(no subject)
More corset fic. Again, sorry about the wait. The problem with staying with my parents is that this is their computer, and hence they have priority. My mother's 'four hours a day part time job' has turned into 'every spare hour of the day and no lunch time job', which means my internet access is 'quick, she's making a cup of tea. DIVE!!' Also, despire the fact I have a few chatpers waiting to be post (well, one, now) I always feel bad about posting when I haven't written anything, and I just got the Impulse trade the other day. Ever so slightly distracted ^_^
Anyway, off we go.
Chapter the Twelfth
Bart had just discovered he quite liked being confined to bed. Bart couldn’t really remember much since the storm, but he’d been told Doctor Drake was visiting at least twice a day, for a start.
Not only that, but he could eat when he wanted and sleep when he wanted. Well, he could sleep, whether he wanted to or not, and so far he hadn’t managed to get more than a few mouthfuls of food down without either the nausea or the pain in his throat forcing him to stop.
He could send people away or demand they come to him depending on how much attention he wanted at that precise moment. On the other hand, he couldn’t talk for coughing most of the time, and he didn’t remember most of the conversations next time he woke up.
He had even accomplished a so far un-criticised blueprint of the cosmic treadmill. It was the third attempt, and as yet Tim hadn’t handed it back covered it red ink. It was, admittedly, the first since he’d been ill, which might have had something to do with that. Still, it was kinda like being at school, but with a teacher who admitted he knew less than you, and blushed and stuttered every time your nightgown untied itself and flashed your nipples at him. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find the blueprint now.
To be honest, if it wasn’t for the visits from Dr Drake to tip the balance Bart would really hate being sick.
“How are you feeling today?” a voice asked.
Bart squinted up at Kon. “What is today?” he croaked.
“Thursday,” Kon told him.
Bart frowned. “No way,” he said huskily. “What happened to Monday and Tuesday?”
“And Wednesday,” Kon said, looking concerned. “Wednesday.”
“I remember yesterday,” Bart said. “Sort of. I drew a diagram of the cosmic treadmill and showed it to Tim. I think he liked it.”
“You threw up on it,” Kon said. “In your sleep.”
“Oops.” Bart snuggled down into the bed again, trying to ignore his head ache. “I guess that explains Monday and Tuesday too, right?”
Kon fidgeted in the chair Tim had put next to Bart’s bed the night Kon had brought him in. There was something on his face that worried Bart.
“I was... I was pretty bad, wasn’t I?”
“You were delirious. Drake didn’t think you’d make it,” Kon said, staring at the opposite wall. “We were so fucking scared, Bart.”
Bart slid down further under the covers. He began to feel sick again.
“Bart?”
“I’m sorry,” Bart said, muffled by the covers. “’m s’rry.”
“What? No. No, Bart.” Kon moved to the bed, and tugged the covers down so he could see Bart again. “I’m sorry, Bart. I... It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have, I don’t know, but I shouldn’t have, okay?”
Bart’s headache was at migraine levels now. The nausea threatened to do to Kon what it had to the treadmill blueprint. He groaned and flung an arm across his eyes.
“Ba-”
“Kon,” Bart interrupted. “Two things. One, you don’t have to be sorry. You don’t know what you’re sorry for, do you? That’s because you haven’t got anything to be sorry for.” He hiccupped and put his hand to his mouth, swallowing hard. He began to talk more quickly. “I was freaking out and being an idiot and I knew that as I stood outside and shivered and I still didn’t come back in. So I’m sorry.”
“And two?” Kon asked.
“Two: fetch me a bucket or something. Quickly.” Bart closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping the little breakfast he’d had down. He failed, but Kon didn’t. Bart hugged the wastepaper bin to his chest as his stomach acid scorched his already tender throat. Tears were squeezed from his closed eyelids.
“Dude,” Kon said sympathetically, rubbing Bart’s shoulders.
Bart coughed up the last of the bile he had in him, and pushed the bucket away. Footsteps took it away, and he leant against Kon. Kon put his arm around him, and Bart pressed close for a warm cuddle. Kon twisted and wrapped both arms tightly around Bart, pressing his face to the top of Bart’s head and stroking his back.
