A/N Ok so I'm supposed to be working on chapter 8 of Promises to Keep... then episode 2 happened and this little plot bunny got stuck in my head and wouldn't leave me alone!
It was supposed to be a nice short little one-shot... one-shot it is, short it isn't!
It's been written for Round 5 of Bingo on the Hurt/Comfort LJ community, to incorporate the prompts 'fever/delirium', 'family' and 'septicemia/infected wounds'... not sure if I can claim the 'medication' one too - I'm thinking probably not :-)
Anyway I hope you all enjoy..
He marches away from the Queen with his back straight and head held high, determined that she will not see him falter – that she will not see him break. It doesn't really matter that inside it feels like someone is trying to rip his heart out of his chest – he will not let it show. He should have known better than to believe that a dream could ever come true. Because that's what it had been: a fairy-tale romance; a dream that one day he might get the happy ending that others seemed to achieve effortlessly but had always been just beyond his grasp.
He's never had big dreams really – just longs to settle down with the woman that he loves more than life and maybe one day have a couple of children – and he really couldn't care less whether she is Queen of Atlantis or the girl who helps clean the drains in the bathhouse; it is Ariadne that he wants not the position in society she holds. Sometimes he wonders if it would have been better if they had managed to escape together after Pasiphae tried to have her executed in the brazen bull. They could have found a little house somewhere, settled down and made a home; lived a simple life away from all the lies and betrayals that seemed to go hand in hand with being a member of the Atlantian royal family.
Now that he has turned the corner and she can no longer see him, he falters. The adrenaline and willpower that have seen him through the battle and in the hours since is fading at last and he feels shockingly weak and shaky. Every inch of him aches and his entire stomach is a mess of pain, every movement shooting fresh waves through his side. Under his breastplate his tunic is stiff with dried blood, scratchy and uncomfortable against his body, but his side itself is slick with fresh blood. The wound reopened in last night's battle – he had felt it tear as he span to face another attacker. There had been no pain then – the adrenaline coursing through his system had seen to that – but he had felt the wetness of the blood seeping down his side. It is still seeping sluggishly now and part of him wonders if he should be worried about blood loss. His head pounds and he feels dizzy and sick, the world lurching at alarming angles if he moves his head too quickly, and he clings to a handy pillar for support.
It even hurts to think right now but somewhere in his weary mind the thought does occur to him that if he can just find Pythagoras everything will be better. Pythagoras will help him; will look after him; will take the pain away and make him feel better. Pythagoras will undoubtedly know which tonic he should take and will insist on tucking him into bed to rest and right now Jason finds the idea distinctly appealing. Perhaps, if he is in a good mood, Hercules can even be persuaded to tell one of his tall tales to help Jason drift off to sleep.
Not that he is likely to have too much trouble getting to sleep, he thinks. Right now it is all that he can do to keep his eyes open, exhaustion settling in to his limbs and making him tremble all over. Still if he wants to find Pythagoras – if he wants to get home and into bed (which is sounding more and more appealing with every second that passes) – he has to stay on his feet; has to start moving again.
He shivers in spite of the heat of the day. When did it get so cold in here? Perhaps it will be warmer out in the courtyard. With renewed determination he pushes himself away from the pillar and starts to walk forwards, concentrating hard on just putting one foot in front of the other. The air feels thinner now and he can feel his heart rate speeding up, pounding uneasily in his chest, as his breathing quickens, coming in short pained gasps. The light-headed feeling it produces is almost euphoric and he uses it to push himself onwards.
By the time he reaches the courtyard the feeling has faded and been replaced by the burning pain in his abdomen once more. He is pretty sure that it is the blood loss that is making him feel so ill and he presses one hand to his tortured side and feels hot blood coat his palm. The faint trickle has become a slow but steady flow yet again and he pushes down on it in spite of the white hot agony that the action causes, trying to stop the bleeding once more. He lurches onwards, staggering slightly from the sheer effort it is taking him to walk. He rather suspects that he currently bears more than a passing resemblance to Hercules on his way back from a day's hard drinking in the tavern – a suspicion that is borne out by the looks he is getting from some of the people he passes.
