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Misery In Good Company
A continuation of her 'Extremities' drabble, Endures All Things

by Virgo79
June 28, 2005

He hurt. He hurt all over, inside and out. The aching started deep in the marrow of his bones and radiated out to his skin, his toes, his bloody fingernails. Someone had apparently nailed his eyes shut while he was sleeping, and whatever was making that horrendous chattering, clicking sound was driving them deeper into his head.

He might have complained if he wasn't afraid unclenching his jaw to do so would lead to him being violently sick all over himself.

Instead of words, a weak mewl he was fairly sure he hadn't made voluntarily escaped him, and though he thought for certain the sound would have been inaudible outside his own throbbing head, someone else heard, because the next thing he was aware of was gentle, blessedly cool hands on his face, and a familiar voice speaking in hushed tones very near his ear.

"Easy, Jack. Lie quiet for me now, lad."

"Bill..." he rasped out, and the effort set him gagging. Arms got him quickly upright to prevent him from choking himself, but his stomach was long empty, and the convulsive heaving accomplished nothing but making it feel as if his body was splitting apart inside.

"I'm right here, lad, I've got you. Bill's got you." He was eased back onto his pillow when it was over, and those hands laid something cool and wet across his closed eyes, even as they rolled back into his head. "Bill's going to make it better."

*

"...influenza, by my reckoning, and a particularly ugly case of it."

The pain and heat were a weight that pressed him into the mattress, while the world spun madly around him.

"You're sure?" That was Bill, but even to Jack's struggling ears he sounded wrong...sounded frightened. "When the blood started, I thought only of yellow fever."

"No, no fear of that. His throat's worn raw from vomiting. Roof of the mouth, as well, from the look of...no bleeding coming from any deeper than that. None in the eyes, either, and his color's not...."

Deciding the vertigo would probably be worse with his eyes open, and not entirely sure he could manage such a task anyway, Jack left them closed.

"...help settle his stomach, and I'll add...heal the irritation in the throat...see if he's ready to be bled--"

Jack managed a protesting gasp, even as Bill voiced his own, and one hand flailed on the the bed in what he could only hope was Bill's direction. It was caught and held tightly, and a work-weathered touch swept his forehead, smoothing away sweat and fear.

"Shhh, Jack, I won't let him. I won't let him. You rest yourself, now."

"Mr. Turner--"

"Over my dead body, mate. Is that understood?"

His fingers limp in Bill's, Jack exhaled a smile. That's it, Bill. Give 'im hell...

*

Every joint and muscle screamed in protest when he was lifted from the bed, but for his part Jack could only chime in with a whimper.

"I know it hurts, lad, I know." Bill's voice rumbled up through his chest, and Jack burrowed closer to the sound and vibration. "We're going to make it better right now."

The bath wasn't truly that cold, but he'd been host to a fire under his skin for the better part of three days, and at the first touch of the chilled water, Jack nearly screamed.

"There we are," Bill soothed as he lowered the younger man into the water. "There's my strong lad."

Jack twisted miserably, but gradually exhaustion won out over discomfort, and he let Bill guide his head down to rest on the edge of the tub. That cool, damp hand cupped and held his brow, a second coming up to knead gently at the base of his skull.

"Close your eyes, Jack," Bill murmured. "Just close your eyes and rest. We're going to soak this fever out of you, lad, and it doesn't take you bein' awake to get it done."

At some point the water temperature changed from agonizing to bearable, and Jack's breathing softened. It was approaching pleasant when he drifted into sleep.

*

He woke without opening his eyes, the first bits of awareness coming to him in sensations instead of sights.

His sluggishly stirring limbs slid between soft, if threadbare, linens, and the heavier weight of a quilt over top of those. He nuzzled deeper into his pillow, and had a vague memory of being lifted just high enough from it so that it could be turned over, the cool side awaiting his aching head when it was lowered back down.

~.~

The story continues with Endures All Things: Sunday Morning

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