Bart felt another weight on the bed, and pulled back enough to see Tim, out of the corner of his eye. Bart suspected Kon had probably shared their conversation with Tim, though whether he had realised how much of it had applied to Tim as well was debatable. Kon could get a little nearsighted when it came to placing blame.
Bart stretched out a hand. Tim slipped his own into it, but didn’t let himself get drawn into the hug. With a sigh Bart pulled away from Kon, smiling at him reassuringly.
“I brought you a glass of water,” Tim said. Bart accepted the crystal glass and swallowed down some water, which set off a coughing fit as it irritates his shredded throat. Kon rubbed his back gently.
“Doctor Drake will be here soon,” Tim went on. “He’ll bring you something for your throat. Don’t talk to much, okay? It’ll make it worse.”
Bart nodded, still cuddled up to Kon. It was nice leaning on Kon, who was warm and solid, with a nice steady heartbeat. Kon stroked his hair.
“You were unconscious when I got you back here, and running a fever that would have killed anyone else,” Kon told Bart. “You were delirious, like I said.”
“We’ve been taking it in turns to stay with you,” Tim told him. “Dr Drake stayed up all of Sunday night with you, and most of Monday. You’re lucky to have the metabolism you do.” There was a hitch in Tim’s voice that brought home to Bart just how sick he’d been. He felt terrible now, sicker than he’d been in his life, and it was sinking in that he’d been considerably worse for the past few days, so much worse he couldn’t remember it. “Your fever broke early Tuesday morning, at about dawn.”
“You didn’t wake up after that til Wednesday,” Kon informed Bart. “We were all surprised at how active and coherent you were. I guess for you thirty hours of sleep is like three years worth. I mean, you only lasted about ten minutes, and we spent an hour cleaning soup off your face and the bedspread, but you remember doing that treadmill diagram and everything.”
“Ah yes,” Tim said. “Um, we’ll need you to do another of those.”
Bart nodded.
“I already told him,” Kon said. “Let him do it in his own time, Tim. Bart needs to concentrate on getting better.”
“Of course, of course!” Tim said hastily. “Bart can have all the time he wants. At least, while we’re on the boat,” he added, looking worried. “We’ve got five days left before we dock.”
“’m’ngry,” Bart croaked, reminded of yesterday’s lunch he’d fallen asleep in.
Tim gave him a considering look. “I think,” he said thoughtfully, “we’ll wait until Dr Drake’s had a look at you. Your stomach is obviously still unsettled.”
“’m ‘nrgy now,” Bart whined.
“Fetch him another glass of water,” Kon said to Tim. “He needs fluids, doesn’t he?”
Tim gave Kon a bemused look, and did as he requested. Bart was asleep before he got back.
* * *
Bart woke again to find Edward standing over him. Edward had a worried frown that immediately transformed into a wide smile.
”Good afternoon,” he said, sitting himself in the seat next to the bed and leaning forwards. “How are you feeling?”
“M’ thr’t ‘rts,” Bart rasped.
“Of course it does,” Edward said. “I have some syrup I made up for that here, but first I’d like to check your temperature.” He produced a long glass thermometer from his black leather bag. Bart eyed it suspiciously.
“In m’ m’th, y’s?” Bart asked.
“Yes, your mouth,” Edward said, grinning. “Open wide. It goes under your tongue,” he added, sliding the thermometer into Bart’s mouth. “Right. Now, don’t talk, or open your mouth, and try not to cough, yes?” Bart nodded. “Good. Now, listen to me. You have my most heartfelt apology for the way I behaved on Sunday.” He held up a hand as Bart began to open his mouth, and Bart noticed a small notebook in it. “I told you not to talk, didn’t I? Good. Now, Sunday.” He flipped a page in the notebook.
“I behaved absolutely atrociously. You understand I was speaking straight from the heart? I am quite in love with you, Bart,” he said, speaking more softly. “The idea of being apart from you hurts me, and it seemed quite the appropriate solution. I should have respected your objections without asking for, for justifications.” He glanced down at the notebook, flipped a page, frowned at it and chucked it over his shoulder.
