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Rudyard might’ve been bored, if he hadn’t been so exhausted.
After his and Antigone’s little... clown debacle, Dr. Edgeware had told Rudyard in no uncertain terms that he’d better stay in bed until his foot was healed, unless he wanted to end up in the ICU permanently. Rudyard, of course, had pointed out how much more work that would be for him, and after sobbing for only a few minutes, the good doctor pushed him out the door with a prescription for “whatever you’ve got.”
Rudyard didn’t mention to Dr. Edgeware that he was the pharmacist as well.
So, Rudyard was back in bed, foot propped up on a pillow, as he struggled to find a way to enjoy being completely immobile.
He knew he should be milking this for all it was worth. Antigone was wracked with guilt, it was obvious. Rudyard couldn’t bring himself to take advantage of that, though; they had had a truly touching moment at the funeral. He didn’t want to ruin that, as stupid as it was. He didn’t really hold any blame for her, either. When she entered his bedroom with that sick look on her face, like she had been the one to hurt him, it made Rudyard feel worse than he already did.
Because he was bad off, after all. Whenever he sat up to eat whatever meager meal had been brought to him, his vision swam and his hearing faded into static. The simple act of eating a bowl of soup exhausted him to the point where he could barely lift his arms. He dozed, mostly, ignoring the throbbing pain that still pulsed through his leg (grown worse after his and Antigone’s little outing) and the pounding in his skull.
When the door creaked open, he just barely noticed.
“Georgie, ‘m not...” he mumbled, blearily looking to the door.
“I’m sorry sir, he just- he wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Georgie said. Her face was red, and her mouth turned down into a scowl that would have made the bravest run for cover. And behind her...
“...Chapman?” It lacked his usual bite when he said the name; instead it just sounded confused, and scared, and a little lost. Rudyard cleared his throat. “Why are you in my bedroom?”
He half thought he was delirious from fever when Chapman pushed his way into the room. “Hello, Rudyard!” Chapman beamed. Rudyard groaned and closed his eyes; his face was too bright to look directly at without risking blindness.
“I’ll get him to leave, sir-“
“No,” Rudyard said, and that’s when he knew he was delirious. “It’s alright, Georgie, just... let him talk.”
“Boss? Do I need to call the doctor?” Georgie looked at him with alarm. She shoved past Chapman and placed a hand roughly on his forehead. “Your fever’s back again.” She gave him a worried look as he shrugged, then whipped her head back around to Eric.
“Make it quick,” she spat, with more hatred than even Rudyard thought was necessary. He beamed at her with pride.
Chapman’s grin faltered, just for a moment, and the room dimmed just the tiniest bit. “Sure.” He shuffled forward awkwardly. Shifted on his feet with his hands behind his back. Cleared his throat. Rudyard was about to mutter something either extremely rude or extremely stupid when Chapman sheepishly produced a bouquet of yellow tulips from behind him. Georgie snorted from her position in the corner. Chapman rushed into a hurried explanation without looking at either of them.
“We- we had some flowers left over from Ms. Kaiser’s funeral this morning, and you haven’t really been about lately, and, you know, you’re usually so loud and annoying and disruptive it kind of got me- well, to be honest, it got me rather worried.” Chapman stopped for breath, still not looking at Rudyard. He couldn’t quite place the look on the other man’s face, but Rudyard could swear he saw a flush creeping into his cheeks. “So- so I thought I’d check on you, make sure you’re- doing alright.”
“Well, I’m most certainly not ‘doing alright,’” Rudyard said, gesturing to his bandaged foot. “My foot hurts, my head hurts, I’m sick and the room’s still spinning-“
Rudyard broke off to cough violently into his elbow. He waved a hand angrily as Chapman rushed towards him, to help, Rudyard assumed. God knows he must have been a doctor “a long time ago...”
“‘M fine,” he muttered in between coughs, hoping Chapman would get the message and shove off. Chapman, however, either didn’t notice or ignored him entirely. He patted him soothingly on the back as Rudyard coughed violently and shooed Georgie away to fetch a glass of water.
When Rudyard could finally breathe again, he was so tired he gladly leaned into Chapman’s arms as he lowered him back down into the pillows. Chapman’s hand came to rest on his forehead, and it was blessedly cool. Rudyard sighed, a soft, contented sound that he was too exhausted and too fever-ridden to be embarrassed about.
“Seems you’re getting worse,” he muttered, then removed his hand. Rudyard whined in spite of himself. Chapman chuckled. “Definitely getting worse. Rudyard?”
“Hmm?” Chapman’s face was swaying strangely in his vision.
“I’m going to get Georgie, alright?”
“No-“ muttered Rudyard sleepily. He grabbed blindly for Chapman’s hand and clutched it like a lifeline. “Stay.”
“Stay?” Chapman laughed bitterly, but Rudyard didn’t quite understand why. “You hate me. You’ve made that quite clear, I thought.”
“Don’t- don’t leave. Don’t hate you.”
“Coulda fooled me.” Chapman was still facing the door, trying to gently pry his hand from Rudyard’s iron grip to no avail. “Let go, Rudyard, you’re sick. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
And there it was, that bitterness again, underlining Chapman’s words. Rudyard, addled as his brain was, wasn’t imagining it, he was sure.
“Are you okay, Chapman?”
He laughed, then looked at Rudyard with a tight smile. “You’re the one who’s cooking in your skin right now.”
Rudyard closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see that painful smile any longer. “Sorry...” he mumbled without meaning to.
Chapman stopped trying to leave, then, which Rudyard was grateful for. He turned and squatted down so he was at eye-level with Rudyard. “Sorry for what?”
“For... for being me.” A shiver went through him that almost certainly wasn’t the fever.
“Don’t apologize for that,” Chapman said sharply. “You can apologize for your actions, yes, but- don’t do that. Don’t-“ Chapman looked into Rudyard’s eyes, then, and Rudyard was so completely transfixed that his grip on his hand slackened. “Don’t hate yourself.”
Another chill shot through Rudyard. He said it like he knew what it was like, with eyes that reflected Rudyard’s hurt right back at him. But- but he was Eric Chapman! Everybody loved him. Everybody wanted him. People would care if he was gone, if he just left and never came back… People would miss him when he was gone.
“Rudyard...”
It was at that moment, when Chapman looked at him with eyes so full of pity that it stung, that Rudyard realized he had spoken aloud. It was also at that moment that Georgie stepped back into the room with the glass of water she had gone to fetch.
“Alright, time’s up Cha-“ She froze on the spot as she saw Rudyard and Chapman tightly clasping their hands together, staring deep into each other’s eyes as if they held some sort of deep universal secret. “What. Are. You. Doing?”
Immediately Chapman’s hand was snatched away. Rudyard tried not to look too disappointed. As he hustled to the door, Chapman gave a curt nod to them both.
“Rest up, Rudyard,” he said, not looking back. “I mi- well, just, see you soon.” And he left without another word.
Georgie offered a lopsided grin. “Geez, what’s he on about?” She plopped down next to Rudyard, who was staring at the table across from the bed with his brow furrowed. “Y’alright, sir?”
Rudyard glanced at the flowers. He closed his eyes, struggling to shake off both the fever daze and the strange regret that churned in his chest. “I suppose I am...”
And as Georgie fussed over him, he drifted back off to sleep, trying and failing not to think of Eric Chapman and his bright, shining smile.