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After he sneezes for the fifth time in a row, Connor grumbles, "Does Annelise have a cat that I don't know about?" He sniffs, loud.
Michaela hands him a packet of tissues from her bag. "Would she even have time? And, please, blow your nose - I can't concentrate with you sniffling like that."
Connor glares at her as he rips the packet from her hand. He hangs his head and pulls a tissue out, muttering, "Thanks." It takes him a second to push enough air past the pressure in his sinuses, and even when he does, it doesn't do much. Now he's got a gross, snotty Kleenex in addition to the same stuffy nose, and he feels thoroughly betrayed by his body. He was okay this morning, but then he went outside and his nose ran like it always does in the cold, and that would be fine except now he's been sitting in Annelise's office for three hours and it's only gotten worse.
Fifteen minutes later, Connor blows his nose and feels a tickle in the back of his throat. It takes everything inside him not to groan. He can't be sick. He hates being sick, so he doesn't get sick, and he's not going to stand for being sick. When the first cough bubbles its way up his throat, he excuses himself to the bathroom.
Door locked, he rifles through the medicine cabinet. He finds both DayQuil and NyQuil, but opts for the ibuprofen and Vitamin C tablets since cold medicine makes him woozy. Connor stows them both in his pocket after he takes a healthy dose; he's going to kick this cold in the ass before it even starts because he can't afford anything else.
But when Bonnie comes in around noon, Connor hasn't stopped coughing. Michaela has long since put in earplugs, and everyone else just kind of glances at Connor with pity as he curls further and further in on himself. However, Connor straightens up when Bonnie's heels announce her arrival.
"Annelise needs you all to run errands," she declares and begins passing around large stacks of paper. "I trust you've all read up on the case, and now it's time as usual to investigate witnesses. Pairs today are Asher and Connor and Wes and Laurel. Michaela, you'll come with me."
The room rustles as everyone gathers their things. Connor coughs into the crook of his elbow, wincing when he feels his throat tear. He's starting to think that swallowing rock salt would hurt less. He doesn't hear when Asher approaches him, which is why Connor nearly rams right into him when he turns around with his bag in tow.
"Come on," he says, then clears his throat. "We'll take my car."
A hand grabs his shoulder, and Connor stumbles.
"Connor, are you sure you don't just want to take the afternoon off?" Asher asks. "You sound awful, and I have no problem going this - "
"I'm fine," Connor interrupts. "It's just a cold. I'll live."
Asher raises his eyebrow. Connor growls and turns on his heel. Even on the edge of death, Connor is meticulous about his car, and he scolds Asher for not kicking the mush off his heels before stepping inside. Asher just rolls his eyes.
As they head across town, Asher is sincerely glad he wore his seatbelt. Honestly, Connor should not be allowed out of bed like this. Every time he sneezes, he swerves, and there is one particular bout of coughing that prevents him from breaking properly and they barely avoid rear-ending an SUV. Asher is amazed when they make it to the office alive.
Inside is witness number one, Emilio Rodriguez. He's an accountant for the firm where the murder took place, and he says he saw their defendant walking into the building just as he was leaving his shift. Asher doesn't buy that. Emilio rarely works late, and even though the logs match up, there's still something fishy about all of it.
Rodriguez welcomes them into his office with warm offerings. Asher shakes his hand, but Connor refuses, mumbling, "I'm feeling a little under the weather. I wouldn't want you to catch it." Asher thinks that's pretty viable considering he just watched Connor hack a bunch of mucus into his palm, but in all honestly, everyone around him is SOL because his cough hasn't let up in hours and he's guaranteed to be super contagious.
They settle down, and Asher and Connor ask the usual, formal questions before getting into the ones that require some specifics.
"So," Asher says, looking over his notes. "You said you passed him in the hallway as you were leaving - did you two talk at all?"
"We said goodnight to each other," Rodriguez recalls. "And he laughed because he said 'he was just getting started.'"
Asher nods, tapping his pencil against his mouth. Next to him, Connor's shoulders heave as he tries to keep in a cough. A few small ones make it through.
"Hmm, did you - " Connor barks out a cough, cutting Asher off. "Did you guys happen to - " A few more coughs, sharp and loud. "Happen to - " Connor curls up in his seat, desperate for air.
"I'm - sorry," he chokes out as he throws himself out of his chair. "If you'll excuse me - " He leaves the room hacking into his elbow, and Asher watches him, chest twisting with nerves.
"You were saying," Rodriguez prods, and Asher turns his attention back to their witness. He's going to kick himself later, but Asher can't focus when his partner is somewhere dying so he finishes up the interview as quickly as he can and jots down only the most important things. He thanks Rodriguez in a rush and hurries out of the room.
As expected, Connor's in the bathroom, sitting on the floor of a stall.
"God, I thought I was going to choke up some internal organs," he mutters.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Connor says and nods. "I just couldn't catch my breath for awhile."
"Come on," Asher says, offering his hand.
Connor takes it, heaving himself upward.
"You should probably go home, Connor," Asher says, watching the way he sways on his feet. His eyes look glazed over, and he's obviously exhausted. "Drop me off at Annelise's and go home."
