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5:00am
Griselle
The seating area looked different from the vantage point of the truck. Griselle leaned against the counter, tracing the rectangle of the order window with her eyes. With Grisham leaning in the foreground, and the morning still and gray, Lumiose looked like a painting.
"You're sure it's alright?" Grisham asked, a little too coolly. He leaned a little harder on the counter and peered into the truck, examing her leg like he could somehow heal a muscle strain with sheer concern.
He really worried too much. Griselle rested her fist on her injured thigh and slowly extended her middle finger. "It's fine, Gris. It just hurts when I walk on it."
He cocked his head at her, examing her through his lashes. "It would help if you told me how you did it."
Ha. Griselle pressed her lips together. He didn't need to know about her little mishap on quad skates. She smiled, faux-sweet. "None of your business."
He took this in stride. "At least tell me you plan to see a doctor."
"I will if it gets worse." To force an end to the conversation, Griselle turned away and looked around the workspace. If she messed this up, she'd never hear the end of it.
Machines running, ice stocked, cups and lids ready to go. Only the thermometer on the wall showed anything unusual. 15° already, and only going to get warmer.
She pressed her tongue to her cheek, leaning past Grisham to cast an accusatory glance at the sun, only just risen. "What about you? It's supposed to get up to around 30 today."
Grisham gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Just keep the iced coffees coming and it should be okay," he said drily.
"Huh." Griselle reached for his forehead, pretending to check him for a fever. "I think the heat is getting to you already."
5:15am
Gwynn
Someday, someone was going to mistake Ivor for a kaiju and shoot him with a tranquilizer dart. Gwynn glared at him over her forearm, the edge of the counter digging into her ribs. It was a miracle his heelstrikes didn't put holes in the floor.
He didn't seem to notice her glaring, so Gwynn pushed herself up a little and leveled an accusatory finger at him. "You woke me up."
"Good morning," he said, sparkling with weaponized cheerfulness.
Further discussion seemed like a waste of energy, so Gwynn dragged herself fully upright, the better to level a vicious glare at Ivor, who continued to stomp around the kitchen like he was trying to bring the whole building down. "Make coffee," she said after a long, sleepy contemplation of the effort it would take to get up and do it herself.
Ivor looked at her innocently, unscrewing the lid of one of his 10,000 shaker cups. "Make coffee what?"
Gwynn threw her head back and sighed. "Make coffee or I'll kill myself." For a moment, Ivor ignored her, slowly filling his cup from the water filter, eyeing it carefully. Messing with her. "Ivoorrrr," Gwynn groaned. "This is a matter of life and death."
"Very well," Ivor said solemnly, like it really was. He slid his cup across the counter to Gwynn, and a few plastic containers of various powders. Without another word between them, they got to work.
Ivor filled the coffee pot. Gwynn unscrewed the top of one of the tubs. Whey protein. Strawberry flavored, because she always made Ivor get strawberry, because it was the least disgusting, and sometimes he made her drink it.
She dropped a scoop into the cup and watched it float like some small, chalky island. Gross. How Ivor downed this stuff daily, she would never know.
"Do you want some?" Ivor asked, pausing with his hand on the cabinet door.
Gwynn shook her head. "Absolutely not." She shut the jar and opened the next. Creatine. The cheap stuff. She frowned, looking at the label. "You messed up."
"Hm?" Ivor looked at her over his shoulder, holding up the container of ground coffee like a talisman. "I haven't started it yet."
"Not the coffee." Gwynn gestured at the creatine. "This is the brand that gives you stomach aches, remember?"
"Is it?" Ivor set the coffee down, the machine cold and dark behind him.
Gwynn sighed. She should have kept her mouth shut. "Never mind."
"It'll be fine," Ivor said with a shrug. "I've had worse."
"Well, don't come crying to me later," Gwynn said, and dumped a scoopful of creatine into the cup. Whatever. Ivor's funeral.