“No more notes, Bart. This isn’t a speech. This is love. I know I hurt you on Sunday afternoon, and on Sunday evening I find Tim banging on my door and demanding I come quickly, because you are dying. I have heard what Conner has had to say, and I must admit I did my best to settle his fears with the truth, Bart. I know that your friendships have been faltering, and I am glad that you have finally taken steps to amend that, but if we are all being honest it was my actions earlier that led to that conversation, and resulted in you returning to the inclement weather. There are no words for how much I regret my attitude, and can only beg your forgiveness. I... I understand if... understand...” Edward took a deep breath, swallowed, and with a hitching and cracking voice, finished, “I understand if you wish to break off our relationship, and I promise to keep our relationship at a purely professional level.”
“Mm-mmm,” Bart said.
Edward laughed weakly. “Sorry,” he said, checking his pocket watch and reaching for the thermometer. He checked it and nodded.
“N’t over,” Bart said as firmly as he could with a sandpapered throat. “No br’k.”
Edward beamed at him. “Thank god,” he said fervently. “I was lying through my teeth about professionalism.” He glanced at the thermometer again. “Your temperature is much better,” he said. “Not quite normal yet, though your friends have warned me that you tend to have an unusually high body temperature.” He glanced up at Bart with a twinkle in his eyes. “I’d wondered if that was just my influence.”
Bart snickered. Edward reached over and pushed Bart’s sweaty, greasy, rat-tailed fringe out of his eyes. Bart pressed into the touch, closing his eyes as Edward’s cool fingers stroked her forehead. He still had a mild headache, mostly the result of blocked sinuses. The only nausea he felt was that he recognised as evidence of low blood sugar, but his sore throat made the idea of eating anything quite frightening.
Bart felt lips on his, and opened his mouth under them. He felt Edward transfer his weight to the bed but kept his eyes shut as he felt Edward draw him close. Edward kissed Bart’s cheek, and down his neck. He pushed the effeminate nightgown off Bart’s shoulder and pressed his face into the hollow of Bart’s shoulder. Bart, very slowly and cautiously, leant back until he was lying among the pillows. He opened his eyes to look up at Edward, leaning over him with his feet still on the floor and one hand stroking Bart’s bare shoulder, his mouth slightly open and his pupils huge. If this was Dr Drake’s bedside manner, Bart might find himself coming down with something new every week.
“Bartholomew,” Edward breathed.
Bart tried to say something, but started to cough. Edward recoiled immediately. Bart brought a hand to his mouth and forced himself to sit upright, but found himself bent over forwards with the force of the coughs.
Eventually, the coughs began to subside. Edward was attempting to warm a small bottle of thick liquid over one of the gas lamps, tapping his foot impatiently. Tim and Cassie had appeared in the room and were approaching Bart’s bed. Bart glanced down at his hand and began to freak out.
“Bart?” Tim hurried over.
“Blood,” Bart squeaked, aware that he was speeding up. He wasn’t hyperventilating, but it would appear much the same to anyone watching, and it was had basically the same cause and affect.
“Blood?” Tim said, grabbing Bart’s hand and frowning at the red specks. “Doctor?” he called to Edward.
“Miss Jo- Cassie,” Edward said, waving her over. “Hold this for me, will you? It’s best warm. Did the lemon tea arrive?”
“Not yet,” Tim answered. “Bart’s coughed up blood.”
“Nnngh,” Bart said.
“Let me have a look,” Edward said commandingly. He reached out, expecting a handkerchief, and found Bart offering his hands. He sighed and shook his head with a smile, which prompted Bart to smile nervously back, calming him down a little. Edward frowned at his hand.
“Alright, open your mouth.” Bart did as he was told, tilting his head back. Edward peered down his throat and sighed. “Not enough light. I’m afraid we’ll have to get you ought of bed. By the window, please.”
Bart climbed out of bed and collapsed to the floor. Tim helped him up and put an arm around his waist. Edward looked alarmed.
