Constantine (brim_stoned) wrote in evaluation, @ 2019-12-12 20:04:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !rooms: 3: day 3, dc: constantine: john constantine, it: chapter two: richie tozier |
Who: John Constantine & Richie Tozier
What: John is sick. Richie brings... what we all hope is medicine.
When: Day 3, afternoon
Where: Room 18
Rating/Warnings: Language (and a fair dash of sap)
Status: Completed gdoc
Something unpleasantly heavy was sitting on John’s chest. Were there pleasantly heavy things? Richie’s arm, maybe, when he threw it over in the night. Not his feet. Those were like ice cubes, inevitably, and John maybe ran hotter than human-normal, but only just. It wasn’t enough to defrost those toes by any stretch of the imagination.
Where was he going with this?
Oh. Right. The weight. On his chest. It didn’t budge. It sat there, pressing his lungs in, leaving him to feel the staticky crackle of each inhale and the way exhaling sounded a little wet. Also unpleasant, he supposed, and considered the merits of opening his eyes to see if something might actually be there- physical, tangible, a thing he could shove at- but that seemed like a lot of effort and was probably a lost cause anyway. Nothing was actually there.
Or it was. But not on him so much as in him, because fucking germs. Or… fucking germs and shitty food and not enough sleep and cold weather and spending too long dicking around in the snow because wanting to know was like John’s thing. So he’d looked. For his trouble, he’d gotten tired and damp and now, apparently, sick.
Fuck everything.
He’d dragged himself up and out this morning, trudged to the border again, and had nothing to show for attempt number two. Maybe he didn’t look like the toy sort. Fair play, that, since he wasn’t, but… kind of a rigged system, wasn’t it? He’d grumbled and wheezed his way back to their shitty little apartment and promptly collapsed right back into bed. That was exactly where he’d been since, slipping in and out of feverish dreams and vaguely aware of the fact that Richie hadn’t come back yet. Maybe he’d gotten over the border after all, which was… good for him. Probably.
Though those ice-block feet would be nice about now. It was hot in this fucking apartment.
Nope, no Christmas sweatshop work for Richie today. He’d gotten to the border and had been promptly told to fuck off, so, fine. If he never saw the inside of that hellhole, besides in a vision, he’d be mostly okay with that - besides the part where if neither he nor John were happily playing the part of Santa’s elves, they didn’t get any food. That made things trickier.
John getting sick also complicated things a little - but there was nothing Richie wouldn’t do for him, and so using a fake passport to enter into the black market smuggling ring and see about making a run for medicine was really no big deal. He felt like fucking James Bond, except taller, lankier, with bristled pink cheeks and a gnawing stomach - so really not that sexy, and really not in the mood to fail at this mission.
Which, luckily, he hadn’t. After stuffing a bottle of something dark and syrupy into his coat pocket and constantly checking to make sure it was still there, he headed back to the apartment, past the trees shivering in the bitter wind, branches extended like the hands of an old man. He went up the stairs and used his key to get back in, opening and closing the door behind him. “Angelface?” he called cautiously. Hopefully John hadn’t gotten a wild hair up his ass to actually go anywhere while hacking up a lung for reasons not having to do with Silk Cuts (or those shitty Russian cigarettes, like how was that even a thing).
Given that he didn’t possess the energy required to open his eyes, John hadn’t gone anywhere at all. He was sprawled in bed, on his back, scratchy sheets and thin blankets thrown everywhere like some bizarre linen bomb had detonated and he was at ground zero. Everything was too hot, and probably he ought to be hungry, but it hadn’t crossed his mind since the night before.
Not that he’d been hungry then, either, but he’d at least made a passing attempt at dinner. Mostly he’d watched Rose make faces at the idea of food comprised almost entirely out of sugar, bad decisions, and various forms of food colouring.
Mostly red dye number… something. Five? Was five the bad one?
He’d gritted his teeth through some spam and what seemed alarmingly like fruitcake, and thinking about that now wasn’t going to make him feel better, so he stopped. “Lamb,” he croaked, rolling his head in the direction of Richie’s voice. Any minute now, he’d unstick his eyelashes and make sure that actually was Richie.
Soon. Like… two minutes, tops.
