around him to cease being an unintelligible blur.
As a last ditch resort, he reaches for Maggie and pulls her close to his chest, letting the vibration of her purring mingle with his incessant shivering. She curls her tail around his arm and buries her head underneath his chin. It makes his nose and eyes itch and his breaths turn to stuttering wheezes, but at least he is not alone anymore. Love always comes with a cost for Cliff. He’s learning to deal with that now.
Soon, though, her fur against his chin is too itchy, and his sneezes grow too frequent to be ignored. Besides, he’s too cold to just sit here with her, as much as he might want to.
A small whimper escapes his throat as he pulls himself upright and his surroundings spin like he’s on a tilt-a-whirl, but with a few steadying breaths (through his mouth, of course, because his nose is red and raw and utterly out of commission) he’s able to stand without feeling like he’s going to puke. Maggie looks up at him, blue eyes blinking slowly.
“I know, Mags.” He croaks, eyes still red rimmed.
Shuddering with each step, he shuffles towards the bathroom and roots around in his medicine cabinet until he withdraws a bottle of cold meds. The triumph in his bones that momentarily overtakes the ache, however, disappears when he retrieves it without hearing a single pill rattle within.
Shit. How the hell is he out?
It’s a small thing, and it’s not as if taking a pill would make him feel 100% better, but the loss of this one safety net sends him plummeting all the way down to the bottom of the ravine. He’s freezing, and congested, and his headache is growing worse by the second, and God he just wanted a nice normal date night with his girlfriend, why is that so difficult? Eyes burning again, he closes the cabinet and sinks down to the floor of his bathroom, still cradling the empty medicine bottle in a futile attempt to distract himself from the urge to cry. His view blurs with fresh tears anyway.
He sits there for a few moments, quivering with chills and sneezing intermittently, until at last he gathers the strength to stand up again. The only thing that’s really keeping him moving at all is the cold- now so intense he feels like he’ll never get warm again.
Maggie follows him through the apartment, meowing softly as he drags a blanket from within a closet and flops back with it onto the couch. He was planning on heading to his bedroom and just trying to sleep it off, but his legs are shaky enough that he thinks he might fall down if he doesn’t get off his feet immediately.
Shivering violently, he pulls the blanket up to his neck and buries his nose in the fabric of the couch.
He ought to get something to drink.
He ought to make himself some salad or something (even if his stomach turns at the thought).
He ought to find some supplies other than the tissue box on the coffee table in front of him.
But really, he’s just tired- too tired to move from his position curled beneath the blanket on the couch. There’s a chill deep in his bones that medication can’t touch. For a moment, the shudder that runs along his spine is so uncomfortable that tears start to form in his eyes again, and he reaches for his phone to call Heather and beg her to come back.
No. He stops himself before he presses the button to dial. She won’t want to hear from him, not while he’s still gross and unlovable and sneezy. But he has to get the message across to someone that he’s sorry.
His thumb slides down; finds a different number instead. Presses call, and isn’t surprised when it goes to voicemail after a few drawn out rings. She’s busy.
When the beep sounds, he clears his throat.
“Uh, hey, Mindy- look, I know this is an odd request, but I-“ He muffles a cough into his elbow, groaning slightly when it exacerbates the building pain in his chest. “Sorry, I’m a little sick- I was just going to ask you, if you see Heather, to tell her I’m sorry about tonight. I, um, I’m not feeling great and I’m running a fever and...” He swallows thickly, because God he’s about to cry again. “... and I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want to ruin date night, but I-I guess I did... You- you didn’t need to know that, but I’m... I’m telling you anyway because I, um, don’t really have anyone else to speak to right now.” His voice cracks, and he squeezes his eyes shut with a wince at how pathetic he sounds. “I’m just... if you see her- because I know you’re friends- could you just... tell her I’m sorry? And get her to- to call me when she’s ready?” In the brief pause that follows his words, his nose decides to subject him to another volley of sneezes so violent he feels his vision go for a second. “S-sorry... um... thanks. I’ll- I’ll see you on the subway or- or in the elevator at some point. B-bye.”