“He needs to eat,” Tim said. “With Bart’s metabolism a few days with nothing but a few spoonfuls of gruel is like a few weeks of the same for any of us.”
“Let’s do this as quickly as we can, then,” Edward said.
As Bart stood next to the window, leaning heavily on Tim and trying not to drool on Edward, he remembered that Edward wasn’t a trained doctor. He wasn’t even an untrained doctor. The others didn’t know this, and if Edward made a misdiagnosis Bart could drop dead before they knew. Bart decided that he really, really didn’t like being ill, and nothing would change his mind about that.
“Calm down, Bart,” Tim murmured in his ear. He ran a hand across Bart’s stomach. “It’s going to be fine. You’ve had your TB immunisations anyway, haven’t you?”
“’u’o,” Bart said. Edward was holding his tongue down with the end of a spoon and was using a mirror to direct more light down his throat.
“They can cure consumption?” Edward said. “What a wonderful era you live in.”
“Prevent, at least,” Tim said. “The theory of immunisation hasn’t been formed yet, yes? Or developed?” He frowned. “I wish I’d chosen medical history now instead of Eastern European.”
“Well,” Edward said, letting Bart close his mouth. “I see no reason to panic just yet, though I admit I have no experience with consumption. The coughing and vomiting has made an unfortunate mess of your throat tissues. You are, essentially, shaking off a very severe bout of pneumonia, with complications including bronchitis, mumps and what might have been German flu. You’re not dead, which is the important thing, though I suspect I can’t take any credit for it. Frankly,” Edward said, leaning very close to Bart, “I find that hard to believe without... 'further' proof.”
“Mmph,” Bart said, collapsing deeper into Tim’s arms. Edward looked a little disappointed, but rallied as best he could.
“Let’s get him back into bed,” he said firmly, “and see if we can’t do anything to take that inflammation of his throat down. Try to stay with us, Bart. You need, as pointed out, something to eat. With everything you have gone through in the past few days, even if you have managed to contract tuberculosis, I have not doubt that you’ll find a way to overcome that as well. All we have to do is keep that marvellous metabolism of yours ticking over. Some syrup, a bit of sugary lemon tea and, if you feel up to it, some fortifying chicken soup.”
Kon came into the room with the tea. He left it on the bedside table and flew over to help Tim carry Bart, using his TTK to carry Bart horizontally and move the covers out of the way to lay Bart on the bed. Bart sank down gratefully and curled up.
“Now, Bart, stay with us,” Edward said firmly. “Sit up.”
“Nnn,” Bart said.
Kon lifted Bart up and propped him up against the headboard. Bart immediately wiggled back down.
“Bart!” Kon said, pulling him up again.
“Cassie, is that syrup warm yet?” Edward asked.
“Yep!” Cassie zipped over and held out the bottle. “Hi, Bart. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you yet and... and I’m not going to get one now, am I? You’ve got no idea what I’m saying, or even that I’m talking to you. That’s not much of a change, though,” she smiled down at him and ruffled his hair.
“Hey!” Bart managed, though in all honesty he didn’t really know what Cassie was saying, just that had he been lucid he would have completely failed to object. While his mouth was open Edward slipped a spoon in it and he felt something slid down his throat. It felt quite good; it was warm, smooth, sweet and made him even more sleepy than he already was.
“Stay with us,” Edward said again. “Just a little longer. You are hungry, aren’t you?”
Bart nodded, but he wasn’t sure why. It was the tone of voice that suggested he ought to say yes. He’d got quite good at reading tones of voice at school. It beat actually listening.
“I have some soup here, Bart. It’ll make you feel better.” Edward sat on the bed and held the bowl out. “Shall I feed you?”
Bart closed his eyes.
“No, Bart, no.” Edward’s voice again. “No.” Accompanied by a light shake. “Bart, wake up.”
“’mawa’e,” Bart mumbled. He opened his eyes to prove it, and saw a spoon of soup slide in and out of focus in front of him. He wouldn’t have cared, despite his hunger, but then the smell got to him. He opened his eyes properly and stared at the spoon. “Soup,” he said.
“Yes, Bart,” Edward said gently. “Can you feed yourself?”