"No, no," Connor begins shaking his head. "I'm - I'll be fine."
"Connor," Asher deadpans. "Go home and rest. The day's almost over, and Annelise won't care, especially considering you're so incapacitated you had to leave an interview."
Connor coughs and groans. "I don't - I don't feel good. You're right."
Asher smirks. "I always am."
After the same shady driving, Connor drops Asher off. He's clearly in pain now, blinking hard and continually rubbing at his sinuses and throat. Asher wishes him goodbye and tells him to be safe on the way home. Connor rolls his eyes, but at least he's going home to rest. He'll probably be out for a couple of days, but they can manage without him.
Except they have court tomorrow, and Asher should know that Connor, though he would give up punctuality to have sex, would never give up a day in a court because of a measly respiratory infection, and just like the shooting star Bonnie and Frank weeded him out not to be, he shows up the next morning, looking like death. He feels like it too, with a headache roaring behind his eyes and sleep deprivation gnawing at his bones. (Every time he managed to fall asleep the previous night, he'd been awoken shortly by a violent coughing fit). Inside, he keeps his scarf wrapped around his neck, and a large, baggy sweater swallows up his frame. Michaela takes one look at him and walks in the opposite direction she was heading.
"Ugh - if you insist on giving us all the flu, at least keep your distance from me. I've got a lot of stuff to do before court today."
"It's a cold," Connor whines.
Michaela scoffs, but after a half hour of Connor's barking coughs and heart-stopping sneezes, she disappears to the kitchen and comes back with a steaming cup of tea.
"Don't complain about the taste," she says as she sets it down in front of him. "It'll work magic on your throat."
Connor sniffs and doesn't even have the heart to refuse. "Thank you, Michaela," he mumbles miserably.
His movements are slow and consistently punctuated with a grimace. He's completely, pathetically run down, and watching him struggle at this point makes Asher uncomfortable. Thankfully, after Connor finishes off his tea, it's not even twenty minutes before his head is drooping against the stiffness in his neck and his eyelids keep trying to pull themselves shut. He sets his work down for a second, and before anyone knows what's happening, he's snoring.
"He'll keep coughing, but at least he won't be sniffling like that anymore," Michaela mutters.
Laurel looks over at her. "Did you - did you put something in that tea?"
"Melatonin," Michaela replies and shrugs. "He needs to sleep anyway. He should have just stayed home."
While everyone else finally gets into their prep work, Asher finds himself only glancing at Connor. God, he thought Connor sounded bad yesterday - he doesn't even know how Connor's upright today. Every cough sounds like he's hacking up bits and pieces of his lungs, and if the snoring is anything to go by, there's absolutely no way Connor could be breathing through his nose. It's a mystery he's getting in any air at all with how scratched up and swollen his throat sounds.
Soon enough, Connor begins shivering in his sleep. Asher looks around, but everyone else is occupied, so he takes it upon himself to raid the hall closet for a blanket, and when he finds one thick and woolen, he brings it back to the study and drapes it over Connor's shoulders. Up close, Asher can see that Connor's pale and clammy. His nose is rubbed raw and red, his eyes dark and tired, and his cheeks are flushed with what is presumably a fever. Instinct drags Asher's hand to Connor's forehead.
"Mmm. Yeah - he's hot," Asher says aloud. A beat passes before he adds, louder, "I mean - not like that!"
Everyone around him rolls their eyes, and Asher succumbs to the blush running up his neck.
"I should go check the bathroom for a first aid kit. I bet there's a thermometer in there," Wes says, standing up and stretching. His heavy footfalls interrupt the silence as Asher brushes the sweaty hair from Connor's forehead. He covers up the action by pressing the back of his hand to Connor's skin. Asher bites his lip, and he can't deny it: he's worried. Connor's not exactly good at taking care of himself, and this cold - or flu most likely, is going to burn him out.
Wes returns with a forehead thermometer and some gross part of Asher's mind actually feels disappointment at not having to shove it under Connor's tongue or in any other part of Connor's body. Connor still sleeps away as Asher swipes the thermometer across Connor's forehead. Within seconds, it tells Asher that Connor's temperature is well over one-oh-two, and Asher begins chewing on his lip.
"How is it?" Laurel asks from across the room.
"High," Asher replies. "He should probably take something to bring it down."
"I grabbed some stuff out of the medicine cabinet," Wes says, and he tosses a bottle of NyQuil at Asher.
Feeling oddly paternal and embarrassed, Asher pours out a dose for Connor, then leans down and shakes Connor's shoulder until his eyelids flicker open. Semi-conscious, Connor groans.
"Oh, god," he croaks, burying his face into the couch arm. "Shit - I'm sick. Ugh. I'm so sick."
"No shit," Asher says. He shoves the NyQuil in Connor's face. "Now take this."
Connor squints at him. "Is that - ? No, I can't take cold medicine. It - with my Ativan," he stutters, pressing the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "It makes me dizzy and queasy."
"Yeah, well, you've got a raging fever that needs it. So suck it up, Walsh, and do yourself a favor. You can sleep the queasiness away."
