Work Text:
It starts with a scratch. Just a little one.
Nyla barely notices it at first — she’s too busy arguing with a tow truck driver about jurisdiction outside a 24-hour diner, her voice raised and clipped, posture tight with frustration. The guy keeps waving around his laminated ID and quoting things he clearly doesn’t understand, and her patience is wearing dangerously thin.
By the time she gets back to the station, her throat feels tight. She clears it once. Then again. It doesn’t help.
“Long shift?” Lucy asks from across the bullpen as Nyla sits down with a sigh, dropping her bag by her desk.
Nyla gives her a flat look and reaches for her water bottle. “Try talking to a grown man who thinks being on YouTube makes him immune to parking laws.”
Her voice sounds normal. Maybe a little rough. Maybe a little dry.
She keeps going — paperwork, case notes, follow-up emails. There's still more to do, always more, and as the hours drag on, her throat starts to feel raw. Like there’s something lodged just behind her tongue.
She drinks more water. Pops a mint. Shrugs it off.
But by the time she finally kicks off her boots and drops onto her couch at home, the ache has settled deeper — warm and sharp, like the start of something real. Her limbs feel heavier than they should, her eyes grainy. There's a headache blooming right between her temples, just annoying enough to keep her from fully relaxing.
She makes herself a mug of lemon tea and curls up with her laptop anyway, scrolling through Jack Ryan episodes without really absorbing anything. Every swallow feels worse than the last. Like she’s drinking glass shards instead of tea.
She pauses the episode and presses her knuckles to her forehead.
“I don’t have time to be sick,” she mutters, like saying it out loud might change the outcome.
It doesn’t.
She closes the laptop, lets the tea go cold in her hands, and tries to fall asleep to the hum of her ceiling fan and the hope that it’s just a bad night.
But her throat still burns. And sleep doesn’t come easy.
By the next morning, Nyla’s throat feels like it's been grated raw. Every swallow is fire, and her voice — if she can even call it that anymore — sounds like someone trying to start a car that’s been dead for a week.
Still, she shows up to work.
It’s stupid, she knows it’s stupid. But she doesn’t trust anyone else to handle the morning briefing the way it needs to be handled, especially with two of her newer detectives swapping schedules and a case handover that still isn’t finalized. She tells herself she can power through it. Fake it for ten minutes, then duck out, maybe grab some meds and crash later. No big deal.
She’s wrong.
The moment she steps into the briefing room, the overhead lights feel too bright, the noise too loud. Her head’s pounding in time with her heartbeat, and her whole body feels like someone wrung it out like a wet towel.
She clears her throat and tries to speak.
“Okay, listen up—”
It comes out as a wheeze. A pathetic, strained squawk. She tries again, straining harder.
“We’ve got two shifts rotating this week, so I need—”
Only it sounds like a broken kazoo. The kind of noise that makes everyone in the room slowly turn toward her with the same expression: concern mixed with secondhand embarrassment.
From the corner, Grey leans forward slightly, unimpressed and entirely unbothered.
“Detective Harper,” he says, in that tone that makes everyone sit up straighter without even knowing why. “Your squad can’t follow orders if they can’t understand them.”
Nyla clears her throat again. It burns.
“M’fine,” she rasps, barely audible.
“Home. Now.” Grey doesn't even blink. “I’m not dealing with an epidemic of whatever this is.”
She glares at him but can’t muster the strength to argue. Every part of her aches. Her head is heavy, her voice gone, her throat full of knives. She wants to be stubborn, wants to be the last one standing — but even her pride has limits.
With a hoarse grunt and the barest nod of surrender, she turns on her heel and walks out of the room.
The drive home feels longer than usual. She keeps the AC off because the cold air makes her throat spasm. When she finally gets through her front door, she doesn’t even take off her shoes — she collapses onto the bed in full uniform and groans into the pillow.
Ten minutes later, she reaches for her phone and types with the last ounce of energy she has.
Nyla: Can’t talk. Not dead. Just mute.
Nyla: Feels like being stabbed with hot knives.
Angela: You got strep?
Nyla: Don’t jinx it.
Lucy: Who gave it to you??
Nyla: Great question.
Nyla: Who gave me this??
She stares at the screen, eyes gritty, throat flaming. Her phone buzzes again, but she’s already sinking back into the pillow, teeth clenched against the pulsing pain behind her eyes.