10:00am
Grisham
Grisham resisted the urge to tug at his collar. 10:00 in the morning and he was already too hot. His head was starting to throb now. How did Griselle do this? All this going back and forth, the endless repetition. There, back, there, back. All while the morning burned like an afternoon.
He stumbled on his way back to the truck, the tray full of empty demitasses threatening to tip. He corrected himself, blinking hard, his glasses threatening to slide down the tip of his nose. The world pulsed painfully. So bright. So sharp.
But it was... strangely good... It was good to work like this, to talk to people. The food truck wasn't exactly isolating, but it made him so tall and distant.
Griselle raised an eyebrow at him when set the tray down with a clatter. "Are you good?"
"It's hot."
"You're all sweaty."
Grisham shrugged helplessly, half an eye on a small group that looked like they might approach. "It's hot.
"But are you okay?" Griselle bit her lip, glancing over, presumably at the fan by the freezer. "We could switch. I'll survive."
Grisham shook his head, which throbbed in response. "Rest your leg, Grise."
Griselle slid him something across the counter. One of their larger cups, holding something black and effervescing over ice.
Hm. Not on the menu. Grisham blinked once, twice. "What is this?"
"Try it first," Griselle said, studying her nails.
Grisham took a sip, trying not to cringe. Iced coffee. Somehow too watery and much too sweet simultaneously, but the cold liquid did feel good in his mouth. Was he really overheating already?
He took another sip. Espresso. Diluted, slightly channeled (he'd have to talk to her about that), bubbly, tasting a little too strongly of... peach? "Grise, what is this?"
"A long black spritz with peach syrup." She leaned on the counter, grinning at him. "You liked it, didn't you?"
Grisham looked at her sideways. "Coffee should never be iced."
"Take it and sit down," Griselle said, swatting at him. "The patio's dead."
"Where did you get the syrup?" Grisham persisted, though his head was really starting to ache now. Leaning against the counter, he raised himself on his toes to peer into the truck's interior. "I can't have customers seeing flavored syrup—"
Griselle waved him off. "Go sit down. I put it in a cabinet with my name on it."
Defeated, Grisham did as he was told. Sitting felt a little too good, even if the surface of the seat was already uncomfortably hot.
After a brief moment, Griselle passed him, limping, and started gathering up the remaining empty cups and plates from the tables.
"Grise—" Grisham started to rise, but Griselle shook her head at him, glowering.
"You're all red."
"I'm sure I'm not." Grisham pressed the back of his hand to his cheek anyway. The skin did feel hot, but not that hot.
"You're all pink," Griselle amended. Setting down her tray, she drew her thumb and forefinger across the bridge of her nose and under her eyes, evidently tracing Grisham's flush.
The melting ice crackled in the peach-espresso concoction. With a sigh, Grisham lifted it to his lips.
Griselle smiled. "It's good, isn't it?"
"It's soda." Grisham took another drink anyway, because his mouth was dry. He kept half an eye on the foot traffic, but there wasn't much, and nobody seemed inclined to come sit in the heat.
Awnings. Awnings would be a sensible purchase, or patio umbrellas. A stab of pain shot through his head. Grudgingly, he drank more of Griselle's experimental coffee travesty.
"Come on," Griselle said, evidently seeing him grimace. "It's not that bad."
"You know my thoughts on the matter," Grisham said, his words coming out slightly too quietly. The act of speaking up made something at the back of his head go tight. "Make fun of me for my delicate constitution all you like, but I'm afraid I have a headache. Caffeine helps."
Griselle waved a hand airily. "Well, that's an easy fix."
"Don't move," Grisham said preemptively, and hauled himself to his feet. The whole world throbbed, not just his head, reality growing larger and smaller for one sickening moment. He closed his eyes, waiting out the nausea that followed, and the aftershocks of squeezing pain.
If Griselle noticed anything amiss, she didn't speak up, only tracked him with her eyes as he dragged himself into the truck to dig around for her painkillers.