Bart thought about this for a second, decided to milk this for all it was worth, and shook his head.
Lying back in the pillows, being fed very good chicken soup by a very attractive young man, and surrounded by his closest friends, Bart decided that being ill really did have its perks.
Anyway, off we go.
Chapter the Twelfth
Bart had just discovered he quite liked being confined to bed. Bart couldn’t really remember much since the storm, but he’d been told Doctor Drake was visiting at least twice a day, for a start.
Not only that, but he could eat when he wanted and sleep when he wanted. Well, he could sleep, whether he wanted to or not, and so far he hadn’t managed to get more than a few mouthfuls of food down without either the nausea or the pain in his throat forcing him to stop.
He could send people away or demand they come to him depending on how much attention he wanted at that precise moment. On the other hand, he couldn’t talk for coughing most of the time, and he didn’t remember most of the conversations next time he woke up.
He had even accomplished a so far un-criticised blueprint of the cosmic treadmill. It was the third attempt, and as yet Tim hadn’t handed it back covered it red ink. It was, admittedly, the first since he’d been ill, which might have had something to do with that. Still, it was kinda like being at school, but with a teacher who admitted he knew less than you, and blushed and stuttered every time your nightgown untied itself and flashed your nipples at him. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find the blueprint now.
To be honest, if it wasn’t for the visits from Dr Drake to tip the balance Bart would really hate being sick.
“How are you feeling today?” a voice asked.
Bart squinted up at Kon. “What is today?” he croaked.
“Thursday,” Kon told him.
Bart frowned. “No way,” he said huskily. “What happened to Monday and Tuesday?”
“And Wednesday,” Kon said, looking concerned. “Wednesday.”
“I remember yesterday,” Bart said. “Sort of. I drew a diagram of the cosmic treadmill and showed it to Tim. I think he liked it.”
“You threw up on it,” Kon said. “In your sleep.”
“Oops.” Bart snuggled down into the bed again, trying to ignore his head ache. “I guess that explains Monday and Tuesday too, right?”
Kon fidgeted in the chair Tim had put next to Bart’s bed the night Kon had brought him in. There was something on his face that worried Bart.
“I was... I was pretty bad, wasn’t I?”
“You were delirious. Drake didn’t think you’d make it,” Kon said, staring at the opposite wall. “We were so fucking scared, Bart.”
Bart slid down further under the covers. He began to feel sick again.
“Bart?”
“I’m sorry,” Bart said, muffled by the covers. “’m s’rry.”
“What? No. No, Bart.” Kon moved to the bed, and tugged the covers down so he could see Bart again. “I’m sorry, Bart. I... It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have, I don’t know, but I shouldn’t have, okay?”
Bart’s headache was at migraine levels now. The nausea threatened to do to Kon what it had to the treadmill blueprint. He groaned and flung an arm across his eyes.
“Ba-”
“Kon,” Bart interrupted. “Two things. One, you don’t have to be sorry. You don’t know what you’re sorry for, do you? That’s because you haven’t got anything to be sorry for.” He hiccupped and put his hand to his mouth, swallowing hard. He began to talk more quickly. “I was freaking out and being an idiot and I knew that as I stood outside and shivered and I still didn’t come back in. So I’m sorry.”
“And two?” Kon asked.
“Two: fetch me a bucket or something. Quickly.” Bart closed his eyes and concentrated on keeping the little breakfast he’d had down. He failed, but Kon didn’t. Bart hugged the wastepaper bin to his chest as his stomach acid scorched his already tender throat. Tears were squeezed from his closed eyelids.
“Dude,” Kon said sympathetically, rubbing Bart’s shoulders.
Bart coughed up the last of the bile he had in him, and pushed the bucket away. Footsteps took it away, and he leant against Kon. Kon put his arm around him, and Bart pressed close for a warm cuddle. Kon twisted and wrapped both arms tightly around Bart, pressing his face to the top of Bart’s head and stroking his back.
Bart felt another weight on the bed, and pulled back enough to see Tim, out of the corner of his eye. Bart suspected Kon had probably shared their conversation with Tim, though whether he had realised how much of it had applied to Tim as well was debatable. Kon could get a little nearsighted when it came to placing blame.