The bedroom was basically a germ orgy, but Richie really didn’t care. On the way, he swiped a spoon from the kitchen and then went to go find his person - if he got sick too, then whatever. Only three days into this fuckery and they were already so goddamn screwed up the bumhole he was miffed that K-Mart Soviet Union with the gingerbread and the bad Christmas puns hadn’t taken him out to dinner yet.
“Hey hot stuff,” he rumbled, taking his shoes off, along with his coat - but he removed the bottle of smuggled medicine first. “Literally, hot stuff - “ When he sank onto the bed, he pressed a cool hand to John’s forehead, leaning in and letting his lips take the place of his fingers. “Got you some medicine so be a good patient and open up for me?”
He didn’t know what it was, exactly. But once he unscrewed the cap and caught a whiff, it definitely smelled medicinal. Like the shit that the doctor would prescribe and your mom would have to hold you down, kicking and screaming, to actually take. Nothing like the bubble gum pink training wheels medicine that actually tasted good. This was hardcore.
Shared germs was basically a guarantee at this point. Whatever John had picked up, Richie probably already had. The question was mostly whether or not his immune system could withstand it, or if they’d both be sprawled and congested by tomorrow. John wasn’t exactly a delicate flower or anything, but apparently he’d run himself down enough to land in this position- not entirely dignified, but fuck it. There were worse things.
At least he hadn’t vomited. That was always embarrassing when it happened. Like stomach contents were the worst thing to accidentally show someone.
Exhaling a sigh that was more wheeze, he pressed up into the chill of Richie’s fingers, and then managed to pry open one eye to look warily at whatever passed for medicine in this shithole of a country. He wasn’t sure what it might be, but… odds were that delicious was off the table, and useful wasn’t all that far behind.
“Wuzzat?” He mumbled, getting the other eye open, the better to blink glassily at the bottle.
“Medicine, like I said,” Richie smirked, but the mirth didn’t reach the blue of his eyes. He knew what it was like to have a fever this awful, radiating heat like a brick fresh out of the oven. For the rest of today he’d see what towels they had and wet them with cold water - maybe even let them hang outside someplace to freeze, then bring them back in. That would feel good, if nothing else.
He stroked his fingers through John’s hair, damp with sweat. “I went through the black market. The cigarettes were shit but this is legit - “ Or at least, he was going to put some semblance of trust into it. That John wouldn’t die here, three days into this mess. “Just - take a spoonful?”
Later he’d see if John’s vampire friend could translate the Russian writing on the bottle in terms of what he hoped was dosage. Unless it said ‘fuck you, this is actually cow piss.’ “Then I’ll make you some tea. Or...something.” If he couldn’t keep anything down, he’d need liquids.
John hadn’t gotten this far to let some shitty Soviet virus take him down. If it did, he would absolutely find some way to claw his way back to this side of the afterlife so he could kick every one of those border guards in the balls. Daily. For the rest of their empty, miserable little lives.
Because he was just that spiteful, obviously. All he needed was spite and he could keep going for another century. Probably.
“Gonna get caught,” he rasped, shifting upright enough to ease some of the weight in his lungs. The pillows were pathetically close to flat, but if he shoved them together, they almost provided a little support. “Lookin’ to do hard time?” He tried on the pale semblance of a smirk, mouth tugging to one side. Normally he’d have more of a joke to tack on, but he had to pause to cough- chest-deep and rattling hard.
Richie glared, though the sound of the cough had him wincing a second later - so the lasers he attempted to shoot from his eyes didn’t exactly pan out. “Then I guess I get caught,” he huffed. “It’s only twenty-four hours. And maybe I’d get to eat something besides spam.” Ava said he could have hers, and he was hungry enough to take her up on it so he and John could consume it while grimacing - but once they got away from Christmas Hell, he’d probably suffer flashbacks and chills if he ever saw a can of the stuff again.
John was sitting up though, so that was at least a good sign that he planned to take the healing swill - Richie would absolutely shove it down his throat if necessary. He shifted closer, going for the straddle, thighs framing John’s hips. “You’re sick, what else am I supposed to do? Let you suffer? I’m not even across the border. I’m here. Take the goddamn medicine.” He wasn’t about to puss out and have someone else run for John’s healing goop in a bottle either - no fucking way. Richie had two working legs and enough gumption to get the job done, thanks.
Grimacing, John pressed a hand to his chest for a moment, like he could press hard enough to shove things back into working order. If it worked like that, it would be easier. Unfortunately, he was pretty sure he was going to have to ingest whatever the fuck was in that bottle, because Richie had gone through the trouble to get it, and because their other options involved either the ever-useful thoughts and prayers or hoping there were heretofore unexplored healing properties to buttercream frosting.
