The JereMike Collection

In Sickness and In Health

Ever had that horribly stuffy feeling crammed deep in your sinuses, your stomach is churning and your head is pounding and your body feels like it's been dumped into a pool of ice cubes and gasoline that someone has kindly set fire to?

If you have, then you'll know exactly how Mike Schmidt feels at the moment.

Said security guard coughs violently into his couch cushion, sighing as another heat wave crawls up his skin. The expected chill follows after, providing natural relief for a split second before sending shivers down his spine.

He can't smell through his stuffy nose at the moment, but it's pretty clear that all he'd be able to detect would be the sweat sticking to his skin and his own bad breath, courtesy of the knockoff medicine he bargained from the local rip-off store. The label said cherry flavored, but it tasted more like car oil and pepperoni than anything.

He sniffs for good measure, wrinkling up his nose when he hardly gathers any oxygen. What little he did gather only confirmed his suspicions, smelling of sickness and vomit. Mike groans, slumping deeper into the couch and kicking his legs up towards the end. He'd take a shower, but the ache in his body suggested otherwise.

Mike's too busy withering in his illness to hear the knock on the front door, only catching on when he hears the sound of it being opened.

Despite his body's protest, he darts to the corner of the entrance, just around the bend of his front door. His right hand curls into a fist as his back rests against the wall, waiting for whoever waltz in to come any closer.

Yeah, feeling like shit probably wasn't the best state for this, nor was he thinking clearly right now, but he doesn't remember inviting anyone over anytime soon. The intruder won't know what hit him.

Soft footsteps round the corner and Mike pulls back his fist, vision blurry and dazed. He pauses mid-swing, however, when he hears a small squeak come from the opposite party. "It's me! It's me! D-don't..hit me..."

The guard blinks, lowering his hand. The room is spinning a little, and the voice is a bit muffled in his ears, but he recognizes it nonetheless. The faint surprise last for a moment before turning into an apologetic stare. It didn't mean much, since his expression conflicted when he spoke. "For fucks sake, Jeremy. I thought you were someone else."

Jeremy tilts his head, raising a brow. "Who else would I be?" He questioned. "We're you expecting someone?"

Mike simply shakes his head, regretting the ache that panged behind his eyes as he did so. "You're kidding right?" He snarks, "Nobody wants to visit me, and I don't want anyone here. Who the hell would I invite...?" He trails off. "Aside from you, dimwit."

The nightwatch presses his lips together in mock disapproval. "It was just a question. You don't have to be so m-mean about it." He retorts, squinting at the guard's choice of headwear for the day. No beanie, no baseball cap, just bandages wrapped around to hide the scars. "...Still doesn't explain why you tried to hit me"

"In case you haven't noticed, weeb, I don't live in the safest part of town. People get their shit stolen all the time" The guard shrugs in defense. "You can't blame me"

The brunette looks unimpressed. "Sure..."

Ignoring the comment, ice eyes trail up the night watch. He's wearing his usual school attire, plain t-shirt layered over a long sleeve pushed up to the elbows, jeans, star sneakers and all. What caught Mike's attention, however, was the bag slung over the teen's shoulder. It certainly didn't look like his backpack.

"So..." He inquires,"What's that supposed to be?"

The younger male adjusts the satchel, shrugging. "J-just some stuff" He strays off. The answer isn't satisfying enough for the guard, however, furrowing his brows. "Stuff?" The older man repeats. "Whaddya mean stuff? Like, homework? Food? Drugs?"