Lewis fic: Unsound Mind 1/2
Fic: Unsound Mind
Author: wendymr
Characters: James Hathaway, Robbie Lewis, Laura Hobson
Rated: PG
Summary: Robbie has flu, and he isn't the easiest of patients, as James discovers
Written for complexlight's prompt in the Running Hot III: Hotter Than Ever multi-fandom fever-fic prompt fest. With thanks, as always, to lindenharp for BRing and ever-more-ingenious nagging, and to uniquepov for encouragement.
Unsound Mind
Chapter 1: Corpore Insana
James is in his flat, on a rare evening when work actually allowed him and Lewis to leave on time and, unusually, Lewis didn’t suggest a pint, instead bidding James a gruff goodnight at the station. He doesn’t mind; the band has a new piece which involves a lot of complicated fingering for him, and until tonight he’s not had time to practice.
His work mobile rings when he’s barely halfway through the score, and he curses, setting aside his guitar. Is one free evening too much to ask?
It’s not Dispatch, or Lewis. It’s not a number he recognises, though the area code - 0161 - is Manchester, isn’t it? “Hathaway,” he says, half-expecting it to be a wrong number.
“Is that James Hathaway?” The female voice is one that’s vaguely familiar, and he frowns, trying to remember. He confirms his identity, and the woman continues, sounding rushed and a bit panicky beneath her apologetic tone. “I’m awfully sorry to bother you, but I can’t get hold of my dad. He was expecting me to phone tonight, but he’s not answering his home or work phone, and I wondered if you’d mind terribly-”
The penny drops. “Are you Lyn Lewis?” he interrupts to ask.
“Oh! Yes. I’m sorry, I should have said. It’s just I’m-”
“Worried about your father. It’s quite all right.” James is already walking towards the dish where he automatically leaves his keys once he’s home. “I left him a little over two hours ago, and I believe he was heading straight home. But I’ll be happy to go over and check if it’ll put your mind at ease.”
“Thank you!” She does sound relieved. “Would you please phone me back regardless?”
“Of course.” He grabs a jacket - it’s a chilly January evening - and exits the flat, then jogs down the front path to where his car is parked. “Fifteen or twenty minutes at most.”
He ends the call as he gets into the car and starts the engine. It’s probably nothing - Lewis might have gone out for milk, or got trapped by his upstairs neighbour again, the one who always has some minor repair that needs doing and then talks his ear off for half an hour or so after. She’s lonely, Lewis says, and he doesn’t mind too much.
Though his boss did seem tired today; James can’t see him volunteering to help Mrs Aintree tonight unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.
Lewis’s car is in its usual parking space, and James parks right behind it. He has a spare key for his governor’s flat, given to him last year when Lewis spent two weeks in Canada, visiting an old friend who emigrated years ago. “Plants need looking after,” Lewis had said, pushing the key across the table at the White Horse. “You mind?”
He hadn’t - there are many unwritten aspects to a bagman’s duties, and he’d supposed that keeping an eye on his boss’s plants and flat were on the less onerous side of some of the extra-curricular tasks he’d been called on to perform over the years, more so before Lewis became his governor. Lewis hadn’t asked for the key back on his return; when James had offered, his inspector had said that him having a spare might come in handy one of these days.
And it does tonight, because several quite loud knocks on the door yield no response.
He lets himself in, and very quickly finds out why. Lewis is on the sofa, still in his work suit. He’s half-lying, half-sitting, as if he just couldn’t hold himself upright any more. Although he’s breathing, he’s clearly not awake, and just as clearly not in the full bloom of physical health. The side of his face that’s visible is flushed, and when James lays the back of his hand against Lewis’s forehead he feels cool moisture. Definitely fever of some sort.
Right. First aid kit. If there isn’t one in Lewis’s bathroom, James has one in the car - standard police issue. But Lewis is well prepared, and a couple of minutes later James is sliding a thermometer carefully into his boss’s mouth.
38.5. Not dangerously high, but still above normal. And, judging by the way Lewis has evidently collapsed on his couch, he’s exhausted - after a fairly easy day at work.
The cough starts as James is rinsing the thermometer, adding to the list of symptoms which, he’s pretty sure, are indicating flu rather than a mere cold. He heads back to the sofa and crouches down in front of his governor. “Sir? You need to be in bed.” The only response is a rather pathetic groan. “All right, sir,” James says. “Not expecting you to do it alone. Come along, up you get.” He slides an arm underneath Lewis’s shoulders and half-lifts, half-pushes him up into a seated position.
It takes several attempts to get Lewis onto his feet, and from there it’s a lengthy and difficult progression to the bedroom; while Lewis has just enough motor skills and consciousness to shuffle along at James’s urging, he’s barely able to hold himself upright. “I sincerely hope you remember this when it’s time for my next performance review, sir,” James murmurs as, finally, they reach the bed and he can lower his governor gently down.
He’s just pulled Lewis’s shoes off when his phone rings again. Damn. He hasn’t phoned Lyn back.
“I found him,” he tells her immediately, not giving her a chance to ask the question. “He’s sick - temperature 38.5, bad cough, feverish, semi-conscious. I’m thinking flu.”
“Sounds like it,” Lyn replies, immediately matter-of-fact, and it’s then James remembers that she’s a nurse. “What have you done so far?”