“Tough guy,” he teased, settling his hands onto Richie’s thighs for a quick squeeze. “Talk a little about jail, think you can boss me ‘round.” He didn’t mind. It was kind of cute.
Admittedly, he was also feverish, which explained why he was thinking words like cute. Thank Christ nobody could hear what nonsense was going on in his head.
He held out a hand, reluctant but willing to concede. “Right, hand it over.”
Fuck this sickness - it wasn’t going to cook Stubborn Warlock from the inside, Richie wouldn’t let it. “I can boss you around,” he chuckled throatily, leaning in and planting a kiss on John’s flushed cheeks. The things a fever did to a person, how beautiful - or not. “Because you like when I boss you around. My next suggestion was going to be sexual healing.”
He was kidding, mostly. When you had snot dripping from your nose and felt like your eyeballs were going to liquify in your skull, getting it on was the farthest thing from your mind. Even so, John still looked plenty tempting to him - maybe that was just a testament to how smitten Richie was.
But alright, good, victory. The sooner John got some of this medicine in him, the better. He handed over the spoon and the bottle, since it didn’t come with a handy Nyquil cap. God, who did he have to blow around here to get some fucking Nyquil?
“I might like it a little,” John conceded with a low, rusty chuckle- a rock tumbler grinding away in his throat. He hadn’t reached for a cigarette all day, which was solid testament to how terrible he felt, and he was thinking longingly about cough drops; the mentholated kind, even, the kind that promised to be lemon and honey and mostly tasted like chemicals and took a layer of skin off the tongue.
Spoon, right. Very Mary Poppins. “So… one spoonful?” He tested, sounding less than enthused. Of course he would do this and wasn’t trying to prolong it at all, no, not John Constantine. He stared down demons. Cough syrup wasn’t going to get the better of him.
“If you need sugar to help the medicine go down - “ In the most delightful way, “...I think we still have some,” Richie quipped. Their rations were pretty bare at this point - the spam from Ava, and a can of condensed milk, plus the tea Richie had been saving because he’d take sewage coffee over Prince Vladimir any day.
John Constantine was definitely trying to prolong this. That’s why Richie took the medicine back, poured a nice heaping portion into the spoon and then lovingly shoved that spoon into his boifrand’s mouth. “Oop, there you go - “ That was his best impression of a British nanny who carried a bottomless bag and wore her hair in a bun, “...right down the hatch there, lovey. Mmmm. Tastes bloody delicious now, doesn’t it?”
No. It probably did not.
Correction: It really did not. John was foggy enough to lose the thread of the spoon being snagged from him, filled, and then unceremoniously jammed back into his mouth (parted slightly because breathing was just easier this way, his nose was mostly just for show at this point and hadn’t worked since the night before), but he wasn’t so far gone that he had no tastebuds left.
Well. Maybe now.
His face twisted. He sputtered. The stuff looked like motor oil and didn’t taste too different, and it felt like burning all the way down, where it settled in his stomach and immediately started plotting to overthrow various organs. John was sure his spleen would be first.
“Fuck,” he managed, eventually, eyes watering and mouth still pulled into a grimace. “That’s awful.” It was worse than awful, actually, but he didn’t have appropriate words for it and would settle for making pathetic sounds he tried to bury by pushing his face into Richie’s chest.
Aw, poor babe - you didn’t need a spleen anyway, right? It was just one of those ‘for show’ organs. Though give it time, Richie was sure that people would start being desperate enough to trade organs on the black market for a goddamn McDonald’s cheeseburger.
In dad joke, Christmas hell, knockoff Russia - burger cheesed you.
“That bad, huh?” He capped the bottle, setting it down on the bedside table, and had hands and arms free to wrap around John, fingers gliding up and down his back comfortingly. “You won’t need more until later. I’ll find someone to translate the dosage instructions.” Maybe they could mix it with the condensed milk so it tasted better. More like a mud pie with grandma’s fruitcake, less like motor oil.
He dropped a slew of kisses in John’s hair. “I’m gonna make you some tea now. Drink that while I lie here in close proximity with you.” Did either of them want to say the word cuddle? All signs pointed to no, but that’s what it was.
