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If pressed, Terry could probably think of a lot of things to put on a list of faults he had. A lack of outward emotion that most people found unsettling, possible addiction to coffee, difficulty forming lasting relationships. Honestly the list could go on for a while if he let it.
"Unfailingly compassionate," however, was not something that came to mind.
Largely because that wasn’t a way he usually would have described himself, but also it wasn’t something that he would’ve considered a fault.
That was, of course, until Roger had shown up at his door - apparently Abby had asked him to pass something along - looking pallid and clammy and generally awful. Being a generally decent person, Terry had insisted that Roger come in and sit down so he could make sure he wasn’t about to die. This had lead to having Roger lying on his couch for three hours, intermittently insisting that he should leave either because he couldn’t be ill because he never got sick, or because he was almost definitely going to die and he didn’t want to kick it in Terry’s living room.
The fact that he was equally as earnest about both was almost impressive.
After Roger’s latest insistence that he couldn’t possibly be ill and attempt to get up because he had work in the morning, Terry pushed him back against the couch with a startling lack of resistance and brandished a thermometer he’d found in his bathroom cabinet.
"Fuck off," was Roger’s opinion on the matter.
Terry rolled his eyes and waved the thermometer about a bit for emphasis, “this happening one of two ways, and the other option would be a lot more unpleasant for both of us."
After giving it a full moment’s contemplation, Roger opened his mouth obediently for the insertion of the aforementioned thermometer, and he sat patiently with it in his mouth for the requisite amount of time, looking amazingly sullen about it for the whole time it was in his mouth despite the fact that Terry had left the room. Terry returned soon enough to put Roger out of his misery by taking the thermometer, paying no attention to the look on Roger’s face as he sat on the arm of the couch and offered him a glass of orange juice.
"That hasn’t been up anyone’s ass, has it?" He asked as he sat up to take the glass.
Terry considered the question for what he felt was a sufficiently long enough moment to be just a little unsettling and answered, “it hasn’t been up mine," evenly, ignoring Roger’s growing look of horror as he checked the temperature and frowned, “you can’t go to work tomorrow."
This time Roger elected to express his disapproval by smacking the thermometer out of Terry’s hand.
"Look, you’re burning up and you look like you’re dying—"
"If you’re trying to come on to me, Ter, you need to work on your lines." Roger quipped, and Terry had to restrain the urge to smack the orange juice out of his hands to shut him up. He’d like to think it was because common sense told him he’d have to clean up the mess afterwards, but the reality was that Roger coughed - a real chesty one - and Terry felt too bad to be that mean to him.
"Shut up." He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on at the mere prospect of having Roger around any longer. “Stay here tonight—"
"— I knew you were just trying to get on this."
“On the couch," he pulled a face, doing a valiant job of not retching. “I’m not letting you drive this late when you look like you might just pass out and die. "
Roger pursed his lips in thought and seemed to deem this satisfactory. “You’re not going to sacrifice me to Satan in the middle of the night, are you?"
"Depends on how loud you snore." Terry got up to grab something for Roger to sleep under without waiting for him to protest the idea that he ever snored and dumped it on the couch. “The price of my goodwill is not throwing up on my stuff, by the way." He added before he wandered off to bed. He had the feeling he’d need a good night’s sleep behind him to deal with Roger in the morning.