Bart stretched out a hand. Tim slipped his own into it, but didn’t let himself get drawn into the hug. With a sigh Bart pulled away from Kon, smiling at him reassuringly.
“I brought you a glass of water,” Tim said. Bart accepted the crystal glass and swallowed down some water, which set off a coughing fit as it irritates his shredded throat. Kon rubbed his back gently.
“Doctor Drake will be here soon,” Tim went on. “He’ll bring you something for your throat. Don’t talk to much, okay? It’ll make it worse.”
Bart nodded, still cuddled up to Kon. It was nice leaning on Kon, who was warm and solid, with a nice steady heartbeat. Kon stroked his hair.
“You were unconscious when I got you back here, and running a fever that would have killed anyone else,” Kon told Bart. “You were delirious, like I said.”
“We’ve been taking it in turns to stay with you,” Tim told him. “Dr Drake stayed up all of Sunday night with you, and most of Monday. You’re lucky to have the metabolism you do.” There was a hitch in Tim’s voice that brought home to Bart just how sick he’d been. He felt terrible now, sicker than he’d been in his life, and it was sinking in that he’d been considerably worse for the past few days, so much worse he couldn’t remember it. “Your fever broke early Tuesday morning, at about dawn.”
“You didn’t wake up after that til Wednesday,” Kon informed Bart. “We were all surprised at how active and coherent you were. I guess for you thirty hours of sleep is like three years worth. I mean, you only lasted about ten minutes, and we spent an hour cleaning soup off your face and the bedspread, but you remember doing that treadmill diagram and everything.”
“Ah yes,” Tim said. “Um, we’ll need you to do another of those.”
Bart nodded.
“I already told him,” Kon said. “Let him do it in his own time, Tim. Bart needs to concentrate on getting better.”
“Of course, of course!” Tim said hastily. “Bart can have all the time he wants. At least, while we’re on the boat,” he added, looking worried. “We’ve got five days left before we dock.”
“’m’ngry,” Bart croaked, reminded of yesterday’s lunch he’d fallen asleep in.
Tim gave him a considering look. “I think,” he said thoughtfully, “we’ll wait until Dr Drake’s had a look at you. Your stomach is obviously still unsettled.”
“’m ‘nrgy now,” Bart whined.
“Fetch him another glass of water,” Kon said to Tim. “He needs fluids, doesn’t he?”
Tim gave Kon a bemused look, and did as he requested. Bart was asleep before he got back.
* * *
Bart woke again to find Edward standing over him. Edward had a worried frown that immediately transformed into a wide smile.
”Good afternoon,” he said, sitting himself in the seat next to the bed and leaning forwards. “How are you feeling?”
“M’ thr’t ‘rts,” Bart rasped.
“Of course it does,” Edward said. “I have some syrup I made up for that here, but first I’d like to check your temperature.” He produced a long glass thermometer from his black leather bag. Bart eyed it suspiciously.
“In m’ m’th, y’s?” Bart asked.
“Yes, your mouth,” Edward said, grinning. “Open wide. It goes under your tongue,” he added, sliding the thermometer into Bart’s mouth. “Right. Now, don’t talk, or open your mouth, and try not to cough, yes?” Bart nodded. “Good. Now, listen to me. You have my most heartfelt apology for the way I behaved on Sunday.” He held up a hand as Bart began to open his mouth, and Bart noticed a small notebook in it. “I told you not to talk, didn’t I? Good. Now, Sunday.” He flipped a page in the notebook.
“I behaved absolutely atrociously. You understand I was speaking straight from the heart? I am quite in love with you, Bart,” he said, speaking more softly. “The idea of being apart from you hurts me, and it seemed quite the appropriate solution. I should have respected your objections without asking for, for justifications.” He glanced down at the notebook, flipped a page, frowned at it and chucked it over his shoulder.
