#em emotes
Caretaker slips their arm around whumpee’s shoulder and pulls them close. They snuggle closer, hot forehead resting against Caretaker’s neck. Caretaker freezes, then places their palm on whumpee’s forehead. “Oh whumpee,” they whisper, grip tightening around them, “that fever’s gone nowhere but up.”
Teammate’s heart is pounding so furiously it might be about to burst through their ribcage. They clutch Whumpee close to their chest, moving as fast as they dare without further injuring the person in their arms. “Hold on to me, okay? Just keep holding on. I’ve got you.”
Whumpee doesn’t respond, but they don’t let go either.
“I- I don’t know what to do.” Caretaker’s voice breaks as they watch Whumpee sleep. Whumpee tried so hard to hide it, but their pain is only getting worse. In sleep they can’t wipe away the tears that trickle down their cheeks, or the high-pitched whimpers that escape when the blanket rubs up against their injury.
Caretaker buries their head in their hands. “I don’t know how to help you,” they whisper. “I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“It’s been days and you’re just getting worse.” Caretaker’s voice is still calm and gentle, but the desperation bleeds through. They tap their foot against the floor anxiously until Whumpee asks them to stop; it’s making their headache worse.
“If you’re not better by tomorrow, I’m finding an ER to take you to.” They both know their chances of success at that are unlikely, but Whumpee is too weak to even tell them “good luck.”
“Stay with me?” Whumpee asks, rather hesitantly. It’s not that they don’t trust Teammate, but they’ve never been in this position before. They’ve never needed somebody to stay this badly.
Teammate nods. “Of course,” they say, like it wasn’t even a question. They settle in next to them, giving Whumpee’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “For as long as you want.”
Whumpee’s teeth chatter despite all efforts to silence them, and they pull their jacket tighter around them. “I can’t get warm,” they tell Teammate, shivering uncontrollably.
“Neither can I,” they whisper back, but shed their jacket and wrap it over Whumpee’s shoulders anyway.
“I think my fever’s gone up,” Whumpee says, with only the slightest hint of concern. They lean against the wall for a brief reprieve, feeling the coolness as it seeps through their clothing.
“How bad?” Asks their teammate, watching the door for any signs of movement. They don’t look back to check on them. They can’t leave until the coast is clear, and their window of opportunity is small.
But Whumpee doesn’t answer them. Their “brief reprieve” highlights that not only has their fever gone up, it’s gone too high. In the second it takes them to comprehend what Teammate is saying, they’re on the floor.
“When will this end?” Whumpee asks caretaker, clutching their blankets in agony. Every so often they cry out in a spasm of pain, tears overflowing that they gave up holding back hours ago.
“I wish I knew,” Caretaker says, huddled as close as they can be while obeying Whumpee’s request not to be touched. “But I promise I won’t leave until it does.”
“I can’t stay awake anymore.” Whumpee’s words are raspy in the wind, but final nonetheless. They lean against Caretaker, not hearing their words of encouragement and eventually, begging. Everything is soft and quiet for the first time, and the world fades away.
“It’s not getting better,” Whumpee whines, their cheeks flushed and their eyes glazed. The fever blocks out their perception of past and present. There is only now and pain, and now is never-ending. “Will this ever be over?”
Caretaker sidles up closer to them and gently places a cup of tea in their hands. “It will,” they promise, though they are in no place to make that prediction.
Teammate walks into the room, noticing whumpee asleep under a blanket on the chair. It’s odd of course, since they’re not normally one to sleep on the job, but teammate lets it go. It’s been a hard day. Two hours later when whumpee is still asleep, teammate goes to wake them up- but they can’t.
