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Finishing up at the hot plate, Emmett gathered his various accoutrements onto the tray and headed back to the couch. There he paused, and sighed to himself, at the sight of a tuft of hair poking out from beneath the blankets.
He set the tray down on the floor by the couch and prodded at the lump. “Marty? How are you feeling?”
There was a prolonged silence from beneath the blankets.
“M’I gonna die?” came the response.
Emmett chuckled. “No, you aren’t going to die,” he said. “Honestly.”
“You don’t know that.” By the sound of it Marty was speaking directly into the couch cushions. “Sure feels that way.”
“Well, how on earth would you know what dying feels like? You’ve never done it,” Emmett reminded him. “You have a cold. You’ll be fine in a day or two.” He tugged at the hem of the blanket, exposing Marty’s scowling face. “Out you come.”
“Mmmno.” Marty pulled the blankets back up, this time fully over his head, and burrowed away down the couch.
“I brought soup and acetaminophen,” said Emmett.
Muffled by the blankets, Marty said, “I don’t want any.”
“Really?” Emmett gave Marty’s shoulder a squeeze through the blankets. “Not even the soup?”
He heard Marty breathe out. “What kinda soup?” he said, a little slurred.
“Chicken noodle.”
There was a long pause before, at last, Marty’s face poked out from beneath the blankets. “I guess I could eat the soup.”
“Medicine first.” Emmett perched on the edge of the couch cushions, squishing up against Marty, and shook two capsules out onto his palm. “Alright, now, this stuff is bad for you if you’re not careful with it, so do exactly as I say.”
“I know how medicine works, Doc.” Marty rubbed at his nose. “I want the soup first.”
“That’s not the appropriate order of things.” Emmett pressed the first capsule into Marty’s hands. One at a time probably best, he reasoned. “Now, put this in your mouth, but don’t chew it or swallow it, okay?”
Marty gave the capsule a dirty look that it fully didn’t deserve and did none of the above.
“C’mon,” said Emmett. “I’m not gonna have to wrap it in turkey ham like when you had worms, am I?”
That did it. Now that he’d dedicated himself in full to human life, Marty generally didn’t take well to being reminded of the various indignities and foibles of his previous existence. Still scowling, but with an air of determination, he put the Tylenol in his mouth.
“Alright, now.” Emmett offered him the water glass. “Take a big sip and swallow it all down.”
“M’throat hurts,” said Marty around the capsule.
“I know,” said Emmett. “That’s what the medicine is for. It’ll make you feel better – trust me.”
Accepting the water, Marty swallowed – and sputtered. “Ow,” he said, choking. “Ugh.”
“Takes a little practice.” Emmett took his shoulder. “Helps if you sit up straight. C’mon.”
He got Marty sitting mostly upright and got the second Tylenol down him without too much more choking. Marty wiped his mouth on the corner of the blanket, and sulked. “I didn’t like that.”
“Well, I don’t imagine anyone likes it,” said Emmett. He selected the thermometer from the tray. “Open up, now. And –”
“Don’t bite it. I know, Doc,” said Marty with a palpable eye roll. “I’m not stupid. Do I have to do it again?”
“I need to monitor your fever,” said Emmett absently, checking that the thermometer was at room temperature.
“It tastes weird,” Marty complained.
“Yes, that’s because it’s clean.” Emmett proffered it again. “Open up. Don’t be a baby.”
“I’m fourteen months old,” Marty reminded him.
“Yes, well –”
“That’s baby aged.”
“If you want to define yourself in the strict chronological sense, then yes, technically, you are an infant,” said Emmett. “However given that I presume you don’t want me to withdraw you from high school and put you into kindergarten, I suggest you act your physiological age and open your mouth.”
Marty scowled, but obliged him.
“Under your tongue, now,” said Emmett cheerfully.
“I know,” Marty said around it. He sat there, sulkily holding the thermometer in his mouth, his eyes lingering on the cooling mug of soup.
“I’ll make you some hot chocolate afterwards,” Emmett said, trying to sound encouraging. It earned him a beseeching look. Marty enjoyed hot chocolate – enjoyed it even more, Emmett thought, for his recent discovery that dogs weren’t permitted chocolate.
Long enough, he judged, and slipped the thermometer out of Marty’s mouth. “Oof,” he hissed. “You’re burning up, kid.”
“I could’ve told you that.” Marty slumped back against the couch with a groan of discomfort. “I hate feeling like this.”
“Just a couple of days.” Emmett pressed the mug of chicken soup into his hands. “You’ll see.”
Shakily, Marty began to drink the soup, his gaze drifting back to the television.
“This is to be expected, really,” Emmett went on. “Your first time in an environment with so many other people – so many new germs – it was very likely that you’d get sick.”
“You could’ve warned me,” said Marty, which was a fair point, though in actuality Emmett simply hadn’t thought of it. He sniffed, and gulped more soup. “I feel like shit,” he said. “I wish I was in school.”
“I think you might be the first kid in history to say that,” Emmett joked. “Think of it as a chance to be lazy. You like naps, don’t you?” Marty shot him a look. “Oh, don’t be like that.”
Marty looked down at his soup, and took another sip with apparent difficulty. His initial enthusiasm behind him, he seemed to be flagging. His grip on the mug was faltering.
“Had enough?” Emmett guessed.
“Yeah,” said Marty, about as miserably as Emmett had ever heard him say anything.
“Oh, dear.” Emmett took the mug from him. “You really aren’t feeling yourself, huh?”
“My stomach feels weird.” Marty sank back against the couch.
“I’ll re-heat your soup for you later.” Patting his knee Emmett made a move for the kitchenette. He was halfway to his feet when Marty said,
“Will you sit with me?”
“Of course.” Putting the soup aside he sat back down. “Want some company/”
“Yeah.” Marty sniffed. “Can I?”
He didn’t finish his thought. “Can you what?”
Shifting on the couch, Marty scooted in closer – and a little closer. Then seeming to give up on Emmett getting the hint, he flopped down against his side.
“Ohh – I see how it is,” said Emmett. He sat back on the couch and let Marty make himself comfortable with his head in his lap. “That feel better?”
“A little,” said Marty, and sniffed again. He clutched at the blanket and snuggled in still closer.
Slowly, Emmett began to run a hand up and down Marty’s spine, the way he used to like being touched when he was younger, and Marty let out a sigh. It’d been a while since the kid had sought out this kind of physical contact from him – Emmett had been beginning to wonder if he’d grown out of it, or if it was simply that over time he’d developed a sense of adolescent embarrassment at the idea of seeming childish, or, worse still, doggish.
“It’s a curious thing, isn’t it?” he said. “Most of us probably experience our first fever when we’re too young to really remember it – this is a pretty unique experience you’re having.”
The idea actually seemed to perk Marty up a little. “Yeah?”
Emmett rubbed his back more firmly. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “You’re handling it like a champ, kid.”
“If you say so.” Marty shifted against his lap. “You’re sure I’m not gonna die?”
“Not on my watch you aren’t.” Emmett stroked his hair. “You’ll be back at school Monday. I guarantee it.”
Marty’s fingers scrunched tighter in the blanket. “Promise?”
“Promise,” said Emmett.