Work Text:
Shortly after he had plunged The Pequod off across The Atlantic Ocean, Bildad found himself plunged into the mind-numbing land of bed rest and bitter syrups and warm soup. Certainly, a far cry from the spry constitution required from a ship’s captain, but in such an occupation, one should be thankful to reach the point in life where they are confined to the shore.
Peleg was gentle and encouraging throughout the whole ordeal, of course. He did so in such a way that made recovery seem like a task worth congratulating. They had long ago reached the point where their relationship could best be described as ‘common law husbands,’ although exactly how close it was to the love one would expect from a man and wife was up for debate.
The trouble began late one morning in early spring - far too late for someone to still be in bed. Bildad awoke with a gentle rub on the back, though it had a slight tense firmness to it. Usually an early riser, as the conditions on the sea had demanded from his body for so many years, he was shocked to see the clock in the opposite corner of his room say, ‘eleven O’clock,’ and immediately pulled himself upright.
“Good morning,” said Peleg in a sort of professional manner, for even amongst people so close to each other, politeness was a great virtue to them both.
It was then when Bildad realized that he felt rather shaky, and his throat was rather sore, and every minute or so it would tickle and force him to cough roughly. He hacked and grumbled something that could not be understood even by himself.
“I thought you’d wake up feeling poorly.” Peleg gave him a smile that Bildad had long ago become used to. He often found it pleasant, but it was rather annoying when he was in such states as this.
Peleg made it clear he understood that and lifted himself from his chair. “I’ll get to making you some breakfast then.”
He left, leaving Bildad to stare at the ceiling for an amount of time that would have surely been unreasonable if he had been well. He then glanced at his bedside table, which held the book he had been reading the evening before. Come to think of it, there had been a general sense of malaise that night. Perhaps a few throat clears and coughs too. Yes, that must have been what tipped Peleg off. It was rather impressive that he had noticed before even Bildad did. Even so, why did bodies always insist on being so finicky?
Peleg returned soon enough, baring tea, bread with honey, and a sort of cough syrup in a plain brown bottle. He trusted Peleg enough to understand that whatever it was, it was harmless - which was certainly more than could be said for many of those blasted patent medicines around New England. Although there was a real possibility it would do nothing at all.
He half sat up against the pillows and took some of the tea as Peleg sat the tray on the bedside table. “Where did you get the medicine?” Asked he. It couldn’t hurt to be sure where it had been.
Peleg shrugged. “I cannot say for certain - it’s been in the cabinet for so long, but I am fairly sure it is from the apothecary down the road.”
Satisfied, Bildad took a spoonful of it and began nibbling on the bread. It was hard work to eat it, his throat being so sore. Peleg sensed this, and said he would instead bring a light porridge for his luncheon. Bildad nodded in agreement and pulled the book he had been reading from the bedside table. He was developing a sense that he was far too used to doing the caretaking, despite the stingy persona he put on at work, and frankly, he did not want to accept being the one in need of help. To just leave him alone, let him read, and pretend he was perfectly alright was all he wanted Peleg to do at the moment.
He managed to fall asleep, and when he awoke, Peleg had a hand on his forehead. “Your fever has increased,” said he. “I’ve sent for your sister.”
“Why?” Though Bildad didn’t intend it, his words came out sounding quite rude. “Surely I am not that sick”
“Aye, that is true, but you mentioned a few times this week that you had been planning on seeing her this week, and I did not want her to think you were leaving her to stew.”
He groaned, hoping it didn’t sound too peeved. ‘Oh Peleg,’ thought he, ‘you are truly too thoughtful for your own good.’ Really, the man was always inconveniencing himself for such little reasons as this.
Just then, like clockwork, there was a rap upon the door. Peleg went to answer it, and as expected, Charity’s voice followed.
“I have brought some things for our patient,” she said cheerfully. No doubt, the only reason she had not immediately come with Peleg was so she could properly prepare herself for nursing.
She entered the bedroom of their little house in no time, baring with her a basket covered in a red gingham rag - like an elderly woman from those new-fangled fairy tales that are fearful of such things as child devouring witches and wolf vivisecting woodsmen.
“Sit up, brother, let me take a look at you.”
He did as he was told, entering a state of acceptance that he would be intently coddled for the foreseeable future. Charity placed several pillows behind him as he pulled himself upright. She plied him into opening his mouth, which caused her to tut when she saw how red it was, and took a quick listen to his lungs using a stethoscope that she just happened to have somehow. Out from the basket, then, came a thermometer, and then a bottle full of medicine - no doubt, freshly made, and a mason jar of thin vegetable soup.
“Peleg already felt my forehead, Charity,” Bildad told her bluntly.
“And I shall check your temperature again, properly this time.” She did so, although there was no change, and handed him a mug of the tonic. “For your throat.”
He sipped it, with no indication on his face regarding the bitter taste.
Charity nodded approvingly and picked up the soup. “I’ll see to heating this,” said she.
Bildad laid back down. Vegetable soup for lunch rather than porridge. He thought it was a welcome change, as he imagined that he would be sick of porridge by the time this whole ordeal was over.
He then overheard Charity and Peleg chatting from the kitchen. “He prefers to be the mother hen,” Charity was telling him, “Turning it around makes him uncomfortable. Really, I cannot blame him. I am exactly the same.”
Aye, he couldn’t deny that, and while he was touched, he really did hate this coddling. He groaned. As much as he would like it, telling off such kind people who were so dear to him would be a terrible thing indeed.