Holding Issac's hand as he was, standing by the table which served as his bed, Ric tried not to draw any unfortunate parallels to childhood visits with dying relatives. Immediately, he reminded himself that it wasn't as severe as all that. Not to invalidate Issac's obvious pain or anything, but he wouldn't still be here if these episodes had fatal side effects. It must be a terrible storm to weather, but he'd done it before, and if Ric had any say in it, he'd do it again.
"Alas, I'm not siren," Ric admitted. Being musically inclined did not automatically grant him the privilege of an angelic voice. He didn't think it was so bad as to cause anyone's ear drums to rupture, but his vocal chords were out of key often enough to be embarrassing all the same. Issac must take the private concert to follow to his grave, that was for damn sure. After scrolling through a mental catalog of songs, ruling out the Itsy-Bitsy Spider (what child wanted to think of spiders before bedtime?) and Hush, Little Baby (he disapproved of the mother's irresponsible spending habits), he settled on a Bette Midler classic. Hummed a few bars to make up for the fact he'd forgotten most of the lyrics before coming in at, "Little one when you play, pay no heed what they say. Let your eyes sparkle and shine, never a tear, baby of mine."
Somewhere out there, his mother experienced the inexplicable urge to pop in the movie Beaches.