"Jason!"
He hears Pythagoras before he sees him – hurrying across the courtyard towards him, over-robe flapping in the slight breeze. He stops and turns to greet his friend but moves too quickly and sways, fighting a wave of dizziness as his blood pounds in his ears. He closes his eyes as he fights to stay conscious and stay on his feet. A pair of large hands grasp his shoulders firmly, holding him upright, stopping him from falling. As the wave washes over him and passes on he risks opening his eyes and finds himself face to face with a glaring Hercules – although where his larger friend has appeared from he really doesn't know.
"Where in the name of the Gods do you think you're going?" Hercules growls.
"Home," he says, then hisses as Pythagoras' searching fingers brush against his side.
The mathematician's face morphs from concern into downright worry and he looks searchingly at Jason.
"Your wound has reopened again," he says. "I need to dress it properly and you need to be in bed, resting and giving it chance to heal."
"I know," Jason admits. "Bed sounds pretty good."
Hercules frowns and motions to Pythagoras to take Jason's sword before motioning with his hand for Jason to put his arm around his shoulders, slipping his own arm around his friend's waist and supporting him where he stands.
Together they begin the journey through the half empty streets, having to stop every so often to wait for the workmen to drag parts of the hastily constructed barricades of the night before out of the way or clear the debris of the recent battle. By now Jason is flagging visibly, hanging off Hercules' shoulder and his friends exchange a concerned glance over his head.
"We need to get home soon," Pythagoras murmurs, starting to pick up speed.
Jason tries to keep up; tries to hurry as Pythagoras wants – although at the moment he really can't focus his mind enough to know why they are hurrying – his body is betraying him and the dizziness has returned in full force. As they are forced to stop at yet another barricade he sags even further on Hercules' arm and by this time his friend is the only thing keeping him upright. He is still fighting to stay awake but is rapidly losing his battle with consciousness, blood roaring in his ears.
"Jason?" Pythagoras' voice sounds as though it is coming from far away, distorted and filtered as though he is under water.
Jason tries to lift his head but nothing seems to be responding the way it should. He sways even more, even as Hercules' other arm comes around to hold him up, wave after wave of dizziness rocking him, and his friends' faces blur and fade into darkness. His head lolls and his eyes close as all sound fades and darkness claims him at last.
As he starts to swim back towards consciousness the first thing that he is aware of are hushed but urgent voices. Pythagoras, he thinks identifying the lighter of the two, and Hercules. Pythagoras is muttering words like "blood loss", "exhaustion" and "sleep", and realises that his friend is probably talking about him. He feels weak as a new-born kitten and the pounding in his head doesn't seem to have diminished in any way but at least he is lying down in relative comfort now – the semi-soft mattress of his bed cradling his aching body. He is home, he realises without opening his eyes – although quite how he got here is anybody's guess – the familiar smells and the feel of his own somewhat scratchy blanket comforting him.
While he has been unconscious someone has put him to bed, changed his bloody, ruined tunic for a clean one, wrapped fresh bandages around his midriff and cleansed the taint of battle from his skin. It was probably a combination of his two friends he thinks. He opens his eyes and his mouth to thank them but is surprised when all that manages to come out is a distressed moan as a band of pain assaults him once again and reminds him that being shot hurts.
Pythagoras is by his side in an instant, blue eyes worried no matter how much he tries to smile. Hercules is almost as speedy – an amazing feat for a big man.
"What happened?" Jason asks as he attempts to push himself upright, still a little confused as to how he managed to get home and into bed.
"You fainted again," Pythagoras answers, placing one slim hand on his chest and stopping him from sitting up too much. "You have lost a lot of blood, Jason. I have dressed your wound properly now but you need to rest and regain your strength."
Jason nods and closes his eyes, his brows knitting together as he winces in pain. Pythagoras frowns and moves back across the room, coming back with a cup in his hands.
"Drink this," he says kindly. "It is wine fortified with painkilling herbs. It will help you to rest a little more comfortably."
