Archive of Our Own

The jet felt unnaturally quiet after a week like that.

Not silent - private planes never really were.

There was the constant low roar beneath the floor, the soft rush of conditioned air, the occasional discreet movement from the staff farther up the cabin - but after days of summit halls, motorcades, press gaggles, translation headsets, handshakes, speeches, and the endless metallic clatter of public life, the hush felt almost suspicious.

Alex had been looking forward to this flight for twelve straight hours.

No cameras. No schedule. No one asking him to smile like international diplomacy depended personally on his cheekbones. Just a dark cabin, a leather seat, and Henry next to him in a state of increasingly doomed determination.

Henry was fighting sleep.

He was losing.

Alex had been watching it happen in real time for at least twenty minutes now with the sort of helpless fondness he usually tried not to indulge too openly in public, even if "public" at the moment consisted of a handful of security staff and Shaan pretending not to notice them.

Henry had one elbow braced on the armrest,
knuckles pressed lightly against his mouth as if sheer posture could keep him upright.

His eyes kept drifting shut and reopening a second later, slower each time. He'd abandoned his jacket somewhere after takeoff, rolled his sleeves to the forearms, and loosened his collar enough to expose the hollow at the base of his throat. His hair was slightly flattened on one side from where he'd tipped his head back against the seat and apparently lost the will to care.

Ordinarily, Alex would have found the whole thing adorable.

He did find it adorable.

But there was something else, too.

"Hey," Alex said quietly.

Henry made a vague humming noise without opening his eyes.

"You with me?"

One eye cracked open. Barely. "Regrettably."

Alex smiled. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Henry stared at him with deep, ancient weariness.

"None, you menace. Your hands are in your lap."

"Good. Neurologically intact."

"Hardly that at this point.” Henry tried to stifle a yawn.

His voice was rougher than usual. Not dramatic, not enough that anyone else would necessarily clock it, but Alex had gotten very good at noticing tiny changes in Henry. The scrape in his throat. The faint sluggishness in his responses. The fact that he hadn't made a single proper attempt in the last half hour to mock Alex for staring.

That, more than anything, was suspicious.
Alex shifted a little closer in his seat. "You okay?"

"I'm so bloody tired."

"Yeah, I know, but-"

"No, love," Henry said, letting his head rest back again. "I am simply tired. We have spent the better part of six days being paraded from summit to summit like unusually decorative livestock."

Alex huffed a laugh. "That's diplomatic as hell."

"I'm too exhausted for diplomacy."

"Now that is concerning."

Henry attempted a smile, but it came out faint and lopsided before dissolving. Up close, Alex could see the shine of sweat near his hairline.

His stomach tightened a little.

At first he thought maybe it was just cabin heat. Henry did run warm anyway, sometimes, especially in suits, especially after long days.

But now that Alex was paying attention, he couldn't stop noticing things. The flush high across Henry's cheekbones. The way his shirt clung slightly at the chest. The unusual listlessness in the line of him, as if even sitting upright had become too much effort.
Alex reached over and pressed the back of his fingers lightly to Henry's forearm.

Warm.

Warmer than warm.

Henry opened both eyes this time, sluggishly. "What are you doing?"

"You feel hot."

Henry blinked at him. "Thank you."

"Not hot hot."

"Devastating. You've slaughtered my ego."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Alex leaned in and put his palm against Henry's neck.

Henry jerked back half an inch in sleepy offense.

"Alexander-"

"Oh, wow."

"What."

"You're really hot." Alex’s brows lifted practically to his hairline.

Henry stared at him, too tired to even summon the proper sarcasm at first. Then: "There was perhaps a more flattering way to phrase that."

Alex ignored him, because now he was actually concerned. Henry's skin was flushed and damp under his hand.

"You've been sweating."

"It's a plane."

"It is a climate-controlled plane."

Henry shut his eyes again, head dipping onto his chest. "Mm."

That non-answer decided it.

Alex twisted in his seat and looked toward the front of the cabin, where Shaan sat across from one of the security officers with a tablet in his lap and an expression of severe wakefulness that suggested he'd been born immune to jet lag.

Alex pitched his voice low. "Shaan."

Shaan looked up immediately.

Years in royal protection had apparently conditioned the man to respond to his name like he'd been activated by code word alone. His gaze flicked once over Alex, then Henry, sharpening almost imperceptibly.

"Yes?"

Alex glanced back at Henry, who looked like he was drifting off again through sheer force of bodily collapse. "I think he might be coming down with something."

