✈ followed by ≣:
✈: reaching out for someone [bonus points if they mumble! their! name!] ≣: hand holding
💖 In which post-nap, post-heat exhaustion Harold is a grumpy, grumpy patient...
This is not his bed.
Harold lies still, eyes closed, listening and analyzing, ignoring the queasy, woozy feeling throughout his body. The world around him is quiet, save for the soft rush of an air conditioner, the rhythmic canine snores coming from behind him, and the gentle rustle of turning pages in front of him. A warm body is pressed to his back, too small to be human, moving in time with the breathy snores. Bear. That must be Bear, and if Bear is sleeping so peacefully, then they're somewhere safe.
The loft. Oh, yes, that's right. He'd been trailing a number, and the horrendous July heat hit him too hard, left him dizzy and nauseated and weak, sick and near passing out. John's loft was closer than any safehouse, so he sought refuge there. John showed up soon after, got some fluids into him, and let him stay. But he'd fallen asleep on the couch, not the bed. John must have carried him, then. Somehow, he slept right through it.
Fondness and gratitude blossom in Harold's chest. Without opening his weary eyes, he reaches out, murmuring John's name. Just as his hand lands on the jut of a knee, he hears the book snap closed, and feels it getting set aside.
"Hey there," John says, placing his hand over Harold's. "How you feeling?"
Harold sighs, and lets John's fingers wrap around his own. "Better," he replies, forcing his eyes open. The room around him is dim, lit only by muted sunlight filtering through the curtains. At John's blurry skeptical look, Harold admits, "But not my best." His head still aches a bit, the rest of him feels dreadful, and his nap was not refreshing in the slightest. It is, however, an improvement. Not much of one, true, but an improvement nonetheless. "How's our number?"
"Safe," John says, and reaches for something on the nightstand—a bottle of Gatorade, orange-flavored and colored, garish and revolting. "Fusco's keeping an eye on him. Here." He lets go of Harold's hand long enough to twist open the cap on the drink, then takes hold of it again as he holds out the bottle. Harold's churning stomach turns more in protest, the memory of drinking the last bottle rising in his mind. He makes a face, and John shakes the bottle insistently. "I know you don't like it, but you need the electrolytes and the fluids. You've had a rough time."
Harold starts to take it, but the more he considers it, the more his stomach voices his disapproval. Pressing his free hand to his belly, he asks, "Couldn't we start with something with more recognizable ingredients, like, say, water, instead of a bottle of food coloring and god knows what else?"
The building smile on John's face is soft and indulgent. His response, however, is not. "No," he says, and Harold groans. "You're dehydrated, Harold. Drink it. It's cold."
Scowling, Harold says, "You're a terrible partner," and he snatches his hand away and slowly heaves himself upright, grunting along the way as old aches and new object to the movement. Behind him, Bear lets out a small whine, irritated at being awakened, followed by a soft huff as he settles again. John's smile doesn't waver, growing under the sharpness of Harold's glare, especially when Harold grabs the cool, damp bottle and takes that first miserable sip of unpleasant artificial citrus. Though it's lovely to see John smiling, Harold still casts a narrow-eyed glance at John's upturned lips and asks, "What are you smirking about?"
John chuckles. "Just you." The affection in his voice melts Harold's petulance and crankiness most efficiently, and when John reaches for his hand again, Harold doesn't resist. "Glad you're feeling better."
"And I'm glad you're here," Harold says, lacing their fingers together. "Appalling sports drinks notwithstanding, you've taken good care of me. Thank you."
John's smile softens further, turning almost shy. "Anytime," he says, quietly, and Harold smiles back.
