#canid writes

Harvey slips easily into what his friends often call "doctor mode", calm, comforting, immune to panic. This he is used to, this he can handle. Even if he has never heard his friend, though Jack may not call them that, sound this horrible. He knows what to do in these situations, and that is deeply reassuring. 

"Okay, I hear you. I need to know where you are, okay, Jack?" His level voice comes on autopilot as he hastily packs his bag and leaves his office, passing the front desk. "Hey, Marrie? I have a family emergency. I won't be back today. Please let everyone know I apologize for leaving like this. I'll call later to let you know when I may be back." 

Marrie smiles sweetly, "Oh, darling . Don't you worry, you and all of your PTO! We can hold down the fort without you. Please, take care of yourself, but do keep me updated!" 

Gratefulness swells warm in Harvey's chest, forever appreciative of the kindness his coworkers hold. "Thank you Marrie." He yells back, at the same time Jack manages to answer. 

"I'm outside my building," a pause, bated breath, "in the- the alley." 

Harvey's heart shatters in his chest, imagining Jack huddled in the damp alley, alone. "I'm on my way, okay? I'll be there soon. Tell me your symptoms." 

"My head is—it's pounding, and I'm so nauseous and my stomach hurts so bad Harvey. Everything hurts." Harvey could swear he heard a chocked back sob follow the last word, and he speeds up. Jack's pain is so clear, even through the phone, and it feels like Harvey's chest is collapsing on itself. 

"I'll be there soon, okay? Just breathe, Jay, and try to keep talking to me. How long have you been sick for?"

"Uhm," Jack is interrupted my a queasy burp rolling out of him, "eugh, uh, I dunno, couple days? Got bad yesterday. Really bad today." 

'Why did you go to work sick? Why didn't you call me sooner?' Harvey scolds mentally, but saying anything like that to Jack right now would just make him retreat, revert back to his normal icy self. Instead of scolding, he sticks to comfort. "Okay, thank you for telling me," he soothes," I'm only a minute out. Almost there."

Harvey is only graced with a small hum in response, and he's quickly turning into the alley. As soon as he sees Jack, prone, sitting heavily against the wall, he throws the car in park and rushes out. his hand reaches Jack's head before he is even fully knelt down, his skin hot and wet with fever sweat. 

"God, you're burning up," he mumbles more to himself than anything. "Can you look at me, Jack?" 

Jack's eyes focus on Harvey's, clouded with fever but present. 

"Hi there," Harvey's voice is soft, comforting. Not quite what he would use with his patients, but close, "How're you doing?" 

"I don' feel good. Hurts." 

Jack's whimper yanks at Harvey's heartstrings, so far removed from Jack's normally cold, put together demeanor. 

"I need you to be honest with me, okay? Do you think you need to go to the hospital or do you think I can take you to my place?" He wants to take Jack to the ER, get him taken care of quickly, efficiently, monitored by people he trusts. But he respects Jack, and if he doesn't think he needs the hospital, he won't take him unless it becomes abundantly clear he needs it. 

"Don' need the hospital. Just- just sick. 'll be okay." 

"Alright, okay. Lets get you to my car, okay? Can you walk?" Harvey is sure he can't, not alone, but he wants to give Jack all the agency he can. 

"I can walk. Just- jus' help." 

With an arm wrapped around his waist Jack manages to stand, not quite steady, but not collapsing. The few steps back to the car take longer than they should, but they make it. 

"Do you want me to lay the seat back?" Harvey tucks a stray strand of hair behind Jack's ear as he asks. Jack hums in agreement, the idea of nodding his head or opening his mouth too much to bear. Harvey pulls the lever on the side of the seat and slowly lays the back of the car seat down, careful not to jostle the other man as he does. Once Jack is as settled as he can be, Harvey hurries to the driver's seat and starts the car, turning the heat up to try to ward off Jack's shivering. The engine rumbles to life and Harvey begins the drive home in silence, save for the rolling gurgles and heavy breathes from Jack. Any bump or too-sharp stops elicit heartbreaking pained whines from the sick man, and its all Harvey can do not to pull over right then and pull Jack into his lap. 

"How're you doing over there?" 

"Tryin' not to vomit all over your upholstery," comes the grumbled reply, sounding more like the snark he's used to hearing from Jack. 

"If you need to throw up, I've got bags. I know the leathers ugly but I'd prefer not to have to get it cleaned," Harvey jokes back, wanting to keep the mood light. 

"Not yet. But I dunno if," a sick burp bubbles up and out of his throat, "'scuse me. I dunno if I'll make it to your place. Really don't- don't feel good," the last part is quieter, tinged with something resembling shame or fear. 

"It's alright if you get sick before we get there, I've got bags for a reason. You're not feeling well, you can't control it," Harvey tries not to go fully soft on him, knowing Jack's tendency to respond to kindness akin to a feral dog, but the need to comfort him is so strong its nearly overwhelming. There's no verbal response, but the quiet hum of acknowledgement is enough for now. 

They reach Harvey's house without needing the sick bags, and despite how difficult and slow-going the walk into the house is, they manage. Jack is bundled in a cozy knit blanket, a trashcan-turned-puke-bucket by his head. A shrill beep rings out, a stark hundred and two flashing on the thermometer. Fever flushed and frustrated, Jack buries further into the blanket and away from the noise. 