Henry made a very faint, aggrieved sound. "I am sitting right here."

"I know, baby."

"Don't 'baby' me to the staff."

Shaan was already unbuckling and crossing the aisle with brisk, economical calm. "What's happened?"

Alex lowered his voice further as Shaan crouched slightly beside them. "He's really warm. Like, weirdly warm. And he's been out of it since we took off."

"I am not out of anything," Henry muttered, not opening his eyes. "I'm ignoring both of you in self-defense."

Shaan's expression did not change, but there was the faintest flicker at one corner of his mouth that might have been amusement under other circumstances. He set the back of two fingers against Henry's forehead, then the side of his neck with practiced ease.

Henry cracked an eye open. "There is such thing as being assaulted by attention, you know.”

This time it was Shaan who ignored him.

"Your Royal Highness," Shaan said evenly, "when did you begin feeling unwell?"

Henry looked offended by the premise. "I don't feel particularly unwell."

Alex gave him a disbelieving look. "Babe."

Henry shifted irritably in his seat, which only seemed to make him more tired. "I’m overly tired."

"Any chills?" Shaan asked.

A pause.

Henry's jaw tightened, like he knew he'd been caught by the specificity of the question. "Possibly."

Alex turned to him. "Possibly?"

Henry refused to look at either of them. "It was cold in the car."

Alex stared. "You have a fever and you thought maybe it was the car."

"I did not say I have a fever."

Shaan straightened. "One moment."

He moved toward the small cabinet built into the side console and returned with a compact digital thermometer and a bottle of water. Henry eyed both with quiet disdain.

"Absolutely not," he said.

Shaan held out the thermometer. "Open."

Henry looked to Alex as if expecting rescue and found none whatsoever.

Alex folded his arms. "Oh, no, I'm with him on this. Open."

"You are both enjoying this far too much."

"I am not enjoying anything," Alex said, which was mostly true. "I'm legit worried."

Something in Henry's face softened at that, just briefly, before he sighed the sigh of a put-upon prince forced to submit to common sense. "This is humiliating."

"It's a thermometer, not a public inquiry," Alex said.

"From where I'm sitting, the distinction is vanishing."

Still, he parted his lips enough for Shaan to slip the thermometer under his tongue. Then he sat there glaring at absolutely everyone while the cabin seemed to hold its breath around the tiny wait.
Alex tried not to hover and failed. His knee was pressed against Henry's, his shoulder angled toward him.

He couldn't stop watching Henry's face - the glassy heaviness in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows, the extra color in his cheeks. Now that he'd seen it, it seemed obvious. Henry wasn't just exhausted. He was dragging himself along on willpower and aristocratic spite.

The thermometer beeped.

Henry shot Alex a weak glare. “Say anything smug and I’ll have you exiled the moment we land.”

“All due respect your Highness, shut all the way up.”

Shaan removed it, glanced at the display, and for the first time looked genuinely concerned.

“Well.” Shaan cleared his throat.

Alex's stomach dropped. "What?"

Henry's eyes narrowed at Shaan's face. "That look seems unnecessary."

Shaan exhaled once through his nose. "You have a fever."

Henry held out a hand. "Let me see."

Shaan passed him the thermometer. Henry looked at the number, frowned as though personally betrayed by it, and said, "That can't be right."

Alex leaned in. "How bad?"

Henry turned the display away from him. "It's irrelevant."

Shaan, with the calm of a man who had almost certainly dealt with royal stubbornness in every known form, said, "It's 38.9."

Alex sat back. "Jesus."

Henry shot him a look. "Must you."

"That's not nothing, Henry."

"It is nothing to make a scene about, really!”

"Says you.”

"You are very much implying a scene."

"I was implying fever. And can you blame me?”

Before Henry could answer, Alex reached for the water bottle Shaan still held and twisted the cap off. "Drink."

Henry looked at the bottle as if Alex had offered him poison. "I had tea."

"That was like two hours ago."

"I'm still aware of linear time, thank you."

Shaan stayed where he was, arms folded loosely behind his back now, the picture of immaculate composure. "You need fluids, and when we land we should have a doctor meet us."

Henry gave an immediate, flat, "No."

Alex and Shaan both turned to him.

Henry looked back with fever-bright irritation. "I am not having some poor man dragged out in the middle of the night because I have a temperature and a regrettable boyfriend."

Alex blinked. "A regrettable boyfriend?"

Henry gestured faintly in his direction. "You alerted the authorities."

"You were burning up, babe."

"I was not."