Jason nods weakly and then wishes he hadn't as the world swims out of focus once again. He waves off Pythagoras' worried look but cannot avoid Hercules' strong arm easing him back to lie down once more. He swallows down hard on the rising wave of nausea the dizziness brings and takes the concoction gratefully from his mathematically inclined friend. He was right, he thinks, in his belief that Pythagoras would know what tonic he should take to make him feel better. He hopes that whatever is in the cup will work quickly – the pain in his side is rapidly reaching unbearable levels.
"So what was that thing in the cave?" he asks, trying to distract himself from how terrible he is feeling; trying to avoid thinking about Ariadne and the mockery she suddenly seems to have made of his life – even though he knows that was not her intent.
"You should not be worrying about things like that. You should be trying to get some sleep." Pythagoras' voice is firm as he takes in the pallor of his friend's face and the beads of sweat that dot his forehead – mute evidence (if any evidence is needed of course) that Jason, stubborn though he undoubtedly is, has more than reached the end of his endurance.
"Hurts too much," he admits, turning tortured hazel eyes on his friend. "I need those herbs to kick in."
"It was a Cyclops," Hercules rumbles in answer to his question.
"They actually exist?"
He can't keep the incredulity out of his voice and really he should know better by now. He has been in Atlantis for long enough to no longer doubt the existence of the mythical creatures from his primary school lessons or seen in old films on TV, watched on a rainy Sunday afternoon when he had nothing better to do. He remembers both Clash of the Titans and Jason & the Argonauts on telly only too well and owes much of his limited knowledge of Greek mythology to them – and he is really hoping that it's not going to turn out that he is that Jason in spite of the vision he had of the Argo in the Temple (and was that really only a few days ago?). He certainly has no desire right now to go wandering off looking for a sheepskin, whether it's golden or not – and come to that didn't that Jason end up being crushed under the falling stern of the decaying Argo? He remembers that story a little more clearly than most Greek mythology – probably because as a child he had been fascinated by the fact that the hero had the same name as him. He shudders. If anyone so much as mentions that blasted ship or going looking for any part of a sheep he thinks he might just run a mile.
"Well of course they exist." Pythagoras' voice draws him back to the present. He is using the "I'm dealing with an idiot" tone again – something he has a tendency to do whenever he thinks Jason should know something or is being particularly dense.
"Oh," he answers, unable to summon up the energy to argue or even to hold a proper conversation at this point. His friends are both eying him with downright worry and he feels a pang of guilt for causing them so much concern. He can feel his heart pounding and the air seems thinner again, and he closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on getting enough oxygen into his lungs. A gentle hand on his wrist makes him open his eyes to watch Pythagoras passively.
"Your heart is beating too fast," the young genius murmurs, half to himself. "It is a sign of anaemia; of lack of blood. You will need to eat the right foods and drink plenty of fluids to regain your strength."
"I am pretty thirst," Jason admits, "… and cold." He shivers slightly. "When did it get so cold?"
If anything Pythagoras looks more alarmed than ever.
"How can you be cold?" Hercules asks incredulously. "It's hot today."
Jason shrugs faintly as Pythagoras reaches out with anxiety dancing in his blue eyes and rests one slim hand on his forehead. The mathematician's hand feels icy cold and he tries to pull away, shuddering. Pythagoras draws back, his eyes wide.
"What's wrong?" Hercules' voice is urgent and anxious. Jason turns his head to look at him dully, his languor and stupefaction growing with every passing minute.
Pythagoras barely glances at his old friend.
"He has a slight fever," the young genius murmurs. "I do not think it is something that we need to worry about too much yet but I will monitor the situation."
"Fever?" Hercules demands.
"It may simply be your body reacting to the trauma it has been through," Pythagoras says looking seriously at Jason. "If it is more than that then we will treat it as it comes. For now just close your eyes and get some sleep."
It probably says something for how truly dreadful he is feeling that he simply does as Pythagoras says and closes his eyes, willing sleep to take him quickly.
Pythagoras smiles down at him and pulls the blanket a little more firmly around his shoulders smoothing it out with one practiced hand. He motions with his head for Hercules to follow him onto the balcony, leaving Jason to sleep on peacefully.
