Chapter Text
The first day Chuck called in sick, Howard was almost relieved. God knows he'd been working too much, holed up in his office for some Court of Appeals case. Chuck's every day presence was a certainty—he wasn't just a symbol, a name without a face, he was always physically there, meaning Howard could count on finding Chuck in his office when he arrived, finding him in his office when he left. He’d always poke his head in to say goodbye when he was done for the day—just another of their little rituals. At best, dusk was beginning to tint the sky orange by then; at worst, darkness already clung to the empty streets. But Howard was never the last lawyer in the building. If he didn’t see Chuck in a different shirt every day he’d suspect his friend was sleeping at the office. Some would call any of that unhealthy, then again you don’t get Lawyer of the Year three times without putting in the work.
Chuck was so taken lately he refused to leave his desk unless strictly necessary. Lunch, for example, was not necessary, despite Howard's repeated attempts to get him a proper meal at a proper restaurant.
One day, Howard strong-armed his way into Chuck's office with (healthy) takeout for both of them, sitting himself down uninvited so they’d eat together. Throughout though, he had a feeling Chuck wanted him out of there as soon as possible.
The second and third sick days were also not cause for concern—when Howard tried calling to check up on him the line was permanently busy, but he took it as a sign he was resting. Good. No one was sure what was going on with him, but that was his business. Contrary to popular belief, Charles McGill was not just a mind, but a human body, and system failures are pretty common with those.
"Mr. McGill also requested some case files," Julie says on the fourth day, reading codes and numbers off a post-it note. "I know it’s against the rules, but I could get them ready for Jimmy if—"
"Let me see that." Howard stretches his hand out to take the note and gives it a quick glance, sticking it to his desk. "Thank you, Julie. I'll take care of it myself." How long was Chuck planning to stay away from the office?
He parks in the usual spot by the mailbox. The house seems deserted—blinds down, grass unkempt, a couple bags of trash right next to the front door. Howard smoothes his suit down and quickly beeps the car shut, jogging up the driveway.
The doorbell is no use. He presses once, twice—silence, that’s all. So he knocks. Howard Hamlin isn’t in the habit of pounding doors, but he does now, calling Chuck’s name. It takes a while. But at last, the door opens.
"Howard. What are you doing here?"
"Chuck," Howard exhales, relieved. "Is everything alright? How are you feeling?"
"Fine, I’m fine."
"You requested some case files." He states, using the kind of tone that needs to hide curiosity, worry, a tiny bit of suspicion and what is it you’re not telling me, Chuck? all at once.
"I know we don't usually—"
Howard raises his hand to stop him, nodding briefly towards his car. "They're in the trunk." His mind is elsewhere though, craning his neck to peer inside the house, trying not to be too obvious. And failing.
"Thank you. Uh, come on in." Chuck says, stepping aside. "Don’t worry, I’m not… contagious."
Howard takes in his surroundings as he steps through the kitchen. The house hangs in darkness, barely lit by the thin streaks of light seeping through the blinds. "Is Rebecca here?"
"Rebecca? Oh, no no, she's in Moscow, I think. Could be St. Petersburg."
"Do you think you'll be coming in tomorrow?" Howard asks, finally breaching the subject.
Chuck's expression is absent, though—he doesn’t seem to have heard him. His eyes are staring vacantly at Howard’s clasped hands.
"Chuck?" Howard tries again, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?" He steps closer and lays his palm flat on Chuck’s forehead, finding cool skin. No fever. But it shakes his friend back to the present.
"I don't know, I—" He’s a little disoriented. "It hurts."
"What hurts?"
"Everything, it all…" He sucks in a breath. "Hurts."
Howard walks him to the couch, a hand on his arm and the other on his back, steadying him. He sits Chuck down and kneels in front of him, covering Chuck's hand with his. The pain and exhaustion are evident in the shadows under his eyes, deepened by the gloomy environment. "What can I do?"
Chuck's breathing is growing more and more irregular, morphing into shallow breaths that don’t take in as much air as his body needs. He abruptly pulls his hand away from Howard's, bringing two fingers to his neck to check his pulse.
"Sorry, I—" Howard stammers. He doesn't get up though, too busy wondering whether such a strong reaction on Chuck’s part is entirely his fault. Taking people's hands... It's innocent, right? It doesn't betray any intentions of any kind, it—
"Your—your watch, can you…" Chuck swallows. "Can you put it outside? Please— "
"My watch?" Howard frowns, scrambling to remove it. "Sure, I..."
"In the mailbox. Phone and car keys, too. Anything with a battery," he pleads. Howard's already halfway out the door.
Chuck looks calmer when he comes back. "I'm not crazy," is the first thing he says.
"I didn’t think you were. But—" Howard replies earnestly.
"I thought it was- temporary, I thought I was- getting better."
"—but I need you to talk to me. As a friend. Please." Instinctively, he reaches for his hand again. At least he’ll have definite confirmation whether it really was the watch. Chuck lets him stay, this time.
"You wouldn’t believe me," he says, shaking his head. "I just need a few days. I'll sort this out."
"Try me?"
This is Chuck. The smartest, most logical person he’s ever known. Chuck, who could tell him the Earth was flat and he’d believe him in a heartbeat. Whatever it is, he’s not making it up.
"It’s the electricity." Chuck pauses to gauge his reaction, but Howard makes sure to keep his face neutral, careful not to betray any judgment until he’s done. "I can hear it… buzzing. And, touching anything with live current passing through it, it's—well, it's agony really."
