(no subject)

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford's in his pyjamas again when he wanders through the door, looking decidedly green. He's got the next three days off, and if there was ever a time he needed it, it's now. Everything hurts, or feels like it's turning to mush, or both.

Dragging a blanket behind him, Wilford makes his way over to the fire and claims one of the sofas. It's too hot over here, but it's too late. He's committed. This is his life now. It's not long before his dog realises he's here and decides to join in on this apparent cuddle party, climbing on top of Wilford to lick his hair.

"Go away, I'm dying," Wilford complains.

His words go unheeded. Buster stays right where he is.

Comments

[iprotectyou]

Baze wanders in sometime later from the back, sweaty and content, his staff slung over his shoulders.

"Hey, asshole," Baze says, beaming as he approaches the sick man on the couch. "May the Force of others be with you. You look like shavit."

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford grumbles. Loudly.

"Is that all?" he asks slowly.

He looks up at Baze with red, bloodshot eyes, and then decides it's too much effort. "I quit."

[iprotectyou]

Baze laughs, which probably rings right through Asshole's head.

"Poor thing," he murmurs. He'd sit on Wilford, but Baze suspects that would bring more trouble than it's worth.

"So what disease has felled the mighty you? The common cold?"

[cottoncandypink]

Ugh, yes it does.

"Feels like Mold."

He doesn't care if it lacks context.

"Maybe a filo."

Filoviruses are the worst. Even when they're dead and in a vaccine.

[iprotectyou]

"You don't look moldy," Baze says, squinting at his friend.

He stops a waitrat in its tracks with his staff and orders surprise tea, along with whatever Wilford wants.

"What's a filo?"

[cottoncandypink]

"Not that kind of mold."

Wilford wants to die, but the rat does not seem inclined to honour that request.

He tries to sit up, both pushing Buster away and dragging him onto his lap at the same time. It's not graceful. Eventually, he manages to halfway sit up.

"A virus that turns your guts into soup."

[iprotectyou]

Not sensing any other orders, the rat skitters off. Baze watches it run with amusement, and then turns back to Asshole.

"So, are you going to die again?" Baze says, his smile still present, but a fraction smaller than it was.

"And how are you not infecting everyone in this bar?"

[cottoncandypink]

"Better not. I'll fucking sue the vaccine people."

Once his body has had time to adjust to the new strains of whatever was in that virus cocktail he got jabbed into his arm, he'll be fine. Until then...

There's a moment when Wilford feels like he's actually going to puke. Maybe he should have asked for an empty bucket. But the feeling passes after a few seconds, and he's back to feeling like ordinary death.

[iprotectyou]

"Oh, so you're not actually sick, you're just burning off a vaccine?" Baze says, more than ready to jump back at the first sign of puke.

"Seriously, you look awful. If the vaccines are this bad, I can't imagine what the real virus is like."

[cottoncandypink]

"Death in about two days, if you're lucky," Wilford says.

He fiddles with his blanket, so it's wrapped around him and Buster. It's way too hot, but it still somehow makes him feel better.

"Some people survive. Other people survive, but their brains are fried, and all that's left is the part that tells you to hunt and eat."

[iprotectyou]

"Like those monsters on the mountain?" Baze says, shuddering. He still recalls the way the metal of his coolant tank squealed as the creature punctured it.

"What were those even called, anyway?"

[cottoncandypink]

"Not quite, but..." He shrugs. Close enough.

"Those were wendigos. But that's not a virus; it's a curse."

[iprotectyou]

Baze picks up the tea--Rum Royale African Redbush, yum--from the rat, and has a stabilizing drink. He doesn't particularly like the thread of the conversation as it is, but he is curious now.

"Wendigos, huh?" he says, frowning slightly.

"What kind of curse?"

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock, having spent the last few ... something ... looking after Buster, comes looking for him now, and sighs when he sees the pink mustache.

He strokes Buster's head as he says, "You know, Jim keeps telling me I can't defend his honor with you, but one of these days I'm going to take exception to the way you keep punching him."

[cottoncandypink]

What honour? When was the last time he punched Jim? He hasn't lately, has he?

This all comes out as, "what?"

[mightbeagoodone]

"Stop hitting my fiancé," Sherlock says. "At least for the next few months. I don't want him with black eyes in the wedding pictures."

Will they have pictures? Probably. It seems to be part of the process.

[cottoncandypink]

"When?" Wilford asks.

There's more to that question that doesn't make it out. But Wilford doesn't want to try to navigate this question lying down, so he very slowly manages to sit up. His hair is a mess, his eyes are red, and he definitely looks like he could vomit at any minute.

"I got hit; not him."

Wait. No, that was something else. Jim wasn't there for that.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock eyes him, softening a bit, then says. "Christmas.

"What hit you? A lorry?"

[cottoncandypink]

Jim wasn't there at Christmas. What?

Wilford does not have the brain capacity to figure out this riddle. He does have a dog, though. One that wants to lick his face right now.

"I don't know. Feels like a filo." He's never actually had a filovirus, but he's also never reacted well to their vaccines.

[mightbeagoodone]

"A what?"

Like, the dough?

Sherlock is increasingly suspicious they're having two different conversations.

[cottoncandypink]

"I don't know. Mongala. Maybe if I'm lucky, it's just Marburg."

No, not a dough. They are definitely having two different conversations.

[mightbeagoodone]

Sherlock tilts his head, and sits on the sofa at Wilford's feet.

"Are you delirious?" he says seriously.

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford takes a good, long moment to look at Sherlock. It's definitely Sherlock. No doubt there.

"If I am, you're a terrible fucking hallucination."

No offence, Sherlock. You're just not his type.

[mightbeagoodone]

"Alas, I am as real as anyone else in this place."

Which is ... not saying much? Anyway. He doesn't dwell on that.

"Mongala and Marburg sound like a kind of cheese."

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford shifts a bit, to make more room for Buster on his lap.

"I can't eat cheese," Wilford says. "You don't have that shit where you're from? And you want to live on my world?"

He almost laughs, except it makes his stomach roil, so he manages not to.

"Didn't Jim give you that paper?"