Later implied that stuff wouldn’t eat through his organs and kill him, but all right, John would allow the optimism for now. He grunted something like an affirmative and peeled himself back and away from Richie so he could get off the bed to handle the complexities of making bastardized sugar tea.
John was British, born and bred, but fuck if he didn’t prefer coffee to tea. The bitterness called to him, and sad leaf water didn’t pack the same punch.
“Ask Rose,” he muttered, re-tracking important things like words and the idea of dosage instructions. Could he OD on cough syrup? Maybe they’d find out.
Oh god, did he really have to? John’s vampire friend was terrifying as fuck but he wasn’t familiar with anyone else who lived long enough to probably know every language ever, so. Fine. “I will, once she gets back from the sweatshop,” he said from the kitchen, moving about to use the stove to boil water for gross sugar tea.
Once that was done and he had a mug full of the stuff (and it was citrus and vanilla, because of course it just couldn’t be straight up black tea it had to have flavorings), he carried it back into the bedroom and crawled onto the mattress, handing the tea over. “So the new guy I had coffee with?” he started. “Is actually clairvoyant. I mean, he does other stuff too, can read minds which - sorry in advance,” Boy, was he ever, “...but he said he’d help with my shitty seer problem. Like showing me how to be better at it.”
Richie still wasn’t sure if it’d do any good. Even if he had been able to give a more concrete warning about the factory, what could people do about it? All their belongings were taken when they got here, there’d be no way to sneak in food or anything decent to trade. He couldn’t even find the tarot cards John had given him. They were basically starting over again and at the mercy of whoever controlled the doors, which was frustrating.
Long fingers curled around the mug, steadying it, and John tried not to think too hard about the candied orange scent wafting up near his nose, threatening to tip him into nausea. That was probably his fault, not the tea. Sucking down a spoonful of motor oil on an empty stomach hadn’t been one of his wisest decisions.
Also, not one of his worst, so. It all balanced out.
“Found a psychic,” John mused, thoughtful. He’d met a few people capable of more than one psychic trick at a time, but mind-reading and clairvoyance had to be a bitch of a combination. That poor bastard probably couldn’t tell if he was coming or going, some days. John was grateful that the only person in his brain was him, and that was bad enough most of the time.
He tried a tentative mouthful of tea, swallowing and letting it settle, and leaned into Richie’s side with a raspy hum. “S’pose it’s worth trying. Lots of free time since you n’me, we look too shifty to let across the border.” John snorted, or tried to, but he was too congested and the resulting noise was… less amused and more angry goose.
Richie put his arm around John, leaning back against the pillows - or the pancakes that were supposed to be pillows, anyway. It was mostly resting against the wall. “Yeah, he’s nice. Been through some shit,” so in that way, Richie could relate. “He said it involved a lot of meditation. Like. I might be too twitchy for it, but we’ll see.”
He didn’t want to fail - not at this. If he was going to try to understand what he’d been saddled with, try to use it, he’d go all in. Balls to the walls and everything else.
“Maybe we’ll end up in prison together, me and you,” he sighed, resting his cheek in John’s hair. The angry goose honk was actually kind of cute. “So romantic.” Though he couldn’t imagine what would land John in prison, since he hadn’t done anything yet - but did it matter? There was probably about as much sense in that aspect as there was in turning people away from the border.
Been through some shit basically described everyone along for this particular rollercoaster ride. John wasn’t the most emotionally savvy of men (far from it), but he was observant enough to catch the gist from people at large. Plus there was a completely bizarre habit of some of this lot to just… up and share their whole tragic backstory at the drop of a hat.
Frankly, if The Powers That Be up and kidnapped a therapist at this point, they’d have work enough to keep them busy for the rest of their lives- or drive them absolutely mad. Either/or, maybe both.
Another sip of tea, another grimace, and John dropped his free hand on Richie’s leg for a quick squeeze. “Been to prison. Wouldn’t recommend it on the regular, lamb.” Here, it was probably cold (everything was), depressing (see: cold), and likely involved forced labor (oh, hey, so did not prison). But maybe the prisoners got food, which was more than John and Richie could say for their day so far.
“Any of your mates good to spare you lunch?” He prompted, after a beat. John didn’t want to waste anything by eating only to lose it, but Richie probably needed something to keep him going. Sugar tea wasn’t going to cut it.
