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Jonny wakes up on the floor, soaked in a cold sweat.
This isn’t unusual. Jonny spends more time than not drunk off his ass, and this can lead to waking up in strange places. What is unusual is that this place is tangled up in his own sheets, next to his own bed.
His head swims as he turns it to the side, trying to work out how he could have ended up in this situation. The answer comes to him in fragments.
He went to bed early, hoping to stop a migraine that had been assaulting him all day. There had been zero alcohol involved – only a double dose of some spibuprofen and some melatonin, which would probably explain how he ended up on the floor without jolting himself awake in the process.
By all means, he really ought to be feeling fantastic right now.
Alas, it’s quite the opposite. When he finally works up the energy to stand, the world tilts on its axis and he reels over onto his bed, slamming his head into the wall with a sharp cry of pain.
His vision blacks out for a moment, and when the world returns to focus he realizes just how hard his heart is pounding.
The ticking is its usual metronome, but every little click feels like it’s vibrating through his chest. He can feel his blood coursing through his ears, creating false echoes of a human heartbeat that he hasn’t had for millennia.
He flicks his tail in displeasure, hoping for the dizzying sensations to subside. He’ll just try to wait it out.
They don’t ease. Even laying in the same position, sprawled on his bed, shivering horribly – seriously, why is it so cold? – everything still whirs in his vision.
It’s nauseating, and Jonny has a high accustomment to motion sickness. He curls up into the fetal position, praying to some god somewhere that his stomach will stop roiling and that closing his eyes will help.
The intense vertigo remains even when he does close his eyes, and he feels like he’s falling for several seconds until it balances out to a more gentle disorientation.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, his voice sounding strange to his ears. His throat is burning; it was a practice day yesterday, but this seems a little extreme for just a day of running through High Noon.
His heart, still sending blood through his ears until they ring, stutters in its metronome. Jonny’s chest seizes, a coughing fit taking him.
“Shit!” He yelps through hacking coughs, vertigo and nausea surging. It’s all he can do to not fall off his bed somehow and/or throw up.
Miserably, hazily, Jonny laments the concept of karma.
Eventually, his body calms down. He’s still freezing and dizzy, but he isn’t quite sure if he just imagined his heart glitching, or if something’s wrong, because it settles back to normal within a few beats. (He’s beginning to suspect the latter, with such little reason to feel like this in the first place.)
He gets up, slower this time. He lacks the energy to dress up fully, but with more time and breaks taken than he’d ever admit, he’s pulled on a t-shirt and jeans. He could lay in bed all day, and it’s tempting, but then he might risk someone looking for him and finding him weak and suffering for no goddamn reason.
(What if something’s wrong with you, a voice in his head whispers, and someone needs to break you open to fix it. You can’t let that happen, it says, you have to be fine.)
He stumbles through the halls of the Aurora, at the same time cursing and praising the low gravity. Bouncing off the walls in his normal way might kill him – or at least whatever’s left of his brain sloshing through his skull – but at least he isn’t struggling to drag his limbs across the floor under the full weight of the forces of the universe.
He doesn’t even try the kitchen. The mere thought of putting anything in his mouth, or, gods forbid, smelling food, makes him suppress a gag. The common room is his best bet, filled with blankets and the largest comfy horizontal surface on the ship that isn’t a bed. With some luck, he can take a nap without anyone being too much of a disturbance.
He almost makes it without another incident. The mercifully floaty feeling of the low-grav hallways disappears at the locking point between the O’Neill Ring and the Aurora’s main body, and he stumbles into the common room on fawn-shaky legs, grateful for the mercy of the lights being off.
Then his heart starts to tick out of sync.
It isn’t stuttering this time, but the even pace is fractions of a second too quick. Someone with a heart that naturally varied in its meter would pay no mind, but Jonny’s heart has been beating in half-notes since he was eighteen years old, and the shift is about as glaring as a hole in his stomach.
Lurching onto the couch and curling up on his side in as tight a ball as he can manage, he wills it to stop. He can take a heart attack. He can take a failure that’s familiar, a clogged bit of piping or a gunshot wound through a valve.