"So you disconnected the doorbell. The phone, too?"
"Yes. Fridge is still on, a few other things too; but non essentials—light, appliances… off. They were driving me crazy."
"Even sunlight?" Howard asks, glancing at the blinds.
"I suspect I have an… aversion to electromagnetic radiation." He sighs. "On Earth, the average solar radiation level is about 1.4 kilowatts per square meter." Whatever that means, Chuck looks worried about it. So Howard’s worried too.
Chuck stands up. He’s a little shaky, but he’s able to make it to the bookshelf alone, where he moves a couple of books, enough to pull out a silver, crinkled sheet from the back. "A mylar blanket—space blanket, if you will. I didn't want you thinking I was a nut," he explains. "But it helps, it—it helps." Chuck looks down, defeated.
Howard doesn't know what to say. He can't watch his best friend hide away like this, not even sure what's wrong with him. He looks so small in the darkness, shiny blanket hanging by his side like a character in a Peanut comic.
"I believe you." Howard reassures him. "We're gonna get you the best doctors. HHM can cover all of it."
All he can think to do right now is to hug Chuck, so he does, wrapping his arms around him as gently as he can. He listens for any indication of discomfort on Chuck’s part, but so far his friend just stands there motionless. Finally, Chuck lets himself relax into the hug, lets Howard tuck his chin into his shoulder. He needs this just as much as Chuck does.
"Tighter," Chuck whispers, and Howard complies, like he can squeeze the illness out of him if he tries hard enough, rid him of the pain, the buzzing, the fear, and whatever else that goddamn electricity is doing to him.
"Thank you, that… helped. Hugs really do lower blood pressure and heart rate." Chuck says matter-of-factly, then chuckles. "I should get a squeeze machine, like Temple Grandin’s."
No need, Howard wants to say. You have me. But he doesn’t.
Instead, Howard tells him to take all the time off he needs, reminding him that the firm will take care of everything. That he will take care of everything. He quickly runs out to retrieve the files from his car, but by the time he’s back in the living room, Chuck’s curled up on the couch, space blanket over his shoulders.
"Let me help you to bed before I go," Howard says softly, sitting next to him. "Try to get a good night’s sleep."
Chuck nods. Howard walks him up the stairs, slow step after slow step after slow step, his friend’s arm thrown over his shoulder. The body leaning against him is warm and solid, and under any other circumstance, he’d relish the contact.
Tucking Chuck into bed is so easy, like he’s done it a million times before. Howard pulls the blanket up to his neck, then pushes the edges under Chuck’s body so it’s nice and snug. He rakes his hair back gently where it’s fallen on his forehead.
"Thank you," Chuck mumbles. "Uh, before you go—could you get me the High Ridge file? Should be with the ones you brought over. 1998-NMSC-050."
"No, come on. You need to rest. I’ll put someone else on Siesta Hills."
"I doubt I'll be able to sleep, anyway." He sighs.
"Do you need anything for the pain? There's still time for a pharmacy run."
"No, no. I have some Tylenol in here." Chuck says, glancing at the nightstand. "I just need a distraction, I think."
Before Howard can suggest something non-work-related to read, Chuck pushes again. "Siesta Hills cited High Ridge, saying there’s grounds for disqualification, but I don’t think it applies here. Please, Howard."
"Alright, alright. Hold on," Howard concedes, raising his palms in defeat. Downstairs, he resists the instinct to flip any light switch, choosing instead to carry the boxes outside to take a better look. Leafing through them, Howard can't help but wonder if this is Chuck's way to prove to him, or to himself, that he's still got it. That his mind—the part that makes him Chuck—isn't lost forever.
That's not why Howard is here. He's not here for the firm, or god forbid to trick him into looking at the case, and he hopes Chuck knows. He hopes he knows that his worth isn't tied to his ability to work. But Howard is an enabler by nature, and if work is what Chuck needs, or says he needs, so be it.
Walking back into the room, it dawns on him that his friend won’t be able to read on his own unless he turns the light on. It seems to hit Chuck at the same time.
"Uh—I’ll read it to you, okay? Just give me directions," Howard says, going to sit by the window. He pulls the blinds up just enough to see the pages, and takes his reading glasses out of his pocket. He doesn't stand a chance against the tiny print otherwise.
He clears his throat and wets his finger on his tongue, ready to flip to the section Chuck needs. "Ready?" he asks.
"I didn't know you wore glasses," Chuck says, smiling.
"Ah—yeah, it's a pretty recent development. I only wear contacts at work though."
"Well, they suit you." Chuck nods. "Very Clark Kent."
"Thanks." Howard smiles back, aware of the blush creeping up his neck.
"Anyway, I'm ready when you are."
So Howard reads aloud according to Chuck’s instructions, jotting notes down on a separate legal pad when needed. It reminds him of when he used to shadow Chuck right out of law school, young and a little resentful yet captivated by how the man worked. He’d watch in awe as his mentor sped through obscure case law and clever arguments, or long, drawn out defense strategies that took months or even years to pay off, pulling the rug right under the juries’ feet. Howard would never master any of those skills, not even close, but he really was getting a free masterclass every time.
They work together for hours, until all that's left to illuminate the pages is feeble moonlight. Howard doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he startles awake, a bunch of notes and loose paper falling from his lap. Chuck is snoring softly, and, to Howard's relief, doesn't even stir.