igrab
in
grabi_hands
Once Upon a Time (Nick/Jamie, PG-13)
Nick/Jamie . 1,591 words . PG-13 . written for storylandqueen; get well soon, darling . He just wants to make it better, in any way he can.
Once upon a time, when they were much younger, Alan had gotten sick. It wasn't a big deal - the flu, or something, but it had him bedridden for a few days and Nick hadn't been able to understand why Alan wasn't behaving normally. He'd never been sick, he couldn't empathize. But it eventually translated in his head, he finally seemed to know that Something Was Wrong With Alan, but It Was Going To Be All Right.
He watched as Daniel fussed over him, and Alan was grateful for it - or at least, he let him, which Nick had trouble understanding as well but then, there were a lot of things that Alan did that he couldn't understand. He had an irrational jealousy, however, and a sense not that their father was ignoring him - but that he should be the one making a big deal. Because Alan was his, and if there was something wrong, he should be the one to fix it. But he didn't know how.
Daniel didn't let the younger boy close for the first two days. He said something about catching it and Nick was still confused; was Alan going to throw things at him? He was certain it would be all right.
He just wanted to see him, to be there, because warning bells were going off in his head and he needed to reassure Alan that things were going to be okay. Alan worried when Nick wasn't around.
Finally, late on the night of the second day, Nick waited until his mother and father were sound asleep before slipping, quiet as a ghost, into Alan's room.
He wasn't sleeping. Quiet eyes glittered in the dark, and Nick knew - with that same sense of knowing that told him that everything would be fine - that Alan had waited up for him. Maybe he'd somehow known as well, or maybe he'd always been waiting.
"It's called being sick," Alan whispered in the vicinity of Nick's hair. Nick's hands fisted in the blankets and he stared at the pulse point on Alan's neck. It was too dark to see much of anything anyway. "It's like your body stops working for a little bit, so you have to let it rest and take care of it until it feels better."
Alan's voice was a soothing, beautiful current. Nick listened.
"When you're sick, there are things you can't do for yourself. So someone else has to. It's like holding hands when you cross the street. Sometimes, you need someone else."
Even in the darkness, Nick's eyes were accusatory and quiet. Alan shook his head slowly.
"You have to listen to dad when he tells you to stay away. It's to protect you," and Nick could understand that. "I promise I'll be better soon."
He didn't say that Nick could stay, but he didn't send him off, either. Nick watched until Alan fell asleep, and then for some time after that. He still didn't understand but if Alan said it, he would do it. Alan kept his promises.
+
Alan was very bad at taking his own advice.
Nick sat on the floor outside his door, knees propped up under his chin, frustration and rage whirling about him like a cloud. If Alan didn't want him to come in, fine. But he wasn't going any farther away than he had to.
He could always break down the door, of course. But it wasn't the fact that the door was there so much as the fact that Alan didn't want him, still, stupidly didn't want him close when he was sick of all things and Nick just wanted to make it go away. There wasn't anything to fight, no tangible enemy that he could rip apart with his sword, but that didn't mean he was helpless and if he knew Alan - which he did - the stupid idiot would be back on his feet far too soon, claiming perfect health, even when he knew that Nick could see right through him.
You let dad fuss over you, he thought, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. Am I not fucking worthy enough? Is it that hard to let me in?
He saw Mae come up the stairs, looking breathless and winded. "Nick," she said, a little too pleased as always to see him. "Where's Alan? I brought cookies."
He left as fast as he could. He just couldn't stand it anymore.
+
"I'm dying," Jamie said, a plaintive whine in his voice that was every bit as irritating as always.
Nick threw open the curtains. "No you're not."
"I am," he said, and there was that sparkle now, that meant he was really getting into a groove of dramatic self-pity. "In fact, I think I might collapse. If my brains don't leak out of my nose first."
The corner of Nick's mouth twitched involuntarily. "I think that might make you collapse anyway."
"Exactly! And..." Finally, Jamie seemed to actually take notice of Nick's actions, not just the fact that he was here and thus, a fresh new target to whine at. "...Um, what are you doing?"
Nick had thrown the window open and he was doing the same with the other windows, and flicking on the fan. "Still air is bad for a sickroom," he muttered.
Jamie's mouth rounded to a small 'o', and for another minute he couldn't even say anything, just sat back and watched as Nick made a round to clean to the various tissues and cups and even his backpack, from where he'd thrown it down in a fit of pique.
"Going to wash these. Don't move," Nick ordered, and Jamie had that startled look again, but he nodded, like he was really struggling hard to believe what he was seeing.
Nick didn't think. He rinsed the cups out, he put them in the dishwasher, then after a long look at the Crawford's cabinets, he put a kettle on to boil.