"You are literally sweaty."

Henry looked horrified. "Stop saying sweaty."

"It's true!"

Shaan reached down and took the thermometer back before Henry could continue disputing with the laws of biology. "With respect, sir, if you're febrile after the week you've had, it would be sensible to have you checked."

"I am checked," Henry said. "By all present, apparently."

"You look terrible," Alex said.

Henry stared at him in wounded disbelief.

Alex winced. "Not terrible terrible."

"This is going wonderfully for you."

"I mean you look sick."

"Oh, much improved."

Despite himself, Shaan's mouth twitched.

Alex pushed the water bottle more firmly into Henry's hand.

“Drink first, be offended second."

Henry glared at the bottle, then at Alex, then at Shaan, who remained serenely unmoved. Finally, with all the dignity of a man forced into barbarism,

Henry took a grudging sip.

"More than that," Alex said

Henry took another sip, this one exaggerated enough to be openly spiteful.

"There. Delighted?"

"Moderately."

Henry let his head fall back against the seat again, eyes fluttering closed. The movement made him look suddenly very young, or maybe just very worn out. Alex felt his irritation dissolve as quickly as it'd come.

"Hey," he said, softer now.

Henry hummed without opening his eyes.

"How long have you felt bad?"

A small pause. "Don’t remember really. Since this afternoon, perhaps."

Alex stared. "Henry."

"What."

"You didn't think to mention that?"

Henry opened his eyes a sliver. "To whom. You were delivering three speeches and rescuing an ambassadorial dinner from an incident involving translation notes and a fisheries agreement."

Alex frowned. "I still would've wanted to know."
Henry's gaze lingered on him for a second, quiet and tired and a little apologetic under the feverish gloss.

"Yes," he said softly. "I know.”

That took some of the heat out of Alex's scolding instinct.

Shaan, practical as ever, said, "Did you eat at dinner?"

Henry made a vague motion with the hand holding the water bottle. "Some of it."

"That means no," Alex translated.

"It means some of it."

"It means you moved vegetables around and called it participation."

Henry looked too tired to argue properly, which was somehow more alarming than if he'd snapped back. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and swallowed hard, face pinching for just a moment.

Alex's posture changed instantly. "You nauseous?"

Henry made a face. "A bit."

"Okay." Alex took the bottle before Henry dropped it. "Okay, that's fine."

"I wasn't aware it required your approval."

"It doesn't. Just - don't move for a second."

Shaan glanced toward the galley. "I'll have them bring a cool cloth, and I'll call ahead."

Henry sighed like a tragic hero enduring impossible indignities. "Shaan."

"Sir."

"This feels theatrical."

"Fever is not generally improved by ignoring it," Shaan said.

Alex pointed at him. "Thank you. Back me up here, Shaan.”

Henry slanted him a baleful look. "You are enjoying having a co-conspirator."

"I'm enjoying being right."

"You always enjoy being right."

"Can you blame me? It happens a lot."

That at least earned him the ghost of a real expression from Henry - half a tired glare, half reluctant amusement. But even that faded quickly. His lashes lowered again.

His breathing had gone heavier, and now that Alex knew what he was looking at, he could see the strain in the way Henry held himself: muscles drawn tight against discomfort, against chills, against admitting he felt genuinely rotten.

Alex reached across the small space between their seats and put his hand on Henry's forearm again, more gently this time.

Henry's skin was still boiling hot.

"Damn," Alex muttered.

Henry opened one eye. "You are making me sound like an overheated engine."

"You kind of are one right now. An engine with an attitude.”

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"At present, I find you deeply trying."

Alex smiled faintly. "Yeah, okay."

A member of the flight crew approached quietly with a folded cloth over a small dish of ice water. Shaan thanked them, took it, and handed the cloth to Alex without ceremony, as if it were obvious where it belonged.

Which, to be fair, it was.

Alex unfolded it and hesitated. "Can I?"

Henry looked too tired to object for long. After a beat, he tipped his head slightly in permission.

Alex laid the cool cloth across his forehead.

Henry inhaled sharply and then let out a long breath that sounded perilously close to relief.

"Better?" Alex asked.

Henry nodded once, eyes closed.

Shaan observed this for a moment, then said, "You should try to sleep."

Henry made a tired noise that might have been agreement.

Alex looked up. "Can he take anything?"

"I've got paracetamol in the med kit," Shaan said. "Better if he has a few more sips of water first."

"I heard that," Henry murmured.

"Good," Alex said. "Drink your water."