“Ava said I could have her spam, and the condensed milk,” Richie replied, stealing the hand that was on his leg and lacing their fingers together for a moment. “I won’t eat it all, in case you get hungry later.” Maybe there would be a hint of an appetite back a little once he had some medicine in him and rested up.
His hand crawled up under John’s shirt, stroking there over where his heart beat - he wished they had some Vicks or some shit, like, it was really almost-funny how people took modern medicine for granted. When you didn’t have to smuggle drugs to heal people with, and risk getting arrested. “When were you in prison?” he asked curiously, quirking an eyebrow. “And for what?”
Safe to say Richie didn’t think he was cut out for doing hard time in a max security federal facility, but something called the Yulelag, well, whatever. He’d gotten John what he needed, so, he’d deal with the consequences.
The fact that spam was their only protein source here was a fucking tragedy. John wasn’t picky about food, but he was starting to develop a bit of a twitch whenever canned meat came up in conversation. “All you,” he encouraged, dryly. Richie deserved all the compressed, canned meat products he could scavenge, having done a good deed a few times over in trying to keep them in nicotine and what John still hoped was actual medication.
If not, whatever. The intention had been good, so it still counted.
“Mexico City,” John sighed, rueful. “2014. Killed some people… or rather, my body did. I wasn’t the only inhabitant at the time, but you try explaining that to a judge.” He couldn’t recall actually seeing a judge, now that he was thinking about it. That whole mess had been something of a blur, better not recalled in detail if he could avoid it. There was enough blood on his hands he’d actually put there by deliberate action.
About half the tea gone, John reached to carefully set it aside. He could feel that awful catch in his chest that meant he was about to start coughing again, and he’d rather not give the both of them and the bed a nice, tepid bath. The mug barely hit the bedside table before he was bent double and hacking over his knees, shoulders bunched high and fingers twisting in the sheets.
“Alright, angelface - “ He patted John’s back soothingly, Richie glancing over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t lost a lung or a kidney after that barking. Which sounded like the cough of an eighty-year-old man needing an oxygen tank. Come to think of it, one of those would be pretty helpful right about now. “You’re alright. You made it through Mexican prison, you’re gonna get through this too.”
Granted, this type of thing would be easier to deal with if they had even a little bit of a fighting chance - but he supposed that was the point. To not give them advantages. Still, it was a little difficult to accomplish the mission of making toys if you like, had to be scraped off the floor with a pancake spatula.
“Think you’ll be okay to get in the shower? The steam’ll help with that cough.” It was just that the temperature of the water had to be exactly right - not too hot, not too cold, since last he heard you weren’t supposed to toss someone with a fever into cold water, as tempting as it might be.
The coughing fit subsided shortly enough, though it left John breathless and pinched around the mouth again. He loathed being sick. It was so fucking inconvenient, feeling like the normal things you took for granted- being able to take a full breath, or to breathe through your nose, or to regulate your goddamned body temperature- were all beyond your control and took too much energy besides. John wasn’t exactly a control freak or anything, but he liked a little more than this.
Sagging back, he tilted into Richie’s side with a grumbling, discontented noise. “D’we have steam?” The showers weren’t cold or anything, but they weren’t talking luxury accommodations, either. He didn’t want to run out the boiler for the whole building. If they even had one.
Maybe there were orphans shoveling coal in the basement or something. That seemed fitting for this place.
“We can find out? At the very least, the temperature will bring your fever down so we won’t be able to cook an egg on your forehead anymore,” Richie pointed out, pressing a kiss to John’s temple. Not that they had any eggs to cook. Whatever.
He tried to forget about how good scrambled eggs and bacon would be right now. And scooted off the bed to head into the bathroom - first he just turned the water on as hot as it could go, then shut the door. By the time John actually got to the bathroom after shuffling there with his senior citizen gait, there would hopefully be steam built up then they could just turn the temperature down. “Come here, hot stuff - I want to get you naked,” he said, holding out his hands.
“Don’t make me picture cooked chocolate eggs,” John groaned, blanching a little at the thought. The food here might’ve been a kindergartener’s idea of haute cuisine, but he would literally murder someone for a decently cooked steak about now. Or, not now now, but as soon as he wasn’t feeling vaguely nauseated just thinking about solid foods. So soon. Because that godawful fucking medicine was going to work and he’d be fine to do his daily run to the border just to be turned aside.
It was a fun cycle. So. Much. Fun.