Fifteen minutes later, he was back in Jamie's room, a steaming mug of tea in his one hand and a fresh box of tissues in the other. "Here," he said curtly, setting them down.
"Thank you," Jamie murmured, surprise still lacing his voice.
Nick didn't move. He just... stared, at the pathetic little slip under the covers who was going to burn his tongue in 3... 2...
"Ow!" Jamie said, wincing. "...It's hot."
Nick snorted with something like laughter, then slowly folded himself into a sitting position next to he bed. He gave Jamie a dark look, as if to say, I dare you to make me leave.
Jamie seemed perfectly content to sip his too-hot tea and watch Nick, though, which must have been a pretty uninteresting pasttime. Finally, Nick let out a short, sharp sigh.
"I'm sorry," he ground out. "I'm not any good at this."
Jamie exhaled on a quiet note, and the look in his eyes was indescribable. "I think you're doing just fine, really."
It was comforting, then, that Jamie understood him at least that well. He didn't want to have to explain. "What does... Mae usually do?"
Jamie waved an embarrassed hand. "Leaves me alone, for the most part. I get a little, well. Impossible."
Nick raised an eyebrow. It could have been a little? or maybe yeah, I got that much or even and so what? Maybe it was all of them.
Jamie's eyes slid to his bookshelf but he didn't appear to be seeing them; he was looking somewhere very far away. "She used to read, though. When she had the time." Suddenly realizing what he'd said, he tried to backtrack quickly. "Not that I'm - you definitely don't have to, it was just something to pass the time, I mean, it gets frightfully boring and..."
But Nick hadn't moved, he was still looking very intently at him, and finally he said, "I can tell you a story."
Jamie's useless babble cut right off. "What?"
Nick pressed his lips together for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "I can't read very well. So that's out. But I could tell you a story."
Jamie gave him a long, suspicious look. "Is it a very bloody story?"
Nick's lips curled up at the corners. "Yeah."
"Is there a happy ending?"
That one caught him by surprise and for a second, he tried to think of what to say. ".....There... could be."
Jamie's smile, for he smiled at that, was tired and wan but brilliant because of it, wistful and grateful and sincere. "I'd love to hear it."
Nick bunched his fingers in the blanket and thought about Alan, about Mae, about how strong they were and how stupid. For all that he blamed Jamie for being weak, he was also the only one who would ever, unconditionally, let Nick protect him.
"Once upon a time," he said, because all the best stories started out like that.
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Once upon a time, when they were much younger, Alan had gotten sick. It wasn't a big deal - the flu, or something, but it had him bedridden for a few days and Nick hadn't been able to understand why Alan wasn't behaving normally. He'd never been sick, he couldn't empathize. But it eventually translated in his head, he finally seemed to know that Something Was Wrong With Alan, but It Was Going To Be All Right.
He watched as Daniel fussed over him, and Alan was grateful for it - or at least, he let him, which Nick had trouble understanding as well but then, there were a lot of things that Alan did that he couldn't understand. He had an irrational jealousy, however, and a sense not that their father was ignoring him - but that he should be the one making a big deal. Because Alan was his, and if there was something wrong, he should be the one to fix it. But he didn't know how.
Daniel didn't let the younger boy close for the first two days. He said something about catching it and Nick was still confused; was Alan going to throw things at him? He was certain it would be all right.
He just wanted to see him, to be there, because warning bells were going off in his head and he needed to reassure Alan that things were going to be okay. Alan worried when Nick wasn't around.
Finally, late on the night of the second day, Nick waited until his mother and father were sound asleep before slipping, quiet as a ghost, into Alan's room.
He wasn't sleeping. Quiet eyes glittered in the dark, and Nick knew - with that same sense of knowing that told him that everything would be fine - that Alan had waited up for him. Maybe he'd somehow known as well, or maybe he'd always been waiting.
"It's called being sick," Alan whispered in the vicinity of Nick's hair. Nick's hands fisted in the blankets and he stared at the pulse point on Alan's neck. It was too dark to see much of anything anyway. "It's like your body stops working for a little bit, so you have to let it rest and take care of it until it feels better."
Alan's voice was a soothing, beautiful current. Nick listened.
"When you're sick, there are things you can't do for yourself. So someone else has to. It's like holding hands when you cross the street. Sometimes, you need someone else."
Even in the darkness, Nick's eyes were accusatory and quiet. Alan shook his head slowly.
"You have to listen to dad when he tells you to stay away. It's to protect you," and Nick could understand that. "I promise I'll be better soon."
He didn't say that Nick could stay, but he didn't send him off, either. Nick watched until Alan fell asleep, and then for some time after that. He still didn't understand but if Alan said it, he would do it. Alan kept his promises.