He started to get himself a water, but paused, catching sight of the spritz sitting forgotten on the table he'd vacated. Channeled espresso. "Griselle, come here, please."
"Ooh," she said archly. "That's your Boss Voice. Am I in trouble?"
"I just want you to pull me a shot."
"I am in trouble." She mounted the two steps with difficulty, wincing, and stole Grisham's painkillers from him. "You know you're supposed to swallow these, right?" He watched her take the pills dry and wash her hands before getting him another dose and a cup of water. "Take these and wait 10 minutes before you watch me, okay?"
Grisham frowned. "Is your technique going to make me sick?"
"No," Griselle said, a little too quickly.
Sighing, Grisham took the pills.
12:00pm
Ivor
Someone (Ivor hadn't seen who) had brought in a cooler full of ice water and plastic water bottles, which was all well and good, except that a puddle was starting to form under it. Between the sweat, the bleach solution, and now the runoff from students dipping their heads and hands in the ice water, the floor was starting to become a slipping hazard.
But Ivor couldn't exactly blame them for wanting to cool down, not with his gi drenched in sweat and his ponytail coiling at the back of his neck. And besides... Maybe it was nice to stand here for a moment, unobserved, and breathe deeply, and try to unravel the knot in his stomach. It was, despite Gwynn's warning, nothing to come crying to anyone about. But it did hurt. Just enough for him to notice.
Actually, now that he was standing here thinking about it, a little bit of nausea was starting to spread up towards his ribs. Again, nothing to worry about. With no other distractions, it just came to the front of his focus, that was all.
"Sensei!" someone yelled from the cooler-turned-ice-bath. It was too crowded to see who. "Catch!"
A wet water bottle flew at him, shedding droplets all over the mats. Ivor caught it with his left hand. "Thank you." The sudden chill made him shiver, his skin crawling with phantom cold. He stared at the water bottle for a long while, watching the droplets sparkle as they dropped to the mat.
His stomach twinged again, freefall nausea and a clenching pain. Ivor let a breath out and edged to the side of the mat to take a seat somewhere out of the way. A quick glance at the clock revealed a good 20 minutes before the next class. Plenty of time to take a break and then get warm again. Plenty of time to get himself in order. Setting the water bottle aside, he straightened his legs and folded forward. His hamstrings trembled a little, resisting the stretch, but he didn't extend his arms, instead keeping them wrapped around his stomach. That was a little better. He just had to ride this out.
"Hey." A figure edged into his peripheral vision, dark fabric brushing his cheek. Gwynn. She looked down at him, her head slightly cocked. "Your students are creating a new strain of ringworm."
Ivor braced himself to get up, but his stomach protested, so he relaxed again and hunched forward. "Not so loud, please."
"I know you didn't just accuse me of being too loud." Gwynn nudged him with the rounded toe of her Mary-Jane "What's the matter with you?" When he didn't answer, she nudged him again, harder. "Ivor."
"I thought you were being rhetorical." He really should stand, was the thing. Leaning forward like this felt better, but it wasn't like there was real damage. Just pain.
"You're acting weird," Gwynn insisted.
Ivor braced his palms on the mat and got up, admittedly with less energy than usual. "Nobody's going to get r— The dojo's clean." He couldn't quite stand up straight, couldn't resist the urge to rest his hands on the knot of his belt.
Gywnn's eyes glinted with sudden understanding. She pressed her hands to her hips. "You were wrong."
"I was wrong?" Ivor said innocently, his gaze catching on his students roughhousing by the cooler.
Gwynn snapped her fingers in front of his face, or as close to it as she could reach. "You know we have medicine in the office."
Ivor raised his eyebrows. She was contradicting herself. "I thought I wasn't supposed to come crying to you."
"Idiot," Gwynn huffed, and plunged her hand into the pocket of her dress. She pressed a blister pack containing a single, violently pink pill into his palm. "Don't take that with the ringworm water."
