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Whoever decided Detroit should be so fucking cold in the winter, Gavin wanted to punch right in the dick. He hated the cold season, because with it came flu season. Despite other health complications and the fact that he was ill quite often as a child (due to the abuse weakening his immune system), he was seldom sick as he grew older and escaped the wrath of his father's malice. Cold and flu season was usually survived with a few sniffles and sinus pressure, but nothing too bad. The flu was gripping the nation pretty badly this year, and he hoped, hoped, he would get through unscathed. Not so much. It started out innocent enough, sinus pressure, a cough, a headache that just pulsed up behind his eyes, aggravated by the light of his terminal. And it was making him irritable, enough for some people who were still new to his softer more lively demeanor to start doubting how genuine he was being. He heard some murmurs that it was all an act for pity, that he was just sick of being the asshole of the department. And it stung. He went home that night alone, refusing Connor’s offer to spend the night over so he could curl up in his bed and cry in shameful solitude. He’s bitter and frustrated he can’t reign in his emotions, he’s hurt that people would start to murmur about lies and manipulation. And the next day was on a whole new level of worse.
“Hey uh, detective?”
Gavin could barely peel open his eyes, swollen and red, vision blurred but well enough to make out Chris standing before his desk, coffee in hand. His expression was hesitant, and Gavin's was sour, lips pressed in a thin line.
“I got this for you. Looked like you could use it.”
“I didn’t fucking ask for it. So beat it, would ya?”
Gavin kicked himself mentally, but Chris had already turned on his heel, shaking his head before the man could apologize. Fuck, he was being a right ass. But it was too hot, too stifling. Everything was too much. There was so much pressure in his head, he was sweating underneath his hoodie, and he couldn’t help the barking coughs every few minutes. Most people would say their general symptoms of illness were the worst part of being sick, but for Gavin, it was everything else that went with it. The memories of being mistreated, a father who forced him to ‘sweat out’ the fever with hours of jumping jacks, never receiving proper medical treatment or medication, and what his bladder did in reaction to his weakened state. He could never really figure out why his body rebelled in such a way, but he swore to fucking Christ that when he was sick, his bladder urgently expelled every drop of water he had in his body as fast as it possibly could. He drank more water than usual to stay hydrated, and his body worked over time to get rid of all of it. It was a nuisance and an inconvenience, and he was too fucking tired to haul his ass out of his chair to move at the moment despite how very heavy his bladder felt in his belly.
But what could Gavin do? Wait indefinitely? He groaned, wriggling in his chair for a moment before pressing his poor, sore penis against it with the flat of his palm. Didn’t he go half a fucking hour ago? How could he possibly need to piss again? Ignoring the need was making him shiver, the hot flashes intensifying with his discomfort. The aches deep down in his bones kept him weighed down, and it was almost tempting to just pull a waste basket under his desk and relieve himself in it. That was a terrible idea. He’d never actually do it, but fuck did he want to. He needed to piss so fucking bad, but he just couldn't move.
“Gavin!”
Oh great. Hank and Connor. He’s been avoiding them all morning. He’s snapped at practically everyone else in the department since he got here, and the last thing he wanted was the seed of doubt to plant in their heads, too. He couldn’t lose them. He just couldn’t fucking lose them. He knows what’ll happen if he lost all of the progress he’s made. Sure, he’s a fucking emotional mess now that he’s letting these walls down that he’s put up for years, but he’s finally working through shit that maybe he should have worked through years ago. If he lost his new-found father (he was still getting used to that) and his lover, he would fall to pieces. He would become cold, hollow, shell out. He just couldn’t be abandoned again. He tried to give a signal of ‘leave me the fuck alone’ without words by ignoring them, but Hank got up in Gavin’s face, expression concerned yet holding a hint of anger. He had to hold back a flinch, huffing out a breath as the burning in his cock intensified.
“We get it kid, your sick. Half the department’s sick. You don’t gotta be a fucking prick to everybody!”