“Just got him to bed. I was going to see if I could get him to take some paracetamol.”
“That would work. Plenty of fluids, keep him warm - even if he’s burning up - and paracetamol every four hours. Don’t bother with anything other than water; he’s unlikely to keep it down if it’s a similar strain to what we’ve been dealing with at the Infirmary.” She hesitates then, but continues before James can ask what’s troubling her. “I’m so sorry, James. I just assumed that you’d stay and look after him, but the thing is that I don’t think he should be left alone, but he isn’t sick enough to go to hospital. They’d just send him home again.”
“That’s all right. I wasn’t intending to leave.” James glances over at his boss, who’s lying curled up on the bed, mumbling softly to himself.
No, there’s no way he’d leave Lewis on his own like this. It’s not just that Lewis is his boss, though that would have been enough reason to stay. It’s that this is the man who’s forgiven him twice for the kind of behaviour anyone else would have had him reported and suspended over, and who ran into a burning building - risking his life - to rescue James. Not to mention, a few months ago, going well above and beyond loyalty to a colleague by finding James’s stolen guitar and helping him get it back.
No-one has ever shown James Hathaway the kind of tolerance and caring that he’s had from Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis. In return, there is nothing James won’t do for Lewis.
He ends the call, promising to keep Lyn updated if there are changes for the worse, then takes off his jacket and starts the slow process of persuading his governor to let him undress him and put him to bed.
___________________________________________
Two hours later, Lewis finally seems to be sleeping, and James feels as if he’s just completed twenty rounds of circuit training.
He’s heard it mentioned numerous times since joining the police that dressing or undressing a corpse is extremely difficult, but was never completely convinced - until now. Lewis might not be dead, but once he was lying comfortably on his own bed his reactions were about as corpse-like as any James has encountered on the job. He did rouse briefly and allow James to coax him to take the paracetamol and drink some water, but that was far from straightforward either. James had to change a pillowcase and mop down the duvet after Lewis managed to knock the glass out of his hand, spilling water everywhere. And then, once he’d got Lewis into pyjamas and settled in bed, his boss kept kicking the covers off, too hot to bear them over himself. James had to apply cool cloths to his face and neck over and over to persuade him to stay still.
For the last quarter of an hour, though, Lewis hasn’t stirred, and his breathing’s quieter and more regular. James laid the back of his hand against Lewis’s forehead five minutes ago - very gently, hoping he wouldn’t wake the man - and his skin definitely felt cooler. He’s just made himself a coffee and settled himself in a kitchen chair that he’s brought into the bedroom, and he’s reading one of Lewis’s ridiculous spy thrillers by the light of the small bedside lamp.
“Please tell me you only read this drivel as a cure for insomnia, sir,” James murmurs a chapter in, looking across at Lewis and shaking his head. “Otherwise, I really will have to do something about your taste in literature.”
His phone beeps just as he’s debating going back to the living-room to look for another book. It’s a text from Lyn. How is he? Any change?
With a glance at Lewis to make sure he’s still sleeping, James pads out into the hall - his shoes make too much noise, so he’s taken them off - and phones Lyn. She’s relieved to know that her father is sleeping, but warns him that the worst is probably yet to come. “His temperature might increase, and if it hits 40 you need to get him to hospital. Otherwise, just try to keep him warm and dry and get lots of fluids into him.”
He promises to do his best, refraining from pointing out that her father is resistant to any attempt by James to give advice at the best of times. By her tone, though, he suspects that Lyn is aware that it won’t be an easy task. “Thank you, James.” The words sound heartfelt. “I hope he doesn’t run you ragged.”
He smiles faintly. “That’s his job, or so he assures me.”
Lyn laughs. “Sounds like my dad. I’m glad he’s got you, James. You’re good for him.”
“It’s really more the other way around,” James comments, feeling himself blush and glad that no-one’s around to see it.
“One of these days, when you’re not playing nurse to my dad, James, you and I need to talk.” She’s smiling, he can tell, but there’s a serious note to Lyn’s voice. “I was so worried about Dad when he came back to Oxford, but you’ve been brilliant with him.”
“Erm...” Embarrassed, he rubs the back of his neck.
“Like I said, one of these days we’ll have to talk,” Lyn continues, ignoring his discomfort. “For now, if you don’t believe me, just think about how I know this. Anyway,” she adds briskly, “I’d better let you go. The paracetamol’s going to wear off soon and you’ll need all your energy to deal with him.”
Half an hour later, James finds out that Lyn wasn’t joking. Lewis is tossing and turning, thrashing around in the bed as he tries to throw the covers off. No sooner has James put them back in place than Lewis tears them off him again.
“Come on, sir; at least try to make an overworked bagman’s life easier.” James leans over his boss, murmuring in his ear as he once again straightens the duvet.
“Hot... too bloody hot...” Lewis’s eyes are open and he appears to be staring straight at James, but James is pretty sure his governor isn’t even seeing him. Lewis picks at his pyjamas, seemingly trying to pull the jacket up and muttering in frustration when he can’t manage it.
“Help me... get me clothes off, will ya?” The exasperated, demanding tone is one James knows well, and is conditioned to respond to - but not this time.
“No can do, sir.” He brushes Lewis’s hands away from the buttons of his pyjama jacket. “Come on, lie still. You don’t want me to get the handcuffs out, do you?”