This is definitely not “just tired.”
And it’s only the beginning.
Angela doesn’t get sick.
At least, not in any way that slows her down.
She tells herself that over and over as she drags herself through a whirlwind of a day: wrapping up an open case Nyla left behind, sitting through two painfully disorganized briefings, and babysitting a rookie who hit a mailbox while trying to reverse into a parking spot. By the end of her shift, her entire face feels tight with stress, and there’s a dull ache blooming across the bridge of her nose — the kind that’s usually the first sign of a head cold.
But it’s nothing. She’s fine.
She’s just tired. That’s all. No one who’s that tired could also be sick, right?
By the time she walks through her front door, her limbs are heavy and her throat has started to burn — a slow, scratchy heat that builds behind her sternum and makes her wince every time she swallows. But still, she ignores it.
She doesn't even tell Wesley.
She kisses Jack’s forehead, takes off her boots, and shrugs off her jacket like it's any other night.
“Book?” Jack asks, climbing onto the couch with his favorite worn-out story in hand.
Angela smiles, tired but automatic. She pulls him onto her lap and flips to the first page.
“Once upon a time—”
She breaks off with a rasping cough. Clears her throat. Tries again.
“There was a kingdom where—”
Another cough. This one worse.
She pushes through three sentences before her voice gives up entirely. Just dies. She clamps her mouth shut, eyes stinging. Her throat feels like it’s filled with smoke and broken glass, and now even breathing hurts.
Jack turns and frowns. “You sound weird.”
“Thanks, baby,” she croaks, already reaching for the water glass on the side table. She takes a sip — and immediately regrets it.
It burns. Like someone poured boiling vinegar down her throat.
She freezes. That’s not normal. That’s not just stress.
That’s the start of something.
She doesn’t panic. Not outwardly. She closes the book, kisses the top of Jack’s head, and tucks him in with a whispered promise of a story tomorrow night.
But the moment she’s alone, she leans against the kitchen counter and closes her eyes, willing the burning to go away.
It doesn’t.
Every time she swallows, her throat stings like it’s been scraped raw, and lying down just makes the pressure in her head worse. Her body aches from the inside out — not sore like after a long day on her feet, but deeper, like something is turning over beneath her skin. She spends most of the night curled on the couch in sweats, sipping lukewarm tea she can’t even taste, scrolling through case files she’s too foggy to process.
At 2:17 AM, she Googles:
“How long does strep throat last if you ignore it.”
At 2:18 AM, she slams her laptop shut.
When Wesley wakes up and finds the bed empty, he follows the dim kitchen light to find her hunched over the sink, gargling warm salt water like it might fix everything. She doesn’t notice him until she spits and turns around — startled, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
He blinks. “You good?”
Angela gives him a half-hearted thumbs up.
“Rage gargling?”
“Therapy,” she rasps, her voice lower than usual and barely holding together.
He crosses the kitchen, frowns, then gently presses his palm to her forehead.
“You’re warm.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sound like a lawn mower.”
Angela tries to swat him away, but even that drains her. She leans against the counter, breathing through her mouth because her nose has started to close up.
Wesley doesn’t say anything. Just fills the kettle, starts heating up another mug of tea, and gestures wordlessly toward the couch.
She doesn’t argue this time.
Five minutes later, she’s wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, tea in hand, glaring at the wall like she can will herself back to health. Wesley sits beside her, reading something on his phone, and every few minutes, he gives her a quiet glance, just to check she’s still upright.
She sighs, then rasps out, “You’re gonna text the group, aren’t you?”
He looks at her over his glasses.
“Already did.”
Her phone buzzes.
Wesley: Lopez has fallen.
And then:
Lucy: Oh no. Who coughed on who??
Tim: This is why I don’t speak to any of you unless necessary.
Nyla: @Tim you're next.
Angela: I licked exactly zero people last week. Why am I sick.
Angela groans and drops her head onto Wesley’s shoulder.
“I’m never gonna hear the end of this.”
“You brought this on yourself.”
“I’m gonna bring strep to your courtroom.”
He just smiles and hands her another tissue.
Day three of the outbreak, and Lucy Chen is determined not to go down.
With both Nyla and Angela officially out sick, the detective's department is running on skeleton leadership. Lucy’s picked up half a dozen extra responsibilities without complaining — she’s used to chaos. She thrives in it. And besides, someone’s gotta keep Tim and Nolan from burning the place down.
