The chair beneath him creaked loudly as he sat up, trying to find a slightly better position. The other people in the waiting room frowned at him, and he frowned at them too. What did he think of himself? That they had priority because they had made a reservation? Bullshit, this is a matter of life. There's a fucking life at stake here! Well, maybe not life, but health, yes. Health, yes.

Your health... That was one hell of a thing. You'd expect to be in hospital more often because Simon took a bullet in the shoulder, twisted his ankle or broke his arm. No, not even close.

Finally. The door opened and you stepped out, your face pale and your lips dry, though you kept slathering them with some balm. He stood up, offering you his shoulder for support, and you gave him a little shove to stop. That nothing's wrong. Nothing's wrong? It certainly didn't seem that way to Simon. He wanted to go into the office with you, but the nurse closed the door right in his face, so he could only rely on your memory to remember everything the doctor told you and advised you to do.

He's been gone for two weeks. Just two weeks and he finds you in bed, with a fever, a completely empty fridge and not a single pill in the house. Heck, couldn't you have called someone in your family to take care of you when-! When he couldn't...?

"It's just the flu," you sighed while you got in the car, "I told you."

"I also remember you telling me you'd take care of yourself, which surprisingly didn't happen," he quickly replied while starting the car and putting your seatbelt on, as if perhaps you weren't capable of doing it yourself.