Bodie unlocked Doyle's apartment door. "C'mon!" he called, kicking at the door to bang it open further. He held two foam cups of coffee in his hands. "Lazy arse. Get out of bed."
He slurped the rest of his coffee, tossed the cup and flicked on a light, then sauntered into the bedroom. He tsk'd at the sight before him. A mop of curls just emerged from under a sheet. He flicked on another light, and Doyle groaned, trying to squeeze his flickering eyelids shut and roll away from the light.
"You're a real beauty," said Bodie sarcastically. "What happened to being on time?"
"I'm sick."
"Yeah, and it's called Lazy Arse Syndrome. Get up!" He yanked the blanket off, out of Doyle's hands.
The prone man groaned.
"Don't give me that." Bodie snatched it away again quickly from grabbing fingers. "You're usually the one telling me to hurry up. What's with you today?"
Doyle wore a loose blue shirt and sweatpants. He did look ill, his skin pale, his eyes seemingly plastered shut.
Bodie regarded him doubtfully. "Either call in sick, mate, or get dressed."
Doyle, looking pinched and several years older, leaned over the edge of the bed and was sick on the floor.
"I'll call in for you." Bodie beat a hasty retreat to the phone.
"Yeah. Well, he just threw up. I don't know. Tell Cowley he won't be in, and I'll be a bit late. I've got to make certain... Yes."
He hung up, and sighed. Bodie hated this. Babysitting, playing nurse. Feeling awkward and uncomfortable around illness, and not knowing what to do. And most of all, seeing Doyle vulnerable and weak and helpless. He much preferred a dangerous, self-possessed Doyle, even when he got on Bodie's nerves.
Sighing, he got a wet cloth, and a glass of water, and went to see what he could do for Doyle.