Lewis’s hands, surprisingly strong, wrap around his wrists, preventing him from replacing the duvet again. “Not... my thing.” He breaks into a racking cough. “Bloody furnace... here.”
The cough continues for longer than James likes, even though he pulls his hands away from his boss’s grip and supports Lewis by sitting behind him, holding him in a half-sitting position to ease his breathing. The man’s burning up; the pyjamas are soaking, and the sheets are getting damp.
It’s not time for more paracetamol yet, but he can at least get Lewis some more water - and a dry pair of pyjamas, if he can find any. He lowers Lewis to the pillow again. “Won’t be long, sir. Don’t go anywhere.”
___________________________________________
The pyjamas aren’t difficult to locate: bottom of the chest of drawers. James leaves them on the top. He’s learned his lesson from earlier; Lewis is not getting dry clothes until after James has got some water into him.
When he comes back from the kitchen, water this time in the travel mug he bought for Lewis a couple of Christmases ago and which Lewis has never used, the quilt is on the floor, his boss’s pyjamas thrown on top of it.
James’s gaze shoots up to the bed. Lewis is lying sprawled on his back, completely naked. Even the dark grey briefs, which James left on earlier, are gone.
“Bloody buggering fuck!” James takes a deep breath and considers the options. The priority is still water, so he ignores the bedding and lack of clothing for now and puts down the water while he gently but firmly pulls Lewis’s head and upper body up, sitting behind him to support him again. He holds the water to Lewis’s lips, fighting hard to ignore the voice in his head that’s calling to him.
Lewis is naked. I’m holding Lewis in my arms and he doesn’t have a stitch on.
Fuck.
Lewis has an impressive physique for a man of his age, something James has seen glimpses of before. Oh, not lean and muscular; there’s the odd bulge here and there, hardly surprising given the man’s diet. He’s seen Lewis in various states of undress before, of course, most often in the gym - but never more than shirtless and in shorts. Earlier, when he undressed the man, he deliberately averted his gaze as far as possible. Now, he can’t not see - and he can’t not want.
There’s considerable strength in those arms and legs, and Lewis’s chest is broad and powerful. James can’t help thinking that it would be nice... comforting... to be held against. No washboard stomach, but it’s not pudgy either. And lower down...
Stop it. James tears his gaze away, refocusing on what he’s supposed to be doing. This is so very wrong. He’s supposed to be taking care of Lewis, not ogling him - even worse, ogling him without his consent, or even knowledge. Not to mention the fact that Lewis is involved, or tentatively trying to become involved, with Dr Hobson.
Lewis is trying to push the mug away now. James tests the weight, and concludes that he’s taken at least half. That’ll do for now. Gratefully, he lets Lewis down again, deciding to get some more cool cloths to mop off some of the fever-driven sweat before re-dressing his boss.
By the time he’s finished and Lewis is neatly covered up again, it’s time for another dose of paracetamol, which he expects to involve another wrestling match. This time, though, he’s taken by surprise; when he tells his boss firmly to take his medicine, Lewis leans up obediently and swallows the pills with a gulp of water, lying back down again afterwards with a “Thanks, man,” that’s barely more than a whisper.
Starting to get better? James hopes so, and reaches for the thermometer. 39. He sighs; looks like he’s in for another hour or so of fighting over the bedding and trying to cool his governor down. He just hopes Lewis has more than one spare pair of pyjamas.
___________________________________________
“Thirsty.”
Lewis is lying on his side, eyes open and looking at James, and the expression in them’s miserable.
“All right.” He reaches for the mug and helps Lewis to raise his head. His boss winces. “Head hurts.”
“Ouch,” he murmurs sympathetically as Lewis drinks. “The paracetamol should kick in soon.”
“Cold.” Lewis’s voice is faint this time, and the word’s accompanied by a shudder. Cold? But just an hour ago he was sweating buckets...
Right. Fever. Hot and cold. James lays his hand on Lewis’s forehead. It’s damp, and there’s sweat beaded there, but the skin’s clammy. “Cold,” Lewis repeats, and one hand sneaks out from under the quilt to pull it higher, covering his chin and half his face.
“Better?” James asks.
Lewis nods, but after a few moments shakes his head. “Still... bloody freezing.”
“All right.” James stands and glances around the room. “Where do you keep the spare blankets?” He should have paid more attention on those nights he’d slept on Lewis’s couch. His boss had always just produced spare bedding from somewhere, and then the next morning told James to leave it on the couch; he’d put it away later.
“Hall... cupboard.” Lewis is definitely shivering. James strides out and to the cupboard, and quickly finds a blanket, which he brings back and spreads out on top of the quilt. His governor mumbles something, which might have been thanks, or could have been what took you so long? Maybe now Lewis will sleep, and he can nap for an hour or so? Not on the couch, though. He’ll have to stay in the bedroom - and realising that sends him back out to the hall to grab a pillow and a second blanket, which he arranges on the chair.
He’s just closed his eyes when another unhappy moan comes from the bed. Sighing, James leans closer. “Sir?”
“Still cold.”
Still? James pulls a face and walks to the bed again. Damn it. Lewis appears to be shivering uncontrollably. He lays a hand on the man’s shoulder, on top of the quilt. “Hold on a sec, I’ll get the other blanket for you.”