"Gwynn—"
But she was already walking away.
2:00pm
Griselle
Grisham staggered.
Griselle's eyes flew to him, her mind lurching out of a heat-induced stasis. She tracked him with her eyes, watched him brace a palm on one of the tables and then hiss, stumbling back like he'd been shoved. The heat of the afternoon had at last chased away everyone but the most determined of Fire-type trainers, and in the lapse, Grisham was faltering.
Griselle shifted her weight, her injured leg protesting. "Hey, Gris?"
He looked up but couldn't seem to find her, his gaze wavering. Not tracking correctly. Shit. Griselle leaned forward, the sun-heated counter making a bright line across her chest. "Grisham!"
He raised a hand, then let it drop so abruptly it slapped against his thigh. His shoes scuffed on the concrete when he weaved his way over. "Need me?"
Griselle shoved her tongue into her cheek, crossing her arms. His face had turned scarlet up to the hairline, and he couldn't seem to find his balance, even just standing there still.
"I'm getting you some water."
"Not thirsty." Grisham shook his head briefly and then had to stop as his body listed too far to the side. He caught himself on the the truck and then hissed, jerking his hand back exactly like he had 30 seconds before, like he'd forgotten the metal would be hot. Sweat streamed down his face in rivulets.
"Come inside," Griselle said. It wasn't exactly cool in the truck, but the fan was going, and she could get some ice on the back of Grisham's neck.
"Not thirsty," Grisham repeated, swallowing. "How..." He broke off, brow furrowing.
"Get in the truck," Griselle said, more emphatically.
Grisham didn't appear to be listening. "How is... Unh..." He twitched slightly, rubbed his face, pushed his glasses up. His hand looked strikingly pale against his red cheeks. "...Your leg?"
"It's going to be a lot worse if I have to come down there and drag you inside."
"Worse?" Grisham squeezed his eyes shut, then cracked them open, shaking his head. "It's worse?"
Griselle pressed her lips together. "Gris, you're starting to freak me out. Come in here for a second."
"I don't need anything." Grisham swayed into the truck again, and leaned on it for a few seconds too long before straightening up and rubbing his arm, which had to have been burning. "S'dead. Do you need to sit?"
"Will you stop arguing with me? I'm telling you to get your ass in the truck!" Griselle ran a hand over her forehead, which was slick with sweat. It wasn't like Grisham to be so out-and-out stubborn, not like this. He took a particularly obnoxious satisfaction in logical coherence when he argued. Now he was just repeating himself. Like he wasn't hearing her at all.
Grisham just looked at her blankly, mouth slightly slack and throat bobbing. That... Okay, that was not good.
Griselle looked at the door, then at Grisham. Two big steps down; her leg wouldn't like it. Was he going to faint? Could she get to him in time?
Abruptly, Grisham jerked forward and vomited onto the brickwork. His forehead thumped against the side of the truck, his body jerking almost silently except for the splash of liquid against the ground.
"Fuck!" Griselle threw herself out of the truck. Her leg protested, but she barely felt it as she skidded around the corner and pulled Grisham away from the hot metal.
He bent forward and vomited again, his body convulsing and humid against hers. Even though Griselle was overheating and miserable, too. She may have been hot, but Grisham was hotter. "Nnnh..." He kept shaking his head like he was trying to clear it, like he was just tired. "Um..."
"Come on." She grabbed his arm and pulled it around her shoulders, letting out a breath when he didn't resist. At least she had that. But his legs were shaking, and her injured quad wasn't just twinging now, it was screaming as she hauled him up the steps and dumped him onto the floor.
The fall seemed to knock the wind out of him. He hit the ground with an airy "unh!" and curled forward, curving one hand around his forehead to press at his temples. "Sorry Grise... think we need to close for the day. Not feeling too well..."
"Shut up." With harsh, choppy motions, Griselle got him a cup of water and knelt, pressing it to his lips. Not giving him the option to refuse.
