Work Text:
Juno wakes easily. He always has. When he was a kid, sharing a cramped office-turned-bedroom with Ben, bumps in the night were something real and dangerous to watch out for. It’s been decades, and he still hasn't been able to shake the jolt of alertness that rushes through him at any odd creak of the radiator, any gust of sim-wind brushing against a window.
There’s no wind on the Carte Blanche. One thing that took some time to get used to when he first boarded the ship was the unnatural quiet – he's been sleeping through the night for the first time in years. So when he wakes one morning at the crack of dawn, it takes him a minute to figure out why he’s awake.
There’s muffled cursing from the adjoining bathroom, melodic syllables in a language he doesn't understand. Juno's always liked the sound of Brahmese. But why Nureyev is speaking it at – he glances at the bedside clock – six in the morning is a question he can't fathom the answer to.
Juno rolls out of bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and raps two knuckles softly on the bathroom door. No response. He pushes it open with a quiet creak.
Inside, Nureyev leans heavily on the bathroom counter with his bandaged left hand, shaving cream on his face and bags not yet covered by concealer under his eyes. In his other hand he holds a razor up to his face, and even from the other side of the room Juno can see that his hand is shaking. The razor's arc has left uneven, jagged marks through the foam; there's a tiny spot of blood on his cheek.
He hasn't noticed Juno, and so Juno waits until he drops the razor on the counter with a defeated sigh before wrapping his arms around Nureyev's middle, pressing up against the warm plane of his back. Too warm, now that he thinks about it. He’s hot and clammy to the touch.
Nureyev startles – he's easy to surprise, sometimes laughably so, when he's lost in thought, which is often – but he quickly relaxes into Juno's touch. "Hey," Juno says. "What's going on?”
Nureyev twists around in Juno’s hold. He looks exhausted. “I’m sorry, love. Did I wake you?”
“Nah,” Juno says, even though he definitely did. Nureyev’s always out of bed long before him, and Juno always stirs when the sudden rush of cold air hits his back, but he’s been feigning sleep through it for long enough that giving up the game now would probably just make Nureyev feel bad. “You okay? Feels like you might have a fever.”
Then Juno’s sleep-scrambled brain catches up with his body, and he remembers why Nureyev’s having trouble shaving – the deep, jagged cut across his palm that he got on their last job, the thick bandages immobilizing his dominant hand until it heals – and suddenly he’s wide awake as he realizes what that fever might mean.
“Oh shit,” he says, pushing away from Nureyev and grabbing at Nureyev's wrapped-up hand. “Shit, hon, let me take a look at that. You think it’s infected? We should probably get Vespa–”
“There’s no need to wake anyone else,” Nureyev cuts him off, and damn , if that sure, steady voice doesn’t make some deep innate part of Juno feel like everything is going to be alright. “I’m fine. It’s not an infection. I’ve been sick since before the job; it’s not anything to worry about.”
“Since before the–” Two days, at least, probably more. And Juno never realized. The job’s aftermath had kept them all busy, but still. “And you just didn’t tell anyone?”
“Why would I?” Nureyev responds, confused. “It’s not anything to worry about.”
He leans down and plants a kiss on Juno’s forehead. “I’m not dying, love. Can still do my work just fine,” he says with an undercurrent of a laugh. “I’m just not used to shaving with this hand, is all. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
Juno's first instinct is to argue: to snap back that being sick isn't nothing, or you didn't think that would cause problems on the job?, to put it in a way that, while harsh, might get through to Nureyev, or maybe even why won't you let anyone help you? But instead he takes a deep breath and says, gesturing to the razor: "Well, do you want some help?"
Nureyev looks annoyed, for a moment – then his face goes blank, and his features shift into an expression that seems genuinely grateful. "I'd like that."
Juno sits him on the toilet lid and runs a washcloth under hot water. He dabs it gently where the razor had nicked his cheek, pressing it up against the pale skin there until the thin rivulet of blood is gone. Nureyev's eyes shut, and he leans into the touch. He slumps further as Juno takes the razor gently to his face, neat and orderly lines covering up the evidence of Nureyev's haphazard strokes, cradling Nureyev’s chin with one steady hand.
Once the shaving cream is gone, Juno takes the now-cold washcloth and runs it over his face. At the change in temperature, Nureyev finally looks at him, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed.
"Why don't you go back to bed for a little while?" Juno suggests. "Better yet – why don't you take the day off? We don't have anything pressing. You could use it."
Nureyev smiles. "What for? The work will still be there whether I do it today or tomorrow."
"I mean, you look like shit. No offense."
"None taken," he says. "I feel it, too, in all honesty. But that won't affect the amount of work I can get done today. And the earlier I start, the better."
Juno imagines Nureyev alone, in a dingy spaceport or hotel room somewhere, working through the night with a bad cold – with something worse – because that's all he's ever known how to do. Because no one's around to tell him to take a breath, to take care of himself. A protectiveness that surprises him runs through him at the thought – he wants to keep Nureyev safe from the world. But he can’t, so he’ll keep him safe for today. Maybe that's good enough.
Juno helps Nureyev to his feet, reaching out to hold him steady by the elbow when Nureyev stumbles on his way up, pretending he didn't notice him falter. "Okay, let me rephrase," Juno says. "We're going back to bed for a little while. I'll bring you breakfast, and you're taking the day off."
He expects Nureyev to fight back, and he expects their conversation to end with Nureyev working through the day anyway, with Juno rationalizing that at least he'd tried. But Nureyev just sighs. "Okay."
Juno worries as he leads Nureyev back to bed through the mess of clothes and knickknacks that's become their floor, as he tucks Nureyev close to his side, throwing a protective arm over him and the covers over them both.
"Juno?" Nureyev says.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t feel very well.”
Well. If he’s doing badly enough to cut through all his carefully crafted layers of pride, that’s… really not a good sign. Juno moves his hand to the back of Nureyev’s neck, rubbing slow, soothing circles. “I know. I’m sorry. Do you want me to get you anything? Some water, some medicine?”
“No,” Nureyev says – or at least Juno thinks he says, muffled against Juno’s chest. “Just want to go back to sleep, I think.”
“Okay,” Juno says. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”