Chapter Text
Rigby had been sick before — food poisoning from a questionable street dog, heat exhaustion so bad he saw sounds, and that one time he chugged an expired energy drink he found fished out of a bush. But this? This was different. This was a quiet, creeping sickness that stole the color from his fur and the snark from his voice.
It started on Day 1 with a low-grade nausea and a nonstop, theatrical groaning that was, for Rigby, practically baseline. By Day 2, it had escalated to full-blown, gut-wrenching vomiting and dramatic declarations delivered from his deathbed. “I’m DYING, dude! Tell Pops to build a statue of me! A really cool one, maybe with a skateboard!”
But by Day 3… there was nothing. Silence. And silence from Rigby was never a good sign. It was an alarm bell.
Mordecai finally stood outside his bedroom door, the wood feeling like a barrier to something he didn't want to see. He knocked softly. “Rigby? Bro? You alive in there?”
A muffled, pitiful “No,” was the only reply.
He pushed the door open anyway. The smell hit him first — a thick, cloying cocktail of sickness, stale sweat, and despair. Rigby lay curled into a tight ball under his blanket, a small, shivering lump of misery. His fur was matted and messy, his eyes glassy and unfocused, and his tail, usually a twitching barometer of his mood, lay limp and lifeless on the sheets. He didn't even look annoyed to see him, which was, in its own way, absolutely terrifying.
“Dude… what’s going on?” Mordecai asked, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he stepped inside.
Rigby rolled over slowly, his movements pained and deliberate. “I feel… gross,” he whispered, his voice thin and reedy. “Not like fun gross. The bad gross. My stomach keeps doing Olympic-level flips and I think I’m gonna puke again.”
“You haven’t eaten,” Mordecai said, stating the obvious. “You haven’t complained about Benson being a dick today. That’s scary.”
Rigby blinked at him, his gaze sluggish. “If I was faking, would I look THIS awful?” He had a point. He looked like a half-drowned sewer rat who’d just lost a fight with a lawnmower.
Mordecai didn’t even have the heart to joke. “You almost passed out yesterday just walking to the bathroom.”
Rigby raised one shaky finger, a ghost of his usual defiance. “Correction… I DID pass out. I just woke up before my head hit the floor.”
“THAT’S NOT BETTER, DUDE.”
As if on cue, Rigby groaned and curled even tighter, clutching his stomach as another wave of pain rolled through him. Mordecai knelt beside the bed, the floorboards creaking under his weight. “Bro… this has been three days. You need a doctor.”
Rigby made a face like Mordecai had just suggested they get matching tattoos of Benson’s face. “No. Doctors poke things. And ask questions. And then they poke the things they asked questions about.”
Before Mordecai could argue, Rigby’s eyes flew wide with a familiar, panicked horror. He lurched upright, scrambling desperately for the trash can. “OH— OH DUDE—!”
Mordecai panicked, jumping back. “Trash can! Trash can!”
“I KNOW—!” Rigby snapped, his voice cracking as he snagged the plastic bin just in time. The retching was awful, a deep, heaving sound that seemed to shake his entire small frame. When it finally stopped, Rigby slumped over the rim of the can, trembling and utterly defeated.
Mordecai reached out, steadying him gently by rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. “Okay,” Rigby whispered hoarsely, his eyes half-shut. “…fine. Take me to the stupid doctor.”
Mordecai let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He helped Rigby stand — or at least try to. Rigby wobbled like a newborn deer learning to walk, his legs trembling.
“Lean on me,” Mordecai said, wrapping an arm around his waist.
“I am leaning on you,” Rigby muttered, immediately listing sideways.
Mordecai caught him, pulling him back up. “Okay, okay, it’s fine. I got you.”
Rigby didn’t argue. That alone proved how bad it really was. They made their way down the hall and out the door, Rigby practically glued to Mordecai’s side, each step slow and unsteady.
“Bro…” Rigby mumbled softly, his voice barely audible against the backdrop of the park waking up. “I hate this.”
“I know,” Mordecai said, his grip tightening just a little. “But I’m right here.”
And with that, he guided his best friend, his other half, to the car — the first stop on a path neither of them knew would change everything.