“Hank…go…away, now.”
Gavin spoke through gritted teeth, trying to keep himself in check, but he can feel his anger morphing into a beast with sharp claws and teeth, ready to sunder and tear apart even those closest to him. That and the pain and discomfort was mounting as his body reminded him of his need with insisting sharp throbs to his abdomen, his cock becoming burdened and aching with a release he was refusing. He clenched his fist tightly on top of his thigh, so close to his crotch, but he refused to hold himself. He bit back a cough, knowing he was just a cough or two away from starting to wet. His body was tense as a tight wire, a fine tremble coursing through him from head to toe.
Connor was the one who stepped into his field of vision next, and those sad eyes were almost enough to break Gavin down on the spot. But being sick was something he wasn’t allowed to be. So all he could manage to be is angry. Being sick made him weak, made him inferior, made him disposable. Didn't they see he just had to weather through this until his body recovered? There was nothing else for it. Knuckle down and worth through the fever. But he wouldn't be able to stand his full bladder for much longer. He needed to make his escape, find the energy to get up.
“Gavin, you have a core body temperature of 102.3 degrees Fahrenheit. You are alarmingly ill and need to seek medical attention. Please, we can—”
“Can what Connor? Kiss it and make it better? Why don’t you two just fuck off like everyone else, huh?”
And there it was. Gavin could feel his distress rising as he suppressed another cough, and now on top of it, tears, hot and frustrated and angry, started burning in his swollen eyes. He could tell how much his words were wounding, but it was a misunderstanding on his part. They weren’t hurt by his words, they were hurt by the implication of his words. It was something both Hank and Connor learned to do, to read between the lines. Behind that anger and venom was so much pain, and they knew the detective often never meant what he said out of anger. It was a cover up. But Gavin in his fevered state saw nothing but his fanciful nightmares of abandonment, that he was destroying the bridges he’d only started building. And the eyes of the other officers were becoming too much to stand. They were all watching, all judging, cruel and vicious like his father's friends.
Another cough, again suppressed. But this time, another reflex came with it. Something wet and gloopy felt like it caught in Gavin’s throat, and it was fucking disgusting. It made him gag, and suddenly all of that water in his stomach (how could he still have water in his stomach when it all felt like it was in his bladder) wanted out. It wanted out now. He could feel how his mouth started to water, the saliva coming on relentless, and he knew he was about to vomit before he started gagging in earnest. He suddenly jumped to his feet and bolted down the hallway for the bathroom, a hand clapped over his mouth to keep the sick down. It just wasn’t enough, it never was. As he shoved his way through the bathroom door, the detective gave a great heave, vomit spilling against his hand, seeping between his fingers. The smell, that fucking smell. He at least had the luck to be able to throw himself into a stall and onto his knees before the nausea and smell of his vomit caused the waves to roil in earnest through his stomach.
It was a violent thing, Gavin heaving loudly into the toilet, vomit coming out in terrible force from his mouth. He couldn’t help but sob out in between heaves, the pain enough to leave him so very exhausted and begging for it to stop. But then he was bracing for another wave of upchuck and fuck it sucked! And worst of all? He’d forgotten about his heavy and aching bladder. He realized a bit too late that in his rush to get to the bathroom, his urine started spilling into his jeans. He kept one hand braced on the toilet bowl, his other pressed tightly into his groin, but there was little he could do for it now. The urine spilled through the fabric between his fingers, splattering on the floor. And the humiliation was overwhelming, coupled with the feeling of intense physical discomfort and fever brought on by the flu ravaging his body. He was six again, curled up in a bath tub, crying for his father who had been gone for five days in the midst of his illness. He was crying for someone, anyone to fucking care that he felt like he must be dying. He just wanted to be loved and cared for at one of his lowest moments, or for this to just all be fucking over. He just wanted this to be over.
