day nine: 4085/50 000
Spencer can remember very clearly the last time he lied about being sick to hide from people; it had been a little more than three years ago, and there had been some ridiculous function with all the agents that Brian had
insisted
he and Ryan attend, despite the fact that Ryan was pretty much the agent that nobody talked to except for over the network -- for obvious reasons -- and Spencer was the agent that nobody talked to except for over the network because he was just like that.
Or possibly because of that. Spencer had never really asked.
Either way, he remembers it so clearly because not long after he'd made his excuses and hidden back in their rooms, he'd been hunched over the toilet, trying to keep his lungs from coming up along with the lining of his stomach.
Dumbass,
Ryan had said, getting down on the floor and rubbing Spencer's back all the same. I'm pretty sure this happens every time you pretend to be sick, you know. Spencer had rolled his eyes, had enough time to tell Ryan to fuck off before he was once again desperately hoping to make it out with all of his stomach.
All the same, he's never faked being sick since then, because he'd thought about it a few days later, the first day he'd actually felt good when he woke up, and Ryan had actually been right. (Of
course
he had, it wasn't really a surprise. Kind of lame, though.) So he's avoided lying about that since, because all things considered there are a lot of things he hates doing but he'd rather be doing them than throwing up.
Apparently, however, he'd forgotten about that in his complete and utter confusion; it was the only way to explain why he'd done such an incredibly stupid and thoughtless thing to himself for absolutely no reason at all. Because now, of course, he's hunched over the toilet in what he has since discovered is a bus of some kind, wishing he'd had the balls to stay with Brendon in the kitchen, or whatever it was. He really hates throwing up.
A few minutes later, there's a soft knock on the bathroom door, and when he makes a noise that he really hopes communicates "yes, come on in, you couldn't possibly make this any worse" the door opens, and yeah, Jon Walker's on this ridiculous acid trip of a bus too.
"Dude, are you okay?" Spencer rolls his eyes.
"... yeah, okay, no," Jon says, making a face, and drops down next to Spencer on the linoleum. "You think you're going to be okay for tonight?"
Tonight? What the hell does that mean?
Instead of answering, Spencer just gives Jon a blank stare, hopefully tinged with just enough nausea -- which he doesn't actually have to fake, he has a feeling he's going to be throwing up again soon -- to give off the impression that no, he won't be okay. And then he actually
does
start up again, and he thinks he hears Jon wince next to him but isn't really sure.
A second or two later, though, his back's being rubbed gently, so that's nice.
"Yeah," Jon says, "that's probably a no. Wouldn't want you suddenly throwing up onstage."
Onstage ?
"Hotel night tonight, though, so you can just sleep for like fifteen hours if you want, or whatever," he continues, completely oblivious to the fact that he's just completely baffled Spencer. "It's gonna suck to cancel the date, though. We're gonna be there soon, though, okay?" Spencer nods, eyes closed again. He hears the water running, and then a clink, and Jon says "Here's some water, by the way, it's a little bit in front of your left knee. Try not to puke a kidney out, okay?"
"Soon" apparently means "in an hour" to Jon, which is good to know for future reference. Somehow Spencer manages to keep everything down for the last thirty minutes of the trip, instead curling up in his bunk with his knees pulled up, keeping his eyes closed, and trying really hard not to breathe so hard he moves. It actually kind of works, too.
During the journey from the bus to the room, he keeps himself from walking too fast; there's a real actual bed upstairs, or so he hears, which is going to be amazing if he can avoid dying, but he's also afraid if he walks too fast he actually
will
die. Brendon helps him along, as it happens, but he's
also
humming "hotel night, hotel night, I get a bath 'cause it's hotel night" under his breath, and Spencer
really
doesn't know what's up with that. Possibly it has something to do with the fact that they were on a bus.
(He makes a note to himself to ask Ryan what the fuck
onstage
meant, later, when he feels less awful. It's not his Ryan, but it's still
a
Ryan, which was proven earlier when he fell asleep and for a while he felt like he was back at headquarters. He actually woke up really confused, so maybe it hadn't been the best idea, but it had certainly been nice while it lasted. Also it was nice to know that some things stay the same no matter where he is; Ryan had snuffled into Spencer's collarbone here, too, and left the same tiny, tiny trail of drool on his shirt. Which obviously he would never admit to, so clearly Spencer's chest had spontaneously started to excrete drool. Possibly not the healthiest thing. ... holy shit, he really needs to lay down.)
Brendon walks him to a door on the ... fourth, maybe? ... floor and knocks three times. When the door opens, Ryan laughs a little at the expression Spencer assumes is on Brendon's face, makes a sort of shooing motion, and leads him gently inside, depositing him on a bed that's ridiculously comfortable and also soft and oh, he really isn't going to be able to sleep tonight, and that is a sad, sad fact. He manages to scoot up the bed until he's leaning against the headboard, though, which feels kind of okay and livable for now, and when he looks around he notices that he's got the bed that's closest to the bathroom. Considerate.
