All or Nothing (Connor Walsh, HTGAWM)

[stephab13]

Hi guys! So this got posted to my Tumblr (and I have been having WAY too much fun writing Coliver/Connor things over there) a while ago but I thought I may as well post it here too, in case anyone is interested (and it's been embellished a little for the forum ). It's not Coliver... though if people want I could probably write a part 2 with it... but it does have an impressively ill Connor and the Keating team worrying over him. Not a whole heap of sneezing... more a sick!fic... but, hey. It's something to break the radio silence, right?

Hope you enjoy it!

Let’s get one thing straight – Connor feels disgusting.

His head pounds with every breath he takes. His eyelids feel like they’re made of lead. There is a balloon in his sinuses, pressing on his nose. He’s pretty sure he’s grown a heap of nerve endings overnight because he’s hurting in places he didn’t know existed. Judging from how cold he feels, other than the burning in his eyes, he‘s pretty sure he it’s all accompanied by an impressive fever.

And, to make matters worse, he’s trapped in Annalise’s house in another one of her all-or-nothing lockdown weeks.

All he wants to do is just curl up and die – doesn’t matter whether here or his own home. But the mountains of files aren’t going to read themselves, and none of the Keating Five can manipulate information from someone as easily as him… and, considering everything that Annalise has had to fight to get where she stands, he doubts she’d take pity on him – sickness isn’t an excuse at all.

“Hhhh… hh-GXKT’uhhh!…”

Laurel pushes forward a Kleenex box as he sniffs, rubbing a finger alongside his already-burning nose. “Was that a sneeze?”

"hhh'GXKT-GSHHH'uhh!" He nods, and she grimaces.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks.” He grabs a couple of tissues, rubbing gently to stop it dripping… he knows even now that before long his nose will be rubbed raw, his chest filling with the congestion that couldn’t escape out the front… but he can’t quite give himself (or anyone else) the satisfaction of blowing it. Blowing his nose means that he’s sick, that he’s admitting defeat – and heisn’t, not yet. It’s just a case of the sniffles with… a headache from stress, sore muscles from spending last night curled in an armchair and… weird temperatures in the room. Yeah, that’d explain it.

“Are you alright?” Laurel glides across the table to perch on the arm of the chair, running a hand down his back. “You look a little off.”

He smiles tiredly – he does appreciate that someone cares, much as he hates to admit he needs it. “Yeah, fine… Hayfever,” he dismisses before his breath hitches again. "Hh'hhh... hnGSHH-huk'TSHHH'oouhhhh!"

Wes, who’s sitting opposite him at the desk, looks up. “Do you want an antihistamine? I’ve usually got something in my bag…”

Connor shakes his head. “I took a Zyrtec earlier.” The lie comes so easily through his teeth. “Can’t have any more for awhile.”

At least his voice isn’t too congested yet – just a running nose with a bit of sneezing – but it still earns him looks of pity from the two carers of the group. Still, they leave him alone to press a set of tissues under his nose and keep reading without interruption.

****************************************

He only gets worse throughout the day. After running out and interviewing a huge range of witnesses and allies – conveniently losing time to eat lunch – he’s arrived back at the Keating’s thoroughly wiped out. But instead of crashing on the couch, maybe attempting to read a few case files wrapped in a blanket with a warm bowl of soup, he’s pouring through old statements, waiting for that inspiration to hit him, to fly through the window and slap a strategy into him.

The rest of the team trickle in shortly after him, so he doesn’t even get time to let himself show his weakness. He can’t cough, he can’t sneeze, can’t do anything. He can’t steal that attention – they need 100% focus, and the sooner they get done, the sooner he can go.

He tries to hide it. If he needs to sniff, he does it when turning a page roughly, hoping to disguise the sound. He can mostly cough with a closed mouth, keeping his vocal chords still, maybe appearing like he’s clearing his throat – and if it gets really bad, the bathroom is always a viable option. Even his sneezes – which are becoming thicker and more frequent by the hour – he can pinch off, so he sounds like he’s swallowing.

But it hurts. His ears pop and his throat is rubbed with sandpaper, every swallow pouring acid over the wounds. Wes makes him a pot of tea while he reads the same sentence ten times over, and Michaela organises take-out with a heap of soup for him. He just sits in his corner, isolating himself. They all just seem to acknowledge wordlessly what’s going on – that he’s definitely got some sort of bug but isn’t going to give in and leave, and they aren’t going to challenge him.