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The suddenness with which Gavin bolted for the bathroom alarmed Hank, and glancing down at the man’s chair just heightened his unease, seeing a dampness there that betrayed the poor man’s pretty poor attempt at hiding his bladder’s fullness and his tendency to ignore his need when in a poor mental state. He knew something was off this whole morning. Well, aside from the fact his idiot boy was sick and refused to stay home or go home when it was suggested to him. He was being downright nasty and sour, and the looks of skepticism were tearing the detective apart. The others didn’t know Gavin like Hank did. He knew anger was a way to cover up his pain, his upset, a new vile memory he had hoped was tucked away deep in the recesses of his mind but decided to rear it’s ugly head. The Lieutenant and Connor both agreed on one thing; being scolded to go away meant that no one was ever there for a sick Gavin perhaps even once in his life. He expected to suffer through this alone, and the reason why? Fuck, he wasn’t sure he was ready for all of that. Knowing would only bring hurt and anger into his heart.
“I’m going to go check up on him, ok? Make an appointment with the doc for this knucklehead.”
“Of course, Hank. Right away!”
Hank made his way cautiously to the bathroom, steeling himself for what he may find. He wasn’t expecting anything good, honestly, especially seeing the patters of urine on the floor headed to the bathroom, and the splash of sick on the floor right at the outside of the door. And already he could hear the hysterical wailing, a crying that was not characteristic of Gavin the detective, but Gavin the six year old who had never known love once in his life. It made the anger well up ever larger. It meant that the poor boy suffered trauma immense enough when ill to land him in this state of mind. Who kicked a damn kid while they were down? Well, that was about the dumbest fucking question. His father didn't seem above such cruelty.
“Gavin, I’m coming in!”
Hank stepped into the bathroom, and the smell that assaulted him was awful. Hell, he almost gagged from that alone. It took only a moment to find the only occupied stall with the door wide open, and the sheer sight make his stomach drop. Poor Gavin, hugging the bowl to cool the fever, shivering from being wet, front covered in vomit. And the crying. He was crying at the top of his lungs, begging and begging for it all to be over. And the strangest thing was the defensive position he was in, as if to protect himself from some sort of assault. What the hell had this monster done to him to warrant this reaction?
“Hey, hey kid. Ssshhh…hey, look, daddy’s here.”
Gavin’s head shot up, swollen, wet eyes staring up at Hank. Jesus the kid looks like hell. He really shouldn’t have come into work, at all.
“D-D…daddy? Daddy I don’t feel gooood…”
“I know, kid. I can tell…”
Hank stepped into the stall despite everything telling him not to (the everything being the smell assaulting his nose), and knelt down so he could wrap an arm around the shaking man before him. It was obvious the detective wanted to protest, say something about getting dirty, but the old man wasn’t having it. It was just a little piss and vomit. He’s been covered in both many times in his life. It was usually his own, but what did that matter?
“How about we get you home, huh? You could probably use some—”
Wrong thing to say. Home. Hank could feel his mistake the second he made it. The wailing picked back up, Gavin gripping at his father tightly as the sobs became more uncontrollable again. Because home to him was that empty house, devoid of any source of love or kindness.
“No! D-Dad will hurt me! H-He’s says being sick means I’m w-weak! He…h-he’ll—I have to sweat it out! Get it out! But I d-don’t want toooo! It hurts! Please don't ta-ake me there, daddy!”
Gavin shrieked loudly, huddling closer to Hank if that were even possible, showing his displeasure at the thought of even moving in the state he was in. Sweat the fever out? Who the fuck even believed in that nonsense anymore? It didn’t even work, it never did. That was like the saying no pain no gain. It was so fucking misleading! He was starting to get a clearer picture. His father physically abused him when he was ill, maybe not by hitting him, but by forcing the boy into physical activity in a weakened state. And if he didn’t, he imagined it was because the man wasn't even there, which was no better. He could imagine the poor child sitting alone in the house, crying, sick, not receiving the care he needed, not fucking once. It was a wonder he never contracted a life threatening illness and died. A miracle really. But never, ever again. Not on his fucking life.
