When he gets sick in Thailand, Scotty can guarantee a bevy of beautiful and entirely qualified attendants, compliments of whatever luxury hotel they're in, to take care of his every need. All day, he lounges in bedridden decadence while the kimono-clad lovelies bathe his fevered brow, change his sheets, give him his penicillin, and feed him soup with lemongrass and kaffir lime leaves that warms him from the inside out.
But, go figure, all this doesn't really get him comfortable. What does is when Kelly gets back from wherever he's been all day, handling the assignment without him, and sits beside him on the bed, cracking silly jokes and telling Scotty funny stories about the day's assignment, and how he'd better get back on his feet again soon, Herman, because he, Kelly, is like a motorcycle without a sidecar, or Batman without Robin. Scotty knows it's his duty to protest his implied subordinate role, which he also knows Kelly only puts in there to get a rise out of him, anyway, but he's too tired, usually, to put up much of a verbal sparring match. Which gets Kel all worried, whereupon he'll reach out and brush a gentle hand over Scotty's temples, softly offering cheerful reassurances that he'll be fighting fit in no time flat. And he doesn't want to think about the weirdness of a world where the touch of those rough, callused fingers soothes him better than the smooth, soft hands of the pretty angels of mercy who were just in there. Usually, Kelly ends up sacked out next to him on top of the covers, a hand still on Scotty's head. And darned if the soft snuffling of Kel's breathing doesn't send him right off to dreamland.
Sometimes, he'll wake up in the night, to Kelly curled up, cold. Tonight's no different. "Hey," he says – one of the repertoire of scintillating comments he reserves for just such a moment. "Hey." He pokes at Kelly.
"Whmgrzkh?"
"Hey."
"What?"
"It's cold, man. Cover up."
"Why?"
"You don't wanna catch what I've got."
"You have a bacteria," Kelly mutters, "you're takin' penicillin. Doesn't work on viruses. Viruses 're contagious. Bacteria, not, so I'm not gonna catch…" a mighty yawn, " wha' you've got. Now good night to all and to all a good night."
Scotty pokes Kelly again. "Bacterium."
With a long-suffering groan, Kelly rolls over. "What now?"
"Bacteria, plural. Bacteri-um, singular…"
"You're something else, you know that?" his partner whines. "It's three o'clock in the morning…"
"And you," Scotty finishes, "are going to catch your death if you do not cover up."
"Nag, nag, nag…" yawns Kelly, but he nevertheless fumbles around till he's dragged the covers out from underneath his legs and arranged himself in an untidy bundle of rumpled extra blanket. As he settles in again, though, he turns towards Scotty, and there's that gentle hand on his brow again. "Fever's down. Good," Kelly mutters. "Need anythin'?"
Scotty contemplates his situation – fever down, aches and pains abating, distinctly lacking in obliging Asian beauties but amply provided for in warm covers and one Caucasian partner overflowing with clumsy, affectionate concern. And he smiles.
"Not a lovin' thing," he says warmly, as they drift back off to sleep. "Not an everlovin' thing."