Ficlet: "Mr. Sickington"
Set only a few days after the finale. Written for the schmoop_bingo fic prompt "Sick in Bed."
"Mr. Sickington"
Daniel knew even before he was fully awake. The tightness in his throat, the sweat on his skin, the thick feeling throughout his head: He was sick.
He opened his eyes, then wished he hadn’t. Even the watery gray morning light in London was enough to burn.
Great. He’d probably picked up something on the plane. Now, three days after he’d arrived in London - three days after he had embarked on “Mission: Dazzle Betty Into Falling In Love” - he was going to be laid flat-out on his back and doing time as a snot factory. What girl wouldn’t be impressed by that? Answer: Any of them. And especially not Betty.
A few years ago, he used to check into a luxury hotel as “Mr. Sickington” to ride out his colds. It wasn’t a totally illogical move for a guy who didn’t like to encourage his casual girlfriends into thinking they were more and whose family members were usually too busy, drunk or reckless to be counted on for nursing. Room service would bring all the chicken soup and juice he needed. It was quiet, and nobody would bother him. But it was impersonal, and looking back, Daniel couldn’t believe there was a time he’d actually thought he felt better with it that way.
Then Betty came into his life, and she would come to the hotel rooms with Duane Reade bags full of Nyquil and Dayquil and other good stuff. She would take his temperature and say nice things to him. Although they’d both pretended this was part of her role as his assistant, Daniel knew she’d done all this as his friend.
But he hadn’t pretended to be Mr. Sickington in years - not since Molly’s final illness. After seeing how courageously she faced her cancer, being a baby about a cold seemed almost disgustingly childish. And for the next several months of his life, he’d been dedicated to taking care of her, not seeing who could take care of him.
Between then and now, he’d had the sniffles a few times. Stomach flu once. He’d carried on as best he could, in his own house, and not bothered Betty. He let his mother bring him chicken broth from the kosher deli after the stomach flu, but that was about it for allowing himself to be nursed.
So he should be able to deal with this. Right?
Daniel tried to roll over, felt his head throb with pain and groaned into his pillow.
**
Day one wasn’t so bad. Wait, no - day one sucked. But Daniel didn’t have anything to do on day one. His course at the University of London wasn’t due to start for another couple of weeks, and Betty was busy with a media conference. That left his time free to blow his nose, crawl to the refrigerator for an occasional can of ginger ale, hallucinate and mostly just sleep with his mouth open.
But day two was supposed to be different. On day two, he was supposed to meet Betty for lunch. And Daniel woke up determined to go. He ought to be past the worst of it, right?
Then he opened his eyes, and the light still burned.
Okay, he told himself. Get up and get dressed, and then you can decide whether you should be having lunch with Betty today.
He tossed back the covers, put his feet on the floor and rose - at which point he realized he shouldn’t be standing upright today.
Daniel fell back into bed, miserable. Once he could manage it, he grabbed his cell and texted Betty. SORRY CAN’T DO LUNCH PLEASE LET ME RAIN CHECK FOR THE WKND? SORRY FOR LATE NOTICE.
A few minutes later, he got a text in reply: R U OK?
How to put it without sounding as though he were a baby? UNDER THE WEATHER. DON’T WANT TO GIVE YOU A VIRUS. Wait, did that sound like he was talking about an STD? He backspaced and tried again. DON’T WANT TO GET YOU SICK.
No reply came in the ten minutes it took Daniel to fall back into a deep, medicine-induced sleep.
He awoke to the sound of a thumping on the door. Daniel squinted at the room; his eyes burned a little less now. Was he expecting a delivery? For a moment, memories of room service flickered in his mind. Oh, for a bellhop with apple juice and maybe, just maybe, chocolate pudding.
“Just a sec!” he called as he pulled a T-shirt on; clad in this and his boxers, he managed to stumble to the door, open it - and see Betty standing there.
“Daniel, you look awful!” Just what he wanted her to be thinking.