"You've become intolerable very quickly."

"You have a fever. I get to be bossy."

"I don't think that's how that works."

"It is tonight."

Shaan inclined his head, clearly satisfied that Alex had the situation well in hand. "I'll bring the tablets in a moment."

When he stepped away, the space around them felt smaller, softer. More private. The engine hum filled in the silence.

Alex adjusted in his seat so he was turned more fully toward Henry. "Why were you trying so hard to stay awake?"

Henry's lips parted on a slow exhale. For a second Alex thought he might not answer.

Then, with his eyes still shut, Henry said, "You looked tired too."

Alex blinked.

Henry's voice was sleepy and thinned by fever, honesty made easier by exhaustion. "I thought if I went to sleep at once, you'd sit up answering emails for another hour out of misplaced virtue."

Alex stared at him for a beat, something warm and painful unfurling in his chest. "So your master plan was to make yourself sicker out of chivalry?"

A faint shrug.

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
Henry's mouth twitched weakly. "And yet moving."

"Debatable."

Alex shook his head, then leaned over and lowered his voice. "For the record, if you pass out on a plane, I am not suddenly going to start being responsible. I was probably gonna put my head on your shoulder and crash, like, five minutes from now."

That got Henry's eyes open again, slow and glassy but more present. "Were you."

"Yeah."

Henry regarded him for a moment, fever-flushed and fond in a way that made Alex's chest squeeze.

"You might still."

Alex's expression softened. "Yeah?"

Henry gave the tiniest nod. "Mm. Come here."

There was no chance Alex was refusing that.
He shifted out of his seatbelt just enough to lean across the gap between them and settle carefully against Henry's side, one arm slipping around him.

He tried to be mindful of the fact that Henry felt miserable, but Henry made a quiet sound and turned into him almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting to stop holding himself upright by sheer etiquette.

Alex rested his cheek against Henry's shoulder, then, after a second, moved just slightly until he could feel the heat of Henry's neck against his temple.

"Jesus, you really are burning up," he muttered.

Henry, with his eyes closed again, said, "You're fixating."

"I'm accurately observing."

"Your bedside manner is abysmal."

"My bedside manner is charming."

"It is intrusive and obnoxiously American."

Alex laughed softly. "Those are not mutually exclusive."

Henry's breathing deepened a little with the closeness, but there was still a slight unevenness to it that Alex didn't like. He rubbed a hand slowly up and down Henry's arm.

"You should've told me sooner."

Henry was quiet for a moment. "Should have, would have, could have…”

"Could've had you taking something hours ago."

"Probably."

"Could've bullied you into water before now."

Henry's mouth moved against Alex's hair in what might have been a smile. "There's the true tragedy."

Alex tightened his arm around him. "Shut up and be sick quietly."

"Monstrous."

"You're literally sweaty and delusional."

"I am not delusional."

"You thought this was just being tired."

Henry considered that with visible reluctance. "In hindsight, yes, that was perhaps optimistic."

"Insanely optimistic."

"Must we litigate it while I'm dying."

"You are not dying."

"Subjective."

Alex lifted his head just enough to look at him. "If you get more dramatic than this, I'm calling Bea and letting her handle you."

Henry frowned, clearly too drained to muster his normal horror properly. "Cruel."

"Effective."

Shaan returned then with two tablets and another bottle of water. Henry accepted both with the tragic endurance of a prince at the scaffold, swallowing them under Alex's watchful eye.

"There," Alex said when he was done. "Proud of you."

Henry gave him a look. "I took two tablets, not the throne."

"It's about attitude."

Shaan set the thermometer aside and looked Henry over one more time. "Try to rest now, sir."

Henry closed his eyes. "That had been the ambition before I was medically overthrown."

Shaan glanced at Alex. "Wake me if the fever seems worse, or if he starts shivering more."

Alex nodded. "Got it."

Henry cracked one eye open again. "You make me sound rabid."

"You sound annoying," Alex said, settling back against him.

"And yet beloved," Henry murmured.

Alex's mouth softened despite himself. "Yeah. Unfortunately for me."

"Tragic."

Within a few minutes the medication and the water, or maybe just finally giving up the pretense of staying alert, began to pull Henry under for real. His head tipped until it rested lightly against Alex's. The hand nearest Alex slid, then settled over his wrist where it lay across Henry's middle.

Alex stayed still.

