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Handsome Jack and illness were two things that simply did not go together. They were two things that people never associated, and it wasn't like Jack wasn't human, it was just that the image of one of the most powerful men in the galaxy victimized by a measly common cold wasn't one that anyone would conceive regularly.
And it was a concept that never would have crossed Rhys's mind, had it not trudged into the office one morning, sniffing and moaning nasally.
Jack didn't greet Rhys--though it wasn't like he ever made a habit of doing so--and sat down behind his desk with a pained sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before opening five or so tabs that he had saved in his internet history the day prior. Every so often, Jack would break out in a fit of coughing and wheezing, gasping for air at the tail end of the episode and pulling a handful of tissues out of the box on his desk (which was printed with little lavender horses, to Rhys's amusement).
Rhys knew that any suggestion to go home early would not be taken kindly, so he stayed quiet, replying to e-mails from business partners and jotting down reminders to himself while Jack blew his nose loudly and continued to cough violently.
Vasquez came in at around two, not bothering to knock, which normally would warrant a tirade from Jack. But the CEO seemed too drained from whatever sickness he had contracted to offer anything more than a glare, which went unnoticed by Vasquez.
"So, ah...just thought I'd let you know that Jakobs is more than willing to collaborate on a potential weapons line, so long as the profits are split equally," he said, ending his announcement with a smug smile. Jack wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and stared, unimpressed, in Vasquez's direction. "Now, I know that sounds like a real underwhelming kinda deal. But I think we can negotiate this thing so that Hyperion winds up making at least ten percent more than we thought..."
Jack was clearly no longer listening, instead rubbing his temples with both hands, breathing heavily. Vasquez kept going on about outdoing Jakobs, only to be cut off by Jack standing abruptly to grab the trash can a few feet away and forcing his face into it, emptying the contents of his stomach into the can with a groan.
"We'll discuss this another time," Jack hissed, raising his head ever-so-slightly from the trash can to narrow his eyes at Vasquez. "If this half-assed deal ends up going through at all."
He shoved the wastebasket at Vasquez, who stared back at him, horrified.
"Take this down to the fuckin' janitors or something," he muttered. "And I see you looking at my secretary right now. He's not gonna do it."
Gingerly, Vasquez took the can and walked out of the office, seemingly a bit greener than when he has come in.
"Could I make a suggestion?" Rhys asked as Jack leaned against his desk.
"Hnn?"
"Maybe take the rest of the day off?"
Jack swallowed thickly before laughing hoarsely.
"Are you kidding me? The Hero of Pandora doesn't take--" He let out a string of loud, wet coughs. "--sick days, kiddo."
"You could at least go to the doctor."
"Who trusts doctors, honestly. Tell me the last time you've gone go a doctor, Rhys. Go on."
Rhys sighed.
"Besides," Jack continued. "I look worse than I feel."
"You just hurled in front of Vasquez."
"Probably ate or drank something bad. Happens all the time, to everyone really."
"You're also, like, talking over your throat."
"The hell does that mean?"
"It means you're all nasally and your voice is hoarse because your throat hurts," Rhys growled. "And you can't talk normally because it hurts so badly. It happens a lot when you get sick, trust me, I know."
"You know about talking while there are things halfway down your throat, that's for sure Rhysie."
"Now you're just avoiding the real issue!" Rhys snapped. "Seriously Jack, you look and feel like shit, you need to go home before you wind up getting every Hyperion employee sick too."
Jack looked irritably out the window behind his desk. Rhys wasn't sure whether he was considering actually leaving, or just fuming over being told he looked like shit. Honestly, he hoped it might be both.
"Whatever," he grunted, throwing his hands in the air. "I'm going, happy? Have fun running Hyperion for the day. Without me. Making all those big decisions with absolutely NO HELP from Handsome Jack. You know, the CEO of Hyperion, who runs the fucking company and has literally the strongest immune system on Pandora and Helios and really doesn't feel that awf--"
Jack sneezed hard, sending him off balance. He pulled out another dozen tissues and wiped his nose, mumbling as he made his way out the door.
"Feel better," Rhys said nonchalantly. He could feel Jack glare at his back as he stooped to gather some papers that had fallen to the floor.
