Author's Note: Just a brief glimpse at a small portion of the life Quentin and Eliot shared together.
TwilightBrightStar wanted me to write "a family scene between Eliot and Quentin with their son when he's sick and almost dying".
This is what I came up with. And I don't think the episode told us what Rupert (Quentin's son, according to IMDb) called Eliot... but I chose Poppa.
Disclaimer: The Magicians is not mine and never will be.
A Piece of the Puzzle
"Daddy!" Rupert cried from his bedroom, sobbing softly and Quentin jerked awake, stumbling to his feet, tripping over the blanket that hadn't been there when he had passed out.
"Easy," Eliot murmured, managing to stand from his spot in the armchair across from Quentin and brace him.
"Daddy… Poppa," Rupert sobbed miserably.
"I'm okay," Quentin said, gripping Eliot's shoulder in wordless thanks before moving quickly toward the bedroom, Eliot close behind him. "Hey, buddy," he said softly, entering, his heart clenching at the small form in the bed, tossing and turning. "How are you doing?" Carefully, trying not to jar the bed, he sat and immediately Rupert turned toward him, burying his face in Quentin's lap.
"Daddy," Rupert whimpered as Quentin carded a hand through his son's hair.
"He's burning up," Quentin murmured, glancing up at Eliot worriedly.
"I'll get some water and a cloth," Eliot said, turning quickly from the room.
In his lap Rupert whimpered and Quentin moved his other hand to his son's back, rubbing gently. "Ssssh. I've got you. It's going to be okay."
Rupert sniffled, his little fingers clutching at Quentin's legs. "Where's Mama?"
Quentin bit his lip, not sure how to answer. They had explained to Rupert, as best you could explain to a five-year-old who had never experienced death before, that his mother was gone, but… now… in the midst of his fever… Quentin wasn't sure he could go over it all again. The grief was too near… and he wasn't sure how Rupert would handle it.
"I'm back," Eliot said then, reappearing and sparing Quentin his response, a small bowl of water and a cloth in his hands.
"Let's get you up," Quentin said gently, carefully lifting Rupert so he was sitting in Quentin's lap, his back against Quentin's chest.
"Hey, kiddo," Eliot said softly, sitting across from them and dipping the cloth into the cool water before pressing it to Rupert's too hot forehead.
Rupert blinked slowly, sitting bonelessly in his father's lap, his head listing to the side against Quentin's chest.
"Rupert?" Quentin prompted, concerned at the child's lack of response and touching his cheek.
Rupert's eyes closed, his breathing faint.
"Rupert! El, he's completely unresponsive," Quentin said, fighting down the panic that wanted to take over his thoughts. Rupert.
"We have to get the fever down," Eliot said. "This won't be enough. Let's get him in the bath."
Quentin nodded, standing and gathering Rupert into his arms, the child's head resting on his shoulder and Rupert heaved, throwing up down Quentin's back before slumping, boneless, once more.
"We'll clean that later," Eliot muttered, moving quickly from the room, Quentin following, pushing down his disgust at the sick he could feel streaked down his back.
Outside Eliot worked to bring up buckets of well water and pour them into the tub while Quentin stripped Rupert, talking softly to him as he worked, trying to keep him awake. "He's still not answering," he told Eliot anxiously.
"He's going to be okay, Q," Eliot said, glancing quickly at the two of them. "Come on, let's get him in," he added, finishing with the tub and stepping forward, carefully taking Rupert into his arms and lowering him into the cool water.
"Maybe… lean his head back," Quentin suggested and Eliot nodded, leaning the little boy back so his head was in the water too, keeping his face above the water with his arm.
"Here we go," Quentin murmured, scooping some water from the bath and pouring it over the top of Rupert's head, wanting to get as much cool water onto him as they could.
Gradually, slowly, Rupert's eyes blinked open again. "Daddy? Poppa?" His voice was quiet and weak but aware.
"Thank God," Quentin muttered, fighting tears and, already on his knees at the tub, sagging down to the ground in relief.
"We're here," Eliot assured the little boy, still supporting him. "We've got you."
"'M cold," Rupert whispered, starting to shiver.
"I know, buddy. We're going to keep you in there for a little longer though," Eliot told him as Quentin lifted himself back up and ran a reassuring hand through Rupert's hair.
Tears pricked Rupert's eyes but he didn't object, merely turned his face toward Quentin's touch. "Cold," he whispered, closing his eyes.
"I know," Quentin told him softly, meeting Eliot's gaze, both letting out a relieved breath.
"I can't lose him, El. Not like –" Quentin cut himself off, closing his eyes, unable to say his dead wife's name.
"He's going to be fine, Q," Eliot said, putting an arm around Quentin, his own worried gaze on Rupert. The child was back in his bed, tossing restlessly as his fever almost immediately began spiking up again.
"You can't know that," Quentin pointed out. "I can't lose him. I just… I can't."
"Neither of us can. And we won't," Eliot said adamantly. "We're going to keep an eye on him and he's going to be okay."
Quentin took a deep breath and nodded, the two of them moving together to sit at Rupert's bedside, Eliot dampening a cloth and putting it to the little boy's head once more.
Soft voices and quiet laughter. Eliot and Rupert. Quentin blinked his eyes open slowly, the cottage ceiling coming into focus. He titled his head to the side, noting that he was alone in Rupert's bedroom. The voices were coming from the small room that served as their living room.
For a moment, he allowed himself to just listen, a small smile coming over his face. Rupert sounded tired but in good spirits and Eliot's voice was full of relief and indulgence.
Getting to his feet, Quentin found himself in the door way of the living room without much thought. Eliot and Rupert were sitting on the floor, talking quietly, Rupert slowly moving a few toys around. His movements were slower than usual and he obviously didn't feel his best, but… it was a vast improvement.
Eliot's eyes lifted then, meeting Quentin's, and at the relief in them Quentin let out a breath he hadn't even realized he had been holding. Rupert would be okay. They had made it through.
"Daddy! Can we work outside today?" Rupert asked, noticing him and getting up for a hug. "On the mosaic?" he added as Quentin kneeled to meet him and lift him up, pronouncing the word carefully. "Poppa says it's up to you."
"I don't know. Are you feeling better?" Quentin murmured, though he could see he was.
"Uh huh." Rupert nodded into his father's shoulder, hugging him tightly. "Poppa gave me fruit for breakfast. He said to let you sleep."
"You ate breakfast?" Quentin asked, relieved.
"Didn't even throw it up," Eliot offered, standing, his eyes on Quentin's face, his lips curved into a gentle smile.
Quentin moved forward, freeing an arm so he could pull Eliot into the hug and when he was near enough Rupert put an arm around his neck too, his other still around Quentin.
"He's okay, Q," Eliot said softly, gently kissing the side of his head. "He's okay."
"Yeah," Quentin breathed, closing his eyes and allowing himself to just hold Eliot and Rupert close. "He's okay."
-End.