Lewis’s hand emerges from under the covers and grips James’s. “Won’t be enough. Can’t... stop shiverin’...”
James squeezes Lewis’s hand. “I think I saw a spare duvet in that cupboard. Will that do?”
“Need...” Lewis halts; his teeth are chattering. “Body heat. Need you to... get in beside me.”
James freezes. Lewis can’t mean- But a sharp tug on his hand tells him that his boss is serious. Shit. If Lewis remembers any of this when he’s better, it’s going to be acutely embarrassing. Though getting into bed with him - at Lewis’s own request - doesn’t have as much potential to cause a rift between the two of them as what he was doing earlier, does it?
“If you want that, I need my hand back, sir,” he points out. Lewis releases him, and James moves around to the other side of the bed. About to get in, he hesitates, then undoes his trousers and steps out of them. He considers removing his shirt as well; it’s skin to skin contact that’s most effective, after all. But Lewis isn’t in danger of becoming hypothermic, and he’d really rather not see his governor’s reaction to finding his sergeant in his bed dressed only in underwear.
He slides under the covers next to Lewis - and it’s hot as hell under here! Apart from the extra layer of blanket, Lewis, despite shivering, is still radiating heat. But he feels cold, and that’s what matters.
James reaches out an arm and wraps it around Lewis’s shoulders. Lewis mumbles something and rolls over, resting his head on James’s shoulder and his arm across James’s chest, and clings. James folds his other arm around Lewis, holding his boss close. Lewis lets out a faint sigh and moves closer still. It feels like he’s... James can only describe it as snuggling.
He yields to temptation and strokes his hand up and down Lewis’s back, justifying it by telling himself that he’s helping to warm his boss up. And it seems to be working; a few minutes later, Lewis’s breathing evens out. He’s finally asleep.
___________________________________________
Something - or someone’s - nuzzling at his neck.
James awakens with a jolt and looks down. Christ. It is Lewis. His governor is pressed against his side, from shoulder to mid-calf, and his face is buried in James’s neck.
Should he move away and risk waking Lewis, with all the questions that will cause? Or just stay still, pretend he’s still asleep and wait for Lewis to fall asleep again?
He doesn’t get a chance to decide. Lewis moves, stretching up, and his lips find James’s. It’s an awkward kiss at first, with noses colliding and Lewis getting the corner of his mouth. But before James can react, Lewis is back, finding just the right position, kissing him properly: lingering, with soft pressure and just the faintest hint of tongue.
Only a saint could resist that, and James is no saint. With a groan, he returns the pressure, kissing back, while part of him wonders if he’s dreaming. He has to be. Lewis kissing him? He’s fantasised about it enough, true, but never dared to imagine that it would happen. And even in his fantasies, it never felt this good.
Lewis ends the kiss, his lips gliding softly along James’s jaw. “Nice, pet,” he murmurs. Then his entire body relaxes again, and a faint snore breaks the silence in the bedroom.
James’s entire body goes rigid, while his brain is a mass of conflicting thoughts. Above all, one word replays over and over. Pet. Pet. Petpetpet... Did Lewis think he was in bed with someone else? He must have. Pet. That’s what he calls... well, his daughter, but he wouldn’t have kissed Lyn like that. A woman he’s in love with? Shit. Lewis has been seeing Dr Hobson. He must have imagined...
Or, worse still, his wife. Fuck, that’s it, isn’t it? He’s sick. Feverish. He’s delirious... and he thought the body in his arms was Val. And James kissed him back. And enjoyed it.
Could there be a worse way for him to have betrayed Lewis?
Lewis is definitely asleep again, and he’s not shivering any more. Carefully, trying not to disturb him, James removes his arms from around his boss and slides to the edge of the bed, then gets out. He stands for a moment, watching his boss sleep and trying to shut out the tape in his brain which is replaying the kiss in cinematic-quality images, then closes his eyes and swallows.
Forcing his breathing to calm, he thinks. He can’t get that close to Lewis again. Now that he knows what it’s like to hold the man, to kiss him, the temptation’s too great. But what if Lewis starts shivering again, or goes back to throwing the covers off because he’s too hot? What if making him drink is as difficult as before? It’s too intimate, and if Lewis had any idea what James really feels for him he’d never want him here taking care of him.
He prays with silent desperation.
“Soram te gemens peccator assisto.
Noli, Mater Verbi, verba mea despicere;
sed audi propitia et exaudi.”
Then, with sudden resolve, he strides back around the bed to where his mobile sits on Lewis’s bedside cabinet, and selects a number he probably should have called when he’d first found Lewis almost passed out on his sofa.
“Hello, Dr Hobson... Yes, I’m well aware that it’s barely five in the morning... Could you come over to Inspector Lewis’s flat? ...Yes, it’s important. Thank you.”
Call ended, he returns to the bedroom to collect his clothes, and dresses quickly in the living-room. Once Hobson gets here, she can take over, and he can go home and hope (and pray) that Lewis doesn’t remember any of this - or if he does, that he assumes it was Hobson all along.
And he’ll have to find a way to block from his memory the best kiss he’s ever had - and the fact that it wasn’t even intended for him. Because if he can’t, then working with Lewis from now on is going to be impossible.
___________________________________________
tbc
James’s prayer:
Before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful.
O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions,
but in thy mercy hear and answer me.
from The Memorare, traditional Catholic prayer to the Virgin Mary.