The second time Jack wound up sick, Rhys found himself silently thanking whatever god (or all-powerful alien entity) that could have possibly convinced Handsome Jack to call in sick.
His thanks were short-lived. Not a minute into his lunch break, Rhys's ECHOcomm chimed with an incoming call. He looked at the caller ID and then glanced wearily at Vaughn and Yvette. Vaughn offered him a sympathetic smile, but Yvette only told him:
"It's what you get for making Jack like you so much."
"He doesn't really like me as much as you seem to think..."
"Whatever. Answer the call or he'll probably like you even less."
Rhys sighed and stepped away from the table.
"Jack, sir, is everything alr--"
"Rhyyyyyysiiiiiieee..." The voice on the other end was practically unrecognizable, still retaining the harsh timbre that Rhys was used to, but seriously dumbed down by clogged sinuses and raw throat. "Everything hurts, Rhys. How did this fucking happen to me..."
Rhys waited until the bout of sneezing and coughing and half-sobbing on Jack's end ceased to answer.
"There's...not a lot I can do about that from here, Jack. I'm sorry you feel so awful, maybe take some cold medicine?"
"Don't have any," Jack sniffed. Rhys paused in disbelief.
"You...don't have a single bottle of cold medicine? No Motrin or anything? What about like...pills even?"
"Nuh-uh. Never get sick, don't need it." Jack cleared his throat noisily directly next to the ECHOcomm's speaker. Rhys winced and glared pensively out the big window to his right.
"...I could bring you some."
"Nnh?" Now Rhys could tell that Jack was clearly playing coy. “You wouldn’t be able to bring me some food too, would you?”
Rhys wanted to simply say he couldn’t, that he was too busy, and to hang up. He also wanted to keep his job, and quickly reminded himself that the swifter Handsome Jack’s recovery was, the less time he would spend trying to keep Hyperion in check (a more difficult task than Rhys had thought it to be; he suspected Jack had been terribly lax in actually supervising most of the goings-on in the company anyway).
“Sure,” he sighed. He could practically hear the grin on Handsome Jack's face.
The third time, Rhys was prepared, to an extent. He arrived at Jack’s penthouse at nine with an armful of plastic bags and a cup of coffee in his free hand.
When no answer came after knocking several times and pressing his elbow into the doorbell, Rhys opted to try calling.
“What? Someone better be dying if you’re callin’ this early,” Jack groaned. “And if they are, send me a video.”
“No one’s dying unless you count yourself,” Rhys replied irritably. “You sound terrible. Like, worse than the last few times you’ve been sick.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah...ugh, god. Do you think you could do me a favor, sugar?”
“Honestly? It’s probably already done.” Jack made a quizzical noise on the other end. “You didn’t give me a key or anything from the last time I came over, though, so you’re gonna have to get up to open the door. Sorry.”
Jack grumbled something and hung up. Rhys shifted his weight from foot to foot in the minute it took for Jack to open the door. He couldn’t help but smile, half out of amusement, half out of sympathy, at the CEO’s disgruntled expression and bedraggled appearance. Jack glanced down at the bags in Rhys’s hands.
“What’re those?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I, uh...maybe you should sit down. I’ll put some of it away, just relax.”
Jack furrowed his brow, but otherwise did not protest. Rhys followed him inside and watched him flop down on the large gray couch, burying his face in the crook of his elbow.
“So, I got you some cold medicine, since I figured you threw away most of what I got you a couple months back. Am I right?”
Jack made a tired noise of affirmation and laughed hoarsely. Rhys shook his head and placed the bags on the kitchen counter.
“There’s some ibuprofen in here too, for the aches and stuff you were complaining about for the past few days. And seriously, if something starts hurting, take a painkiller. I’m, like, ninety percent sure you’ve got mono and the aches are a real bitch.” He pushed the medicine to the side, along with a few boxes of tissues. “Umm...okay. So I got you some Chinese food too. Fried rice, that was what you liked, right? And I got that really spicy chicken, too. Clear your sinuses, you know?”
Jack looked at him over the arm of the couch, eyelids heavy. Rhys grinned nervously.
“And--you don’t have a peanut allergy, do you?--I bought peanut butter cups, just because...I don’t know. It just felt right. I’m gonna put this orange juice in the fridge, okay? If anything, drink that, it’s easy on your throat.”