When he wakes up again it is dark and Hercules is dozing on a stool by the side of his bed. Why the big man should be there he can't quite work out – his head feels like he's trying to think through treacle at the moment. He is stiflingly hot and starts to kick away the blankets, only to stop with a sudden yelp as the pain in his stomach reasserts itself. He is tired and beyond sore and can't quite work out why he hurts so much; a ball of agony building in his abdomen. Has he been injured? He has vague memories of a battle and an arrow and being half carried through woodland but beyond that there is nothing.
With probing fingers he begins to investigate the bandage around his middle. Somewhere someone is whimpering quietly and he realises with a shock that it is him. Suddenly his hands are lifted away from himself and held gently but firmly. Hercules' broad face comes into view, eyes compassionate but stern.
"Leave it alone Jason," he admonishes. "It won't heal if you keep poking it."
He wants to ask his big friend what is going on but his foggy brain can't seem to work well enough to form the words properly and what comes out of his mouth is more of a moan than he would like it to be. Hercules seems to sense his confusion and frowns, one meaty hand brushing the dark curls away from Jason's forehead.
"Fever's rising again," the burly wrestler murmurs as he reaches down into a bowl hidden from view beneath the bed and catches up a cool wet cloth, wringing it out and laying it across his young friend's forehead.
Jason whimpers again, feeling cold all of a sudden and reaches up to swipe the cloth away.
"Stop it," Hercules grumbles. "You have a fever and I need to get your temperature down." He does, however, reach down and grab the blanket from where it has landed at the bottom of the bed and pull it up around his friend's waist.
Jason blinks at him with sleepy, fever bright eyes and Hercules forces a smile. The Oracle's instruction that he should protect this most special of boys is still ringing in his ears although he acknowledges to himself that it is something he has felt the urge to do for a long time anyway – he needs no divine permission or instruction.
"As long as you're awake you may as well drink this tonic that Pythagoras left," Hercules continues his one-sided conversation. "I had to chase him off to bed earlier. No sense in both of us going without sleep." He slips one burly arm under his friend's shoulders, lifting the young man's head gently and pressing a cup to his lips. "Pythagoras said to give you this when you woke up; said it should help bring your fever down."
Jason looks at him trustingly and swallows obligingly, grimacing at the unpleasant taste. A slight trickle of the fluid escapes from the corner of his mouth and runs down the side of his face. Hercules spots it and moves in with a cloth to wipe it away, pushing the young man back onto the pillows as he does. He watches Jason's eyes grow heavy again, blood loss from his injury and fever taking their toll on his healing body, and smiles softly as the young man begins to lose his battle with sleep. With hands made gentle by the affection that he holds for his friend, Hercules wrings out a soft cloth and wipes the grime of sweat away from Jason's torso – tunic lost earlier in the battle to bring down his temperature – reaching down afterwards to pull up the blanket around the young man's shoulders once more, cocooning Jason in warmth and comfort. He hears Jason sigh as sleep claims him again and settles back down to his lonely vigil, determined that for once in his life he will not let anyone down.
Pythagoras looks up from the table on which he is semi-aggressively chopping herbs towards where his friend lies sleeping, tossing slightly and muttering strange words in fevered dreams. He was stupid, he thinks crossly. He knows enough medicine that he should have known that Jason's wound was going to get infected. After all his friend was running around with it for nearly two days without it being properly cleaned or treated; Pythagoras had simply bound it up as best he could at the time without access to proper medical supplies. Added to that Jason had ended up in a river where all sorts of dirt and bugs might lurk and had then walked back to Atlantis and fought in a battle – all with a hole in his side… was there ever a world in which that wound was not going to get infected?
Now the young genius is forced to try to control his friend's pain and fever through whatever means are at his disposal. His last resort will be to reopen the wound itself and try to drain out all traces of infection; to cleanse it thoroughly inside and out; but he is loath to do that yet given how much blood Jason has already managed to lose in the last few days.
There are still a few herbal remedies and poultices he can try first but looking at his friend now, seeing how pale and ill Jason actually looks, Pythagoras feels the first pang of misgiving. What if it is not enough? Jason is still stubbornly feverish in spite of his friends' best efforts (and does he really have to be stubborn in everything he does? Really?) although he is far from being gravely ill yet. When he wakes he is tired and confused, alternating between feeling overheated and racking chills. Pythagoras worries that he is rapidly heading towards full blown delirium, but at the moment very little seems to be cooling him down.