“Betty, hey. You didn’t have to come here.” Wait, did she? “You got my text, right? I really did send it?”
“Yes, you really sent it. You trip worse on Nyquil than anybody else I ever heard of.”
“The doorman said they don’t have Nyquil in England. Only Vicks. But the dreams are still weird.”
She gently pushed against his chest. “Back to bed. Come on.”
This was also not how Daniel had wanted Betty to order him to bed, but seeing as how the floor was doing this wobbly thing under his feet, he wasn’t about to argue. He shuffled back into his bedroom and collapsed onto the mattress. Betty gently pulled the sheet over him, then hauled her oversized tote onto her lap. From this she pulled out a six-pack of ginger ale, a carton of Marks & Spencers’ green apple juice, some medicine in English brands he didn’t recognize, and a small bottle of some blue gel. “What’s that?” he croaked.
“Hand sanitizer, for me. You’re right; I don’t want to get sick. But I needed to check on you.” She laid her palm against his forehead; her skin felt surprisingly cool. “Oh, Daniel, you’re burning up. How long have you been like this?”
“Two days. It’s just a cold.”
“Just a cold? This looks like the flu to me.” Betty smiled at him ruefully. “What happened to Mr. Sickington?”
“I’m not that baby any more,” he said, more forcefully than he’d meant to. It made his throat hurt. “I didn’t - ugh. I didn’t come over here to make you take care of me again.”
She touched his forehead again, this time to stroke the hair at his forehead - almost a caress. “I know that’s not why you came. But I’m always going to care about you, Daniel.” Her fingers trailed down the side of his face, brushing his cheek. “I’m always going to look after you when you really need it. Just like I know you would for me.”
Daniel lifted his hand toward hers; his fingers settled loosely around her wrist. “Yeah, I would.”
“And look what else I got.” She reached into her tote one more time and pulled out - oh blessed Mary - a four-pack of chocolate pudding.
The words slipped out: “I adore you.”
Had he said too much? Apparently not, because she just smiled as she peeled off the foil atop a pudding cup.
"Mr. Sickington"
Daniel knew even before he was fully awake. The tightness in his throat, the sweat on his skin, the thick feeling throughout his head: He was sick.
He opened his eyes, then wished he hadn’t. Even the watery gray morning light in London was enough to burn.
Great. He’d probably picked up something on the plane. Now, three days after he’d arrived in London - three days after he had embarked on “Mission: Dazzle Betty Into Falling In Love” - he was going to be laid flat-out on his back and doing time as a snot factory. What girl wouldn’t be impressed by that? Answer: Any of them. And especially not Betty.
A few years ago, he used to check into a luxury hotel as “Mr. Sickington” to ride out his colds. It wasn’t a totally illogical move for a guy who didn’t like to encourage his casual girlfriends into thinking they were more and whose family members were usually too busy, drunk or reckless to be counted on for nursing. Room service would bring all the chicken soup and juice he needed. It was quiet, and nobody would bother him. But it was impersonal, and looking back, Daniel couldn’t believe there was a time he’d actually thought he felt better with it that way.
Then Betty came into his life, and she would come to the hotel rooms with Duane Reade bags full of Nyquil and Dayquil and other good stuff. She would take his temperature and say nice things to him. Although they’d both pretended this was part of her role as his assistant, Daniel knew she’d done all this as his friend.
But he hadn’t pretended to be Mr. Sickington in years - not since Molly’s final illness. After seeing how courageously she faced her cancer, being a baby about a cold seemed almost disgustingly childish. And for the next several months of his life, he’d been dedicated to taking care of her, not seeing who could take care of him.
Between then and now, he’d had the sniffles a few times. Stomach flu once. He’d carried on as best he could, in his own house, and not bothered Betty. He let his mother bring him chicken broth from the kosher deli after the stomach flu, but that was about it for allowing himself to be nursed.
So he should be able to deal with this. Right?
