Even vigilantes get flus pt 1
Whitney sneezed, loudly and harshly. He was ready feeling dizzy and the sheer force of the sneeze caused him to sway and then stumble.
He righted himself only to realize everyone was, of course, staring at him. He felt his face get hot. His father had paused in his mission briefing and was staring at his second youngest son.
His brothers stared back at him too. Charlie, his oldest brother, stared coldy. Brady, the next oldest, smirked. Cole, cloest to him in age, looked bored. His cousin Rudy, who almost always followed Brady's lead, was smirking at him as well.
"Bless you. Are you alright?" His father asked.
Whitney nodded and tried to softly sniff back the congestion he felt gathering in his nasal passages. Truthfully, he didn't feel well. He had asked for a pre-mission med check, hoping to be pumped full of meds and maybe be given an IV drip before heading out, but his cousin Jessica, who ran medical was busy, and transmitted an all clear for him, without examining him.
"S-sorry Sir!" His voice was strained and talking made him cough slightly, though he made every effort to hide it behind his sleeve.
"Son, if you're sick, you need to stay behind and get checked by med."
"He already did that. He was given the all clear. Dad, I mean- Sir. We have a mission scheduled." Charlie said.
His father gave Whitney one more long look then nodded. "Let's load in."
Whitney followed the others. He felt an aching sense of dread and he was drenched in a cold sweat.
"You went to med? You never go to med. You must be feeling really rough." Cole looked over at him as they made final preparations. "I'm surprised Jess would dope you to the gills then give you an all clear with no driving restrictions." Normally they could still patrol while sick, but there would be some limits.
"She didn't see me." He was swallowing back nausea now. "Just sent an all clear." He coughed, sniffled back more congestion. "To answer your question..." He broke off coughing, but was still swung his leg over his motorcycle and kicking up the kickstand. "I feel like absolute shit." Then he pulled on his helmet.
Cole watched Whitney's shoulders heave with several deep breaths, before he followed the rest of the pack out one of their tunnels and onto the road.
The night followed their usual routine of all the patrollers constantly merging then splitting then reconvening in various groups. They stopped various crimes and did things here and there for their dad's investigations. He was always trying to work out who was manufacturing and distributing the latest street drugs, who was stealing and selling what on the black market, or investigsting this murder or that, that the deliberately overworked and underfunded police department couldn't solve.
Cole kept more of an eye on Whitney than he usually would. His younger brother was working as hardas ever, but he was definitely pretty sick. He was constantly trying to muffle or bury coughs and sneezes and rather than his usual cheerful banter, he spoke only when spoken to and as briefly as possible.
His performance didn't seem to be suffering for all that he might have been feeling great. Cole would have heard about it if he had been slacking. Brady and Rudy, especially, loved to complain about anything Whitney did wrong. And when they worked together, Whitney executed exactly as he needed to- granted he used a few more hand gestures than usual.
"Feeling any better?" Cole asked hopefully. The sun was just peaking over the horizon. They were likely just about done after they strung up these bank robbers.
In response, Whitney sneezed, then coughed, then sneezed twice more, which triggered another coughing fit.
"You're friend doesnt sound so good there." One of the robbers suggested helpfully.
Cole didn't respond, but he hurriedly finished tying the knots and then pulled Whitney away. Whitney was still on the throes of his sneezing-coughing fit. When it finally stopped, he slumped against a wall with a soft moan, then slid down its face until he was sitting on the ground.
He groaned softly. "S-sorry. Give me... minute. S'really hot." As if in direct opposition to that statement, he shivered violently. "And really cold." He wrapped his arms around his legs and shook with another chill. "S-sorry."
"Dude. Take a minute. Take a few minutes." He dropped next to his brother, slapped the back of his hand to his brother's forehead. "Shit dude, you're burning up."
"Don't get so-" another painful sneeze, he curled away from Cole. "Close. Don't want you to get... this." Whitney's eyes were starting to close of their own accord, his body started to tip forward, until he arrested the motion and forced himself to sit upright again.
"Black Tip, Thresher, this is Great White do you copy? Hammerhead and Goblin are pinned down in Sector G, quardrant 4, can you make the assist?"
Whitney pushed himself up, leaning heavily against the wall. He nodded to Cole.