The more feverish and confused Jason becomes, however, the less cooperative he is becoming and it is turning into a serious battle of wills to get him to take any of the tonics or remedies that he needs. The only comforting thing is that he is simply not strong enough to fight off both of his friends at once – although in truth Pythagoras can take little comfort from that; he would far rather that Jason was well enough to stubbornly resist their ministrations.
The blonde looks up as the front door (why does he still think of it as the front door – it is their only door to the outside world) crashes open and Hercules barrels through it. His old friend has looked increasingly grim ever since the battle ended and the Colcheans were defeated. Whilst he can understand it now, it does seem strange that in that first euphoric moment when they realised that they had won – that they had somehow managed to survive in spite of the overwhelming odds against them – Hercules should have seemed so miserable; angry even. If Pythagoras had the time or energy he would question it but right now his entire thoughts and efforts are given over to the health and wellbeing of his other friend.
"Where have you been?" he asks.
Hercules frowns.
"You said you were running out of bandages," the burly wrestler answers producing a bundle of fresh white linen from under his jerkin.
Pythagoras chooses not to ask where he got it. They are not exactly wealthy enough to have money to spare on extras like this (Pythagoras had been planning on washing the bloody bandages he has taken from his friend the last time the dressing was changed) and in the aftermath of a large scale battle linen for bandages is becoming scarce and prices high.
"How is he?" Hercules rumbles, looking towards Jason with a frown.
Pythagoras follows his gaze.
"No better," he admits, "but no worse either."
Hercules grunts and begins to make his way over to the bed. Jason has managed to kick off the blankets again and is tossing in uneasy sleep, muttering strange incomprehensible words, and shivering uncontrollably. Hercules' frown deepens as he stoops to draw up the blanket, smoothing it out and trying to work out whether the heat radiating from his friend is more or less than it was before; whether his fever has gone up yet again or whether they are finally winning. He turns back to find Pythagoras watching him thoughtfully.
"What is wrong, old friend?" the young genius asks. "You have been unhappy ever since the battle ended and it is more than just worry for Jason."
Hercules sighs. Pythagoras can read him like an open book and while he knows that it is down to their years of sharing a house together – their years of strange friendship – it worries him that he is so easy to see through… especially as he gave the Oracle his word that there were certain secrets he would take to his grave. But this is Pythagoras and surely the lad deserves to know some of what they are likely to be facing?
"I visited the Oracle," he finds himself admitting.
Pythagoras sucks in a breath.
"What did she tell you?" he asks.
"That what he said about his destiny was true," Hercules answers with a nod towards Jason. "It seems that he is the only hope for Atlantis… and it seems that the Gods have chosen us to protect him."
"Us?" Pythagoras splutters incredulously.
Hercules nods slowly.
"If we fail all of Atlantis will be lost," he says seriously, "although I don't seem to be doing a very good job of protecting him so far," he adds with a sigh as he looks at their injured and ill friend.
A sudden sharp rapping at the door puts an end to their conversation. It is with some surprise that Pythagoras opens it to find Dion, Captain of the Atlantian Guard, on the other side. The large man marches into the room, his face serious and Pythagoras wonders anew if this grim man even knows how to smile.
"I have come from the Queen," he says formally.
Hercules instantly bristles.
"Whatever it is the answer's no," he states, worry for Jason making him even forget his usual deference.
Dion's frown deepens.
"One does not refuse the Queen," he growls. "She has tasked me with seeing to the needs of the people at this time; with making sure they have all they require. She feels keenly that she owes you a great debt and wished to ensure that you have everything you need."
He does not miss the fact that both Pythagoras and Hercules sigh with relief, clearly thankful that they are not being asked to undertake another mission so soon after the last one. Nor does he miss the fact that one of the trio – the one whom the Queen had most especially asked him to check on – is missing. A swift glance around the room reveals to him that the lad appears to be sleeping, although he does not appear to be resting easily. Dion's frown deepens even further. He has seen this before (too many times if the truth be told) with men under his command who have survived a battle only to be carried away by a fever afterwards.