"Christ, Jack. Why were you working like this? How were you working like this?" 

"Didn't feel that bad when I went in. Got worse after." 

Harvey sighs, more worry than annoyance, "Well, your fever is pretty high. Can you tell me all of your symptoms?" 

Luckily, despite the fever, Jack's reply is mostly coherent, "Started with a headache, couple days ago. Wasn't bad, jus' uncomfortable. Then started feeling queasy uh… yesterday? Day before? Not sure. Then dizzy 'nd nauseous 'nd my head was pounding 'nd I felt so sick. Almost threw up all of the desk during the board meeting." 

"Okay, and why, pray tell, were you in the alley? I could've gotten you from— you know—your office?" 

"Didn't want anyone to see me." 

Dragging a hand down his face, exasperated, Harvey stands. "You need medicine and water. When was the last time you ate?" 

Jack moans at the mention of food, mumbling hoarsely, "Don't even make me think about it, I'll puke all over you."

"There's a bucket right there. If you're going to puke do it in that. I'll be right back." 

A portion of homemade chicken broth pulled from the freezer heats slowly on the stove top as Harvey patters around his kitchen for a glass of water and a bottle of fever reducers. Its exceptionally easy to slip into this role, the care so natural it feels automatic. There is a small tray laid out where he places the pills and water before slipping back to the stove. The frozen chunk of broth is melted down now, taking only a few more minutes to fully warm up. When it does, Harvey pours it into a thermos and treks back to the living room. 

Jack hasn't moved from his fetal position on the couch, cracking open bleary eyes as Harvey sets the tray down on the coffee table. Steam curls up from the warm broth and his belly churns audibly at the smell. 

"'M not eating that. Stomach hurts." 

"You don't have to eat it yet, but you are taking meds and drinking some water. We've gotta get that fever down." Harvey replies while screwing the lid onto the thermos. "Here, take these and sip on the water. Go slow." 

Jack doesn't fight it, his shaky hand grabs the pills and they're quickly swallowed with a small sip of water, but his stomach rumbles unhappily as soon as they pass his esophagus. 

"Mph," he swallows thickly, "Dunno if that's staying down." 

"Okay, breathe. Try to breathe through it. If you can't I'll give you some of my Zofran." 

"Mmph, naughty naughty," Jack giggles, "giving prescription pills to someone they're not prescribed to? Such a—" A sick, wet burp cuts him off harshly. The gag that pushes out of him is guttural but unproductive. "Fuck…" 

"Oh my god, its Zofran, not like I'm dosing you with morphine." Harvey wipes away the strings of drool dangling from the sick man's mouth. "How're you feeling?"

"Great, Harvey. Clearly I'm feeling fucking- fucking fantastic," Jack snaps, voice heavy with pain.

"Hey, I know you're not feeling well, but don't be a dick. Are you feeling worse than earlier?" 

Jack drags a hand down his face, exhausted. "'Bout the same. Really nauseous. Can I take you up on that Zofran now?" 

Harvey pats his shoulder and stands. "Yeah. Try to relax, I'll be right back." 

Jack sinks back into the couch as the other man walks away, shivering as he curls up under the blankets again. He's cold and he aches and he just wants to sleep, but the nausea and pain churning in his belly is pressing and distracting. It's too easy to focus on, and to hard to focus on anything else. He feels sick, truly and thoroughly ill, and he just cannot get comfortable. 

"Do you want to take this with water or soup?" 

Jack's form jolts on the couch, his head whipping to the source of the voice. Harvey cocks a brow and holds out the pills. 

"Water. Already said 'm not eating that right now. Maybe after the meds kick in." 

The water is still chilly and slick with condensation, nearly slipping from his unsteady grasp. Jack would have ended up soaked in the cold water had Harvey not grabbed the class from him. 

"Careful there," its soft, murmured, "Let me help." 

Its hard to be embarrassed when his friend is talking to him so kindly, one warm hand on the back of his head, the other helping him sip the water. Despite that, a pinprick of cold shame works its way into his throat, choking him up. Sure, he should thank Harvey—should thank him a thousand times over—for everything he does, but its impossible through the embarrassment clogging his throat. All he can do is hope a nod conveys even a modicum of his gratefulness. 

"Give that a bit to work, shouldn't take more than thirty minutes to start feeling it, then we'll try the soup. Sound reasonable?" 

Jack nods again, exhausted. The ache nestled deep in his bones and the pounding in his head are ever present. His surroundings are swimming dangerously. All in all, he does not feel well in the slightest. And God, his stomach hurts. Whining gurgles echo out as the water and medication settle heavy in his stomach, the churning kicking back into full drive. 

"Uhm, thirty minutes?" His hand clutches his swirling belly. "I dunno if I can—urp—if I can keep it down that long." 

Its clear to Harvey now that Jack is feeling significantly worse than he's been letting on. The paleness of his face, the audible churning of his belly, just from water and medication? Anxiety settles firmly in his gut. 

"Try, alright? We've really gotta get you hydrated." His hand settles on Jack's jaw almost instinctively, its easy and automatic. His— Jack looks so ill and its tugging at his heartstrings in a way he is completely unfamiliar with. It… hurts something deep and carnal within him to watch Jack hurt like this. "You're really not looking well, love."