2goodarms | [flashback] sick day

[flashback] sick day

A decade isn't enough time for illnesses to evolve from their pre-freeze state. So many of them start the same way they always have: with a chill. A lot of times, people don't even know they're sick. What's feeling a little colder than usual, needing to curl up a little tighter under your allotted blanket?

So Curtis doesn't know, for a good forty-eight hours, until the shivering doesn't quit even after Gilliam loans him two more blankets. As soon as Tanya feels his forehead, he's whisked away to the very back of the Tail, stumbling a little as the train heaves along the tracks. Everything's tilted just a little too far off-kilter, and weaves just a little too sharply whenever they go over a bump. He's grateful when he finally has a chance to sit down.

...Actually, maybe he'll lie down for a bit. Yeah. Just a couple minutes.

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"They're bullshit, is what the fuck's up with them."

He circles around to Curtis's far side, and without hesitation ducks under his free arm, coming up with Curtis's wrist resting on his shoulder.

"Evie said Mason's the one who told everybody?"

He leans some of his weight on Edgar, too tired to object, as they continue their slow plod to the front of the tail.

"That's her, yeah."

Edgar screws up his face into a grimace of contempt, but doesn't quite dare spit.

"Bitch," he mutters. Evie shoots him a brief warning glance, but doesn't comment. "Bet she spent half the time licking Wilford's ass while she was at it."

Edgar snickers, but takes enough warning from Evie's look to not reply.

People are forming up into rows already, hurrying past the slow-moving trio; some glance at Curtis in concern, in unease, in wary curiosity.

Curtis glances down at Edgar, shooting him another brief, crooked smile. The hand braced on Edgar's shoulder quivers with exertion, but he keeps plodding on.

They're still some yards away from the head count area when the guard's voice drifts back: "All right, line up."

"Almost there," Edgar says encouragingly, and sets his jaw against the complaint starting in his shoulder; Curtis is heavy, even with Evie bracing his other side. "You just gotta stay on your feet till they count us."

"Yeah," he mumbles. "Okay."

The train's starting to do that dangerous, spinning tilt it did a couple days ago, before Tanya dragged him back to see Evie. He stumbles, struggling to catch his breath; Evie grabs hold with both arms to keep him upright.

Edgar tries to do the same on his side, but his skinny arms haven't got much muscle on them and he's at a bad angle.

The last few rows are forming up around them. He casts a desperate glance around to see who he can ask for help, if they can't hold Curtis up any longer.

He can feel himself listing to one side, about to overbalance onto Edgar. Curtis swears, struggles to right himself, clutches hard at Evie's arms.

(It feels like he's clamping down with all his strength. In reality, the grab's feeble, barely supportive at all.)

"Hey," says Evie sharply to a man on Edgar's other side. This isn't a request; it's a demand. "Little help?"

Edgar looks up at him in a silent echo of Evie's demand. It's Reese, who hesitates visibly -- deciding whether he's more afraid of catching Curtis's fever or of looking bad, is Edgar's guess.

"Come on, man," and he hears his voice rise and wobble alarmingly, "come on, give us a hand --"

"You only gotta help for three minutes." She lifts her chin, even as she heaves Curtis up a little to try and readjust her grip on him. "You can do that much. Come on."

Reese chews his lip a moment longer.

"Come on," and now Edgar feels (and sounds) like he really might cry in a moment, not so much from fear or sadness as furious anger. "Kind of fuckin coward are you, scared to hold a guy up for thirty seconds cause you might catch his cold --"

(Other people are looking around at them now.)

And then there's a third set of arms on Curtis, gently but firmly guiding him upright.

Reese just keeps staring at them, slack-jawed, as Macgregor adjusts his support and glances from Evie to Edgar in silence. When his eyes find Reese -- and the glance lingers, and hardens -- Reese looks away as if fascinated by the train wall.

Edgar blinks hard, looking up at Macgregor.

"Thanks." It wasn't supposed to be a whisper, but it's all he can manage.

"Thank you," echoes Evie, not much louder.

Macgregor only nods, turning his attention to the people in front of them. They're about two-thirds of the way through, the wave dipping closer and closer as each row kneels to the cold floor.

The last rows are always a little more ragged in movement than the first, composed as they usually are of the stragglers, the weak, the tired, the infirm. Edgar's still afraid something will go wrong when their turn comes, they won't be able to move fast enough, or they'll try to and lose their grip and Curtis will fall over --

He looks up at Macgregor again, draws a breath, squares his shoulders. (He can do that now, with less of Curtis's weight on him.)

The guard clicks his counter, and the row in front of them bends and sinks to the floor.

"Okay," Evie's murmuring to Curtis. "Easy. On the count of three; one, two..."

Click, goes the counter.

"Three."

Curtis tries to keep the movement controlled, but the fever has other ideas. His knees buckle; with a small grunt, Macgregor takes a little more of his weight as the three of them ease him to the floor.

"Fuck," wheezes Curtis once they're there, and leans his head on Evie's shoulder, utterly spent.

Edgar fumbles for his hand and squeezes it. "You're okay," he whispers, "you're good, you made it."

Curtis squeezes back, feebly, and lets his hand go slack in Edgar's as he shuts his eyes.

"You gonna be able to get him up to distribution?" Macgregor's voice creaks, rumbles, like the train itself.

"We could use the help if you're still offering," answers Evie. "I'd skip it and take him back, he's still got some of yesterday's block left, but..."

"Yeah."

People are getting to their feet, shuffling forward, making a line. The guards watch dispassionately, as ever.

Reese avoids their eyes as he clambers to his feet and moves to join the slow current of people.

"Come on, Curtis," says Evie gently. "Five more minutes and then we'll get you back to bed."

He groans out another curse, but does his best to be more than dead weight as Evie and Macgregor pull him back to standing.

As soon as Curtis is upright and steady, Macgregor reaches out to clamp a hand on Reese's shoulder.

With a muffled yelp, Reese stumbles back. "What?"

(Edgar's eyes are huge, watching.)

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