This means something’s wrong with him and he doesn’t know what or how. What if he dies and it gets worse? What if-?
He chokes down a sob and turns over as someone walks in, hiding his face in the plush of the couch cushions. He looks like a pathetic bastard, even more so than his usual for the mornings when he has a raging hangover.
It’s Tim.
Maybe Tim will leave him alone. Hungover-Jonny is rarely a good playmate. Vaguely-bad Jonny won’t be either.
Of course (Karma! Again!?) Tim doesn’t let him be, wrenching his shoulder down to the couch so Jonny’s forced to stare up at him. His heart is still too fast. His vision is doubling. He tries to scowl, but from Tim’s puzzled stare he could guess it probably comes off more like a grimace.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asks brusquely, tilting his head. His eyes glow in the low light, lancing pain through Jonny’s skull.
“M’dunn’leav’me’lone,” Jonny mumbles, taking in a sharp couple of breaths afterward. He keeps forgetting to breathe.
“Get your drunk ass up, I’m bored,” he grouses, tugging on Jonny’s tail. That extracts the largest noise out of him so far today, a sharp yelp that trails into a growl at the end. He’s warning Tim, though he certainly can’t follow through. He doubts he could even stand up.
Tim punches his shoulder, annoyed, which sends Jonny into a full coughing fit. He curls in on himself even more, dry, painful wheezing seizing him. His heart stutters again, masked by the fit, before settling again at its odd pace. Jonny wants to cry. He can’t do this today.
“Shit, Jonny, you okay?” Tim asks. He actually sounds concerned, which normally Jonny would tease him about, but right now he’s too busy trying not to hack up a lung.
No, Jonny wants to reply, even though he’d sound hysterical at this point. I’m pretty sure someone is going to have to drag me kicking and screaming into the lab, because my heart’s fucked and I’m a pussy about it and I feel worse than death.
Instead he coughs so hard he gags, and Tim very hastily backs up as he vomits onto the floor next to the couch.
His stomach really doesn’t feel any better after doing this.
He hates his life.
“Shit, love, you’re really not okay, huh?” Tim asks, approaching once Jonny is done puking his guts out. Jonny shakes his head. He really, really isn’t.
“What’s wrong?”
Jonny doesn’t want to answer. Tim will drag him off to the lab for an adjustment, and it’ll hurt so fucking bad – no matter how much pain he’s in now, fixing whatever’s wrong with his mechanism will be a thousand times worse – and it might just lead to more tinkering, and-
“Jonny~” Tim singsongs. “Get out of your head.”
It’s hard to do that when it’s pounding so damn hard. Still, he tries, squinting at Tim. He tries to speak, but his voice cracks and falters. His throat burns.
“Ffffffuckin’ leave me be,” he moans after a significant bit of effort just to push the sounds past his lips. “Fuck. M’dizzy. Don’t let me fall.”
“You’re laying down, love,” Tim replies. That would make sense, but he’s pretty sure he’s falling also. His chest is doing something and it doesn’t feel very good. He coughs again weakly.
Tim presses a chilly hand against Jonny’s forehead. Despite the constant chills running through him, the feeling of cool skin is heavenly. He pushes into the touch.
“Fuck,” Tim swears.
“Fuck.”
Tim didn’t sign up for this. He signed up for annoying a hungover, exhausted Jonny until he relented and played a game of kill-or-be-killed.
Instead, Jonny had coughed until he puked and now, with a hand against his forehead, Tim can tell that he’s burning up.
“Poor baby…” he sighs. It’s easy to shift to being doting, because Jonny is rarely sick, but when he is he gets languid and sweet and uncharacteristically adorable. “I’ll get someone else to clean up. C,mon. You need help.”
Oddly, Jonny shoves himself away, cowering and shaking, pressing far enough into the couch cushions he looks like he could disappear into them.
“No!” He cries, his voice raw. “I’m fine, really, don’t make me!”
The stress of talking sends him into another coughing fit, and Tim rubs his back through this one so he doesn’t choke.
“What’s even the problem, Jonny? Jesus Christ. Let me get you up.”