“Kiddo, I meant to my house, your home with me, not with your father. I would never take you there. We need to get you taken care of. My home is your home, if you want it.”
“Taken care of...h-how?”
The crying died down a little bit, and he almost seemed a little hopeful.
“I’ll show ya what it means to be taken care of when you’re sick. Alright, let's get you out of here.”
Hank probably shouldn’t do this, his knees and back were already starting to protest at just the thought of lifting a grown man. But he was feeling his fatherly nature kicking into high gear. He coaxed the man into a sitting position, looped an arm under his legs, and with a little bit of a struggle, hefted the man into his arms. He was way too fucking old for this shit, but hell, having a big ol’ baby of a dog kept him stronger than he thought.
“Come on then. Just, shut your eyes and hum that song I taught ya while we get to the car, hm?”
Last thing Hank wanted was for the poor kid to freak out in the middle of the precinct on top of everything else. The humming was a way to keep the boy calm in socially cluttered environments. He needed to get him to the clinic. He could feel the heat radiating off of him, sweat and urine soaking through his clothing. It was alarming and explained his behavior perfectly. This wasn’t a little cold. He was likely real deal suffering with the flu and keeping it to himself. This was definitely something that needed to be addressed. When the Lieutenant felt his son press his face against the crook of his neck, eyes presumably shut and a shaky hum rumbling from his chest, he made his way out of the bathroom. And as he had guessed, someone must have heard the commotion, and there was Fowler standing at the desks on the way out, Chris and Tina in tow. Looking, well, damn they looked a little fucking guilty, and damn it they should for that sort of bullshit talk. Kid can’t have a bad day without people assuming this whole thing had been an act. He gets that this is all new, but it doesn't help him by doubting.
“Anderso—”
“Kid’s got a high fever. Don’t know what's causing it. Feels like he sat in the sun for too long."
Hank allowed the Captain to reach over, hand recoiling at the touch of heat he felt on the poor man’s skin. Then he noted the vomit and urine, and shook his head with a heavy sigh heaving out of his lungs.
“Get him to a doctor. Let me know if you and him need any time off, ok? We don’t need our fucking officers keeling over with the flu out in the field.”
“Yeah, already on it. And uh, thanks. I’ll talk to him about all of this.”
A small whimper startled all four of them. Hank could feel Gavin starting to get uncomfortable in the social situation, covered in vomit and soaked in urine. Time to get the hell out of here. He doesn't want to cause him to start crying all over again.
“I’ll keep you updated.”
As Hank made his way out, a hand grabbed his elbow, and both Chris and Tina eyed Gavin, definitely looking every bit the guilty assholes they were being right back at him this morning.
“Hey uh, Hank, can you tell him we’re sorry for earlier? I mean…I know he heard some of what was said and, I have a feeling he’s taking it hard.”
“Tell you what. You both can tell him when he gets back. He was sick. I know he still shouldn’t have been an ass, but to doubt the progress he’s fucking made? That’s low. Real low. I know him, and he felt guilty the second he said that shit. What about you?”
With that Hank left the two officers for a good think. Let them stew on that. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to get to the clinic and Connor was willing to sit in the waiting room until they were called back while the man held onto his son, whispering encouragements to his cries of discomfort and lamenting his illness. Poor thing was not taking being sick well. But Hank vowed to do all he could to make up for all of the times he was left alone when he needed a father the most.
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When Gavin woke up he felt very unstable, teetering on that edge where his mind was fractured. Being sick did this to him. Well, being this sick did. He pressed his face deeper into his pillow, a tearless sob choking out of his throat. He just wanted the pain and discomfort to stop. Why wouldn’t it—
Suddenly Gavin’s eyes flew open, realizing now that he was even in a bed. He wasn’t in bed the last thing he remembered. Last he remembered he was at work, sitting at his desk. No he was—vomiting. That’s right. Phlegm had caught up in his throat and he started gagging, and his body decided it needed to expel the contents of his stomach. It was all a blur after that. Great. Fucking great. He knows what that means. So then who…
“Well look who’s up.”