Every now and then Henry's breathing hitched with the faint discomfort of someone sleeping feverish and wrong, and each time Alex's hand moved automatically, rubbing his arm or pressing lightly at his side until the tension eased. The cool cloth slipped askew; Alex adjusted it. Henry mumbled something unintelligible and leaned closer.

The cabin lights remained low. Outside the windows there was nothing but endless dark.

Alex listened to the engines, to Henry breathing, to the occasional murmur from the front of the plane.

He thought about the week behind them, about the impossible polished machinery of statecraft, about all the ways the world demanded performance from Henry every hour he was upright. Then he looked down at him now - flushed, sweaty, listless, curled unwillingly into Alex's side despite every instinct toward composure - and felt a surge of protectiveness so sharp it was almost ridiculous.

Sleepy and feverish, Henry shifted and mumbled against his shoulder, "Alex."

"I'm here."

A pause. Then, barely audible: "Good."

Alex pressed a kiss to his hair.

"Yeah," he whispered into the dim quiet of the cabin.

"I've got you."

And this time, with Shaan keeping watch a discreet distance away and the plane carrying them steadily through the dark toward London, Henry finally stopped fighting sleep.

By the time the car swept through the palace gates, Henry was awake only in fragments.

He'd roused just enough during landing to let Alex and Shaan shepherd him off the plane without incident, and just enough during the drive to London to insist, with feverish dignity, that he could walk under his own power. The problem was that Henry at half-conscious and Henry at stubborn were still, unfortunately, Henry.

So when the car stopped and the door opened to the cool dark beyond, he straightened like a man reporting for inspection and immediately swayed on his feet.

Alex caught his elbow before he could pretend that hadn't happened.

"Okay," Alex said. "Nope."

Henry blinked at him, pale beneath the lingering flush in his cheeks. "I am perfectly capable-"

"You nearly tipped over."

"I adjusted."

"You listed like a sinking yacht."

That earned the ghost of a glare, but it lacked force. Henry's eyes were glassy with exhaustion, hair mussed from the flight and the ride, shirt still slightly damp at the collar. There was a softness to him now that only illness ever really managed: all his careful poise loosened by fatigue and fever until he seemed younger, less defended.

Shaan came around the other side of the car, already in motion. "The doctor is waiting upstairs."

Henry shut his eyes briefly, as though just hearing that had become a burden. "Appalling."

Alex kept a hand at the small of his back as they started inside. "You can complain after you've been medically cleared to complain."

"I can complain whenever I like."

"True. That's sort of your whole brand."

Henry made a noise that might have been a laugh if he weren't busy concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

The palace at that hour felt cavernous and half asleep. Lamps glowed low in the corridor sconces; footsteps softened into the old carpets. A footman appeared and disappeared with the silent efficiency of someone who had clearly been warned ahead of time not to make a fuss. No greetings, no questions, no theatrical concern. Just the necessary doors opening in front of them, the quiet choreography of a household shifting to accommodate one unwell prince.

By the time they reached Henry's rooms, he was breathing harder from the effort than he should have been.

Alex noticed because he was noticing everything.

Henry noticed Alex noticing and muttered, "Do stop looking at me as if I've been brought home from sea with consumption."

"You look like you have consumption."

"You sound like you don’t know what the word means.”

"You absolutely would, though. Very poetically."

"How blessed I am to have you by my side," Henry said dryly.

The private doctor was already there in the sitting room beyond the bedroom, black case open on the low table, reading glasses low on his nose as he reviewed something on a tablet.

He stood when they entered - older, neat, composed, with the unflappable air of someone long accustomed to treating people who'd been overprotected since birth and under-rested just as long.

"Your Royal Highness."

Henry gave a faint incline of his head, too tired for more. "Dr. Atwood."

The doctor took one look at him and said, not unkindly, "Let's get you seated."

"I am seated often enough as it is."

Alex snorted.

Henry shot him a look but allowed himself to be guided to the sofa near the fire, sinking down with visible relief despite his objections. Alex hovered for half a second before choosing the armchair nearby, close enough to intervene, far enough not to make Henry feel crowded under observation.

Shaan remained standing off to one side, discreet as ever, like an especially judgmental pillar.

Dr. Atwood washed his hands at the small basin, dried them, and turned back. "I've had a brief summary, but tell me in your own words how you're feeling."

Henry rested his head back against the sofa cushion, eyes half-lidded. "Done in."

The doctor waited.

Henry opened one eye. "Warm, apparently."

"Feverish," Alex supplied.

Henry let his eye drift shut again. "That too."

Dr. Atwood's mouth twitched. "Any sore throat? Headache? Muscle aches?"