Jonny’s breath picks up speed, and Tim frowns. It looks like he’s heading toward a panic attack, but for what? Just because he doesn’t feel well? Jonny feels like shit half the time even when he’s not sick.
“My heart- don’t- I know I’m fucked up- lemme die I don’t wanna go!” He warbles. “Don’ bring me t’Mom!”
Tim… Didn’t even bring Carmilla into this. He would never. He’s cruel, but rarely that much. It’s a sore subject, for the ones around when she was.
“I never mentioned anything about Carmilla,” he protests, still trying to lift Jonny into a bridal carry. “I’m bringing you to your room, or mine if yours is gross. Gods, you’re trembling.”
“I’m cold,” Jonny whispers, like it's an admonition of guilt.
“I’ll get Brian. He can warm you up.” He manages to lift Jonny, who’s calmed now that Tim assured him he wouldn’t get Carmilla (disregarding the fact that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.)
“My heart isn’t working…” Jonny mumbles. “M’scared.”
“Shit, are you having a heart attack too?” Tim asks, quickly pressing a hand against Jonny’s pulse point. It… seems normal, though.
“I think you’re just delirious,” he decides. Jonny worms his way against Tim’s chest, and Tim runs his fingers through his hair. “Poor baby…”
Tim is, tragically, such a sucker for Jonny being a pathetic little meow meow. Brian will help; if nothing else, he’ll be able to make Jonny comfortable and warm.
He covers Jonny with a blanket, offhandedly suggesting that the Aurora clean up the floor — or at least get someone to do it for her. Jonny breathes shakily into his chest, occasionally flinching and grasping at his chest with tiny, stressed wheezes. He’s soaked in sweat, but Tim can’t bring himself to care about that right now.
When he gets to the bridge – a short detour from his room – he opens the door with his shoulder, not wanting to take his hand off Jonny’s forehead. He whines whenever he does it; it’s too pathetic to resist.
“Hey, Brian,” he says, tilting his head. Brian turns toward them, frowning. “Jonny’s ill, and trembling awfully. Wanna hang out in my room and cuddle him?”
Brian snorts teasingly. EJM probably, but he’s liable to be a bit of a dick either way. “Yeah? Let me get a look at him.”
There’s a double purpose to fetching Brian. He’s a doctor, as well as a pilot. If Jonny needs anything more than a couple doses of fever medicine and some rest, she’ll know what to do.
She stands up, heading over to Tim and frowning down at Jonny. Jonny hides. “What’s wrong with him?” She asks.
Tim shrugs. “I’m not a doctor.”
Brian reaches out to take Jonny’s pulse. He frowns. “Jonny, your heart…”
“Please,” Jonny whines, flinching. Tim still has no clue what they’re on about. He knows the signs of a heart attack, and this isn’t that. Jonny’s heart seems normal. “Don’t tell Mom…”
“She’s not here,” Brian murmurs, suddenly soft.
“What’s wrong with me?” Jonny asks. Brian takes him from Tim’s arms, and even from the quick brush of metal on his skin, Tim knows she’s heated up enough to comfort him from his chills. His voice is quiet when he follows up. “What will she have to do?”
Tim’s still lost.
Brian sighs. “Nothing’s wrong with your heart, sweetheart. You’ve got a really bad fever and it’s messing with it.”
“But…” Jonny protests weakly, his eyelids fluttering, “I’m cold. And I keep having palpitations.”
“You’re not cold, you’ve got chills, love,” Brian replies, thumbing around the base of Jonny’s horn nubs. “Your circulation is fine. The palpitations are probably also from the illness. You’re overheating. We can check your temperature to make sure.”
Jonny stares into the middle distance for a moment, processing. “I’m sick?” he asks, looking around at Tim, then back up to Brian.
“Duh?” Tim replies. Of fucking course he is. He’s feverish and nauseous and looks sickly enough that Tim didn’t even consider the idea of him walking back to his room on his own two feet.
Another pause. “Oh. Are you sure?”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Brian replies, rolling her eyes. She kisses his forehead.
He doesn’t even reply to that; he only whines and lets his eyes flutter closed. Brian nods at the door, and they head to Tim’s room, slow enough to keep from jostling Jonny too aggressively.