+
Alan was very bad at taking his own advice.
Nick sat on the floor outside his door, knees propped up under his chin, frustration and rage whirling about him like a cloud. If Alan didn't want him to come in, fine. But he wasn't going any farther away than he had to.
He could always break down the door, of course. But it wasn't the fact that the door was there so much as the fact that Alan didn't want him, still, stupidly didn't want him close when he was sick of all things and Nick just wanted to make it go away. There wasn't anything to fight, no tangible enemy that he could rip apart with his sword, but that didn't mean he was helpless and if he knew Alan - which he did - the stupid idiot would be back on his feet far too soon, claiming perfect health, even when he knew that Nick could see right through him.
You let dad fuss over you, he thought, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. Am I not fucking worthy enough? Is it that hard to let me in?
He saw Mae come up the stairs, looking breathless and winded. "Nick," she said, a little too pleased as always to see him. "Where's Alan? I brought cookies."
He left as fast as he could. He just couldn't stand it anymore.
+
"I'm dying," Jamie said, a plaintive whine in his voice that was every bit as irritating as always.
Nick threw open the curtains. "No you're not."
"I am," he said, and there was that sparkle now, that meant he was really getting into a groove of dramatic self-pity. "In fact, I think I might collapse. If my brains don't leak out of my nose first."
The corner of Nick's mouth twitched involuntarily. "I think that might make you collapse anyway."
"Exactly! And..." Finally, Jamie seemed to actually take notice of Nick's actions, not just the fact that he was here and thus, a fresh new target to whine at. "...Um, what are you doing?"
Nick had thrown the window open and he was doing the same with the other windows, and flicking on the fan. "Still air is bad for a sickroom," he muttered.
Jamie's mouth rounded to a small 'o', and for another minute he couldn't even say anything, just sat back and watched as Nick made a round to clean to the various tissues and cups and even his backpack, from where he'd thrown it down in a fit of pique.
"Going to wash these. Don't move," Nick ordered, and Jamie had that startled look again, but he nodded, like he was really struggling hard to believe what he was seeing.
Nick didn't think. He rinsed the cups out, he put them in the dishwasher, then after a long look at the Crawford's cabinets, he put a kettle on to boil.
Fifteen minutes later, he was back in Jamie's room, a steaming mug of tea in his one hand and a fresh box of tissues in the other. "Here," he said curtly, setting them down.
"Thank you," Jamie murmured, surprise still lacing his voice.
Nick didn't move. He just... stared, at the pathetic little slip under the covers who was going to burn his tongue in 3... 2...
"Ow!" Jamie said, wincing. "...It's hot."
Nick snorted with something like laughter, then slowly folded himself into a sitting position next to he bed. He gave Jamie a dark look, as if to say, I dare you to make me leave.
Jamie seemed perfectly content to sip his too-hot tea and watch Nick, though, which must have been a pretty uninteresting pasttime. Finally, Nick let out a short, sharp sigh.
"I'm sorry," he ground out. "I'm not any good at this."
Jamie exhaled on a quiet note, and the look in his eyes was indescribable. "I think you're doing just fine, really."
It was comforting, then, that Jamie understood him at least that well. He didn't want to have to explain. "What does... Mae usually do?"
Jamie waved an embarrassed hand. "Leaves me alone, for the most part. I get a little, well. Impossible."
Nick raised an eyebrow. It could have been a little? or maybe yeah, I got that much or even and so what? Maybe it was all of them.
Jamie's eyes slid to his bookshelf but he didn't appear to be seeing them; he was looking somewhere very far away. "She used to read, though. When she had the time." Suddenly realizing what he'd said, he tried to backtrack quickly. "Not that I'm - you definitely don't have to, it was just something to pass the time, I mean, it gets frightfully boring and..."
But Nick hadn't moved, he was still looking very intently at him, and finally he said, "I can tell you a story."
Jamie's useless babble cut right off. "What?"
Nick pressed his lips together for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "I can't read very well. So that's out. But I could tell you a story."
Jamie gave him a long, suspicious look. "Is it a very bloody story?"
Nick's lips curled up at the corners. "Yeah."
"Is there a happy ending?"
That one caught him by surprise and for a second, he tried to think of what to say. ".....There... could be."
Jamie's smile, for he smiled at that, was tired and wan but brilliant because of it, wistful and grateful and sincere. "I'd love to hear it."
Nick bunched his fingers in the blanket and thought about Alan, about Mae, about how strong they were and how stupid. For all that he blamed Jamie for being weak, he was also the only one who would ever, unconditionally, let Nick protect him.
"Once upon a time," he said, because all the best stories started out like that.
if you liked this, you may like:
When Stars Collide . Action and Reaction