Author: wendymr
Characters: James Hathaway, Robbie Lewis, Laura Hobson
Rated: PG
Summary: Robbie has flu, and he isn't the easiest of patients, as James discovers
Written for complexlight's prompt in the Running Hot III: Hotter Than Ever multi-fandom fever-fic prompt fest. With thanks, as always, to lindenharp for BRing and ever-more-ingenious nagging, and to uniquepov for encouragement.
Unsound Mind
Chapter 1: Corpore Insana
James is in his flat, on a rare evening when work actually allowed him and Lewis to leave on time and, unusually, Lewis didn’t suggest a pint, instead bidding James a gruff goodnight at the station. He doesn’t mind; the band has a new piece which involves a lot of complicated fingering for him, and until tonight he’s not had time to practice.
His work mobile rings when he’s barely halfway through the score, and he curses, setting aside his guitar. Is one free evening too much to ask?
It’s not Dispatch, or Lewis. It’s not a number he recognises, though the area code - 0161 - is Manchester, isn’t it? “Hathaway,” he says, half-expecting it to be a wrong number.
“Is that James Hathaway?” The female voice is one that’s vaguely familiar, and he frowns, trying to remember. He confirms his identity, and the woman continues, sounding rushed and a bit panicky beneath her apologetic tone. “I’m awfully sorry to bother you, but I can’t get hold of my dad. He was expecting me to phone tonight, but he’s not answering his home or work phone, and I wondered if you’d mind terribly-”
The penny drops. “Are you Lyn Lewis?” he interrupts to ask.
“Oh! Yes. I’m sorry, I should have said. It’s just I’m-”
“Worried about your father. It’s quite all right.” James is already walking towards the dish where he automatically leaves his keys once he’s home. “I left him a little over two hours ago, and I believe he was heading straight home. But I’ll be happy to go over and check if it’ll put your mind at ease.”
“Thank you!” She does sound relieved. “Would you please phone me back regardless?”
“Of course.” He grabs a jacket - it’s a chilly January evening - and exits the flat, then jogs down the front path to where his car is parked. “Fifteen or twenty minutes at most.”
He ends the call as he gets into the car and starts the engine. It’s probably nothing - Lewis might have gone out for milk, or got trapped by his upstairs neighbour again, the one who always has some minor repair that needs doing and then talks his ear off for half an hour or so after. She’s lonely, Lewis says, and he doesn’t mind too much.
Though his boss did seem tired today; James can’t see him volunteering to help Mrs Aintree tonight unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.
Lewis’s car is in its usual parking space, and James parks right behind it. He has a spare key for his governor’s flat, given to him last year when Lewis spent two weeks in Canada, visiting an old friend who emigrated years ago. “Plants need looking after,” Lewis had said, pushing the key across the table at the White Horse. “You mind?”
He hadn’t - there are many unwritten aspects to a bagman’s duties, and he’d supposed that keeping an eye on his boss’s plants and flat were on the less onerous side of some of the extra-curricular tasks he’d been called on to perform over the years, more so before Lewis became his governor. Lewis hadn’t asked for the key back on his return; when James had offered, his inspector had said that him having a spare might come in handy one of these days.
And it does tonight, because several quite loud knocks on the door yield no response.
He lets himself in, and very quickly finds out why. Lewis is on the sofa, still in his work suit. He’s half-lying, half-sitting, as if he just couldn’t hold himself upright any more. Although he’s breathing, he’s clearly not awake, and just as clearly not in the full bloom of physical health. The side of his face that’s visible is flushed, and when James lays the back of his hand against Lewis’s forehead he feels cool moisture. Definitely fever of some sort.
Right. First aid kit. If there isn’t one in Lewis’s bathroom, James has one in the car - standard police issue. But Lewis is well prepared, and a couple of minutes later James is sliding a thermometer carefully into his boss’s mouth.
38.5. Not dangerously high, but still above normal. And, judging by the way Lewis has evidently collapsed on his couch, he’s exhausted - after a fairly easy day at work.
The cough starts as James is rinsing the thermometer, adding to the list of symptoms which, he’s pretty sure, are indicating flu rather than a mere cold. He heads back to the sofa and crouches down in front of his governor. “Sir? You need to be in bed.” The only response is a rather pathetic groan. “All right, sir,” James says. “Not expecting you to do it alone. Come along, up you get.” He slides an arm underneath Lewis’s shoulders and half-lifts, half-pushes him up into a seated position.
It takes several attempts to get Lewis onto his feet, and from there it’s a lengthy and difficult progression to the bedroom; while Lewis has just enough motor skills and consciousness to shuffle along at James’s urging, he’s barely able to hold himself upright. “I sincerely hope you remember this when it’s time for my next performance review, sir,” James murmurs as, finally, they reach the bed and he can lower his governor gently down.
He’s just pulled Lewis’s shoes off when his phone rings again. Damn. He hasn’t phoned Lyn back.
“I found him,” he tells her immediately, not giving her a chance to ask the question. “He’s sick - temperature 38.5, bad cough, feverish, semi-conscious. I’m thinking flu.”
“Sounds like it,” Lyn replies, immediately matter-of-fact, and it’s then James remembers that she’s a nurse. “What have you done so far?”
“Just got him to bed. I was going to see if I could get him to take some paracetamol.”