He listed to the side without Richie there to keep him upright, and thought longingly about closing his eyes and going back to sleep. But. He was supposed to be getting up and moving to the bathroom, so… probably he ought to get started on that.
Grudgingly, John pushed upright, clambered out of bed, and slunk toward the bathroom. “Bet you say that to all the snotty Brits around here,” he teased, worn but still trying on a crooked grin all the same. He even got his arms up, because John was so helpful.
It was a well-known fact that the blasphemous smirks and the devious, crooked smiles were going to kill Richie - just part of everything Constantine that he’d imprinted into his memory, even the little things, like the way he held a cigarette clutched between his index and middle fingers, ash tumbling away. He swore there were strings beneath bones that tied them together - he was beginning to realize it was a lot different than how he’d felt about Eddie.
Maybe because he actually got to experience everything now, instead of simply pining over it all - the first kiss, the first roll in the hay, the first time worrying about a fever breaking. First time you realized that ‘babe, do you need a tissue to catch your runny nose’ was actually kind of romantic in a real way.
“How many snotty Brits are there around here?” he asked, entering the (relatively - well, it hadn’t been a failed experiment at least) steamy bathroom. His glasses fogged already but he tugged at John’s clothes, fingers keyboarding over his ribs after he tossed the shirt away, pants coming next. “Better question - can we both fit in that shower?”
It didn’t seem likely, but who knew. He even remembered to turn the knob toward something resembling lukewarm as opposed to ‘enjoy your nipples melting off.’
“Can’t be only me,” John mused, testing a breath that felt like a swamp going down, but was marginally easier than before. So, either that medicine was kicking in or Richie had a point about the shower. John would lie odds in either direction, but he was going to give Richie the credit anyway. He deserved it for all this nursemaiding, which was a strange thing to experience but nothing John would push away.
He’d tried on normal with Dez; shared apartment in the Quarter, lazy Sunday morning lie-ins, trips to the farmer’s market for fresh eggs. It hadn’t gone down a treat, but that was all John’s fault. He wasn’t meant for normal, didn’t even know what it was.
This, it definitely wasn’t normal, but it was working out for them somehow. John was a little wary of looking too closely at that for fear it would all fall apart.
Gently snagging the frames off of Richie’s face, he set the glasses on the counter and winked. “One way to find out, yeah? C’mon. You can make sure I don’t keel over in here. Safety first.” Like that was a thing John had ever said before. He snickered, soft but without the wheeze lurking behind it for a change, and stepped under the spray.
“You keeling over in the shower and drowning - “ Or worse, John hitting his head and cracking his skull open, blood leaking all over the tiles, “...yeah, that’d be the last thing we need,” Richie snorted, not even bothering to fold his clothes. He just left them all in a heap and went into the shower.
Which was like, the size of a shoebox but they’d make it work. Somehow. He came at John with the soap, gentle, because a fever didn’t feel great and neither did the body aches that usually accompanied the whole mess. But him standing under the spray of water in the perfect Goldilocks juuuuuuuust right temperature would help too, a cooling effect on skin. “You think we’re going to be in pseudo-Russian hell for a week like the last ones or should we plan to hate our lives for longer than that?”
It wasn’t quite the last thing they needed, but it was definitely on the list. Probably in the top… ten. John was enough of a pessimist to assume a few catastrophic things worse than a head injury related to a fall in the shower, but not so wild as to start listing highly improbable disasters in the mix. Mostly he pictured some of those armed assholes from the border storming in to drag Richie off for daring to bother with something crazy, like health care.
But, he clearly wasn’t paranoid enough not to let the shower happen in the first place. Sighing, he let his eyes droop to half-mast. “Mm. Hate to let this thing lull us into expecting a pattern when we’ve only seen the two… rooms.” It felt stupid to call them rooms when they weren’t, but he lacked a better idea, so. Rooms it was.
“I’d say at least a week,” he decided, finally, fingers glancing around a hip as he shifted to let Richie help him smell less like a sickbed. “Hopefully not so long as two. We’ll all get scurvy at this rate.” No fresh fruit or veg, nothing with decent nutrients, they’d all be sick and carry a plague to their next delightful destination. He peeked an eye open, searching. “You are feelin’ all right, yeah?”
