Chapter Text
Peeling his eyes open to the sight of two fiery pits of hell it was all Moist could do to hold back a scream. A few seconds more effort and the blur in front of him resolved into the face of Gladys. A golem shouldn’t be able to look worried but she was somehow contriving to do so anyway. How had he ended up in this situation?
Right, he had started the day at its normal ungodly hour*, but this time with the added bonus of a pounding headache and, when he opened his eyes, a room that slowly spun. But calling in sick to work would eventually have meant answering to the man who apparently came into work days after being shot through the leg. So he hadn’t. A life without danger may be a life not worth living but everyone has limits, hypothetically in any case. And Adora Belle had already left for work so there was no one left no one to derail this locomotive of thought. Anyway the lightheaded feeling had added a strange edge of excitement to traversing Ankh-Morpork’s rush hour streets.
He must have made it to work in one piece, though he couldn’t exactly verify this right now, and to his desk without arousing suspicion. While working this out however someone had apparently been talking to him.
“Mr Lipvig. Can you hear me?”
“Mmph” replied Moist unintelligently, forcing open eyes that he didn’t realise had shut.
“You appear to be ill Mr Lipwig. You should not be working. I have informed Miss Adora Belle and she will be here shortly.”
“Whaa?” Came the slightly more coherent reply. She’d klacksed Spike? He must look bad. Whether his face conveyed his slight concern he didn’t know, but something spurred Gladys on to add:
“Shall I fetch Mr Groat in the meantime? I have heard he has a wonderful range of remedies for…”
“No! Uh, no thank you Gladys” said Moist, dragged closer to full consciousness than he had been all day thanks to this threat.
“I’ll be fine. Please tell me when Miss Adora Bell gets here, thank you.” With any luck this may look like he was called away on business and he might get out of here with his dignity in tact. Besides Adora had the carriage today and he didn’t think he would be able to make it back home without it. He was really starting to feel…
“Moist? Slick?” Someone had placed something cool on his forehead. Gods it felt good. He opened his eyes for a third time to find a face staring into his, thankfully not a golem this time. This face was slightly blurred but definitely much more attractive, though these features were clouded by worry.
“What have you got yourself into Slick? Why did you come into work with a temperature I could fry eggs on?”
“Seemed a good idea… Vetinari would complain…” burbled Moist.
“Well he’ll complain when you drop down dead too and it’ll be me that has to hear it.”
“Wouldn’t bet on it…” slurred Moist
Something else mixed in with the concern on Adora Bell’s face but Moist, normally so adept at reading faces, couldn’t even see hers well enough to do so.
“Let’s get you home Slick”
This was easier said than done. Moist’s legs, which had carried him all the way into work, did not seem inclined to repeat this feat. In the end he had to lean heavily into Adora while they carefully navigated their way out the back way of the post office and into the thankfully close-by carriage. It may not have been the most elegant exit Moist had ever made (though it was far from his most inelegant) but it was either this or be carried by Gladys, and Moist would not have submitted to this whilst holding onto any semblance of consciousness. The journey home made his already unsettled stomach roil but it was a thankfully short time until they reached their house. Repeating the awkward leaning walk they made it back to the bedroom where Adora deposited Moist. Squinting at the clock he saw it was only just past 11. He’d only made it two hours.
“Right, so what’s going on Moist? I’m at work checking on the work on tower 24 when I get a klacks that my husband has just been found passed out at his desk. I know you like to flirt with danger but I’m actually around at the moment.”
Moist lay on the bed where he’d been dropped, trying to both rally words and not throw up on Adora’s beautiful, and probably very expensive, dress. Looking over she seems to sense this and grabs a bucket from the cupboard in the corner of the room. Just in time, as it happened.
“Sorry about that” mumbled Moist, when he could.
“Look I’m not angry at you, for once, just worried” says Adora, rubbing his back. “I’m going to phone Dr Lawn to check you over.”
Moist could see that this was a battle he wasn’t going to win, and in his current state wasn’t even inclined to fight. He felt careful hands removing his shoes and outer clothing, and blessedly cool sheets laid on top of him. Then nothing but soft oblivion.
*Well, ungodly to at least some of the gods. Offler, for example, and other such cold blooded deities.