Work Text:
"The tea is cold, but the boy is colder," Alfie remarks, his voice a gravelly rumble that vibrates through the heavy oak door of the nursery before he even steps inside.
Camden Town is drowning in a grey, weeping mist that clings to the lungs. Inside the house, the air is thick with the smell of eucalyptus, scorched milk, and the metallic tang of a fever that refuses to break. Tommy is standing by the hearth, his frame shaking with a rhythmic, violent intensity that he attempts to mask by gripping the edge of the mantelpiece. He is thirty-six, but in this dim light, with his skin the color of wet parchment and his eyes sunken into bruised hollows, he looks ancient.
Tommy is currently navigating the chaos of a four-year-old Charlie screaming over a broken toy and eleven-year-old Erasmus attempting to read a Latin primer amidst the noise. Tommy’s chest rattles—a wet, heavy sound that suggests fluid pooling in the depths of his lungs. Every breath is a labored negotiation with his own body. Alfie watches him. He sees the way Tommy’s knuckles are white, the way the man is practically leaning his entire weight against the masonry just to remain upright. There's a raw, sick heat radiating off Tommy, a shimmering aura of delirium that makes the room feel claustrophobic.
"Sit," Alfie commands, the word a sharp blade cutting through the children's din.
Tommy tries to protest, but the sound that leaves his throat is a wet, hacking cough that doubles him over. He gasps, the sound visceral and ragged, as if his very connective tissue—the fibers that bind his muscle to bone and hold his collapsing dignity together—is fraying under the strain of the illness.
He sags, his forehead hitting the cool stone of the mantel with a dull thud. Alfie moves in, his presence a heavy, grounding force. He doesn't offer soft words; he offers a firm hand on the back of Tommy’s neck, feeling the searing temperature of the skin. He steers Tommy toward the bed with a strength that brooks no argument.
"You are a stubborn fool," Alfie mutters, though his touch is unexpectedly steady as he begins to peel the damp linen shirt from Tommy's shuddering shoulders.
The room smells of sickness and desperation, but as Alfie pushes the boys out and locks the door, the heat between the two men shifts from feverish to something far more primal and demanding.