"Great White, this is Thresher. Black Tip needs medical. I'm- I'm not sure..."
"Black Tip, give me a status report."
"Roger Great White, this is Black Tip-" He cleared his throat. "I- I can do one more." His voice was strained.
"Roger Black Tip. We'll call it a night after that." His father sounded almost sympathetic.
It was the longest two hours of Whitney's life. The fever raged, unrelenting. Every muscle ached and screamed. A headache pounded between every thought and breath. It was too hot and too cold.
He hung back, providing back up, even though usually he went in the front. Cole didn't say anything, a silent understanding passing between them. He was moving slowly. Earlier, with adrensline pumping, he had felt almost like his usual self. But that coughing fit had undone something inside him and every moment since had been a struggle. But his brothers had been in real trouble and they had to help them.
Cole had quickly been granted credit for the rescue, even while he protested that Whitney deserved credit as well. Whitney had retreated to a further corner where he sat down and wrapped his arms around himself just shook with aches and chills.
He hurt. Every muscle throbbed. Every fiber ached. He was freezing, except for his face and neck that it felt like he was standing too close to a bonfire.
And then he realized the group was gone. They must not have realized he was still there and thought he left. Or maybe they had forgotten him.
He tried the radio. "Pod, this is Black Tip, do you copy?" Is what he meant to say. But his voice was gone. And his head was spinning. He had stopped sneezing, as if his body knew it could no longer afford to expend that kind of energy. But he still coughed, softly and unproductively. They did nothing but make his throat hurt more and make his head pound harder.
He shouldn't be out in daylight. People would get a good look at him. That was a rule. No one should get a good look. He found an abandoned building near by. Likely squatters had been there until recently but he and his family had been making their rounds in the neighborhoods and likely they had moved to a different home.
It was filthy inside but at least no one would bother him. He was staggering as much as walking at this point. But he made it inside and crawled towards what had once probably been a sunroom or a living room.
He listened for the radio but everyone had only confirmed they were on route.
Then he heard it. His father. "Black Tip, confirm you're on route."
He would have radio'd that he needed medical, but he was too tired to speak, too tired to do anything more but cough softly and painfully.
There were several moments of squabbling and finger pointing as everyone tried to escape blame for forgetting him. He laughed, in a feverish delerium at that. He wasn't cold anymore. He was hot. Too hot. But that felt better than the cold.
He finally lost conciouness while they attempted to assign blame. He didnt hear his father telling them to stop. Didn't hear when his father roared that because of their incompetence one of their own could be in serious trouble. Trouble that could easily have been avoided. He missed them being told to continue home and that he, Great White, would go and get Black Tip.
He awoke instantly though when he heard the splintering of wood when his dad blasted his way through the front door. Not knowing who it was, he reacted on instinct. He moved as fast as he always did, and in a moment was in a crouch, gun at the ready.
When the door cracked open, his father found him, locked and loaded. He was trembling and sweating, down one knee, but he could make a good showing defending himself.
Luckily, he realized it was his father instantly. He felt himself crumbling but he was determined not to look weak now.
"Sorry Sir..." he croaked weekly. His arms hung limply by his sides now and he struggled to get to his feet. His body swayed involuntarily.
His father was instantly at his side. "Jeezus kid, what did you do to yourself?"
"I thought-" He choked on his own words and coughed raggedly
"That was rhetorical. You're a mess. Come on, let's get you on the plane and back to the base."
He half-walked and was half carried to his father's sleek jet. He barely registered when his father started an IV drip for him and handed him a Gatorade, but his hands were trembling too much to open it so he put it down wordlessly.
"You're a mess." The words rang in his ears. He had tried so hard to hold it together. And in the end he had failed.
He felt hot tears leaking from his eyes but turned away from his father so he wouldn't see, turning a sudden shuddering sob, into another ragged coughing fit.
Neal wasnt one to admit, even to himself that he was ever worried or scared. And right now, he was both. He knew his youngest sometimes pushed himself too hard. And he knew that his oldest sons felt very threatened by their younger brother. He didn't understand it completely but he guessed it had something to do with the fact that his youngest was very talented and would likely soon start outstripping his older brother and cousin.