"Hhhh... Hhh'GXNT'hhh!" His head pounds and he gives a sniff, squelchy with congestion. And finally Michaela breaks.

“Can you stop that?”

He looks up into the fire burning in her eyes. “Stop what?”

“The sniffing! Just blow your damn nose.” She breathes heavily, then stops herself, looking… is that shame? “I’m sorry, I know you’re not well, but it’s so distracting.”

He might be sick, but he hasn’t quite reached the dying-dog stage. “Good,” he rasps, and takes another deep sniff. “Doesn’t help mbe other thand the fact it anndoys you.”

“Connor…” Laurel is about to admonish him, but she stops as their boss appears in the doorway.

“Is everything alright in here?” She asks, harshly as ever.

They all turn to look at him, and Connor coughs quietly into his hand. “We’re finde, professor,” he says, not quite meeting her eyes. “Just a smball disagreembendt.”

“I’ll reign it in,” Michaela is quick to add, to protect him, and flashes him the tiniest of smiles. He’s honestly a little touched – he’s not sure if he could drop his own ego if the situations were reversed.

“Great.” Annalise turns to leave, but she stops, eyes flicking over the corner he’s hidden in. “Mr Walsh, are you alright?” She doesn’t say anymore, but he can hear the hint of something in her voice – concern, worry, maybe. And he just smiles again, eyes staring into hers, daring.

“Finde, professor,” he repeats.

But Laurel isn’t standing for it. “Why not tell her the truth?” she whispers angrily to him before raising her voice. “He’s lying, Professor. Can’t you see? Look how pale he is…”

Annalise frowns and she steps backwards. “Is that true, Mr Walsh?”

“Ndo, ndo…” he rasps. “Hondestly, I’mb alright.”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly judging, and he thinks of her bullshit metre, her claim to sense a lie a mile away – but all she does is hum. “Good. Back to business, the lot of you.”

“Huh-NGXT-NGXT-NGXTSH'uhhh! hhh’ZSHH’hhh.”

“Bless you,” the room choruses as he pulls a crumpled Kleenex from his pocket. They leave him alone after that, letting him suffer in silence.

****************************************

He doesn’t know how, but he wakes up even worse the next morning. He’s shaking violently – every moment chills him, like his blood and bones are made of ice – he can’t breathe through his nose at all, and his stomach is churning. He tries to force in some deep breaths but they catch in his throat, and before he can process what’s happening he’s running full-pelt towards the bathroom, biting back the acid only until he’s properly leant over the porcelain bowl.

It’s Michaela who discovers him some time later – he doesn’t know how long, he just wants everything to stop hurting – and with an “Oh, Connor…” he struggles to hold in the tears.

He shouldn’t be here. He should have used his out yesterday. Or left in the middle of the night. And now his body has taken him hostage in his boss’s bathroom, surrounded by his workmates, and he’s never felt more exposed or vulnerable in his life.

“Are you done?” Michaela asks gently, and he nods. He’s got nothing left in his stomach and even though it hurts, the nausea has settled to a low thrum. “Then, come on, let’s get you a bit more comfortable.” She bends down, pulling an arm around her shoulders and motions to stand… but he’s too shaky, unable to take enough of his own weight, and she grunts in frustration, setting him back on the floor. “Alright, just sit here – I’ll be right back.”

He does laugh then. “I’mb clearly ndot going andywhere,” he points out, voice barely above a whisper – anything that survived the inflammation from the bug has been ripped apart from the vomiting.

“Make sure you don’t,” she says… and then she’s gone.

Of course, she reappears a minute later with Asher in toe. “Hey, Connor,” he says, clearing his throat and looking at Michaela expectantly.

She nods. “I can’t carry him.”

“All brains, no brawn, huh?” Asher kneels down beside him, his hands cold where they brush his skin. “Dude, this is so awkward… I’m sorry.”

He must be sick. He’s even got Asher Millstone apologising to him.

Then he stands up, with an arm under Connor’s legs, and Connor is so ready for the world to swallow him up and eat him alive. He’s never been sure of the whole rock-bottom thing existing before… but he’s pretty sure that’s what he’s hit now.

Asher puts him on the couch, where Wes is waiting with a blanket. He can feel it’s warmer than the bathroom – that must have been where Wes was asleep moments before. They all look at him with pity, and he waves a hand at them.