He shook his head anyway, trying to pull back. "Mmh—"
"Drink it." Seeming to remember he had hands, Grisham pushed the cup away. Water sloshed over the sides, onto his shirt and apron, and he shivered. "Don't want that. Feel sick."
Great. Sighing, Griselle took her glasses off and pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. "Grisham, who's my Ace?"
He mumbled something, and shivered again.
"Look at me. Who's my Ace? This is important."
"Um." He shook his head. Swallowed. Couldn't focus on her. "It's, um. Fletchling." Her first partner, years ago.
"Nope. Okay." She took a deep breath and held it, then blew it out slowly. "You just earned yourself a trip to the hospital."
* * *
Gwynn
Ivor flinched when the timer sounded.
Nothing dramatic, just a flick of the head. But for just a moment, he'd moved backward, not forward. A retreat was a retreat, no matter how miniscule.
Gwynn frowned and leaned forward in her chair, watching Ivor fight for grips on his opponent... Maurice? Some visiting black belt she'd never seen before, anyway.
Heat pressed down on her, drawing sweat from her brow. The whole room gleamed with liquid: Ivor and Maurice dripping sweat, the mats shiny with cleaning solution.
Maurice made a dive for a single leg. Ivor skittered backwards, but not quite fast enough, his right leg dragging slightly like he couldn't lift it properly.
Gwynn leaned in harder, eyes narrow. Ivor turned, freed his leg, pulled an ugly koshi-guruma, then utterly failed to take advantage of the split second he had to lock in an armbar.
What was he doing? Gwynn got out of her seat and knelt by the edge of the mat. "Stop being polite, Ivor!" Maurice was visiting, yes, but he was a black belt, too. He could take it.
"Oss," Ivor agreed, a little too quietly, and pushed into side control.
Maurice hunched up, resisting Ivor's attempts at a keylock. Another split-second opening, where Ivor could have moved into mount— missed.
Gwynn huffed, scowling. He wouldn't move his right leg. Something wasn't right. Was he injured? Cramping? It was hot enough, and he'd been running around teaching all day. It would be just like him to expect Gwynn to manage all that for him. He hadn't even thought to take anything for his stomach until she'd brought him medicine.
Hm. There was a thought. But no. Creatine never affected him this badly, not for this long. It had to be something else. Probably muscle cramps. She'd have to remind him to drink something other than water.
A flurry of activity from the mats jerked her attention away from speculation. Whatever was wrong with Ivor, it had to been have been apparent to everyone. He was rolling over like a dog. Literally— Maurice had him in a heavy knee-on-belly now, and Ivor wasn't fighting at all.
If anything, he looked panicked, his arms locked in stiff frames against Maurice's knee and hip. He had his back flat on the floor, body completely still. Frozen. Only his chest moved, jerking in shallow, wheezing breaths under the weight of Maurice's knee.
What. The. Fuck.
Gwynn passed a hand over her eyes, grimacing when her gloves squeaked over her sweaty bangs. How humiliating. What a showing for the Fist of Justice, letting any random out-of-towner use their head black belt like a doormat.
Maurice leaned in, increasing the top pressure. Ivor made a strangled noise, his breaths loud and shallow and panicked. His elbows extended slightly as he went, somehow, even stiffer, but that was it.
"Ivor!" Gwynn barked. "Lock in!"
But he didn't move.
Maurice slid his knee forward to progress into mount. Now Ivor moved, spine arching as he desperately slapped at Maurice's hip.
Gwynn could have cried. Top pressure? He was tapping to top pressure?
"What's wrong?" Maurice was already getting off him, confused. "What happened?"
Ivor didn't say anything. Didn't do anything. Just lay there panting on his back with his eyes closed, teeth bared and every muscle visibly rigid.
"Ivor..." Gwynn kicked her shoes off and stepped onto the mat, wincing when the cleaning solution soaked into her tights. "You're being embarrassing "
Other students were starting to notice. A particularly eager blue belt (Abel?) hopped onto the mats. "Did you knock the wind out of him?"