Rhys gingerly stepped into the living room and looked down at Jack, who sat up and brushed several loose strands of hair off his face.
“...Thanks,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward slightly. “I’ll...I’ll take those peanut butter cups, I guess.”
Rhys smiled and retrieved the orange package from the kitchen counter.
“So, do you feel any better?” he asked as Jack tugged at the wrapper. He received a shrug in return.
“A little, maybe. As much as I hate to admit it, you’re helping.” He looked back up at Rhys. “Quit blushing, sit down kiddo.”
“I was gonna go back to work, now that you’re...settled.”
“Well, maybe I’m not settled.” Jack leaned back, half a peanut butter cup between his teeth. “Maybe I need you to stay and take care of me.’
“I doubt it,” Rhys snorted. Jack frowned, chewing slowly. “Goodbye, Jack. Hope you feel better.”
Jack hauled himself to his feet, pushing up the sleeves of his old Hyperion sweater as he walked towards the kitchen. He came to a stop just beside Rhys, leaning in slightly.
“Thanks again, I guess,” he sighed against Rhys’s temple.
“I...it was no problem.” Rhys licked his lips as Jack chuckled and inclined his head. He pressed his lips lightly to Rhys’s cheekbone, a sly smile forming on his face as he felt Rhys flush against him.
“Get back to work, pumpkin.”
Three days later, Handsome Jack was back at work, hardly a trace of hoarseness left in his voice. Rhys, however, was not.
He had tried to stay at work for as long as he could, and had (thankfully) not vomited on or in front of any coworkers, but between the headaches, coughing fits, and sore throat, Handsome Jack’s personal assistant found it nearly impossible to stay on task.
Rhys sneezed, knocking his head back against the wall. He whimpered and took another sip of orange juice, gagging. He hated orange juice. The ECHOcomm on the coffee table chimed softly, and Rhys answered it with a groan.
“Hello, ‘s Rhys.”
“Yeah, I know, cupcake. I know my own PA’s number.”
“Jack?” Rhys rubbed his eyes. “What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter with you? You deaf or something?”
“What…?”
“I’ve been standing out here for, like...a good ten minutes. I look like a fucking idiot who got stood up at a bar.”
“Where are you?”
“Open the damn door.”
Rhys hung up and pulled himself to his feet. Jack couldn’t be serious; Rhys had worked for him for long enough and as much as he loved to fantasize that maybe, by some miraculous twist of fate Jack would show some form of compassion--
“You just gonna stand there, or what?”
“I…” Rhys glanced from the shopping bags to Jack’s exasperated expression before nodding slightly and allowing him inside. “Did you…”
“I don’t want a word of this leaving your apartment, understand?”
“Yeah, I mean, it’s not like I tell anyone about the times you’ve--”
“Oh yeah? Maybe you ought to then. I don’t do half bad when I’ve got you over my desk.”
“I hope that’s not what you’ve come by for,” Rhys croaked.
“God, no. You look like crap, you know that?” Rhys nodded begrudgingly. “Anyway, I got you, uh...those chocolate bars with the salt and the caramel. Enough for a week, probably. And sushi. Though I don’t know what you like so I just went with the...fuck, it had some fancy name I don’t remember. ‘S got eel in it, I think.”
He tossed Rhys one of the candy bars before pulling open a different bag.
“Let’s see...got you a ton of meds. Not really sure what some of ‘em do but they’re all for those general symptoms: coughing, congested nose, fucked-up throat...kind of like when you snort too many things at once.”
Jack cackled at his own joke.
“Here, liquid-gel-tablet-things. For your head or your chest or whatever hurts. I think that’s about it.” He placed his hands on his hips. “You can decide where everything goes later, I guess.”
Rhys took the chocolate and sat back down, smiling. Jack sat down beside him.
“Shouldn’t you be going?” Rhys asked.
“Nah,” Jack said. “I’ll stay with you. Even though you refused to stay with me. So I guess you owe me next time.”
Rhys was too tired to argue, or to shove Jack away when he put an arm around his shoulders. He sniffed and leaned against the older man’s chest.
“Jack, sir?”
“What? And enough with the sir.”
“Thank you.”
Jack snorted.
“Can’t have you dying of plague on me, Rhys. I’d never get a fucking thing done.”