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“Call him right now.”
“I’m sure he’s fine, Jer.”
“He’s never late, not for a date.” Jerry finished his latest cigarette only to light another and fixed the other man with a stare that allowed no room for argument.
“Call. Him.”
Dean sighed and picked up the hotel room phone.
“Hey operator...”
He went through the song and dance before hanging up.
“He didn’t answer.”
“He's dead, he fucking died, Dean.”
“Maybe he’s on his way,” but Dean was looking more worried by the minute.
“Yeah, and got hit by a fucking truck.”
Dean winced at the idea.
“Look we’ll head over ourselves.”
-
They arrived at Frank’s hotel and the desk manager informed them in a chipper, professional voice that he hadn't seen Mr. Sinatra leave. It would be accurate to say that they speed-walked to their destination. When they arrived at Frank’s door they knocked but there was no answer; this did wonders for Jerry’s already frazzled state and Dean’s slightly worried one.
They convinced a maid to unlock the door for the low, low price of an autograph, but when they got in there was no sign of him. Before Jerry could roll into the final stage of panic they heard a groan from the adjoining room.
“Who the hell is it?”
“Frank is that you!” Jerry ran in and before Dean could stop him he jumped upon a very pale, disheveled, Frank Sinatra.
“Frank, Frankie?” Jerry held Frank’s sweaty face in his hands, “We thought you were dead!”
“Anyone ever tell you you're fuckin' loud?”
“Constantly. What gives, Frank, why didn’t you tell us you were sick?”
He knew the answer to his own question. Frank was half-dressed as if he had been interrupted or passed out in the middle of the act.
“Well, this will not do,” Jerry started undressing him.
Frank gave a lecherous smirk.
“Oh already, that's what I'm talkin' about.”
“I’m getting you comfortable, you horndog.”
“And I’d be comfortable if you sat on m-”
“Found his nightshirt,” Dean announced, “I'll call a doctor.”
Jerry grabbed it and forced it upon his head. Once he got it on Frank put his arms around him.
“You’re so soft kid,” he giggled. “Come lay with me.”
Jerry put a hand to his forehead.
“You're running a fever, Frank, you're dying.”
“Then you must be an angel.”
“Silly boy,” Jerry tutted as he laid him back and went to grab a cold cloth. Frank finally succumbed to fatigue and let him go.
-
Frank came to while being prodded by the doctor. He wanted the guy to go away so that he could sleep. After he answered the questions about symptoms, the doctor gave advice and medicine before taking his leave.
“Hey, Blue Eyes - time for your medicine,” Jerry said in a sing-song voice.
Frank jumped at the shrill voice and slurred.
“Put it on the table, doll.”
“Oh no, I’m gonna make sure this actually goes down. Sit up, *doll.*” Jerry climbed into the bed and pressed the spoon to his lips.
Frank grimaced like a child.
“C’mon, Frank don’t gimme a hard time.” his face took on an evil leer, “would you take it if I put it in my mouth and gave it to you mouth to mouth?”
“If I take it will you promise to never do that?”
Jerry grinned.
“Promise.”
-
They let him rest some more before waking him again. Dean this time; with a tray.
“Feedin' time, paesano.”
Frank's stomach growled.
“I made ya some soup - well, the hotel kitchen made it, but I gave them my ma’s recipe. I’m pretty sure it’s medicine.”
Frank struggled to get up. Dean placed his tray on the table and helped him up despite protests. After fluffing a pillow to place behind his head, Dean put the tray in his lap. Frank took his first spoonful and moaned almost indecently.
“This is so good, gimme a kiss, you greaseball.”
Dean chuckled as he filled up Frank’s water and pushed the other man away.
“Frank you're contagious.”
Frank put his bowl down and sang, his voice slurred with exhaustion.
*“Don't deny me-”*
“Shaddup.”
“I have blankets and pillows,” Jerry shrieked as he entered the room and threw the pile on him. “Swaddle up, Francis.”
Dean picked up the tray in time before the avalanche of linen buried Frank. Within moments he resembled a slightly perturbed weevil with Dean and Jerry on either side of him and Nat King Cole Record playing in the background.
“I'm hot,” he whined.
They unwrapped him from his blankets only to hear the whine again.
“Now I'm cold.”
“Let's just stick with a sheet,” Dean said.
“Can I have my soup back?”
-
Frank woke up irritated. The two wouldn’t leave him alone. They coddled him and kept him cooped up. Not even a stiff drink or a lapdance.
The room was dark and it seemed late. He could see Dean and Jerry outlined by the moonlight through the window.
“Will he really be ok?” came Jerry's hushed voice.
“Everyone gets sick, baby, he’ll be fine.”
“But he’s so little.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that," a deep chuckle, "but really he’ll be fine.”
“He was gonna go out like that, imagine if he’d made it.”
“Pretty sure a passed out Sinatra on the sidewalk wouldn't have gone unnoticed.”
“I just worry sometimes, Bubbe. Me and you, we have each other. Who does Frank have?"
“I thought he had us.”
“Not all the time though.”
“That's how he is, Jer, the best we can do is take care of him when we can.”
“I guess you're right. I hate that we can’t cuddle like we always do.”
"Can’t risk catchin' the Sinatra bug, but he'll be better soon and I promise we’ll make a fort out of the blankets you sweet-talked outta that maid."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
-
“Frank woke up with the 'there, not there' feeling that arises after being sick, but he wasn’t burning up anymore. He looked over to see the troublesome two configured on a couch in a way only they would figure out. They’d stripped down to their undershirts.
“You two make a cute puzzle.” he croaked.
They didn’t wake.
“I said you two make a cute puzzle," he said a little louder.
Jerry woke up mid snore and fell off the couch in the dramatic way that was his fashion.
"Frank, you’re awake," his eyes lit immediately with worry. "Whatcha need, water, more soup, blankets?"
"Maybe some quiet...and a little bit of you."
Jerry turned to Dean for reassurance.
"Can I?"
"I think a hug won't hurt."
Jerry paused just in time to climb into the bed like a sensible person and lie gently upon Frank wrapping around him tight.
"You scared us, you know that Frankie?"
His voice was muffled by Frank's nightshirt.
"I’m sorry kid, I don't try to, I hope you know that. Thanks for putting up with me."
"We'll always be here."
"I believe it, now," Frank let go and settled amongst the pillows, arms behind his head, "how 'bout a lap dance?"