In short strides he makes it across the room before either of the others can protest, his eyes taking in the pallid pain filled features, the sweat drenched curls and the fresh bandaging at the young man's waist. The stench of an infected wound hits his nostrils at the same time and he glances back sharply at his two companions.
"When was he injured?" he demands, knowing that Queen Ariadne will not take the news he has to bring well.
Pythagoras sighs.
"Jason was shot in the side escaping the Colchean encampment with the Palladium," he answers tiredly. "He has lost a lot of blood and the wound has become infected."
"He fought in the battle with such a wound?" Dion asks rhetorically. "I would not have known it."
"Jason is the most headstrong boy I have ever met," Hercules growls. "He gave the Queen his word that he was going to bring the Palladium back to Atlantis and he'd have sooner died than let her down."
Dion sighs. He has suspected for some time (although he has never been directly told) that there is something special between his Queen and Jason. It saddens him, knowing as he does that they can never be together; no matter how brave and loyal Jason might be they cannot escape the fact that he is merely a peasant – does not have royal blood. The Queen must marry for the benefit of the city and cannot simply follow her heart.
"I must inform the Queen," he murmurs. "She would wish to know that Jason is unwell."
He excuses himself and leaves before either of the other two can think about speaking.
Pythagoras returns to the preparation of his herbs. Remedy mixed he turns to Hercules.
"Help me get him to drink it," he implores.
Hercules nods as they prepare to do battle with their friend once more.
The world is a confusing place right now. Whenever he opens his eyes everything is blurred and indistinct. Faces he can no longer seem to recognise loom out of the darkness, featureless blobs of pink and brown or pink and reddish blonde, and voices utter words he cannot grasp or understand. He knows the voices though; knows their kind tones; knows them to belong to his friends; and trusts them implicitly. But it feels like he's drowning – like he never quite manages to get enough air – and he surfaces only for long enough to know that his friends are speaking to him, to take comfort from their voices, before he sinks beneath the waves of unconsciousness again.
For a time he floats beyond sight and sound, his limbs heavy and his chest burning with the need to breathe but he can't seem to find the energy to kick for the surface. He's cold, oh so cold; his body racked with shivers. But warmth returns along with sound and he finds that he is nestled in his own bed once more, not drowning beneath the waves of the merciless ocean as he feared.
He thinks that perhaps he heard a third voice earlier – deep and resolute – and after a time he manages to make his confused mind put a name to it: Dion. With his eyes closed he frowns. Why was Ariadne's right hand man here? He belongs in the Palace – surely that is where he should have been? Dion's voice has long gone now though drifted away like the tide of his consciousness.
Feeling a little more awake he opens his eyes and winces at the brightness of the light. He may even have groaned aloud because a figure is there in an instant, hazy and indistinct to his blurry vision, drawing a cloth across the window and darkening the room a little. The figure turns towards him and he thinks it might be smiling although he can't quite be sure.
"Are you back with us now?" a second figure rumbles from the doorway and he squints, trying to make out any features before giving the task up as it makes his head pound even more than it already was.
The first figure sits down lightly on the side of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath himself. As it comes closer it becomes Pythagoras, his features still blurry and out of focus. Jason blinks hard, trying to clear his vision but it isn't working right now. Pythagoras reaches out and rests a cool hand on his forehead and he really hasn't realised until this moment just how hot he is. He moans slightly and turns towards that cool hand.
Pythagoras nods.
"Your temperature is finally falling," he says gently, "although I will not be happy until the fever has broken."
Jason blinks at him with hazel eyes full of fever and pain, his exhaustion written on his face. He tries to force himself to sit up but his body feels like it is made of lead and he trembles and falls back onto the pillow before he can raise himself too far.
Pythagoras frowns and restrains him easily with one hand – and that in itself says something for how scarily weak Jason is right now. He might only have had a fever for a little over a day but it has hit him hard.
"Rest," the mathematician implores softly. "Just rest."
Jason sighs but is too tired to do anything but comply right now and his eyes drift closed once more.