“That would work. Plenty of fluids, keep him warm - even if he’s burning up - and paracetamol every four hours. Don’t bother with anything other than water; he’s unlikely to keep it down if it’s a similar strain to what we’ve been dealing with at the Infirmary.” She hesitates then, but continues before James can ask what’s troubling her. “I’m so sorry, James. I just assumed that you’d stay and look after him, but the thing is that I don’t think he should be left alone, but he isn’t sick enough to go to hospital. They’d just send him home again.”
“That’s all right. I wasn’t intending to leave.” James glances over at his boss, who’s lying curled up on the bed, mumbling softly to himself.
No, there’s no way he’d leave Lewis on his own like this. It’s not just that Lewis is his boss, though that would have been enough reason to stay. It’s that this is the man who’s forgiven him twice for the kind of behaviour anyone else would have had him reported and suspended over, and who ran into a burning building - risking his life - to rescue James. Not to mention, a few months ago, going well above and beyond loyalty to a colleague by finding James’s stolen guitar and helping him get it back.
No-one has ever shown James Hathaway the kind of tolerance and caring that he’s had from Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis. In return, there is nothing James won’t do for Lewis.
He ends the call, promising to keep Lyn updated if there are changes for the worse, then takes off his jacket and starts the slow process of persuading his governor to let him undress him and put him to bed.
___________________________________________
Two hours later, Lewis finally seems to be sleeping, and James feels as if he’s just completed twenty rounds of circuit training.
He’s heard it mentioned numerous times since joining the police that dressing or undressing a corpse is extremely difficult, but was never completely convinced - until now. Lewis might not be dead, but once he was lying comfortably on his own bed his reactions were about as corpse-like as any James has encountered on the job. He did rouse briefly and allow James to coax him to take the paracetamol and drink some water, but that was far from straightforward either. James had to change a pillowcase and mop down the duvet after Lewis managed to knock the glass out of his hand, spilling water everywhere. And then, once he’d got Lewis into pyjamas and settled in bed, his boss kept kicking the covers off, too hot to bear them over himself. James had to apply cool cloths to his face and neck over and over to persuade him to stay still.
For the last quarter of an hour, though, Lewis hasn’t stirred, and his breathing’s quieter and more regular. James laid the back of his hand against Lewis’s forehead five minutes ago - very gently, hoping he wouldn’t wake the man - and his skin definitely felt cooler. He’s just made himself a coffee and settled himself in a kitchen chair that he’s brought into the bedroom, and he’s reading one of Lewis’s ridiculous spy thrillers by the light of the small bedside lamp.
“Please tell me you only read this drivel as a cure for insomnia, sir,” James murmurs a chapter in, looking across at Lewis and shaking his head. “Otherwise, I really will have to do something about your taste in literature.”
His phone beeps just as he’s debating going back to the living-room to look for another book. It’s a text from Lyn. How is he? Any change?
With a glance at Lewis to make sure he’s still sleeping, James pads out into the hall - his shoes make too much noise, so he’s taken them off - and phones Lyn. She’s relieved to know that her father is sleeping, but warns him that the worst is probably yet to come. “His temperature might increase, and if it hits 40 you need to get him to hospital. Otherwise, just try to keep him warm and dry and get lots of fluids into him.”
He promises to do his best, refraining from pointing out that her father is resistant to any attempt by James to give advice at the best of times. By her tone, though, he suspects that Lyn is aware that it won’t be an easy task. “Thank you, James.” The words sound heartfelt. “I hope he doesn’t run you ragged.”
He smiles faintly. “That’s his job, or so he assures me.”
Lyn laughs. “Sounds like my dad. I’m glad he’s got you, James. You’re good for him.”
“It’s really more the other way around,” James comments, feeling himself blush and glad that no-one’s around to see it.
“One of these days, when you’re not playing nurse to my dad, James, you and I need to talk.” She’s smiling, he can tell, but there’s a serious note to Lyn’s voice. “I was so worried about Dad when he came back to Oxford, but you’ve been brilliant with him.”
“Erm...” Embarrassed, he rubs the back of his neck.
“Like I said, one of these days we’ll have to talk,” Lyn continues, ignoring his discomfort. “For now, if you don’t believe me, just think about how I know this. Anyway,” she adds briskly, “I’d better let you go. The paracetamol’s going to wear off soon and you’ll need all your energy to deal with him.”
Half an hour later, James finds out that Lyn wasn’t joking. Lewis is tossing and turning, thrashing around in the bed as he tries to throw the covers off. No sooner has James put them back in place than Lewis tears them off him again.
“Come on, sir; at least try to make an overworked bagman’s life easier.” James leans over his boss, murmuring in his ear as he once again straightens the duvet.
“Hot... too bloody hot...” Lewis’s eyes are open and he appears to be staring straight at James, but James is pretty sure his governor isn’t even seeing him. Lewis picks at his pyjamas, seemingly trying to pull the jacket up and muttering in frustration when he can’t manage it.
“Help me... get me clothes off, will ya?” The exasperated, demanding tone is one James knows well, and is conditioned to respond to - but not this time.
“No can do, sir.” He brushes Lewis’s hands away from the buttons of his pyjama jacket. “Come on, lie still. You don’t want me to get the handcuffs out, do you?”
