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“I’ll see about stopping by at some point later on this afternoon, okay? Just to check in.”
He’s been flickering in and out of sleep for some time, sore eyes heavy with the afterimage of some gleaming field of red poppies in his mind, of old animated movies dredged up from the early dreams of his first few lives, once dormant in his subconscious. Jack shifts upon the pillow, shivering gripping his chest and his throat feeling akin to sandpaper.
Of all illnesses to come down with, he thinks to himself, burrowed underneath his quilt, it had to be strep throat.
The last time he had felt this physically ill had been all the way back in his first life; gripped by a nasty bout of scarlet fever and lying in bed trying to shut out the rest of the world. But when your soul skips from host body to host body, you rarely have much of an opportunity to get properly ill. It would seem, then, that this young D-class hailing from Venezuela had the unfortunate luck of being hexed with a rather frail immune system—at least with the enhancements to medical technology there is far less a chance of dying from this illness.
The antibiotics are ambling along in properly curing him, as far as Jack can tell. Three hours later and he still feels as though those comforting centipedes have burrowed out of his throat. He lowers his eyelids and tries to rest, to no avail.
Jack is meandering on some asteroid planet covered in flowers when he wakes up to the sound of someone knocking at his bedroom door. He wonders, for a moment, if it is the gnostic serpent, or the bird hatched out of the egg—fragmented fever dreams, come to wander the waking world of his untidy bedroom.
“May I come in?”
He recognizes that gentle voice in an instant.
“Mm-hmm.”
Simon wears one of those blue synthetic face masks when he steps him, still dressed in that long black coat Jack sees him wearing out and about so often beyond the facility site. He removes his glasses, wiping them along the edge of his scarf to clear away the fog on them. Something about him merely standing in this room, tall and bespectacled, tugging his gloves off his hands, makes Jack feel a little warm.
“Have you taken your antibiotics?”
“Forced myself to down them the second I arrived home from the doctor’s office.” After a moment’s thought (and analyzing the tissues sticky with throat mucus that missed his wastebasket, the crumpled suit from last night that he didn’t have the strength to hang back on its proper wooden hanger), he adds, “My apologies that—” a burning in his throat, cough, cough, cough “—apologies that you’re witnessing me in the state I’m in, Simon.”
“Jack, you’re sick—with strep, even. It’s not going to be a big deal to me how messy of a room you have if you’re coughing up snot and have an itchy throat. And the antibiotics work, but they’ll take a day or two before they start to kick in. If you still feel like shit, that’s normal. Yes, we’ve made leaps and bounds in medical technology, but not to the point where your cold will magically vanish in fifteen minutes or less.”
“They ought to.”
“…At least it wasn’t as bad as the time you took an entire packet of Benadryl at once.”
Jack sits up and winces from how cold it is above his blankets. “I told you,” he hacks out, “they weren’t working nearly fast enough to help rid my allergy symptoms.”
“And then you saw visions.”
“I have visions on occasion.”
Simon exhales; Jack can only glimpse the warm, dark brown of his eyes but the sharp narrow of his brow is enough of an indicator of his expression—a sort of I can’t believe that of all people I ended up falling in love with after things didn’t work out with Diogenes it had to be my coworker who downed an entire package of Benadryl which induced Gnostic visions look. But he calms down, and follows up with, “I brought some probiotics just in case. Sometimes the antibiotics can be too strong and accidentally eat away at the bacteria that’s supposed to be helpful, you’re supposed to take these if you start experiencing side effects.”
“I presume they taste as awful as every other type of modern medicine I’ve sampled.”
“They do, unfortunately. But you won’t need to take them for now—they’re more of a backup plan. In the meantime—” here, his voice grows a touch less exasperated, “would you like me to grab you some tea?”
“Tea would be nice.”
“Any particular flavor preferences?”
“That ginger and black blend Gears purchased for me a while ago—perhaps that’d help.” With his manners not being the most affectionate, Gears has taken to quietly offering boxes stuffed with teabags as gifts for coworkers; Jack, having stepped out of a time when drinking it regularly was far more commonplace than for most people now, is one of a handful who really delights in this gesture.
“Good idea—the flavor’ll probably help with your cold." Simon nods and steps out of the room.
Jack awakens again (searching for a full moon wrapped in a veil of starlight; there never seems to be any sort of set path in his dreams—and he fell asleep again so quickly?) to Simon placing a cup of hot tea at his bedside. Steam curls out of it in faint white puffs, vanishing into the air. Even with a mucus-plugged nose he can smell the fragrant ginger and orange blossom, bold and sweet despite his dulled senses.
When he sits up, he grimaces at the rush of congestion making his head ache. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I like making tea for you—at least, making tea at your place.”
Jack laughs a little, cupping at his mouth with a hand to contain an incoming cough. “I’ve never been one to half-ass making tea. Kettle only, you know I’d never compromise for anything less.”
“I can respect your dedication to that.”
The first sip of tea makes his head thro a little at the rush of proper flavor. He hadn’t eaten much this morning despite the gnawing of hunger that grew in his stomach’s coils, urging him to get out of the little pool of warmth in his bed for even a piece of toast. It warms his hands through the shuddering, on-and-off chill-versus-heat of his fever, not quite relieving his fatigue but settling it a little. Even in his current state, Jack believes this to be one of the best cups of tea he has ever had.
“Thank you,” he repeats. The tang of some sort of citrus under the ginger lingers on his tastebuds.
“The worst part about your getting sick,” Simon laments, “is that I can’t kiss or hold you to help you feel better. Because then I’ll get sick.”
Jack laughs, then winces from his sore throat. “You’ll be able to do so again, in time.”
He finishes his tea and then falls asleep, returning to that field of poppy flowers in his dreams once more.
When Jack wakes up some time later, he kicks off his quilt—too hot, having slept stagnant in the same position. Simon is still seated next to him, head turned to look at the wide-open expanse of blue sky and flowery suburban garden arrangements beyond his window. When he turns to face Jack, his eyes light up in a smile despite his mouth being covered by a mask.
Maybe, he decides, there are softer things to appreciate about this material world. A warm, white strip of sunshine. Freshly brewed tea. A lingering, familiar face at his side.