Hank. Of course it was Hank who had found him and taken care of him. Gavin really should be embarrassed or something, but he wasn’t. Honestly, he was relieved to have someone looking out for him in the midst of a regression. He sighed out, flopping back down onto the bed heavily. The ache was still invading his body, holding it stiff and hostage. He felt very much that he didn't want to move again, and the soft bed was so inviting, lumps from the age mattress and all.
“You officially have the flu. You and I are off for the week. Connor is at least being given the day but with how short we are right now, he's needed at the precinct.”
Gavin turned his head to peer into soft brown eyes. He hadn’t realized the android was laying next to him, and to see his kind, gentle face made him smile despite the illness. But the moment of comfort was ruined by remembering. Remembering his behavior, what he’s said, those nasty rumors. It was like they both could tell. Connor pulled the man into his arms, and Hank set the tray he was carrying on the end table, sitting down beside his son.
“Hey, look, you were having an off day. People have off days, kid. Hell, you know I have days that I keep to myself because my anger and drinking are a bit…out of control. And Connor has days when he goes all machine again because he’s overwhelmed by his emotions. But guess what? That’s ok. Sometimes we just get a little out of control. Trust me, no one’s mad. We just want you to feel better. Me, Connor, and…”
Gavin cocked his head to the side, then his eyes widened when they landed on something in Hank’s hands, something he never wanted he or Connor to see, and something he knew was inevitable that they would see. Rufus, his stuffed puppy, the one and only thing gifted to him by someone who had loved him as a child, someone who was taken out of his life when he needed her most. It was his guilty need, his security blanket, the one thing he almost would never be caught dead without. Hell, he had a pocket sewn into the inside of his hoodie so he'd never be without it. Hank could see how this could sour in a heartbeat, so without any malice in his eyes, he offered the stuffed puppy to Gavin, who took it in a snatch to hold close to his chest, letting out a loud cough as he curled up on himself.
“Found that in your uh, jacket. He was pretty rough so I washed him up for you. And don’t worry, we’ll keep him our little secret. What you need to keep yourself calm and comfortable, we’re not judging. I promise, Gavin. I promise.”
“I know it’s not the same but…”
Connor held out his wrist, and on it were two rubber looking bracelets with bite marks. Gavin recognized them as typically given to children who stim with an oral fixation, as an alternative to nail biting. And he was quite surprised. He’d never noticed them before. The little puppy keychain wired onto one of them was a personal touch. The android fiddled with them with a fond smile on his face for a moment before looking at him once more.
“Hank says I have an oral fixation, which is correct. I find myself putting things in my mouth a little…too much when I’m stressed. And the dog just makes me…smile…it’s not necessary, but sometimes we need to indulge in the little things that make us feel safe. Right, dad?”
Hank snorted and nodded, and Gavin, he’s never felt more loved in his life. Here he was, sick as hell, and he could tell from the prescription medication on the tray that he was at some point during his regression taken to a doctor, something that was never done once when he was sick as a child. There was soup, his favorite herbal tea he drank to help him sleep (Connor’s idea, and a fucking good one, too), and he had his lover and his father beside him, making sure he was ok. He couldn’t help the tears that came with his smile, and he hastily tried to wipe them away with a little laugh.
“You guys need to stop making me fucking cry all the time. People are gonna think I’ve gone soft.”
“Well welcome to the club. Guess we ain’t the resident assholes of the department anymore. Reputation ruined. Sorry, kid.”
But that really wasn’t so bad. When he finally returned to work the next week with nothing but a lingering sniffle, Chris and Tina were the first to apologize, offering to take him out to lunch on them. Growing for Gavin usually meant suffering to bring about a breakthrough, but it was all worth it to finally feel that weight come off of his shoulders.