Ah, yeah, the plague cycle. One of Hell's lovely piece of crap fixtures. Every few years, one sweeps through and makes everybody sick as dogs. You ever been literally dying, but also already dead and so not able to die again? Yeah, Angel doesn't recommend it. Not much fun.

He's gotten lucky this year though! At least so far. Hardly got the sniffles. Granted, a given value of 'lucky'. He ain't sick which means he's still gotta work, and Val's been in a mood because half the workers are out with the literal plague, and that can make for either real easy days 'cause there's nobody to do the real nasty stuff with, or real hard days because Val's got a bug up his moth butt to be mad at somebody because illness exists. But so far, it hasn't quite hit a point where Angel's wishing he caught the damn plague, so that's gotta count for something.

Problem is, not everyone's so lucky. You, for instance. This thing's hittin' ya hard, ain't it? And Angel isn't too happy about that himself. Even when he knows you can't die, it's still pretty concerning to see someone you give half a damn about getting this sick, yeah? You're obviously miserable, and he doesn't love that, you know?

Like he don't already got enough to worry about on the day-to-day. Now he's gotta worry about coming home to you dyin'-but-not-dyin' on the freakin' lobby couch.

"What're you doin' out here, toots? You oughta be in bed." Angel peers down at you, upper pair of arms crossed, lower set with hands perched on hips, trying to look stern and disapproving, instead of just worried. "Not out here gettin' germs all over my favorite seat."