At least, that’s what she tells herself.
She tosses her bag onto her desk and grabs a file from the corner. As she flips through it, she feels it — a little scratch at the back of her throat. Just a tickle. She coughs once into her sleeve and immediately dismisses it.
She’s not sick. It’s just the air conditioning.
“God,” Nolan groans from behind her, “I think I did all of Lopez’s paperwork wrong.”
“Shocker,” Lucy deadpans, though her voice is already hoarser than it was yesterday.
Tim walks past and glances at her sideways. “You good?”
“Yep,” she says a little too quickly. She clears her throat. “Just dry in here.”
Tim hums noncommittally. He doesn't push — but she catches the look he gives her before he turns away.
Nolan flops into the chair beside her.
“You think we’re next?”
“What?” she asks, rubbing her temple.
“I mean, statistically. Harper’s out. Lopez is out. This place is crawling with germs. We’ve been sharing desks, doors, breath.”
“Okay, please never say 'sharing breath' again.”
“But think about it,” he continues, completely ignoring her. “We're overdue.”
Lucy shrugs, unwilling to admit that her skin feels clammy and her shoulders are aching in that weird flu-y way. Her throat still feels dry — no, tight now — but she takes another sip of water and tells herself it’s just dehydration. Maybe she didn’t sleep enough. Maybe she’s just… tired.
“Don’t jinx it,” she says.
“Jinx what?”
“That we’re ‘due.’ Let us be happy, Nolan.”
Nolan narrows his eyes, mock-suspicious. “Wait. Are you feeling something? 'Cause if you are- ”
“Nope.”
She coughs again. Clears her throat.
“Absolutely not.”
She sees Tim watching from across the room, but she turns her back before he can say anything.
She's fine.
The next morning, Lucy wakes up to a throat that feels like it’s been set on fire and scraped raw with sandpaper. She blinks at her ceiling, willing it away, but the congestion has already taken hold — head pounding, nose stuffy, chest tight.
Still, she gets dressed.
Still, she drives to work.
Still, she walks into the station like nothing’s wrong.
Until she opens her mouth to say good morning — and dissolves into a coughing fit halfway through the word “Hey.”
Tim looks up from his desk, brows raised. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches her with that classic Bradford stare — the one that’s 30% judgment, 70% concern, and 100% proof that she’s not fooling anyone.
“You sound like you swallowed sandpaper,” he says finally.
“I’m fine,” Lucy rasps. She waves him off with the energy of a half-dead goldfish.
“You’re plague-adjacent at best.”
She manages to make it to her desk before the next round of coughing hits. This one leaves her hunched forward, wheezing. Her water bottle’s empty, and her head’s spinning slightly.
She glares up at him. “I can work.”
“Chen.”
“Bradford.”
“Go home.”
She opens her mouth to argue — but her voice cracks completely, giving out with a dry, useless squeak.
Tim doesn’t even look smug about it. Just sighs and gestures toward the door.
“Out. You’re not helping anyone by coughing on the paperwork.”
She scowls, but the truth is, she’s too tired to fight. Her limbs feel too heavy, and her face is warm in the way that means either a fever is coming on or she’s just totally, miserably done.
She mutters something under her breath that might be “traitor,” grabs her bag, and trudges out the door.
By the time she gets home and flops onto her couch in sweatpants, the group chat has already blown up.
Tim: Lucy’s out sick now too.
Nyla: AND THE PLAGUE CLAIMS ANOTHER.
Angela: We should start a quarantine pod. No men allowed.
Tim: …?? I’m literally not even sick.
Lucy: Yet.
She sets her phone aside, curls deeper into her blanket, and coughs until her chest aches.
She might’ve lost the battle — but if Tim’s next, she’s definitely winning the war.
The day after Lucy goes down, Tim shows up at the station looking like he’s singlehandedly preparing for a CDC outbreak press conference.
He’s wearing black nitrile gloves, a KN95 mask, and has a full-size bottle of hospital-grade hand sanitizer clipped to his belt like a sidearm. His shirt sleeves are rolled precisely to his elbows, and he walks like a man on a mission: clean everything, touch nothing, and absolutely do not get sick.
He says nothing as he enters the bullpen. Just marches to his desk, sets down a fresh package of sanitizing wipes, and gets to work.