"Have you ever been so sick you couldn't fall asleep?"
Seriously, he hasn't eaten anything
all day
. How is he even still throwing anything up besides bile? Usually he's not legitimately worried, but he almost expects organs to start showing up in the toilet water sometime soon. Then he would really be fucked, wouldn't he.
"Did you take anything? I think I have some Pepto-Bismol in my bag somewhere."
"No, Ryan," Spencer says, "I'd rather just die quietly on this cheap linoleum floor and hope that I get buried somewhere pretty with a nice marble gravestone."
"Jesus, you really
are
sick," Ryan says, walking into the bathroom and dropping down so he's sitting cross-legged across from Spencer. "How long's it been?"
"Uh." Spencer thinks for a bit. "An hour, maybe? Hour and a half?" He shrugs, carefully, and closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the awesomely cool porcelain. "Okay, I have an idea, and you're going to go along with it because I am always right. I'm going to bring you some more stomach medicine, and you're going to take it with a bunch of water, and then I'm going to go see if I can find some NyQuil, and you're going to take
that
with a bunch of water, and then you're going to wait fifteen minutes and go to the bathroom, and then you're going to pass out and sleep for seventeen hours."
"If I sleep for seventeen hours I think I'll have a ruptured bladder before I wake up."
"Yeah, shut up," Ryan says, flicking Spencer's forehead very gently before disappearing into the main room. He shows up again a minute or two later, with everything he had promised and an incredibly unnerving grin on his face. "I refuse to take anything from someone who bears more resemblance to a mad scientist than my best friend. Sorry, it's a policy of mine."
"What if your best friend
is
a mad scientist?" "Oh, shut up."
Somehow, Ryan's ridiculous plan actually works, and when Spencer wakes up the next morning he's still clutching blankets like there's going to be a warm body burrowed in there somewhere, but he also doesn't feel like vomiting at
all
, which is really refreshing. The horrible symptoms have never gone away this fast; it's awesome. When he opens his eyes and tries to go to the bathroom -- seriously, he'd been made to drink like four glasses before he went to sleep last night, what the everloving fuck -- he realizes just exactly
why
all the symptoms went away. Less than half a second later he slams his eyes shut as tightly as he can and tries not to move, calculating in his head if he can make it back to his bed without falling over.
Probably not.
"Ryan, uh, it would be really cool if you woke up right about now. I'm just saying." Deep breath. Deep breath. He
likes
roller coasters, damn it all, they never make him this dizzy. Nothing makes him this dizzy, this is such bullshit, he would
really
like to maybe just go to sleep for a while again. "Ryan?" He says it a little bit louder this time, and this time he can hear the bedding rustle. "Huh? What's up?" He can't tell which way Ryan's looking, but it sounds as if he's looking at Spencer's back. "Are you okay?"
"No, I'm really, really not okay, please help me back to bed before I fall over and crack my head open." Not that there are any sharp edges around that he remembers, but the carpet's sort of a beige color, which isn't too shocking, and it would be a bitch to try and get blood out of that.
A few moments later, he can feel a body at his back turning him very, very slowly, and then walking him equally slowly back from where he'd started. Ten paces or so later, they stop for fifteen seconds or so, and then he's back in bed and as long as he doesn't move he doesn't have to worry about falling or spinning wildly off into the sky or anything else like that. He tries opening his eyes, and when he's looking at the ceiling it's not really that bad. Which is nice, he supposes, but also makes sense, because the ceiling's not moving. If the ceiling starts moving he should probably say something, he realizes, it would probably be a sign of something severely fucked up. "You gonna be okay, Spence?" Ryan's face appears in Spencer's line of vision, and right before he closes his eyes he registers the worried expression. "You kind of just, uh. I don't even know what just happened there."
"I just stood up and I was really, really dizzy." He pauses for a second, and then tries to smile. "But at least I don't feel like throwing up anymore, that's a huge plus."
"Yeah, especially if you're that dizzy. You'd never make it to the bathroom on time, and then there would be a huge mess, and housekeeping people really don't get paid enough for that shit." Ryan laughs softly, and then Spencer feels bony fingers digging into his side.
"Dude, what the fuck," he says, making a face, moving away carefully and moving onto his side a little. "If I throw up on you I refuse to take any responsibility for it, I really hope you know that."
"I thought you said you didn't feel like throwing up," Ryan says, because apparently another thing that stays the same everywhere is that Ryan Ross is a fucking smartass. "And don't worry, I'll take all the blame." Then the bed dips, and the sheets rustle, and it feels like Ryan is getting into bed with him, a suspicion which is confirmed when he feels Ryan's forehead against his, and Ryan's freakishly long toes on his shins.
Instead of saying anything that might be misunderstood as a complaint, Spencer makes a noise which he hopes is vaguely inquisitive.
"You looked really lonely when I woke up in the middle of the night," Ryan mutters. "I don't know. I think I read somewhere that sick people sleep better when they're not alone, anyway."
"If you say so," Spencer says, but he's smiling anyway.
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