Lewis’s hands, surprisingly strong, wrap around his wrists, preventing him from replacing the duvet again. “Not... my thing.” He breaks into a racking cough. “Bloody furnace... here.”
The cough continues for longer than James likes, even though he pulls his hands away from his boss’s grip and supports Lewis by sitting behind him, holding him in a half-sitting position to ease his breathing. The man’s burning up; the pyjamas are soaking, and the sheets are getting damp.
It’s not time for more paracetamol yet, but he can at least get Lewis some more water - and a dry pair of pyjamas, if he can find any. He lowers Lewis to the pillow again. “Won’t be long, sir. Don’t go anywhere.”
___________________________________________
The pyjamas aren’t difficult to locate: bottom of the chest of drawers. James leaves them on the top. He’s learned his lesson from earlier; Lewis is not getting dry clothes until after James has got some water into him.
When he comes back from the kitchen, water this time in the travel mug he bought for Lewis a couple of Christmases ago and which Lewis has never used, the quilt is on the floor, his boss’s pyjamas thrown on top of it.
James’s gaze shoots up to the bed. Lewis is lying sprawled on his back, completely naked. Even the dark grey briefs, which James left on earlier, are gone.
“Bloody buggering fuck!” James takes a deep breath and considers the options. The priority is still water, so he ignores the bedding and lack of clothing for now and puts down the water while he gently but firmly pulls Lewis’s head and upper body up, sitting behind him to support him again. He holds the water to Lewis’s lips, fighting hard to ignore the voice in his head that’s calling to him.
Lewis is naked. I’m holding Lewis in my arms and he doesn’t have a stitch on.
Fuck.
Lewis has an impressive physique for a man of his age, something James has seen glimpses of before. Oh, not lean and muscular; there’s the odd bulge here and there, hardly surprising given the man’s diet. He’s seen Lewis in various states of undress before, of course, most often in the gym - but never more than shirtless and in shorts. Earlier, when he undressed the man, he deliberately averted his gaze as far as possible. Now, he can’t not see - and he can’t not want.
There’s considerable strength in those arms and legs, and Lewis’s chest is broad and powerful. James can’t help thinking that it would be nice... comforting... to be held against. No washboard stomach, but it’s not pudgy either. And lower down...
Stop it. James tears his gaze away, refocusing on what he’s supposed to be doing. This is so very wrong. He’s supposed to be taking care of Lewis, not ogling him - even worse, ogling him without his consent, or even knowledge. Not to mention the fact that Lewis is involved, or tentatively trying to become involved, with Dr Hobson.
Lewis is trying to push the mug away now. James tests the weight, and concludes that he’s taken at least half. That’ll do for now. Gratefully, he lets Lewis down again, deciding to get some more cool cloths to mop off some of the fever-driven sweat before re-dressing his boss.
By the time he’s finished and Lewis is neatly covered up again, it’s time for another dose of paracetamol, which he expects to involve another wrestling match. This time, though, he’s taken by surprise; when he tells his boss firmly to take his medicine, Lewis leans up obediently and swallows the pills with a gulp of water, lying back down again afterwards with a “Thanks, man,” that’s barely more than a whisper.
Starting to get better? James hopes so, and reaches for the thermometer. 39. He sighs; looks like he’s in for another hour or so of fighting over the bedding and trying to cool his governor down. He just hopes Lewis has more than one spare pair of pyjamas.
___________________________________________
“Thirsty.”
Lewis is lying on his side, eyes open and looking at James, and the expression in them’s miserable.
“All right.” He reaches for the mug and helps Lewis to raise his head. His boss winces. “Head hurts.”
“Ouch,” he murmurs sympathetically as Lewis drinks. “The paracetamol should kick in soon.”
“Cold.” Lewis’s voice is faint this time, and the word’s accompanied by a shudder. Cold? But just an hour ago he was sweating buckets...
Right. Fever. Hot and cold. James lays his hand on Lewis’s forehead. It’s damp, and there’s sweat beaded there, but the skin’s clammy. “Cold,” Lewis repeats, and one hand sneaks out from under the quilt to pull it higher, covering his chin and half his face.
“Better?” James asks.
Lewis nods, but after a few moments shakes his head. “Still... bloody freezing.”
“All right.” James stands and glances around the room. “Where do you keep the spare blankets?” He should have paid more attention on those nights he’d slept on Lewis’s couch. His boss had always just produced spare bedding from somewhere, and then the next morning told James to leave it on the couch; he’d put it away later.
“Hall... cupboard.” Lewis is definitely shivering. James strides out and to the cupboard, and quickly finds a blanket, which he brings back and spreads out on top of the quilt. His governor mumbles something, which might have been thanks, or could have been what took you so long? Maybe now Lewis will sleep, and he can nap for an hour or so? Not on the couch, though. He’ll have to stay in the bedroom - and realising that sends him back out to the hall to grab a pillow and a second blanket, which he arranges on the chair.
He’s just closed his eyes when another unhappy moan comes from the bed. Sighing, James leans closer. “Sir?”
“Still cold.”
Still? James pulls a face and walks to the bed again. Damn it. Lewis appears to be shivering uncontrollably. He lays a hand on the man’s shoulder, on top of the quilt. “Hold on a sec, I’ll get the other blanket for you.”
Lewis’s hand emerges from under the covers and grips James’s. “Won’t be enough. Can’t... stop shiverin’...”