He hangs up the phone and sets it down on the coffee table, before burrowing deeper into the couch and furling the blanket tighter around himself. It does nothing to really touch the cold, but he’s too tired to care anymore.
Sleep. That’s what he needs. Everything else can be dealt with later.
If Cliff hears the knocking, his body decides to ignore it. He carries on drifting- half awake, half asleep- and lets the sound permeate his consciousness without properly registering. It soon subsides, which is all that matters, and he thinks he’s going to be able to get back to sleep again until he hears a sigh come from somewhere in front of him.
“Oh, bless him.”
He recognises the voice, but only vaguely. Thankfully, his curiosity is enough to rouse him from the state of half-consciousness to something more resembling wakefulness, and he opens his eyes to find three faces looking down at him. He jolts back with an emasculating squeak.
“Woah, hey, calm down.” It’s Mindy, one of the three faces, and as his mind kicks back into gear he realises that he knows the other two as well- Jeremy, the man who spoke a second ago (undoubtedly, because nobody else in New York sounds as British as him), and Morgan, the identity of whom Cliff doesn’t know much about besides his job (nurse) and his version of an apology (hiring strange men to punch him in the face). They all look mildly concerned.
“What... what are you doing here?” Cliff manages, shifting so he’s upright and placing a hand on his head when it starts to pound. The heat he finds there is worrying, yet the shivering still stops him from shedding his sweater.
Mindy frowns. “Cliff, you sent me a voicemail where you sounded like you were actually dying. As a doctor, I thought it best to come check on you.”
“And me.” Jeremy pipes up with a slight grin.
“I forced my way into his car.” Morgan adds, winking.
Really, this should all be very disturbing information, but instead of unnerving him, the news that three people were looking out for him causes new tears to prickle in his eyes. He sniffs, wiping them away hastily and clearing his throat. The look on their faces tells him he’s not hiding it well, though.
“You alright?” Mindy asks, one hand settling on his shoulder as she crouches down in front of him. The other drifts to his forehead. “Weren’t joking about the fever, huh?”
Cliff shakes his head, exhaustion limiting his speech.
Mindy reaches down into a plastic bag on the coffee table, and withdraws a bottle of...
“Gatorade.” She says, holding it up so his eyes can settle on the soothing lack of colour. He bites his lip, fighting back the urge to cry, because how on earth does she know it’s his favourite flavour? How does she know, when his own girlfriend doesn’t even know?
When the tears start to fall again, Mindy gently unscrews the lid and brings it up to his lips, holding it there for him to sip like he’s a new-born calf. “Glacier cherry, because I knew the other colours would be too bright for your liking.” She explains softly.
He swallows it gratefully, the cool sensation a balm against his raw throat.
When the drink is lowered, he forces himself to look at her again. “Th-thank you.”
Mindy smiles. “You’re very welcome.”
They remain like that for a few moments, gaze fixed on each other like they’re the only two people to exist, until Morgan laughs giddily, pointing towards a certain ragdoll cat padding over to Cliff’s side.
“Oh, cool, I didn’t realise you had a cat! What’s the girl’s name?”
Cliff doesn’t bother asking how Morgan knows the gender of his cat from a distance like that. “H-her name’s M-Maggie... n-named after my g-grandma. Had her th-three years n-now.”
Jeremy steps towards Morgan; scratches Maggie gently behind the ears. Even from his position on the couch, arms wrapped around himself as his teeth chatter with chills, Cliff can hear the sound of her purring.
So Maggie approves of these people too?
“Do you mind?”
While he was caught up watching Morgan and Jeremy, Cliff hadn’t noticed Mindy picking up the thermometer on the coffee table. She looks at him expectantly, and he shakes his head. With deft fingers, she holds his jaw while her other hand inserts the thermometer underneath his tongue. Her hands are cool. Her touch effortlessly tender, so much so that he can’t help the way his eyes flutter closed.