“I’mb just… I just ndeed sleep, I’ll be okay…”

“Connor, I don’t think this is the type of thing you can just sleep off…”

“Are you even sleeping?” Michaela looks worried. “You were still sucking in coffee when I crashed last night…”

“I’m getting Professor Keating,” Wes says, squeezing his shoulder briefly. “Maybe she can knock some sense into you, finally.”

“I’ve got some Tums,” Laurel adds, pulling out a couple of medicine bottles, “and some Advil – here.” She puts them on the coffee table before standing up. “I’m going to make you some toast, alright – you have to try eating something properly.”

Michaela helps him sit up on the couch, gives him a cushion to clutch against his stomach, and raises a cup of water to his lips. He hates that this is all he’s been reduced to… but he’s so grateful. It’s here that he sees these are his allies, his… his friends. And when Michaela pulls out the tablets, he takes them without question, coughing as they scratch down his throat. His head spins and he’s thirsty and hungry, but he doesn’t know if he can stomach enough yet.

He’s so guilty. He should have left earlier, made his excuses. They have so much to read, to debate, but instead he’s making everyone run around after him. This isn’t going to score him any points in his boss’ book at all.

Speaking of… Annalise and Wes appear in the doorway. It’s clear she’s been rushed – her wig’s a little off-centre, and there’s no make-up. Her eyes are dark, searching, and he can feel her pity. “You’re sick,” she breathes, matter-of-fact as ever.

The only thing he can do is nod gently.

She steps forward, perching on the coffee table. “You were sick yesterday, yes?”

He sniffs.

“And why did you keep that from me?”

“You ndeeded mbe,” he whispers, lying back into the couch and pulling the blanket up to his eyes. He really doesn’t want to do this now…

“I need you alive and thinking and functioning, Mr Walsh.” But her tone changes suddenly. “I appreciate that you’re here and you’re trying, but you need to look after yourself. All of you,” she addresses the whole room. “I got to where I am today by fighting, sure, but I fought smart as well as hard. There’s no point winning one case if it sidelines you for the next – that next one could be your break.” In a surprising act of maternalism, she raises a hand, pushing away some of the curls plastered to his forehead. “I do care about you all, and, Connor, I’m telling you as your boss, mentor and professor – you need to get some rest. Alright?”

He nods again – he won’t argue any more. He can’t.

“I’ve got the guest bedroom set up, and it’s right by the toilet.” Her tone is so warm and caring he nearly finds himself in tears again. It’s been so long since anyone had looked out for him this way… and it’s so strange coming from her, from the bombshell, the dynamite.

“I’mb sorry,” he whispers, and she nods.

“Don’t worry about the case – I’ve survived the last few years with 4 students and I can do it again for one case. Go rest.”

Then before he knows it, she’s gone, and he’s in the cold quiet of a bedroom, his eyes letting themselves close properly for the first time in months.

“Feel better soon, Connor,” someone whispers in the door… but he’s already gone, dreamless sleep floating him along on a cloud.

[tenderwarrior]

*breathes heavily* This was amazing! God, I love HTGAWM and so happy you wrote a fic for it.

[phoenix]

Oh! Oh, I love this. I was imagining/contemplating writing HTGAWM scenarios but couldn't come up with anything that worked the way I wanted to, so imagine my excitement when I signed in and saw this. And it was SO GOOD. And Connor! He always manages to push all of my let-me-take-care-of-you buttons. (And my let-Oliver-take-care-of-you buttons, but like you said, that's for another fic.) Loved loved loved everyone looking out for him in their own way, even Asher. Aww. The whole thing was perfect. I saw a mention of a Part 2? Completely up to you, of course, but I'd love to read it! Maybe I'll even get my act together and join the HTGAWM fic-writing party. Either way, I'm glad the party exists. :-)

[stephab13]

So... I just got a request for Coliver, with Connor in hospital... and thought that this would lead really nicely into it. And I'm writing it... but essentially there's going to be very little, if any, sneezing. Do you guys want me to post it here, when I'm done? Otherwise, it'll go up on my Tumblr so you can find it there too...

And, pheonix, the more the merrier! You should definitely come write. Or prompt. Or, you know, something, because there can never be enough Coliver! :-)

[tenderwarrior]

What's your Tumblr?

[stephab13]

pi-on-a-skateboard :-)

Also apologies for disappearing. I was meant to have my internet hooked up 2 weeks ago and it still hasn't happened...