"I don't know." Maurice knelt and tapped Ivor's cheek. "Ivor. Is it your ribs?"
Ignoring them, Ivor pulled his knees up and took a slightly deeper breath. Opening his eyes, he found Gwynn immediately and seemed to rally himself, sitting up without taking Maurice or Abel's hands, even when they offered.
But he wasn't recovering the way he should have, wasn't acting right. If it was a muscle cramp, he would have said something by now. Same for any injury.
"I'm alright," Ivor said to the group at large, holding out a hand for Maurice to slap and fist bump.
Gwynn bit her lip. Why wasn't he getting up?
"What happened?" Maurice asked. "Your ribs?"
But Ivor wasn't holding his ribs. Gwynn looked at him, hard. He was holding his stomach, elbows drawn in tight to his hips. And... he was shivering.
"I don't know," Ivor said. Maurice held out a hand for him, and he took it, rising unevenly with most of his weight on his left leg.
The moment he got his feet, he turned deathly pale and hunched forward, his gaze unfocusing.
"Uh, Sensei?" Abel exchanged a look with Maurice.
Gwynn waved a hand at them. "Back off. I'll handle him. It's probably just the heat."
"Are you sure?" Abel asked. "If he goes down, you can't catch him."
"He's not going to go down." Rolling her eyes, Gwynn took Ivor by the sleeve and jerked him in the direction of the bathroom.
"Check his ribs," Maurice called after her.
She waved him off.
Ivor dragged behind her, holding his stomach and limping as they went, but she refused to slow down, refused to stop until they reached the bathroom. Locking the door behind them, Gwynn cornered him against the wall, glaring with everything she had. "Idiot! Why didn't you tell anyone your stomach hurt? If the medicine didn't help, you should have said something."
Ivor shook his head, but without much verve. "It wasn't... It— I was feeling better."
"Clearly you weren't." He still had his right hand pressed to his stomach. Who did he think he was fooling?
Ivor covered his mouth with his other hand, still feebly shaking his head. "I wouldn't have..." He swallowed hard. "Not fair to the Fist of Justice... not to put my best foot forward."
"That's exactly what I'm saying!" Gwynn huffed, planting her hands on her hips. "You embarrassed us because you were too —What? Proud? Stupid?— to call off the roll."
"No." Ivor wasn't looking at her, his half-lidded eyes drifting somewhere over her shoulder. "I was feeling... better..." He pitched forward, knocking into her so hard she stumbled. For a split second, Abel's words filled her head —if he goes down, you can't catch him— but Ivor only fell to his knees in front of the toilet and gagged.
Gwynn scarcely noticed the sound of vomiting. It wasn't like Ivor to lie. If he insisted he'd been feeling better, then he really had been feeling better. Not that that meant anything, because he was certainly worse now. Her eyes fell on him, shivering over the toilet despite the oppressive heat. "Ivor."
"S-sorry." The sound of his frantic breaths bounced off the tile, interspersed with hiccuping gags. "I'm okay. I'm okay; you can go."
Heat rushed to Gwynn's cheeks. She should leave. That would show him. Leave him in there vomiting until someone else found him or he had to crawl out and get somebody. "Don't lie to me. If you need my help, then ask for it."
"Gwynn..." Ivor fell back, pulling his knees up and leaning against the wall. He'd gone pale as a corpse, his face completely wet with sweat. "It's not... not, uh... your job. G-go and get—"
"Shut up, Ivor."
He bit his lip, pressing his chin to the tops of his knees.
Gwynn crossed her arms, scowling at him. She'd never seen him so sick before in all her life, and, idiot that he was, he was still trying to act like the sole adult in the situation. Like Gwynn wasn't capable of hard things. Scary things. Like sending her away to wonder on her own wouldn't be worse. "I can stay here all day," she said. "Can you?"
