Chapter Text
Chas gets back from the drugstore to find John attempting to scramble out of bed and wincing at every inch of progress he makes. He sighs, drops the paper bag he’s carrying on the desk by the door, and walks over to him.
“You goin’ somewhere, John?”
"Fuck off," says John, voice creaking; his lips are dry enough to crack and he drags his tongue over them. “We’ve a show tonight, I can’t—"
"Yeah, you’re damn right you can’t, not like—"
“‘m not—”
"Show’s cancelled, John, so you can—"
"You can’t bloody do—”
"I can bloody do that, when you—”
"You’re not out bloody manager, Chandler, it’s none of your bloody business whether—"
"You’ve got a fever. You’re dehydrated as hell, you fucking passed out, I had to carry you—"
"Oh, my hero,” John sneers. “Such a—” and whatever he’s about to say is swallowed by a violent coughing fit.
True to form, he manages to glare at Chas throughout, even as his body shakes and his lungs wheeze from the strain. And John’s 100% a pain in the ass, but he looks so utterly miserable, paler than usual, obviously exhausted, that Chas takes pity on him. Walks up to the bed, reaches over to pat his back. John convulses under his palm but the coughing stops, eventually, and Chas pats his back one last time before stepping away to retrieve the bottle of off-brand cough syrup.
"Drink that," he says, holding it out to him, then notices the way John is looking at the bottle and thinks better of it. "Here, let me…" he cracks open the seal and pours the stuff into the little cup it comes with it. John watches him balefully the entire time, but drinks the recommended dose without a fuss. "Get back in bed."
John opens his mouth, probably to say something fresh, but seems to change his mind about it, and obeys.
Chas takes the bottle and cup away to do what he can about cleaning it in the bathroom with hotel soap, and when he returns, John is curled up under the comforter. He’s on his side, and his eyes shut, but he’s too tense to actually be asleep. Chas presses a hand to his forehead anyway; still hot, unsurprisingly, and John doesn’t even take the opportunity to lean into his touch, just lies still and takes a shallow, pained breath.
Chas sighs, walks around to the other side of the bed, and sits down. John has nothing to say about this, either, and it’s so unnerving that Chas reaches out again: John’s cheek is as warm as the rest of him, but it twitches at the contact and John grumbles something vague before pulling away from him.
It’s enough of a sign of life for Chas to relax, at least, and he leans back, settling against the headboard and wishing he’d brought a magazine; watching John sleep isn’t exactly going to be a thrill a minute.
*
He wakes up with John sprawled on top of him and snoring lightly into his shoulder, neither of which is much of a surprise.
John’s breathing is calmer, and his forehead, which is pressed to Chas’s neck, feels cooler than it had last night, but he’s so still, so quiet, where John’s always restless and running mostly on spite. It’s strange, but John’s in need of the rest, even if it comes at the cost of illness, and Chas doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to risk waking him, but thinks that maybe he should, anyway. John’s gonna need another dose of cough syrup, something to drink, something to eat.
He thinks about it for a while, but doesn’t move, at least until John starts coughing again, less brutal than before but enough to wake himself up. Chas rubs his back, trying to soothe him, and when the coughing stops, Chas leaves his hand where it is and feels John nuzzle weakly against his throat.
"Gonna get you sick, aren’t I," rasps John, his dry lips scratching at Chas’s skin.
"Maybe," Chas says, feeling a tightness in his chest that he’s more than willing to chalk up to impending illness.
“Good,” John says, rolling over and back to his side of the bed. “‘d serve you right.”
Chas sighs. Yeah. Yeah, it kinda would.