I:

It takes a moment for Martin to remember why exactly he is asleep on the stairs, rather than his bed, but as soon as he does, he regrets it. His back hurts from where the ridges of the steps cut into his spine, and there are a few moments of stiff stretching before any further observations regarding his current state can be made.

Unfortunately, said progress is most unpleasant to note, and Matin feels the throes of illness cascade down on him in a rush.

He feels awful.

His chest hurts and his clothes are clammy with sweat and the pain in his stomach seems to be returning with an alarming intensity that is frankly starting to scare him a little. The house is still cold, though it doesn't seem to have gotten any colder, which Martin takes as a good sign. Vaguely he remembers a space heater up in one of the closets. The thought of warmth is beyond heavenly, and slowly, he peels himself from the stairwell and shuffles upstairs. The heater is crammed behind a million boxes of junk, and his arms tremble as he drags it out into the open space of the living room. It's a bit dusty, and Martin silently prays that it is not broken.

If it is, he's not sure what will be left for him to do, and the thought of having to actually call up Douglas or Carolyn and plead for a caretaker is more than his ailing body can handle. He's not about to go around asking for help from anyone if he can avoid it, and provided this heater is adequately functioning, he should be fine until Monday, by which point he will be back on Gertie with food and warmth and company, and it will all be fine. He plugs the heater in and is pleased to discover that it works, and the relief of being warm temporarily takes his mind off how sick he still feels. The relief is short lived however, as a fit of dry coughing spills over into a chesty rasp that hurts his lungs.

The cough is overwhelming, and Martin digs his nails into his palms as the fit tears through him. He wheezes for air, tightening his grip on the comforter to try and take the edge off- make it hurt less. It doesn't do much to help. The coughing continues and the room spins. Everything is too warm all of a sudden, and the heater is no longer as inviting as it was a moment ago.

His stomach churns.

Common sense nudges him toward the bathroom, where Martin flicks on the light and locates a thermometer. He holds his breath as he waits for the reading, and foresees some serious flaws in his plans to stay here for the weekend as the tiny numbers flare up onto the screen at 39.4.

Shit.

Somehow seeing the temperature, the proof of the fever he has felt growing for days, makes his whole body feel a thousand times worse. He has been trying so hard to just fight through the ongoing fatigue and just get better- just power through it like a man, just prove that for once in his life he can take care of himself- has failed. Well that doesn't mean he needs to be babied by anyone. He's going to be fine. Ignoring the slight lump in his throat, Martin drags the comforter and heater up to his room and closes the door. There's a half full glass of water next to the bed, and he drinks it slowly, feeling each drop numb the pain of his aching throat. He sets the glass down and crawls into bed, trying to convince himself that he's no longer cold and feverish, and that when he wakes up it will all be gone.

Just three more days, and it will all be fine.

II:

Sleep is useless.

His teeth chatter so hard they are in danger of breaking his jaw, and although its difficult to tell when his body is so hot and cold at once, Martin is reasonably sure that the sheets are soaked in sweat. The coughing returns every now and again, and he's starting to worry that this is more serious that just a cold.

He doesn't ever remember feeling this dreadful in his life. Rest assured there have been plenty of times he has felt awful, but this is simply incomparable. He wants to cry but he knows that will just make him cough again and hurt even more, so he bites his lip and tries to think of all the good things that Monday will bring.

They're flying to Mexico.

Warm. Sun. Light.

Douglas will tell terrible jokes and Carolyn will make wry quips in reply, and Arthur will do something ridiculously stupid- but all with good intentions- and everything will be back to normal. His little family.

He wants to smile, but he doesn't have the energy.

He feels like he might crumble into a thousand pieces.

The heater is no longer providing any noticeable warmth (but maybe he just doesn't feel it because of the fever) and his toes feel frozen.

Is it possible to die of hypothermia inside an insulated building? Seems unlikely, but with his luck, who knows. His fingertips are freezing but his torso is burning up, and, oh god when was the last time he ate anything? Yesterday, maybe? The days blur together into a shapeless mass, and suddenly the idea of food is too much for his stomach to take. Martin manages to roll toward the side of the bed in time to gag, but nothing comes up, because there is nothing inside him. He chokes on bile and frigid air, and that's enough to trigger the coughing to return in full force. Every part of him is on fire, and he just wants to die, die and black out and not be such a terrible burden on everyone else and just be left alone and let it all be peaceful.

He trembles under the blankets for quite some time, chest heaving in exertion and suppressed sobs that must not come out.

Don't be weak.

Don't cry.

Martin bites his lip again, curls up tighter and imagines his MJN family. Carolyn would be devastated if her business failed because of her irresponsible pilot who got himself sick and died while off duty, and Martin can't let that happen- can't disappoint her like that. Or Douglas. Or Arthur. They need him, and even if he's not really all that much, he can't fail them. He won't.

Even more than that he just needs someone to make all the pain go away, make his head stop pounding and tell him it's going to be okay, because right now he's afraid that nothing will ever get a chance to if he doesn't call someone soon.

His mobile is clumsily collected off the bedside table, and Martin simply presses speed dial #1 and hopes that she answers.

ring...ring...ring...ring...ring... "Hello?"

"Carolyn." The one word is all he can manage to spit out, but she seems to know it's him without asking.

"Oh Martin it's you." She sounds irritated and tired, and his stomach sinks. She's angry he bothered her.. oh god he didn't even think about the time and it must be close to, two, three? The clock is blurry and he's not sure what to say, because she just sounds so unhappy to hear his voice and he doesn't know how to make her understand. "Why on earth are you calling at 2:45 in the morning?"

He thinks about it for a moment, trying to remember... why was he calling? The silence on the line strings on for what feels like an eternity, and Carolyn's patience is wearing thin. "Martin?" She snaps, even over the phone, and Martin can see her exasperation as clearly as if she were in the room.

"I..." Everything is so cold and so prickly- like a thousand needles closing in around him, compacting him into an unidentifiable speck of nothingness... "I don't feel well... and.." He swallows and tastes tears, which he swipes away with the most strength he can muster. " ...the heat's off... " God he sound pathetic. He should just hang up, he knows he should, but his arm doesn't seem to be in agreement with this whole business of moving. He bites his lip and tastes salt. The tears feel good on his hot skin, and the phone is suddenly very heavy and hard to grasp, so he lets it settle into the blankets.

"Martin?"

It's all very distant, so far away, and all he can do it clutch the phone tight, and hope that she understands just how much he needs her to come rescue him.

"Martin!" Carolyn now sounds panicky, afraid, and she calls his name over and over again. "Martin are you there? Is anyone with you?" Mm he ought to answer... knows he should, but sleep sounds so nice, and warm... comforting... Carolyn says his name yet again, and this time it even sounds comforting... motherly. He remembers her using the same voice after she'd thought they had left Arthur in one of the airports in Tokyo, how she'd given him a hug and made him promise never to do that to her again, did he understand? Martin smiles vaguely, and Carolyn coaxes him back into the present.

"Martin I'm on my way over right now. I'm going to be right there in just a tick, so you hang in there for me, alright?" His tongue struggles on a "yes, sir", but doesn't manage anything but some sort of strangled huff.

He sighs, frowning as the air whispers across his abused chest in ripples of pain. "Mmmhmm..." His eyes are too heavy to keep open any longer, and Martin drifts off into the abyss of unconsciousness.

CLIFFHANGER! Because I know how much we all love those... Feedback appreciated! Apologize for the lateness of the update. XX