James squeezes Lewis’s hand. “I think I saw a spare duvet in that cupboard. Will that do?”
“Need...” Lewis halts; his teeth are chattering. “Body heat. Need you to... get in beside me.”
James freezes. Lewis can’t mean- But a sharp tug on his hand tells him that his boss is serious. Shit. If Lewis remembers any of this when he’s better, it’s going to be acutely embarrassing. Though getting into bed with him - at Lewis’s own request - doesn’t have as much potential to cause a rift between the two of them as what he was doing earlier, does it?
“If you want that, I need my hand back, sir,” he points out. Lewis releases him, and James moves around to the other side of the bed. About to get in, he hesitates, then undoes his trousers and steps out of them. He considers removing his shirt as well; it’s skin to skin contact that’s most effective, after all. But Lewis isn’t in danger of becoming hypothermic, and he’d really rather not see his governor’s reaction to finding his sergeant in his bed dressed only in underwear.
He slides under the covers next to Lewis - and it’s hot as hell under here! Apart from the extra layer of blanket, Lewis, despite shivering, is still radiating heat. But he feels cold, and that’s what matters.
James reaches out an arm and wraps it around Lewis’s shoulders. Lewis mumbles something and rolls over, resting his head on James’s shoulder and his arm across James’s chest, and clings. James folds his other arm around Lewis, holding his boss close. Lewis lets out a faint sigh and moves closer still. It feels like he’s... James can only describe it as snuggling.
He yields to temptation and strokes his hand up and down Lewis’s back, justifying it by telling himself that he’s helping to warm his boss up. And it seems to be working; a few minutes later, Lewis’s breathing evens out. He’s finally asleep.
___________________________________________
Something - or someone’s - nuzzling at his neck.
James awakens with a jolt and looks down. Christ. It is Lewis. His governor is pressed against his side, from shoulder to mid-calf, and his face is buried in James’s neck.
Should he move away and risk waking Lewis, with all the questions that will cause? Or just stay still, pretend he’s still asleep and wait for Lewis to fall asleep again?
He doesn’t get a chance to decide. Lewis moves, stretching up, and his lips find James’s. It’s an awkward kiss at first, with noses colliding and Lewis getting the corner of his mouth. But before James can react, Lewis is back, finding just the right position, kissing him properly: lingering, with soft pressure and just the faintest hint of tongue.
Only a saint could resist that, and James is no saint. With a groan, he returns the pressure, kissing back, while part of him wonders if he’s dreaming. He has to be. Lewis kissing him? He’s fantasised about it enough, true, but never dared to imagine that it would happen. And even in his fantasies, it never felt this good.
Lewis ends the kiss, his lips gliding softly along James’s jaw. “Nice, pet,” he murmurs. Then his entire body relaxes again, and a faint snore breaks the silence in the bedroom.
James’s entire body goes rigid, while his brain is a mass of conflicting thoughts. Above all, one word replays over and over. Pet. Pet. Petpetpet... Did Lewis think he was in bed with someone else? He must have. Pet. That’s what he calls... well, his daughter, but he wouldn’t have kissed Lyn like that. A woman he’s in love with? Shit. Lewis has been seeing Dr Hobson. He must have imagined...
Or, worse still, his wife. Fuck, that’s it, isn’t it? He’s sick. Feverish. He’s delirious... and he thought the body in his arms was Val. And James kissed him back. And enjoyed it.
Could there be a worse way for him to have betrayed Lewis?
Lewis is definitely asleep again, and he’s not shivering any more. Carefully, trying not to disturb him, James removes his arms from around his boss and slides to the edge of the bed, then gets out. He stands for a moment, watching his boss sleep and trying to shut out the tape in his brain which is replaying the kiss in cinematic-quality images, then closes his eyes and swallows.
Forcing his breathing to calm, he thinks. He can’t get that close to Lewis again. Now that he knows what it’s like to hold the man, to kiss him, the temptation’s too great. But what if Lewis starts shivering again, or goes back to throwing the covers off because he’s too hot? What if making him drink is as difficult as before? It’s too intimate, and if Lewis had any idea what James really feels for him he’d never want him here taking care of him.
He prays with silent desperation.
“Soram te gemens peccator assisto.
Noli, Mater Verbi, verba mea despicere;
sed audi propitia et exaudi.”
Then, with sudden resolve, he strides back around the bed to where his mobile sits on Lewis’s bedside cabinet, and selects a number he probably should have called when he’d first found Lewis almost passed out on his sofa.
“Hello, Dr Hobson... Yes, I’m well aware that it’s barely five in the morning... Could you come over to Inspector Lewis’s flat? ...Yes, it’s important. Thank you.”
Call ended, he returns to the bedroom to collect his clothes, and dresses quickly in the living-room. Once Hobson gets here, she can take over, and he can go home and hope (and pray) that Lewis doesn’t remember any of this - or if he does, that he assumes it was Hobson all along.
And he’ll have to find a way to block from his memory the best kiss he’s ever had - and the fact that it wasn’t even intended for him. Because if he can’t, then working with Lewis from now on is going to be impossible.
___________________________________________
tbc
James’s prayer:
Before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful.
O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions,
but in thy mercy hear and answer me.
from The Memorare, traditional Catholic prayer to the Virgin Mary.