Connor groans again, but takes the cap from Asher's hand with shaking fingers. He downs the dose like a shot and pulls a disgusted face. He hands the remnants back to Asher without a word. He sniffs, then coughs until he heaves, then curls onto his side, frowning.
"Connor - ?" Asher asks.
"Don't," Connor says, quiet. "I'm fine."
Asher shakes his head and lowers himself onto the couch next to him. "Connor, you can talk to me."
"It's fine," Connor sighs. "I just don't feel well. I mean, well - Who am I kidding?" He coughs again, so sharp and forceful that Asher's chest hurts, whimpering when he's done. "I feel awful. And I get weird and emotional when I'm sick like this." It feels odd to admit that in front of everyone, but he's mostly talking to Asher and that somehow makes him feel better.
Michaela clears her throat. "Come on, guys. We better get this stuff to Annelise." Wes and Laurel trail behind her, but Asher stays.
"Connor," he sighs once they've left the room. "Why the hell did you come in today? I told you to rest."
"I tried," Connor mumbles. "I didn't sleep much last night but I took, like, six aspirin. We have court today."
"Uh - which you're definitely not going to."
"Asher - "
"I'm taking you home," Asher says, and he puts up a hand when Connor starts groaning. "You have the flu, Connor. You're not bringing that to court."
Connor opens his mouth to argue, but all that comes it is a whimper and a series of coughs.
"Exactly," Asher replies.
"Fuck off," Connor croaks.
"Come on, you big cry baby." Asher pulls at Connor's shoulder. "Let's go to your car. You could probably keep the blanket if you wanted."
"Wait, wait, wait - " Connor says, sitting up. He reels a little at the dizziness. "Are you intending to drive my car?"
"Better than you driving it," Asher retorts with a scoff. "You could barely drive yesterday and now you're doped up on NyQuil."
"Nope. I'm driving." Connor stands up in an act of triumph, and subsequently falls back to the couch, gripping his head. "Nevermind. I almost blacked out. You drive. And if you damage her at all, you're paying for the costs."
"Will do," Asher promises. "Now get your shit and lets go."
Connor collects his satchel and peacoat from the floor, hanging onto them with his blanket-covered fingers. Asher keeps a hand on his shoulder as they head outside. In the doorway, Asher looks back to see Michaela watching down the hallway.
"Taking him home," Asher mouths.
"Thank you," Michaela mouths back.
The drive to Connor's apartment is uneventful. All that happens is that Connor dozes off, face smushed against the window. He snores softly a couple times, and Asher has to catch himself when his mind calls it "cute".
Connor wakes up just enough when they get to his apartment to drag himself upstairs. Inside, he collapses on his couch, shoes and all.
"Uh - Connor?"
"Mmmm?" he hums into the couch.
"Don't you want to go to your bedroom?"
"No. Too dark."
"Do you want me to get you anything? Water? Juice? Soup?"
"Too nauseous. Don't wanna puke."
"You don't need anything?"
Connor cracks an eye open and smirks.
"What?" Asher asks, self-conscious.
Connor struggles to push himself upward into a sitting position. He shivers something violent, and Asher anxiously makes to feel his forehead. Connor swats his hand away.
"Calm down, Mom. I just took the NyQuil. It hasn't had time to kick in."
He yawns and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. He closes his eyes again, but something is off. There's too much tension in the lines of his face, and Asher frowns.
"Connor?" Asher asks.
He just groans in response and turns away from Asher to lean against the back of the couch.
"Are you okay?"
"I have the flu, Asher."
"I mean - ugh. I know. I meant - are you okay . . . emotionally?"
"Fine."
Asher doesn't buy it. "Connor."
Connor heaves a deep breath and sits up straight again. He loses some of the tension, but now he's bouncing his leg, and his eyes are too wide open for someone who must be utterly exhausted.
"I'm just - it's my anxiety, okay? It gets bad when I'm sick sometimes."
Asher bites his lip. "Is there anything I can do?"
Connor shakes his head. "No, I just - " He stops and sneezes into the crook of his elbow. Another whimper wriggles itself from his lips. Resigned, he lies down again, still shaking. It's almost inaudible when he says, "You could stay with me."
"Oh," Asher says. "I could - yeah. I can do that." He walks over to the couch to sit down, but Connor flies upward, coughing.
"Wait," he chokes. "I can't - I know you have court. You don't have to - "
"I want to."
"I'm sorry," Connor mutters. "I wouldn't - I wouldn't ask if it wasn't bad, I just - " He takes an extraordinarily deep breath. "I'm feeling really panicked."
Asher throws his things on the coffee table and plops down on the couch. "Then I'm not going anywhere."
Connor smiles, honest-to-God smiles, and he nestles back into the couch. Asher flips on the TV and lets his muscles relax. Connor's sleeping before either of them know, and then Asher is too. He wakes up to ten text messages from Michaela, all asking where he is. He swears under his breath as he texts her back.
whoops I fell asleep. connor had a panic
attack and i stayed to make sure he was okay
Read 5:27
Whatever you say, Loverboy. Don't worry,
Annelise is cool with it. She knows Connor's
really sick. Hope you used protection!!!
Sent 5:29