WHO: Dr Cox, Jack, Jennifer WHERE: apartment over the Roadhouse WHEN: Tuesday, January 10, 2006; 2 a.m. and on WHAT: The shoemaker's children never have shoes and the doctor's children get sick. RATING: PG, with warnings for sick little children STATUS: narrative; COMPLETE
Despite the epidemic sweeping the city, Cox had been certain it wouldn't touch any kids he knew, especially his son and daughter, because he was looking out for them. While he wasn't one to bury kids in unnecessary antibiotics, every precaution and measure was taken. His kids weren't going to be among the children sick, the ones who were so sick they were near death.
Of course, Cox had long ago learned that the world didn't do what he wanted, as much as he might want it to. Learned it, but still refused to accept it some days.
When the tell-tale symptoms started in his son, Cox had been downstairs and Jack had been in bed – or was supposed to be – but the rest had come, and it had come on fast, which was why after the bar closed for the night, Cox was sitting on the floor of his bathroom with his soaking-wet son in his lap as Jack revisited what felt like every meal since he'd started solid food. It had started with the fever, which was why Jack was wet – Cox had stuck him in the bath to bring down the raging fever – and then had moved on to the rest of the symptoms.
The disorientation and the resulting bad aim was the one that was trying Cox's patience with the cosmos. "Oh, Jackie. That is going to stain. You need to learn some hand-eye coordination if you're ever getting that pro-ball career. Eye on the prize, kid, eye on the prize."
Despite it sounding like criticism of a small boy being sick, it wasn't. It was just how Cox coped. He could deal with crazy clowns and vampires and Voldemort and a hundred other things this city threw at him, but Cox never had and never would deal with those he cared about being sick or injured, from the obvious, like his son and daughter – he was a father, it was assumed he loved his kids, so he never actually had to talk about it – to the not so obvious, like Half-Pint, because it had taken death and a bout of drunkenness for him to admit Jo Harvelle was like family to him.
When Jack's small body seemed to just wear out from it all, Cox dried him off and got him in bed, then systematically sanitized everything with the dedication of an obsessive hospital staffer. Jennifer still hadn't shown any sign of whatever the hell this was, so he wasn't taking any chances. When it was done, he went to check on his infant daughter.
She was still a novelty, this kid he hadn't seen born, hadn't seen the first months of her life, but was his just the same because of this messed up place bringing people from all places and times. But she was his daughter and Cox gave her the same sometimes suspect (unless you knew him) but always loyal treatment he gave Jack.
"And I don't even know where your mother's overly nipped-and-tucked ass is," he said to the sleeping infant. "So you, Jenny, are just no~ot going to get sick. Set an example for Jacko, show him how this goes."
A half-hour later, Jennifer showed the beginnings of the same fever.