Henry considered, which seemed to take effort. "A little headache. Bit achey. Throat's scratchy."

Alex looked over at Shaan like see? and Shaan, infuriatingly, kept a perfectly neutral face.

"Nausea?" the doctor asked.

"Earlier, slightly," Henry said. "Not now."

"Cough?"

"Not really."

"Chills?"

At that, Henry sighed. "Yes."

"Since when?"

There was a beat too long before Henry answered.

"This afternoon."

Alex sat forward. "You said maybe this afternoon."

Henry cracked one eye at him. "I was approximating."

"You were minimizing."

"I was surviving a summit."

Dr. Atwood, to his credit, kept moving without getting caught in the crossfire. He took Henry's wrist, checking his pulse with calm efficiency, then set a thermometer beneath his tongue.

Henry accepted this with all the stoicism of a doomed monarch.

While they waited, the doctor pressed his stethoscope to Henry's chest and back, asked him to breathe in and out. Henry obeyed, though his breaths shuddered faintly at the deepest inhale. Alex, watching, felt a fresh twist of worry.

The thermometer beeped. Dr. Atwood checked it.
"And?"

Henry asked it before Alex could.

"Still elevated," the doctor said. "38.5."

Henry frowned as if his body were being insubordinate on purpose.

Dr. Atwood continued, checking his throat with a light, feeling beneath his jaw, listening again to his lungs. "Does anything feel particularly localised? Chest discomfort? Sinus pressure?"

Henry shook his head once. "No."

"Any exposure to anyone ill that you know of?"

Henry gave a tired, humorless little laugh. "I've shaken hands with roughly half the diplomatic infrastructure of Europe this week, so I should think the answer is yes."

"Fair point."

The doctor stepped back and folded his hands loosely. "At the moment this looks most consistent with a viral illness aggravated by exhaustion, dehydration, and overexertion."

Alex exhaled.

Henry frowned. "That sounds annoyingly ordinary."

"It's often the ordinary things that knock people flat when they've been running themselves ragged," Dr. Atwood said.

Alex crossed his arms. "Told you."

Henry turned his head very slightly toward him.

"You are deriving an indecent amount of satisfaction from this."

"I'm deriving satisfaction from the part where you're not secretly dying."

"How reassuringly low the bar has become."

Dr. Atwood's expression gentled as he addressed Henry again. "I don't hear anything concerning in your chest, and nothing at the moment suggests anything more sinister than a fairly nasty virus. But you've driven yourself hard enough that even a simple infection is going to hit more sharply than it otherwise would."

Henry absorbed this with a long blink. "Meaning."

"Meaning you stop being heroic for at least forty-eight hours."

Alex, unable to help himself, muttered, "Good luck."
Henry ignored him. "I have engagements."

"Not tomorrow, you don't," said Shaan from the wall.

Henry looked at him in betrayed silence. "You've been waiting to say that, haven't you."

"I've already started rearranging things."

"You are all vultures."

"We're caregivers," Alex said.

"You're opportunists."

Dr. Atwood was clearly familiar with the ecosystem of Henry's life and entirely unruffled by it. He opened his case and took out a blister pack, a small bottle, and a pulse oximeter.

"I'm going to leave antipyretics, instructions for fluids, and something for the throat if that worsens. I want you monitored overnight - temperature again in a few hours, and again in the morning. If you develop a cough, chest tightness, or the fever spikes further, I want to know at once."

He clipped the oximeter to Henry's finger.

Henry looked down at it with vague offense. "I truly do resent all these accessories."

Alex leaned back in his chair. "This from a man who owns cufflinks with family crests."

"Those are decorative. This is humiliating."

The doctor glanced at the reading and nodded, satisfied. "Oxygen is fine."

"Great," Alex said. "Love that."

Henry gave him a tired, sidelong look. "You've become very chatty under stress."

"You've become very sick under denial."

Dr. Atwood handed over the medication and looked between Shaan and Alex, calibrating the room.

"He needs fluids, something bland in his stomach if he'll tolerate it, and actual rest. No work tonight."

"No work?" Henry repeated, like this was extremist rhetoric.

"No work," said the doctor.

"No emails?" Alex added.

Dr. Atwood, deadpan: "Especially no emails."

Henry looked deeply aggrieved. "This is targeted."

"It is," Alex said. "Because we know you."

The doctor smiled faintly. "I'll check in again in the morning unless I'm called sooner."

Henry gathered enough dignity to incline his head.

"Thank you."