There were other things Richie wanted to be doing in the shower besides planning ahead for the ‘die of scurvy retirement plan,’ but shit was what it was right now - so he’d shelve the thoughts involving pure filth, although having an orgasm was a good way to clear your sinuses?
What? He’d totally read that somewhere. It was a legit medical fact.
“At least a week,” he concurred. “Less than two. I mean, how long can the human body go without a vegetable?” And no, weird-ass pickled vegetables in a jar didn’t count. Those were basically akin to drinking vinegar straight from the bottle. It tasted like ass and death.
He made a purring sound in his throat, more like a rumble of amusement. “I’m fine enough to feel you up in the shower,” he said, going hand-over-hand on that warlock cock. To make sure that everything got clean, okay, he was very thorough. “Seriously, I’m good. I’m even gonna sleep in the same bed as you tonight so I can cuddle you back to health.” Awww.
John was sick. He wasn’t dead, so even that brief pass (for the totally innocent purposes of getting clean) drew a reaction- a stuttered noise in the back of his throat, a twitch of narrow hips. “Best nurse I’ve ever had,” he drawled, nosing up behind the hinge of Richie’s jaw for a quick kiss and a graze of teeth over shower-warmed skin.
He pulled back, not at all sorry for the shared germs, and twisted around so he leaned his back into Richie’s chest and put himself under the spray to rinse off. The steam really was helping. Maybe he’d be breathing through his nose by the time he climbed back into bed for another delightfully stimulating nap.
They’d shared more than germs at this point, so Richie didn’t mind at all - he slid his arms around John, hands splayed on his abs before sliding up to trace over the ink splashed on his chest. He had that all memorized by now, every single tattoo even if he didn’t know what each one meant specifically - but the look of them, he could trace the designs in the air.
“I mean, I don’t have a Naughty Nurse outfit but I think I do okay,” he smirked, resisting the urge to get even more handsy. No, not now, John needed to sleep - well, he needed an actual, real meal but so did all of them. Sleep would have to do for now.
He bit gently at John’s shoulder, grabbing the soap and it was his turn to twist around so he could actually get clean too, and not smell like he just came from a medicine run in the black market. “Get into bed, I’ll be there in a minute.”
“You’ve got the legs for it,” John suggested, craning around to smirk at the taller man. Richie was all leg, so why not? He stretched a little, maybe just because it meant indulging a sinuous wiggle that was all tease at this point, and then slithered out of the tiny shower to grab for a towel. His attempts to dry off were perfunctory at best, but he did linger to brush his teeth. That medicinal taste needed to go.
Picking up the clothes shed through the bathroom was literally the very least he could do, even if bending down made his head swim a little. Right. Definitely back to bed, and John shuffled out of the bathroom, set the clothes out of the way for worrying about later, and sprawled back out over the mattress with a groan.
The teeth-brushing was a good idea, because if they were going to eat that much sugar then it seemed necessary. No way was Richie dying of scurvy with six-hundred cavities to boot. So once he was done rinsing off, he cut the water and did his own dental hygiene routine - well, he got the taste of pumpkin spice from his mouth, so that was important.
Following the sound of a grumpy British dabbler in the dark arts (similar to dying walrus), he got into the bed and pulled the covers - scant as they were - up around him and John. Richie could go for a nap too - then when they woke up, they could crack open that spam and condensed milk, John could have another dose of medicine, and they’d really be having a party.
“I’ll be the big spoon now,” he offered, curling around John from behind, kissing the back of his neck. He felt cooler too, at least - maybe the fever had fucked off, which was a good thing. “Have good sickness dreams, angelface.”
Was dying walrus better than angry goose? John was just working his way through a strange, cantankerous zoo at this point. Maybe later he’d get around to… what was next? Fuck it. He was going for vaguely cuddly now. Bedtime meant cuddles.
Shit, what was a cuddly animal? Koala? Sure. He’d go with that.
Yawning, he wiggled and settled back into the familiar shape of Richie’s body; not the way they usually slept, but still good. He wasn’t feeling like the room was too hot and the embrace was uncomfortable. No, it was good. Anchoring, safe, a reminder that he wasn’t alone in this bullshit, even when he was congested and snotty and about as appealing as that canned spam Richie was going to have for dinner later.
“Mm. Wake me if you’re gonna head out again,” he murmured, voice already dragging and slurring into drowsiness. It was a matter of minutes before he dropped off into congested snoring, the curl of his limbs going soft and loose in sleep.