Wipes his desk.
His keyboard.
His phone.
The arms of his chair.
The underside of his mouse.
Then he opens his drawer and wipes inside that too.
Across the bullpen, Nolan watches him with wide eyes and a half-eaten breakfast sandwich in hand.
“Uh… morning?” he tries.
“Is it?” Tim deadpans, not looking up. “Because I just watched you touch that doorknob and then wipe your nose with the same hand.”
“Okay, rude.”
“You’re a biological hazard.”
Tim pulls out his own pen — a matte black stainless steel one, probably wiped with alcohol ten times before it left his glove compartment — and tucks it into his breast pocket like it’s a syringe.
Lucy’s name is still listed as out sick on the whiteboard. Tim eyes it for a second before turning back to his desk and opening the group chat.
Tim: I live on bitterness and protein. No strep survives in me.
It doesn’t take long for the replies to roll in.
Nolan: That explains your personality.
Lucy: Don’t make me lick your water bottle.
Tim: Try it. I dare you.
Angela: It’s been 12 hours. You’re not the final girl in a horror movie.
Nyla: Yet.
He doesn’t dignify that with a reply. Instead, he pulls out his lunch — a pre-sealed, vacuum-packed protein shake and a granola bar still in its original wrapper — and lays them on a freshly sanitized napkin like they’re evidence in a murder trial.
“Is that shake from a vending machine?” Nolan asks, watching like he’s narrating a documentary.
“No,” Tim says without looking up. “Ordered it online. Delivered yesterday. Sanitized it with 70% isopropyl.”
“…Dude.”
Tim doesn’t care. Not even a little. He's got a routine now. Every time he touches something shared — door handles, keyboards, paperwork from dispatch — he sanitizes. He refuses to touch his face. Doesn’t let anyone come within three feet of his desk. And he will not, under any circumstances, let Nolan borrow a pen.
“You let me use that last week,” Nolan points out.
“Last week, Lopez wasn’t sick. Things change.”
He’s not even joking. He says it with the grim conviction of someone who’s read multiple articles titled “What Strep Bacteria Can Survive On” and is determined to outlive everyone around him.
By late afternoon, the joke’s officially made its way around the station: Bradford’s gone full bunker mode.
And honestly? He doesn’t care.
He made it through Lucy getting sick. He watched Nyla croak through briefing and Angela go down like a defiant soldier. And he’s still standing.
If he has to go full biohazard to stay that way? So be it.
Besides, it gives him something to focus on. Something to control. Something to do that isn’t thinking about Lucy curled up on her couch, pale and miserable and refusing to let anyone come over because she “doesn’t want to infect them.”
The image sticks in his head more than he’d like to admit.
So, yeah. Maybe he wipes his desk a third time.
Just in case.
By the next morning, Tim has leveled up from mildly excessive to full-blown contagion containment unit.
He shows up in a new mask — heavier duty, more structured — and an army-green windbreaker that might as well be a hazmat suit in his eyes. He’s swapped out his gloves for a fresh box and added a portable UV wand to his toolkit, which he uses to scan the breakroom fridge handle before touching it.
He’s not kidding anymore.
He has charts. Routines. A running mental log of every surface touched by a sick person in the last seventy-two hours. He’s tracking transmission pathways in real-time.
At one point, Nolan reaches for the communal coffee pot.
“Nope,” Tim says, physically swatting his hand away.
“What? It’s coffee—”
“You stood too close to Lopez’s desk on Tuesday. You’re compromised.”
Nolan stares at him. “Dude.”
Tim lifts his UV wand like a lightsaber and points it at Nolan’s hand. “Don’t test me.”
Lucy — still out sick — has been watching the madness unfold from her couch with increasing delight.
Lucy: Tim just texted me to ask if strep can live on leather. Should I be concerned.
Angela: Wait… was he talking about his seats or something else?
Lucy: He didn’t specify and I’m afraid to ask.
At lunch, he refuses a donut that Nolan offers him from a sealed box.
“It’s from a bakery,” Nolan argues.
“Do I know the bakery?”
“It’s a chain!”
“Doesn’t matter. Chain of infection, maybe.”
Nolan groans. “You’re insufferable.”
Tim shrugs. “I’m not sick.”