Ivor shook his head, defeated. "I... need some help getting to the hospital."
The hospital?
A jolt of lightheadedness. For just a moment, Gwynn stood frozen. The hospital... Ivor was in a good deal of pain then, more than he was letting on. What was going on?
She took a breath through her nose. "You're overreacting. It's just a stomach bug."
"Gwynn." Ivor looked like he was about to cry. "It... I..." He wasn't breathing right, too fast and too shallow. And even still, trying to soften the situation for her. "Gwynn, I..." A further struggle, in short breaths and deep swallows and tears welling up in his eyes. "Listen. I really don't feel right. Something hurts."
Gwynn closed her eyes. That wasn't like him at all. "Okay. Let's get you there."
5:00pm
Griselle
The little goth girl from the Fist of Justice (Gwynn?) was staring at the newborns. She didn't look particularly happy about the circumstance, scowling at the tiny babies like they had each done her a personal wrong.
Griselle limped to a stop beside her. A little too close for comfort, but the viewing window was tiny. Made sense. Most new moms probably didn't like the idea of having their babies on display like bakery fare.
Ah.
Grisham was supposed to come over tonight, take advantage of Griselle's north-facing windows to try out a new focaccia recipe somehwere relatively cool.
"You're standing too close to me," Gwynn said dully, her gaze fixed on one of the sleeping babies.
Griselle snorted, letting her irritation chase away melancholy thoughts of baking with Grisham. "You don't own the hallway. I can look at the babies if I want to."
"It's creepy."
Griselle turned to her, heat rising in her cheeks, heart beginning to pound. As far as distractions went, picking a fight with a teenager wasn't the most dignified option, but... No. Grisham would certainly disapprove. It would get back to him somehow, even asleep in his hospital bed, shivering under a cooling blanket. "What are you doing here, anyway?" Griselle asked. Verbal aikido. Wasn't she so restrained. Wasn't she so mature. "Are you a new aunt?"
Gwynn shot her a withering look. "Ivor's in the hospital. Not that it's any of your business."
Ivor was... Right. The brother. That was his name. Yikes. Griselle pushed her tongue into her cheek for a long moment. "And you're alone?"
"Unfortunately, no," Gwynn said, further narrowing her eyes. She looked like she was trying to set Griselle on fire with her mind, and was close to succeeding.
Parents? Griselle nearly asked, but no. Gwynn meant her. "I'm allowed to look at the babies, you know. Grisham's in the hospital, too."
This, at last, made Gwynn relax. At least a little. Some of the tension drained out of her shoulders. "Your brother?"
"Sort of." Griselle shrugged. "We're not related, but close enough."
"Hm." Gwynn turned back to the babies.
Griselle looked at her for a moment longer. She was awfully small. Couldn't have been much older than 16, definitely not older than 20. And she was alone in the hospital. "Have you eaten?"
Gwynn shot her a wary look. "If you need to fuss over someone, go find yyour almost-brother."
"He's asleep." Griselle ran a hand through her hair, which was stiff with dried sweat. Asleep and mostly fine, aside from a nasty headache and a few minor burns on his palms and forehead. "And I'm not fussing." It was kind of embarrassing, actually, that Gwynn was handling this so much better. She didn't even look particularly upset. "What's wrong with your brother, anyway?"
Gwynn rolled her eyes. "He's an idiot. But I don't think that's a treatable condition."
"I meant—"
"I know what you meant." She fixed Griselle with that piercing scowl.
"Training accident?" Griselle persisted. Seemed likely. Blow to the head, blood gushing everywhere. Brain damage, even. Maybe it was bad.
Gwynn sighed so hard it ruffled her bangs. "Appendicitis. He's having surgery."
"Ah." Griselle winced. That was scarier than heat exhaustion, at least now. Now that Grisham was cool and hydrated and monitored. Surgery was... Different. A vast unknown, inherently risky. Scarier. "That... sucks..."
