instead of working on any major project or any prompt I did this because I’m sick and sand and I wanted to write something with Jack being sick and sad
it’s not very good but orz just take it
“Rhys,” Jack mumbles around a spoon, “this soup sucks.”
Rhys acknowledges him only with an annoyed hiss and a slight roll of the eyes as he pulls the spoon back from between Jack’s lips and soaks it back into the bowl. Sure, the celery kind of dissolved into the broth and turned it a bit green and he might not have added enough salt, but the carrots and chicken and noodles are all good quality and taste fine to Rhys, so he doesn’t know where Jack iss coming from.
The older man snorts, and coughs, and audibly sucks snot up through his nose. Rhys cringes as he stirs the soup, trying to seek out a heartier morsel.
“I dunno what you’re talking about. It’s not that bad. Also I’m not sure I trust the taste buds of the guy who’s stuffed to the gills with mucus.”
“A palate as mighty as mine can’t be defeated by a friggin’ cold,” Jack waggles his finger from within the folds of the blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. Only his head and hands pop out from the butter yellow comforter, making him look like some kind of weird monster. The Great Golden Hyperion Sniffler, or something.
“All right, Mr. Master Chef, open up ‘cause you’re not gonna get anything else until you get better.” Rhys waves the laden spoon in front of Jack’s lips, holding the bowl underneath to catch any dripping. Jack frowns deeply, breathing through his nose muffled as he narrows his eyes at the spoon.
“Think I’d rather starve…”
“Nuh-uh, no starving. The King of Hyperion isn’t going to die just because he doesn’t want to eat his boyfriend’s soup,” Rhys admonishes as he wiggles the spoon in front of Jack’s lips.
“C’mon now don’t be a wimp. See, here’s comes the bandit, launching out of the airlock!”
Luckily for Rhys, that gets Jack to snicker, leaving him an opening to slip the spoon between his boyfriend’s lips. Jack grunts and glared, but swallows down the spoonful nonetheless, his grimace this time around a little less dramatic.
“When I’m back to full strength, I’ve got to give you some friggin’ cooking lessons, pumpkin,” Jack grouses as he settles back against the headboard, shaky hands dragging the comforter tighter about himself.
“That’s plenty of motivation for you to get better, then. Once you kick this flu, I promise you won’t have to eat my soup ever again.” Rhys dids around the bowl for a big piece of chicken and a couple of dripping noodles. “But until then…”
Jack moans, flopping his head back as he snorts mucus back into his swollen nose.
“Please, kiddo, no more torture….and I’ve like, actually been tortured so I know what I’m talking about.”
“Okay, drama queen.” Rhys nestles the soup in his lap, holding up a finger. “One more bite, and I’ll put the rest in the fridge, okay?”
“In the fridge? Kiddo, I think you know where that belongs, in the tras—“
“Shush.” Rhys shoves the last spoonful into Jack’s helpless mouth, quickly dropping it back into the bowl as Jack struggles to swallow it down. “You’re really mouthy for someone who is apparently sick.”
“I am sick.” Jack licks his cracked lips as he snuggles back against his pillow, eyes starting to flutter shut. “What….do I need to be….blowin’ chunks everywhere for you to believe me…”
“I’d prefer if you kept my soup down, thanks,” Rhys chuckles as he rises, cradling the soup in one hand as the other tugs the blankets tighter around Jack’s body and checks his temperature. Mollified for now, Rhys pats Jack atop the head, earning a sleepy grumble and an abortive swat. He dims the bedroom lights on his way out, leaving Jack to rest in the dark and quiet as he returns to the kitchen to keep the soup for later.
Things are fairly boring around the penthouse with Jack laid up and ill.
Rhys usually occupies himself with organizing Jack’s inevitable clutter or spending his time watching television or playing on one of the many game systems, and if neither of those tickle his fancy he browses the ECHOnet on his palm display. He usually flips through new options for his wardrobe or plays any of the little mini games that have come installed with his operating system, but the needling fact that Jack is ill, even with something as mundane as the flu, keeps him from relaxing enough to properly enjoy any of the aforementioned activities. He hops from one to the next to the next, with not enough focus to linger on one for much longer than a few minutes. After about an hour of foiled distractions, he finally decides to make himself a grilled cheese and curl on the couch, where he gratefully ends up falling asleep snuggled around one of the firm throw pillows.
He wakes up for no clear reason sometime later, moaning softly to himself as he drags into an upright position, rubbing his eyes and ruffling his fingers back through his hair as he squints towards the digital clock on the entertainment center, though considering he can’t remember when he fell asleep, it doesn’t particularly help.