Once in Tim’s room, Brian sets Jonny down on his bed. Jonny clings to him, but Brian tugs Tim over to replace his presence. He kisses Tim’s cheek.
“I’m going to get something for his fever,” she says, running a finger through Tim’s hair. “Pretty boy.”
“Shut it,” Tim replies affectionately.
Brian goes, and Tim sits down next to Jonny, pulling his head into his lap. Jonny hums, nuzzling into his stomach and grasping out for Tim’s hand to hold.
“You’re cute, first mate,” Tim teases, winding a lock of Jonny’s sweat-damp hair between his fingers. Jonny very rarely accepts this kind of affection and vulnerability.
Jonny winds his tail around Tim’s arm. Tim presses the back of his palm to his forehead. Jonny runs hotter than a human, which thankfully Tim knows or else he’d be concerned by his temperature.
Brian comes back with some ginger ale, a towel, the fever medicine Jonny can take, and a thermometer. She’s also put her hair up in a loose bun, a thing she always does when she has to play nurse.
“You look nice,” Tim says absentmindedly, and Jonny turns to look, squinting.
“Y’look blurry.”
Brian runs his thumb along the seam of Jonny’s mouth until he opens it obediently, slipping the thermometer under his tongue. Jonny squirms uncomfortably, his face paling, and Tim takes notice of the shift in tone quick enough to pull the thermometer out of his mouth moments before he gags, dry-heaving weakly. He doesn’t actually get sick – Tim guesses there’s nothing in his stomach for him to bring up, anyhow – but it doesn’t seem like a fun experience. Brian hums, rubbing circles on his back to get him to relax. “I brought a forehead thermometer too, just figured this would be more accurate. Guess not. Poor baby.”
The forehead thermometer does the trick, reading out 41.7 degrees. His base temperature is around 39.5, so this is a pretty brutal fever.
“You gonna swallow a pill?” Brian asks. “If you won’t, I’ll have to get an IV. Dying of dehydration and your body boiling itself alive isn’t fun, sweetheart.”
“No IV… I can swallow. M’good at that.”
Tim barely bites back an innuendo. Brian rolls her eyes at him.
Brian pops the pill into his mouth, along with a sip of the ginger ale that she’s clearly hoping he’ll take better than water, at least for the moment. His throat works for a moment before he gets it down, but he does, and lets out a heavy sigh as if that was a weighty task.
“Bri…” he mumbles weakly, the word lingering in his throat. There are bruised circles under his eyes; he needs rest. It’s clear he’s fighting that. “Are you… you sure I’m sick? No surgeries? Nothing?”
This again. Tim never experienced the worst of it; Jonny was the first, around before their mechanisms had been finely-tuned machines. His migraines are shit, but rarely need any treatment other than some strong sedatives and a few days of misery. Jonny used to need surgery weekly to keep him running.
It makes sense that, losing lucidity and feeling awful, he’d be worried about that. Tim doesn’t tease. He’s too pathetic right now.
Brian shakes her head, slipping into bed with both of them and tugging Jonny’s body into her lap so he’s got the benefit of her body heat. “If I had to guess, you’ve got the spflu. Nothing to fuss about, you just have to rest and take your medicine like a good boy.”
Jonny accepts this. He repositions himself, curling into both of their touches and pulling one of the blankets over him. “Well then, m’gonna nap it off. Kiss?”
Obligingly, Tim kisses his ear. Brian leans over to give him a peck on the lips, not having to worry about such things as germs.
Sated, Jonny closes his eyes and hums, his breaths growing even. Tim scratches the base of Jonny’s horns just to hear him purr.
“He’ll be better in like, two days,” Brian says. “His immune system is really good, actually. He just gets… weird about it.”
“We’re all hot messes, Bri,” Tim replies airily.
Brian snorts. “Not me.”
“If you say so.”
Tim leans against Brian, resting his head on his shoulder. He was completely geared up to spend his afternoon running around the ship shooting things. He’d still be fine with that. But Brian kisses his forehead and starts to hum softly, and Jonny’s napping contently, and he decides that this is, indeed, a very nice way to use his time.