“No more notes, Bart. This isn’t a speech. This is love. I know I hurt you on Sunday afternoon, and on Sunday evening I find Tim banging on my door and demanding I come quickly, because you are dying. I have heard what Conner has had to say, and I must admit I did my best to settle his fears with the truth, Bart. I know that your friendships have been faltering, and I am glad that you have finally taken steps to amend that, but if we are all being honest it was my actions earlier that led to that conversation, and resulted in you returning to the inclement weather. There are no words for how much I regret my attitude, and can only beg your forgiveness. I... I understand if... understand...” Edward took a deep breath, swallowed, and with a hitching and cracking voice, finished, “I understand if you wish to break off our relationship, and I promise to keep our relationship at a purely professional level.”
“Mm-mmm,” Bart said.
Edward laughed weakly. “Sorry,” he said, checking his pocket watch and reaching for the thermometer. He checked it and nodded.
“N’t over,” Bart said as firmly as he could with a sandpapered throat. “No br’k.”
Edward beamed at him. “Thank god,” he said fervently. “I was lying through my teeth about professionalism.” He glanced at the thermometer again. “Your temperature is much better,” he said. “Not quite normal yet, though your friends have warned me that you tend to have an unusually high body temperature.” He glanced up at Bart with a twinkle in his eyes. “I’d wondered if that was just my influence.”
Bart snickered. Edward reached over and pushed Bart’s sweaty, greasy, rat-tailed fringe out of his eyes. Bart pressed into the touch, closing his eyes as Edward’s cool fingers stroked her forehead. He still had a mild headache, mostly the result of blocked sinuses. The only nausea he felt was that he recognised as evidence of low blood sugar, but his sore throat made the idea of eating anything quite frightening.
Bart felt lips on his, and opened his mouth under them. He felt Edward transfer his weight to the bed but kept his eyes shut as he felt Edward draw him close. Edward kissed Bart’s cheek, and down his neck. He pushed the effeminate nightgown off Bart’s shoulder and pressed his face into the hollow of Bart’s shoulder. Bart, very slowly and cautiously, leant back until he was lying among the pillows. He opened his eyes to look up at Edward, leaning over him with his feet still on the floor and one hand stroking Bart’s bare shoulder, his mouth slightly open and his pupils huge. If this was Dr Drake’s bedside manner, Bart might find himself coming down with something new every week.
“Bartholomew,” Edward breathed.
Bart tried to say something, but started to cough. Edward recoiled immediately. Bart brought a hand to his mouth and forced himself to sit upright, but found himself bent over forwards with the force of the coughs.
Eventually, the coughs began to subside. Edward was attempting to warm a small bottle of thick liquid over one of the gas lamps, tapping his foot impatiently. Tim and Cassie had appeared in the room and were approaching Bart’s bed. Bart glanced down at his hand and began to freak out.
“Bart?” Tim hurried over.
“Blood,” Bart squeaked, aware that he was speeding up. He wasn’t hyperventilating, but it would appear much the same to anyone watching, and it was had basically the same cause and affect.
“Blood?” Tim said, grabbing Bart’s hand and frowning at the red specks. “Doctor?” he called to Edward.
“Miss Jo- Cassie,” Edward said, waving her over. “Hold this for me, will you? It’s best warm. Did the lemon tea arrive?”
“Not yet,” Tim answered. “Bart’s coughed up blood.”
“Nnngh,” Bart said.
“Let me have a look,” Edward said commandingly. He reached out, expecting a handkerchief, and found Bart offering his hands. He sighed and shook his head with a smile, which prompted Bart to smile nervously back, calming him down a little. Edward frowned at his hand.
“Alright, open your mouth.” Bart did as he was told, tilting his head back. Edward peered down his throat and sighed. “Not enough light. I’m afraid we’ll have to get you ought of bed. By the window, please.”
Bart climbed out of bed and collapsed to the floor. Tim helped him up and put an arm around his waist. Edward looked alarmed.
“He needs to eat,” Tim said. “With Bart’s metabolism a few days with nothing but a few spoonfuls of gruel is like a few weeks of the same for any of us.”
“Let’s do this as quickly as we can, then,” Edward said.