Rhys wobbles to his feet and retrieves two cool glasses of water from the kitchen, draining the first himself as he carries the other to the bedroom.
He creeps softly inside, letting the door drift shut behind him as he approaches the bed. Jack had rolled out of his previous cocoon and now lies on his side, sleeping curled up in the fetal position and facing the huge space window.
Rhys sits on the bed and knocks the glass against the nightstand a little too loudly, and he expects Jack to stir and groan at him for being so loud, but to Rhys’ surprise Jack stays motionless and—more surprisingly—quiet.
Rhys leans sideways on his hand, peering over Jack’s form as his heart picks up, puzzled. The comforter curls around Jack’s head like a hood, hiding his face from view. Rhys worries his lip, reaching forward and tugging the blanket away.
His eyes are half open, lids vibrating like they’d been plucked, fluttering between wanting to shut and forcing themselves open. Rhys can’t see any pupils or irises, only mottled white, even in the eye he knows to be undamaged and seeing. Jack’s skin has lost the reserve of color, even around his swollen nose and eyes, making the scar slashed across his face stand out, stark and cold. Rhys puts a hand against his forehead and gasps at the heat, even as Jack’s whole body shivers underneath the blankets.
“Jack? Holy shit, Jack!” Rhys’ voice rises urgently above a whisper as he rubs Jack’s shoulders, shaking him in hopes he’d snapped out of the fugue and tell him to screw of, but Jack only whines in a tone Rhys has never heard before, that sends his stomach twisting into one big worried knot.
Rhys ends up summoning Jack’s personal doctor in on a house call after a couple more panicked moments. He stays by Jack’s side until she comes, keeping a rag cool and wet as he rubs it over the older man’s forehead. He whispers to him until he’s lost track of what exactly he’s saying, the constant mumbling as much a comfort to himself as he hopes it is to Jack. The sound of the security door chiming finally breaks him out of it and he rises on shaky legs, taking glances over his shoulder at Jack until he manages to break away and skirt through the living room, quickly opening the door and inviting the doctor in.
He wrings the end of his tie in hand as he watches her tend to Jack. The lump in his throat refuses to go down as he looks on. He isn’t really listening to what the doctor is saying, but her voice was cool and calm and her hands assured, even as Jack’s limbs flop limp as she turns him onto his back and parts the sweat-stained blankets around his chest. Rhys knots his tie anxiously between his fingers as she records Jack’s temperature and presses her stethoscope to his chest, taking stock of his breathing.
“I’m going to put him on a fluid drip just in case,” the doctor’s measured, calm voice is a balm to Rhys’ anxiety as he nods, letting her go about her business as he numbly watches, trying not to think about the reedy, thin breaths drifting in and out of Jack’s open mouth. The doctor thankfully hides Jack’s arm with her body as she slips the needle into the vein in his forearm, wrapping it up with gauze. She hooks the bag up on a collapsible stand, letting the saline drain down with the aid of gravity.
She gives Rhys two small white bottles—one of fever reducers, one of painkillers—and a request to call her if things grow worse, then leaves Rhys alone in the dim light of the bedroom.
He sits back down heavily against the bed, before scooting to the edge, afraid to jostle Jack any more. He keeps his hands in his lap, the pills in the bottles clacking softly as he turns them over in his hands before leaning to set them against the nightstand.
Rhys can hear only the weak, raspy sound of Jack’s breathing, in time with the shallow rise and fall of his chest. It’s both too much, and not enough, and he can’t take it.
“You scared the hell out of me, you know that?” Rhys murmurs as he rests his hand against Jack’s shoulder, rubbing slowly down to the crook of his elbow before traveling back up, careful not to disturb the IV pulsing into his forearm. Jack’s doesn’t respond, but he seems calmer, now, less caught up in the throes of fever. Though peaceful resting doesn’t exactly suit him either, Rhys feels. If Jack hadn’t been ill and needing to recover, Rhys might be tempted to poke and prod him until he wakes up and gives Rhys a chance to hear the bite of that comforting snark.
The awkward quiet is a rough pill to swallow, so Rhys fills it aimlessly, murmuring aloud to his boyfriend about anything at all as he carefully strokes Jack’s arm, occasionally changing and wetting the cloth on his forehead.
Maybe, Rhys thinks, if he speaks like Jack is awake and acerbic as always instead of listless and hooked up to fluids, he soon will be.
