I send a pestilence and plague....

[sendmyscourge]

Midnight passes again

Comments

[stopdropanddie]

Bristow's been doing very little in regards to the plagues, because there is very little that he can do. He spent the flea plague as a hedgehog, which was not exactly pleasant by any means, but was a lot more dignified than scratching himself all day. And he spent every other day, trying to find ways to subvert the firstborn plague, if only for Sydney's sake- he'll be going too, but it's his daughter he's more concerned about. Per usual.

And then at midnight, he involuntarily became a German Shepherd and here it is midday and not only can he not shift back, he feels like he just got hit by a truck. This is half of all flu symptoms and he's a dog. There was nothing in the Bible about this, dammit.

At the moment, he is laid out in the Kashtta lobby, staring miserably at the door like the world's most pathetic guard dog, all while sneezing every few minutes.

If he's going to be stuck and feel like this, he is going to do something useful... Like watching the door.

Jack officially hates the plagues.

[chimaerasaurus]

Oh Bristow. Where there is a sick animal, there is an Abby, and while there's little she seems able to do she can still try. Particularly if one of the sick animals in question is her boss-slash...ambiguously-parentthing.

Besides, there's some research she's been doing that she needs to tell him about.

"Steady, granddad," she murmurs, approaching from the front and sliding her hand under Bristow's chin. She eyeballs the little girl watching from the edge of the lobby, eyes filled with intense dislike. ...Oooookay then.

"Seems something's going around."

[stopdropanddie]

Jack gives Abby a look. It would be a lot more intimidating if his eyes weren't all watery. He doesn't really move much in protest of the touch, because at this point, it's a lot better on his achy joints if he just sits still and doesn't move much.

"So I gathered," he notes mentally, even his telepathy sounding exhausted and strained. At least, if he's going to be stuck like this, he can still communicate. "I don't remember this being in the Bible."

Not that he read it. Ever. He just hung around Sloane. A lot.

[chimaerasaurus]

"The Lord set a time and said, "Tomorrow the Lord will do this in the land." And the next day the Lord did it: All the livestock of the Egyptians died, but not one animal belonging to the Israelites died. Pharaoh sent men to investigate and found that not even one of the animals of the Israelites had died. Yet his heart was unyielding and he would not let the people go."

All of this is said while she checks Bristow's ears, his gums and teeth, his eyes, while she feels for and presses her ear against him to hear his heartbeat. It's a reassuring routine, putting her nerves in the back of her mind even while she worries about him. "Never much liked the New International. Gets a bit redundant after a while."

He's too old for this kind of thing. He's too old to be this sick. He's fit, sure, but he's also a dog right now and fuck-all if this doesn't look bad.

Abby hates this. She hates it a lot. "Not as bad as New King James."

[stopdropanddie]

Jack submits (which is the first time that word has ever been used with Jack Bristow attached to it) to both the recitation and the check-up with doggish grumbling, but nary a word from the human part of his brain.

He's sick. He knows it. It's bad, especially for an old dog that's way past his prime. He's noticed the gray in his muzzle and the weird creaky arthritic pain in his joints after a shift. Humans handle age a lot better than dogs do.

"I'm not going to die like this, Maitland." He is damn sure of that. Jack Bristow will not fucking die the body of a dog.

[chimaerasaurus]

"'course not," she says. She gives him a pat on the side, albeit a much, much gentler one than she otherwise might. "I'll die an age before the mighty Jack Bristow."

She scritches his ears and wonders if he's a firstborn. Nothing else has been like it should. Whose to say they'll all die when the tenth plague hits?

Not Abby. She won't say it, at least. "Come on." She eases her arms under the old dog. "Don't squirm. This is no place for a sick dog, and if you argue I'll come back with sedatives, Bristow."