That shuts Nolan up. Because, somehow, Tim still isn’t. While the rest of them have dropped like flies, Tim’s soldiering on, single-handedly holding down half the patrol roster and sanitizing every door handle he walks past like a man on a personal mission from God.
But the group chat is starting to turn.
Angela: We get it, Bradford. You’re winning.
Nyla: How many granola bars can one man eat in a week.
Lucy: He wiped down my keyboard from home. He wasn’t even here. I don’t know how he did it.
Tim: You’re welcome.
He starts eating lunch outside — away from “contaminated air,” he says. He refuses handoffs in person and makes people drop things on his desk from a distance. At one point, he glares at a sneeze from down the hall like it personally insulted his mother.
Angela sends a selfie of her and Nyla under blankets with a bottle of cough syrup between them:
Angela: At least he’s committed.
Nyla: You guys are all doomed.
Lucy: He’s going down. I’m manifesting it.
Tim: You’ll see. I’m untouchable.
He doesn’t want to admit it — not to himself, not to anyone — but he’s tired. He’s been sleeping less, overthinking more. He keeps replaying the sound of Lucy’s voice the last time he saw her: all scratchy and soft, halfway between stubborn and worn out.
He’s not worried.
He’s just… being smart.
Just in case.
A throat tickle.
Just one.
Barely there — not even a proper cough — but enough to make Nolan pause mid-sentence while talking to Celina. He sips his coffee. Clears his throat. Frowns.
“Weird,” he mutters, and clears it again.
By the time he walks back into the bullpen ten minutes later, he’s convinced he has it.
Not just a cold. Not just the flu. No — the strep. The plague that’s already taken out three members of the team and driven Tim to full CDC cosplay.
“You good?” Tim asks, glancing up from his desk.
Nolan doesn’t answer immediately. He’s staring into his phone, visibly sweating — pale, wide-eyed, and for some reason already wearing a hoodie zipped up to his chin like he's bracing for sub-zero winds.
“I think my uvula’s swollen,” he says at last.
Tim blinks. “What.”
“The hangy thing in the back of your throat. Mine feels… lopsided.”
“Oh my God,” Celina mutters nearby. “Here we go.”
Within fifteen minutes, Nolan has booked himself an appointment at urgent care.
Within twenty, he’s left the precinct entirely.
He sends a text to the group chat on his way there:
Nolan: Guys? Is it fatal if my uvula’s lopsided?
Angela: I’m blocking you.
Nyla: You don’t HAVE strep.
Nolan: But I MIGHT.
Tim: I’m adding Smitty.
Angela: Please don’t. We’ve suffered enough.
Tim closes the chat and rubs a hand down his face. He doesn’t know what he expected.
Actually, no — this is exactly what he expected.
Nolan’s final message for the day is a photo of three over-the-counter bottles lined up on his counter when he finally gets home: echinacea, Vitamin C gummies, and a bottle of elderberry syrup with “IMMUNE DEFENSE” written in Comic Sans.
Nolan: I’m going to beat this with science.
Tim: You don’t HAVE anything.
Nyla: Except emotional instability.
Angela: And a death wish, apparently.
Lucy: I hate all of you. I’m going back to sleep.
Tim stares at the screen for a long moment… then opens a drawer, pulls out another granola bar, and mutters under his breath:
“This is why I don’t talk to people.”
The group chat has finally gone quiet.
For maybe an hour. Maybe two.
Lucy’s asleep, Nyla’s dozing with cough syrup in her system, Angela’s watching Moana for the third time with Jack, and Tim is at his desk in blessed silence, unwrapping a disinfected granola bar with surgical precision.
Peace. Beautiful, fleeting peace.
And then it happens.
A notification pings.
New message. From… Smitty.
Smitty: Heard there was a virus. I’ve been living in the locker room for 3 days. Safer that way.
The collective reaction across the city is visceral.
Tim freezes mid-bite.
Lucy jerks awake on the couch and stares at her phone in horror.
Angela nearly spills tea on her blanket.
Nyla sits up with a wheeze that sounds like the beginning of another coughing fit.
Lucy: I’m sorry, WHAT.
Angela: I—no. I refuse. Someone remove him.
Tim: How did you even get into this chat.
Nyla: WHO ADDED SMITTY.
Smitty sends a photo.
Blurry. Dim. Taken from what appears to be a duffel bag nest in the corner of the locker room. There are at least three energy drink cans, a balled-up jacket, and something that looks suspiciously like a bag of stale Funyuns.