As Bart stood next to the window, leaning heavily on Tim and trying not to drool on Edward, he remembered that Edward wasn’t a trained doctor. He wasn’t even an untrained doctor. The others didn’t know this, and if Edward made a misdiagnosis Bart could drop dead before they knew. Bart decided that he really, really didn’t like being ill, and nothing would change his mind about that.
“Calm down, Bart,” Tim murmured in his ear. He ran a hand across Bart’s stomach. “It’s going to be fine. You’ve had your TB immunisations anyway, haven’t you?”
“’u’o,” Bart said. Edward was holding his tongue down with the end of a spoon and was using a mirror to direct more light down his throat.
“They can cure consumption?” Edward said. “What a wonderful era you live in.”
“Prevent, at least,” Tim said. “The theory of immunisation hasn’t been formed yet, yes? Or developed?” He frowned. “I wish I’d chosen medical history now instead of Eastern European.”
“Well,” Edward said, letting Bart close his mouth. “I see no reason to panic just yet, though I admit I have no experience with consumption. The coughing and vomiting has made an unfortunate mess of your throat tissues. You are, essentially, shaking off a very severe bout of pneumonia, with complications including bronchitis, mumps and what might have been German flu. You’re not dead, which is the important thing, though I suspect I can’t take any credit for it. Frankly,” Edward said, leaning very close to Bart, “I find that hard to believe without... 'further' proof.”
“Mmph,” Bart said, collapsing deeper into Tim’s arms. Edward looked a little disappointed, but rallied as best he could.
“Let’s get him back into bed,” he said firmly, “and see if we can’t do anything to take that inflammation of his throat down. Try to stay with us, Bart. You need, as pointed out, something to eat. With everything you have gone through in the past few days, even if you have managed to contract tuberculosis, I have not doubt that you’ll find a way to overcome that as well. All we have to do is keep that marvellous metabolism of yours ticking over. Some syrup, a bit of sugary lemon tea and, if you feel up to it, some fortifying chicken soup.”
Kon came into the room with the tea. He left it on the bedside table and flew over to help Tim carry Bart, using his TTK to carry Bart horizontally and move the covers out of the way to lay Bart on the bed. Bart sank down gratefully and curled up.
“Now, Bart, stay with us,” Edward said firmly. “Sit up.”
“Nnn,” Bart said.
Kon lifted Bart up and propped him up against the headboard. Bart immediately wiggled back down.
“Bart!” Kon said, pulling him up again.
“Cassie, is that syrup warm yet?” Edward asked.
“Yep!” Cassie zipped over and held out the bottle. “Hi, Bart. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you yet and... and I’m not going to get one now, am I? You’ve got no idea what I’m saying, or even that I’m talking to you. That’s not much of a change, though,” she smiled down at him and ruffled his hair.
“Hey!” Bart managed, though in all honesty he didn’t really know what Cassie was saying, just that had he been lucid he would have completely failed to object. While his mouth was open Edward slipped a spoon in it and he felt something slid down his throat. It felt quite good; it was warm, smooth, sweet and made him even more sleepy than he already was.
“Stay with us,” Edward said again. “Just a little longer. You are hungry, aren’t you?”
Bart nodded, but he wasn’t sure why. It was the tone of voice that suggested he ought to say yes. He’d got quite good at reading tones of voice at school. It beat actually listening.
“I have some soup here, Bart. It’ll make you feel better.” Edward sat on the bed and held the bowl out. “Shall I feed you?”
Bart closed his eyes.
“No, Bart, no.” Edward’s voice again. “No.” Accompanied by a light shake. “Bart, wake up.”
“’mawa’e,” Bart mumbled. He opened his eyes to prove it, and saw a spoon of soup slide in and out of focus in front of him. He wouldn’t have cared, despite his hunger, but then the smell got to him. He opened his eyes properly and stared at the spoon. “Soup,” he said.
“Yes, Bart,” Edward said gently. “Can you feed yourself?”
Bart thought about this for a second, decided to milk this for all it was worth, and shook his head.
Lying back in the pillows, being fed very good chicken soup by a very attractive young man, and surrounded by his closest friends, Bart decided that being ill really did have its perks.