He does not wake for hours and when he does the world has once again become a confusing welter of colours and sounds. Nothing seems to make sense. All he knows is that he is burning; his body is on fire, burning with a flame that cannot be quenched. And it hurts, oh God, it hurts. His friends cannot help him even if they are near. His blood has become liquid fire coursing through his veins and he writhes in agony.
He hears voices again, distorted and unclear, filtered through the rushing noise that fills his ears – but one voice comes through crystal clear. No matter what pressures weigh on her or how heavily the crown sits upon her head Ariadne's voice is still light and girlish; still the voice of the young princess he fell in love with.
She should not be here, although he cannot remember why. All he knows is that he burns and it cannot be safe. She must be safe above all things. He fights to surface; to get her to safety. A slim, delicate hand grasps his flailing one and grounds him, pulling him back towards reality, making him fight ever harder – but it is too much and he sinks unwillingly into the waiting arms of unconsciousness once more.
Pythagoras bites his lip in worry as he looks across to where Princess Ariadne sits holding his idiotically heroic friend's hand. He really must stop thinking of her as a princess – she is Queen of Atlantis now, he reminds himself. Still princess or queen her arrival last night had been unexpected. She had appeared on their doorstep wrapped in a plain cloak to hide her identity and had stayed all night regardless of propriety or her reputation. Pythagoras frowns. There were those in the city who would use this to destroy her if they found out and yet the Queen had not seemed to care. She had simply swept in and found her way over to Jason and nothing is going to move her from her post.
The young mathematician frowns ever more deeply. There was a time after Dion had left yesterday afternoon when it had seemed that they were winning; that they had turned a corner. Jason's fever had begun to fall and he had seemed more lucid; had seemed to be there in the room with them for a short while. Long before the Queen had arrived, however, his temperature had risen sharply and he had descended into delirium once more; was only semi-conscious at best. Pythagoras worries at a fingernail. They are not winning this battle and he cannot shake the sinking feeling that there really is only one thing left for him to do.
"He's getting worse isn't he?" Hercules' voice startles him out of his reverie.
Pythagoras cannot bring himself to answer that question. It is patently obvious to all of them what the truth of the matter is.
"Is there nothing more that can be done?" Ariadne has left Jason's side and come over to them. "I have doctors at the Palace…"
"Best if they don't know you're here, Your Majesty," Hercules rumbles deferentially. "Besides I'm not sure that they could do any more for him than Pythagoras is doing. They don't care for Jason like we do."
Ariadne acknowledges the truth of that statement – she has known that these three are their own strange little family for a long time – but turns back to Pythagoras expectantly.
"The remedies are not working because the source of infection is too strong," the blonde genius says slowly. "If we can remove the source of the infection then they would be more likely to work."
Hercules lets out an explosive breath.
"Why didn't you say something before?" he demands.
"Because I'm not sure it will work," Pythagoras admits, "and even if it does I'm not sure that Jason will be strong enough to survive it."
"What do we have to do?" Ariadne asks.
Pythagoras licks his lips.
"I will need to reopen the wound," he says. "I will drain away all the pus and clean the wound thoroughly." He swallows convulsively. "I did not want to have to do this," he admits.
"Why not?"
"Because Jason has already lost a lot of blood over the last few days," Pythagoras says. "If I do this there is a chance he may simply die from blood loss… and I'm not even sure it will work."
"What will happen if you do not do this and your remedies do not work?" Ariadne's voice is sharp and she is every inch the Queen right now. "The truth please," she demands.
"Jason's heart is labouring because of the fever," Pythagoras answers quietly. "Eventually he will become too weak and it will stop."
"Then you have no choice," Ariadne states. "If you reopen the wound he might die but at least you will be giving him a chance."
"What do you need?" Hercules chimes in.
"Hot water, bandages, a good knife, plenty of light, some healing herbs..." Pythagoras' voice trails off.
"Then what are you waiting for?" Hercules growls. "Let's get on with it."
It is a short time later that Pythagoras finds himself standing beside his brunette friend with a sharp knife, thoroughly cleansed, in his hands. Everything is as ready and as clean as he can make it, from the crisp white bandages cut from the linen Hercules had brought yesterday by Ariadne, to the poultice of healing herbs he has prepared in advance. Yet still he hesitates.