Once the doctor began packing his case, Alex rose automatically, ready to follow him out for the inevitable quiet sidebar. Shaan was already there first, speaking in low tones near the doorway. Dr. Atwood answered just as quietly, then glanced once toward Henry before leaving.

The room softened in his wake.

For a moment no one said anything. The fire popped quietly in the grate. Somewhere deeper in the apartment a door shut with muffled gentleness.

Henry sat sunk into the sofa, tie gone, shirt wrinkled, fever still painting his face pink in a way Alex hated now that he knew what it meant.

Shaan approached with the efficiency of fate. "Your schedule tomorrow has been cleared."

Henry looked up slowly. "You people move with frightening speed."

"Years of practice."

"I object on constitutional grounds."

"You don't have a constitution," Alex said.

Henry gave him a look. "Cruel thing to remind me of while infirm."

Shaan passed Henry a glass of water and the tablets Dr. Atwood had left out. "Take these now, then go to bed."

Henry accepted them, but his eyes flicked toward a folder left on the side table near the sofa. Even feverish, even half-asleep on his feet, there it was - the reflex. The instinct to reach for the next thing. To keep going because stopping felt more dangerous than exhaustion.

Alex saw it happen in real time.

"Don't even think about it," he said.

Henry looked innocent in a manner so transparent it would've been funny if Alex weren't already onto him. "I wasn't."

"Bullshit."

Shaan, who knew the exact weight of that glance as well as Alex did, stepped over, picked up the folder, and removed it from the room.

Henry watched him go with mournful disbelief. "This is tyranny."

"This is healthcare," Alex said.

Shaan paused at the door. "Call if you need anything."

Henry slumped another fraction into the sofa the moment he was gone. "I shall call for a more sympathetic staff."

The door clicked shut behind Shaan, leaving them alone.

Alex crossed the room and sat down beside Henry, close enough that their knees touched. Up close, Henry looked wrecked - lovely, still, but thoroughly run down. His lashes looked too dark against the fever in his face. There was a damp curl at his temple. He'd gone from brittle irritation to that boneless sort of fatigue where even holding his eyes open seemed negotiable.

"You had me worried you know," Alex said quietly.

Henry, looking down at the tablets in his palm, was quiet for a second. Then he swallowed them with a sip of water and said, just as quietly, "I'm sorry."

Alex's chest pulled tight.

He wasn't expecting that. Not from Henry when he felt bad, not in that tone - no defenses, no sarcasm, just apology worn thin by exhaustion.

Alex softened immediately. "Hey. No."

Henry set the glass down carefully on the table. "I wasn't trying to."

"I know."

"I genuinely thought I was only tired at first." He let his head rest back against the sofa cushion again, blinking up at the ceiling. "And then I thought if I ignored it long enough, it might become less inconvenient."

Alex huffed a laugh. "That is the most you problem I've ever heard."

Henry's mouth twitched weakly. "Yes, well."

Alex hesitated, then reached out and laid the back of his hand against Henry's forehead.

Still hot.

Henry glanced sideways at him. "You've become obsessed."

"I'm monitoring."

"You and Shaan are enjoying a private golden age of authoritarianism."

"You have a fever and zero rights."

Henry gave a faint, breathy laugh that dissolved into a wince. He lifted one hand and pressed it briefly to his temple.

"Headache worse?" Alex asked at once.

"A bit."

"Okay. C'mon."

Henry looked at him, eyes heavy-lidded. "Where am I coming."

"Bed."

That earned a soft, despairing exhale. "That sounds exhausting."

Alex smiled despite himself. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"I mean the process of getting there. Bed itself remains attractive."

"You are such a princess."

Henry looked scandalized. "Rude."

"Factually accurate."

Alex stood and held out a hand.

Henry stared at it for one long second, gathering the energy to object, apparently deciding he couldn't afford it, and then placed his hand in Alex's. His palm was hot and slightly damp. Alex closed his fingers around it and pulled him carefully to his feet.
Henry swayed again, subtly this time but enough that Alex stepped in close, catching him by the waist.

"Oh my God."

"I am upright," Henry said into the middle distance.

"You are barely a structure."

"And yet standing."

"Babe, if a strong opinion hit you right now, you'd fall over."

Henry leaned more of his weight onto Alex with the regal misery of someone allowing a great injustice for practical reasons. "You are intolerable when fussing."

"And you love it."

"That's never been fully explained, no."