Daniel tried to roll over, felt his head throb with pain and groaned into his pillow.
**
Day one wasn’t so bad. Wait, no - day one sucked. But Daniel didn’t have anything to do on day one. His course at the University of London wasn’t due to start for another couple of weeks, and Betty was busy with a media conference. That left his time free to blow his nose, crawl to the refrigerator for an occasional can of ginger ale, hallucinate and mostly just sleep with his mouth open.
But day two was supposed to be different. On day two, he was supposed to meet Betty for lunch. And Daniel woke up determined to go. He ought to be past the worst of it, right?
Then he opened his eyes, and the light still burned.
Okay, he told himself. Get up and get dressed, and then you can decide whether you should be having lunch with Betty today.
He tossed back the covers, put his feet on the floor and rose - at which point he realized he shouldn’t be standing upright today.
Daniel fell back into bed, miserable. Once he could manage it, he grabbed his cell and texted Betty. SORRY CAN’T DO LUNCH PLEASE LET ME RAIN CHECK FOR THE WKND? SORRY FOR LATE NOTICE.
A few minutes later, he got a text in reply: R U OK?
How to put it without sounding as though he were a baby? UNDER THE WEATHER. DON’T WANT TO GIVE YOU A VIRUS. Wait, did that sound like he was talking about an STD? He backspaced and tried again. DON’T WANT TO GET YOU SICK.
No reply came in the ten minutes it took Daniel to fall back into a deep, medicine-induced sleep.
He awoke to the sound of a thumping on the door. Daniel squinted at the room; his eyes burned a little less now. Was he expecting a delivery? For a moment, memories of room service flickered in his mind. Oh, for a bellhop with apple juice and maybe, just maybe, chocolate pudding.
“Just a sec!” he called as he pulled a T-shirt on; clad in this and his boxers, he managed to stumble to the door, open it - and see Betty standing there.
“Daniel, you look awful!” Just what he wanted her to be thinking.
“Betty, hey. You didn’t have to come here.” Wait, did she? “You got my text, right? I really did send it?”
“Yes, you really sent it. You trip worse on Nyquil than anybody else I ever heard of.”
“The doorman said they don’t have Nyquil in England. Only Vicks. But the dreams are still weird.”
She gently pushed against his chest. “Back to bed. Come on.”
This was also not how Daniel had wanted Betty to order him to bed, but seeing as how the floor was doing this wobbly thing under his feet, he wasn’t about to argue. He shuffled back into his bedroom and collapsed onto the mattress. Betty gently pulled the sheet over him, then hauled her oversized tote onto her lap. From this she pulled out a six-pack of ginger ale, a carton of Marks & Spencers’ green apple juice, some medicine in English brands he didn’t recognize, and a small bottle of some blue gel. “What’s that?” he croaked.
“Hand sanitizer, for me. You’re right; I don’t want to get sick. But I needed to check on you.” She laid her palm against his forehead; her skin felt surprisingly cool. “Oh, Daniel, you’re burning up. How long have you been like this?”
“Two days. It’s just a cold.”
“Just a cold? This looks like the flu to me.” Betty smiled at him ruefully. “What happened to Mr. Sickington?”
“I’m not that baby any more,” he said, more forcefully than he’d meant to. It made his throat hurt. “I didn’t - ugh. I didn’t come over here to make you take care of me again.”
She touched his forehead again, this time to stroke the hair at his forehead - almost a caress. “I know that’s not why you came. But I’m always going to care about you, Daniel.” Her fingers trailed down the side of his face, brushing his cheek. “I’m always going to look after you when you really need it. Just like I know you would for me.”
Daniel lifted his hand toward hers; his fingers settled loosely around her wrist. “Yeah, I would.”
“And look what else I got.” She reached into her tote one more time and pulled out - oh blessed Mary - a four-pack of chocolate pudding.
The words slipped out: “I adore you.”
Had he said too much? Apparently not, because she just smiled as she peeled off the foil atop a pudding cup.