Smitty: I’ve got it all set up. Pillow, snacks, emergency MREs. No one sneezes on me in here.
Lucy: Is THAT why it always smells like depression and expired burritos back there??
Tim: That smell’s been haunting my nightmares.
Smitty: Probably. That’s me.
Angela: I’m logging out. I’m done. Tell Grey I quit.
Smitty continues texting unprompted:
“I knew this day would come. Been waiting for the biological reckoning. That’s why I saved the good locker. Top shelf. No vent exposure.”
Tim rubs both hands down his face.
“I was safer when Nolan thought he had a lopsided uvula,” he mutters to himself.
Across the bullpen, Celina sees the look on his face and wisely does not ask.
Nyla: If I cough hard enough, will I pass out and escape this timeline.
Lucy: Mood.
Smitty: If anyone needs canned beans, I’ve got a stash behind the cleaning supplies.
Angela: Tim, block him.
Tim: I tried. He re-added himself.
Nyla: I hate this precinct.
Silence finally returns.
Until Nolan, of course, adds one more text for good measure:
Nolan: Do the beans have BPA-free lining or nah?
Everyone: NO.
It finally hits him on day 7.
He wakes up with a sore throat. Just a scratch, really. Barely worth noticing. He drinks water, ignores it, tells himself it’s allergies, dry air, maybe the stress of single-handedly keeping the station from descending into anarchy.
But by mid-morning, he’s swallowing broken glass.
His voice has dropped an octave — not in a sexy, brooding kind of way, but more like “gravel pit with vocal fry.” He winces every time he speaks. His limbs ache. His head throbs. His stomach feels off, like food’s suddenly a foreign concept.
And worst of all… he knows.
There’s no denying it. No pretending he’s fine. Not with the way he nearly collapses into his desk chair after returning from roll call, or how he has to lean on the edge of the table during a check-in with Grey.
Grey doesn’t even try to argue.
“Bradford,” he says simply. “Go home. You look like you’re about to pass out into the printer tray.”
Tim nods. Once. Slowly. Dignity hanging by a thread.
He drives home in silence. No radio. No podcasts. Just the growing pressure behind his eyes and the persistent, bone-deep ache in his shoulders.
By the time he gets to his apartment, he’s shaking.
He doesn’t even make it to the bedroom. He collapses onto the couch, dragging a blanket over himself with all the energy of a dying man. He clutches a bag of throat lozenges to his chest like it’s his last worldly possession. He’s wearing a hoodie that Lucy once made fun of (“You look like a hungover gym teacher”), and he couldn’t care less.
He manages to send one text before passing out.
Tim: i hate all of you.
Lucy reads it at 2:13 p.m. from her own couch, where she’s halfway through a ginger tea and her second viewing of Howl’s Moving Castle. She stares at the message, rereads it, and smirks.
She FaceTimes him. It rings twice and goes to voicemail.
She tries again. No answer.
Frowning now, Lucy grabs her keys.
She uses the spare key he gave her months ago “for emergencies.” (She decides this qualifies.)
Inside, it’s quiet. Dim. The blinds are still closed, and the air smells faintly of eucalyptus from a vapor rub jar left open on the coffee table.
Tim is asleep on the couch, curled on his side, hoodie bunched at his waist, sweatpants wrinkled from tossing. There’s a half-empty bottle of water, two discarded tissues on the floor, and the bag of throat lozenges clutched to his chest like a teddy bear.
His nose is red. There’s a slight flush on his cheeks. His mouth is parted just enough to snore, and the frown between his eyebrows hasn’t relaxed even in sleep.
Lucy stares for a beat.
Then she pulls out her phone.
Snap.
She doesn’t even wait. Opens the group chat. Posts it immediately:
Lucy: He lives.
The reactions are immediate.
Angela: Omg he looks like a Victorian orphan.
Nyla: I knew it. I CALLED IT.
Tim (half an hour later): Did you break into my apartment??
Lucy: You left your door unlocked.
Tim: I literally didn’t.
Lucy: Okay well you shouldn’t have given me a key then.
Nolan: I never got sick 😌
Everyone: Shut up.
Smitty: Do you want me to bring you some beans?
Angela: WHO LET SMITTY BACK IN???
Tim: I’m too sick to block him. Someone else do it.
Lucy: You're welcome.