Beep beep beep.
He keeps his eyes closed as she pulls the thermometer away, perhaps knowing that if he opens them, the tears threatening to fall yet again actually will.
“101.6.” she says, voice low. “Do you know what it was?”
“It w-was 101.3.” he answers. His words are wobbly, falling from his juddering lips like snowflakes on the wind. “G-gone up a b-bit.”
A hand finds his hair, strokes gently.
“Hey, it’s alright. It’s still not too bad, but I know fevers are rough regardless of temperature. Have you had anything to try bring it down?”
He shakes his head, a small sob escaping as he does. “R-ran out.”
Mindy clicks her tongue, but her words remain gentle. “It’s a good thing I brought some more, right? Extra-strength Tylenol.”
The kindness having reached a new maximum, Cliff isn’t surprised when he dissolves into tears completely- and apparently, neither is Mindy. She rubs his shoulder, shh-ing soothingly before her voice, lowered to a whisper, calls out to Jeremy.
“Hey, would you be able to fetch me a damp cloth or something?”
The response, also hushed, is almost immediate. “Oh, of course.”
“Thanks...” He feels the slight breeze as she turns back to him, hand moving up and down his shoulder as it shakes with quiet sobs. “You’re alright, Cliff. It’s alright. We’re gonna take care of you, okay?”
He nods, choking even more with the realisation that it’s the first time anybody’s ever said that to him.
“Hey, deep breaths. Deep breaths. In and out, that’s it.”
“Here.” Jeremy’s voice again, and within a few seconds, something lukewarm and damp is pressed against his forehead and he’s being eased back into a laying position on the couch. Mindy remains at his side while Jeremy- or the blurry figure that Cliff assumes is Jeremy, at least- moves to the bottom of it, manoeuvring Cliff’s legs gently into a more comfortable position and pulling the blanket back up again.
“Th-thank you.” Cliff stammers, still fighting to catch his breath.
“Hey, don’t worry about it, okay? We just want you to feel better.” Mindy says.
Jeremy crouches, placing a reassuring hand on the blanket atop Cliff’s leg. “Yeah, mate.”
Cliff blinks, swiping the tears away to reveal the genuine expressions on their faces- and the one on Morgan’s face, too, as he bounces Maggie like a baby. It’s overwhelming (in a good way, of course), but he finds he’s too tired to cry anymore. He sinks back against the cushion that’s been positioned carefully for his head. Looses a trembling exhale as his eyes close.
“Good man.” Jeremy says.
Mindy’s hand gives Cliff’s shoulder a squeeze.
“Let’s get some cold meds in you, alright? Then you can get some rest.”
He nods, nostrils flaring with emotion. After a few seconds of muffled rustling and the satisfying ‘pop’ of a pill bottle clicking open, something small is being pressed against his lips. He opens them, lets the capsule settle on his tongue before it slides down his throat. Accepts the Gatorade held in front of him like before, to wash it down.
“Good job...” Mindy whispers. He swallows the praise along with the sweet liquid. It’s been so long since he tasted either. “You can sleep now, hon.”
“S-sorry for b-being a pain.”
Her sigh is the opposite of Heather’s- gentle, like the rolling of waves as opposed to the crashing of them against the rocks.
“You’re not a pain, Cliff, and Heather should’ve never made you feel like you are. Nobody should be treated like that, especially when they’re not feeling good.”
He’s grown so used to the cycle of apathy that hearing it so vehemently disavowed is like listening to your native tongue having not realised it was even spoken anymore. At last, the bone deep chill begins to dissipate beneath this new kind of warmth.
His breaths begin to even out.
“That’s it.” Mindy says, hand moving to stroke his hair. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
He relaxes beneath her touch, and falls into the most restful sleep of his life- no longer alone.
No longer a burden.