Gwynn shot her a look both incredulous and annoyed: you're telling me. But after a moment, she softened and let her head fall against the glass. "He'll be okay. He's always okay."
"But you know he might not be," Griselle blurted. Oops. But Gwynn didn't glare at her this time. She stiffened against the glass, and let out a hitching breath that sounded, very much, like it wanted to be a sob. "Uh. Sorry." Griselle bit her lip. Fucking stupid. She was an idiot. What was she even trying to do? Grisham would have handled it better. Grisham had a way with people, when he wasn't choking on all those years of bitterness. Which was usually, because he had a way of keeping things down. Not like Griselle who could only pretend in short bursts. Sure, she was good with people generally, but not with their emotions.
"You," Gwynn said started forcefully, then seemed to change her mind. "You... are..."
"An idiot?" Griselle suggested.
"Not very loud," Gwynn said, like she had passed some sort of test. "And also miserable."
Griselle stared at her. "Well, yeah. Did you think I was inflicting myself on you for fun? No offense, but I don't typically seek out teenagers for company."
"I get it." Gwynn rolled her eyes, but not as forcefully as she could have. "You wanted someone to go to the cafeteria with you?"
Griselle hesitated for a moment. "I mean... yeah."
"Then let's go." Gwynn turned on her heel and started walking, and Griselle hurried to fall into step beside her. "I don't even like babies."
She said it so bluntly that Griselle couldn't help but laugh. "Neither do I."
After
Gwynn
It had been eerie watching Ivor sleep so much. There was quiet, and then there was too quiet. And for the first few days, Ivor had been too quiet.
The next few days, he had been just quiet, which was nice, but a week of house arrest was starting to take its toll. He kept pacing, with the same kaiju footsteps as always, and that was a sound Gwynn had certainly not missed in the time that he had been more or less bedridden.
The thundering kaiju footsteps came to a stop. Ivor peered at Gwynn from the entrance to the living room, uncharacteristically timid. She looked up from her laptop, appraising him. Not so pale now, standing up straighter than he had been. Staring at her with intent. She raised her eyebrows. "What?"
"I thought I might take Falinks for a walk."
Gwynn ran a hand down her face. "And what? You want my permission? You're an adult." Somewhere under the irritation, a little discrepancy tingled. She was being unfair. She'd been watching him like an Audino, not letting him get up unless he absolutely had to. She'd even insisted on brushing out his hair, but only when he'd been so loopy off the painkillers she was sure he wouldn't remember.
"You won't be mad?" he asked cautiously.
She shut her laptop, the better to stare at him. "I know you know what 'light exercise' is. Just don't overdo it and expect me to come rescue you."
He nodded, still looking a little unsure. "Right. Then I'll... go." He disappeared into the hall.
Gwynn stared after him. Sighed. He'd been so quiet for so long. Quiet in the hospital, still and somnolent. Quiet at home, even when the pain had him pale and sweating. Quiet even now, except for those booming heelstrikes. Just too quiet.
Gwynn got up to put her shoes on.
They made a slow trek to Nouveau Café. Not because Gwynn really cared about how Griselle was doing, or Grisham. It was close, and she liked the coffee, and going to a café would make Ivor sit. He was gearing up to be a bad patient, once he got his energy back. Not necessarily argumentative, but disobedient. It was a minor miracle he'd checked in with Gwynn before heading out today.
"Sit," Gwynn said, once they were close enough that Ivor could reasonably obey.
"I'm alright," Ivor said.
Okay. So argumentative and disobedient. Gwynn glared at him. "'Alright' as in 'alright,' or 'alright' as in 'one of my internal organs is literally exploding and I don't want to freak you out'?"
Ivor flushed. "I... don't need to sit."
"And you will anyway." Gwynn gave him a light push, careful to aim for his left side, and turned to get in line.
Griselle caught her eye and winked. Behind the counter, Grisham took a sip of iced water as the fan blew his hair back.
And for a moment, everything was peaceful.