Alex got an arm securely around him and started steering him toward the bedroom. The lamps were already dimmed low there, sheets turned down, the room cool and quiet. Henry moved without much resistance now, every ounce of his energy clearly rationed.

At the side of the bed, he paused and looked at it like it had personally offended him by being one step too far away.

Alex reached for the hem of Henry's cuff. "Can I-"

"Yes, for God's sake."

He helped him out of the rest of his shirt with as little ceremony as possible, then handed him a sleep top from the chair nearby. Henry dragged it on slowly, graceless with fatigue, and Alex pretended very hard not to notice how unsteady his hands were.

Once Henry sat on the edge of the mattress, shoulders slumped, Alex crouched to tug off his shoes.

Henry blinked down at him. "You're very domestic when alarmed."

"You say that like it's a kink you're discovering in real time."

"It may be."

Alex looked up. "Henry."

Henry's mouth lifted faintly. "Sorry. Fever."

"That better not be your excuse for everything tonight."

"It will be, actually."

Alex stood, pulled back the covers, and tipped his head toward the pillows. "In."

Henry obeyed at last, with the uncharacteristic docility of the truly exhausted. He folded into the bed and let out a slow breath the second his head hit the pillow. Some of the strain left his face almost instantly.

Alex moved around to the other side, then paused.
He should probably leave him to sleep. Let the staff bring whatever was needed. Let the room stay quiet and cool and uninterrupted.

But Henry, already half under, turned his head slightly and said, eyes still closed, "You're going, then?"

The words were light, almost casual. But Alex heard what sat underneath them.

He answered by toeing off his own shoes.

Henry opened one eye just enough to see him. "Ah."

"Yeah," Alex said, climbing in carefully over the blankets. "Ah."

He stayed on top of the duvet at first, propped on one elbow, and reached out to smooth the damp hair back from Henry's forehead. Henry leaned into the touch on pure reflex, too sleepy to hide it.

"How chivalrous," Henry murmured.

"Shut up and rest."

"Bossy."

"Sick people don't get opinions."

"Monstrous country."

Alex smiled and adjusted the covers lightly over Henry's middle. "How's your head?"

"Still attached."

"You know what I mean."

Henry breathed out through his nose. "Hurts less when you're not making me stand up."

"Noted. We will avoid marathons."

Henry's eyes had drifted shut again. "Generous."

Alex watched him for a minute in the dim light. His breathing was a little heavier than usual but even. The fever still flushed his cheeks. Every now and then he swallowed against his sore throat in his sleepiness, a small unconscious motion that made Alex ache with tenderness and helpless concern at once.

He brushed his thumb once across Henry's temple.

"You really should've said something earlier."

Henry answered so quietly Alex almost missed it. "I know."

A beat.

Then, with his eyes still closed: "Didn't want one more thing to be wrong."

That landed hard.

Alex looked at him, at the exhaustion etched into the corners of him, at the fever and the overwork and the stupid impossible life that taught Henry to treat his own body like an inconvenience to be managed later.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"There was already something wrong," Alex said softly. "You felt awful."

Henry's brow furrowed, but only faintly. "Mm."

"You don't get points for suffering through it in silence."

"No?" Henry asked, barely conscious.

"Nope."

"Seems an administrative oversight."

Alex laughed under his breath. "Go to sleep, baby."

Henry made a vague sleepy sound, then shifted - a slow, seeking movement under the covers until he was pressed a little closer to Alex's side, his fever-warm leg brushing Alex's and his shoulder settling into the space Alex made for him automatically.

"There you are," Alex murmured.

Henry, already drifting, said, "Don't be smug."

"I wasn't."

"You were."

Alex smiled and reached to switch off the last lamp.

The room fell into darkness, quiet except for Henry's breathing and the distant, muffled life of the palace beyond the doors.

A few minutes later, just when Alex thought Henry had finally gone fully under, he felt Henry's hand fumble sleepily across the sheets until it found Alex's wrist. His fingers curled there, loose but certain.

Alex stilled.

Henry didn't open his eyes. "Stay."

Alex turned his hand and laced their fingers carefully together. "Yeah. I'm here."

This time Henry didn't answer. His grip slackened by degrees as sleep took him for real, but he never let go entirely.

Alex lay awake a little longer, listening to the soft rasp of Henry's feverish breathing, already mentally preparing to bully him into tea, broth, medicine, and twelve hours of uninterrupted rest the moment morning came.

For now, though, he only stayed where he'd been asked to stay - beside him in the dark, hand in hand, while at last the palace let Henry be nothing more demanding than sick and sleeping.