Hercules frowns at him.
"You're the only one that can do this Pythagoras," he says firmly.
"I know," Pythagoras answers softly.
He cuts away the used bandage around Jason's waist – will burn it later to avoid any chance of reintroducing infection to his friend – and looks at the wound in his friend's side. The wound has not really even begun to heal, is red, angry and inflamed, oozing yellowish-white pus. Pythagoras resists the urge to gag and mutters a quick prayer of thanks to the god of healing that it has not healed over thus making his work harder, and another prayer that his hand might remain steady. He places his knife against his friend's side but pauses and looks searchingly at Jason.
"What are you waiting for?" Hercules demands.
Pythagoras bends forward until his lips are near his friend's ear.
"I'm sorry Jason," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry. I wouldn't do this if there was any other way."
He straightens and moves his knife into position again, offering another prayer that Jason is too deeply unconscious to feel what he is doing and will remain that way until he is finished. With hands more steady than he feels he carefully opens up the wound, grabbing a cloth to mop away the sudden gout of blood that issues forth. Jason, it appears, was not as unconscious as he had hoped. He bucks in agony, a scream torn from his throat.
It is almost enough to make Pythagoras give up there and then but he does not, grimly reasoning that his friend's life depends on what he does now. He motions Hercules to restrain their friend but nothing can stop the agonised noises that Jason is making. Pythagoras tries to block out the sound as he opens the wound more deeply, once again mopping the rush of blood that makes it impossible to see. Ariadne, pale but determined, holds a bowl under the wound catching both the rushing blood and the disgusting pus that are issuing forth. Pythagoras pushes down on his friend's stomach, trying to force Jason's body to dispel as much of that pus as it can. Finally, when the blood runs freely red and no trace of infected discharge can be seen, he mops out the wound, running fresh water into it and mopping it again with clean cloths. Concentrating hard, fearful of the amount of blood Jason has lost (is still losing right now), he carefully stitches the cut he has made closed, both inside and out, and slathers a healing poultice in place, securely swathing his friend's midriff in clean white bandages. At some point Jason has lost his battle with consciousness and Pythagoras peers at him fearfully, half afraid that he has already slipped away from them and innumerably relieved to see the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Only now, when he has done all he can for the minute, does the mathematician allow himself to feel. When he does, the knife drops to the floor with a clatter (he will burn it along with the bandages later unable to even look at something that caused his friend so much pain even if it was necessary) as his hands shake uncontrollably. Surprisingly it is Ariadne and not Hercules that is at his side first, wrapping him in her arms and cooing reassurances and comfort into his ear as she holds him as a mother would. Unable to think any more Pythagoras allows himself to be held – to be comforted – but wonders (worries) whether what he has just done will actually help matters or whether all he has achieved is weakening his friend even further.
It is dark. Ariadne has long since returned to the Palace, unable to put off her departure for any longer, knowing that she will be missed. They have promised her that they will inform her of any changes – no matter what those changes might be. Hercules turns away from the balcony with a weary sigh. Pythagoras is dozing at the table and his burly friend does not have the heart to make him go to bed.
While neither of them expected miracles they had hoped that in the hours after Pythagoras had drained Jason's wound their friend might show some signs of improving, but as yet there has been no change. As things stand neither one of them wants to go to bed, knowing that Jason could still take a turn for the worse at any time.
With a sigh the burly wrestler lowers his tired body onto a stool alongside his dark haired friend and picks up his trusty bowl and cloth, ready to mop his friend's fevered face once more. He is more than a little startled to see a pair of tired, feverish hazel eyes blinking at him in sleepy confusion. He places a meaty hand on the young man's forehead and is both surprised and pleased to realise that the heat radiating from Jason is a little less than before.
"Are you with us now?" he rumbles quietly, trying not to wake Pythagoras.
Jason doesn't answer but his eyes roam the room even as his fingers reach to explore the bandage about his middle.
Hercules rolls his eyes.
"Leave that alone," he says. "Pythagoras will not be happy if you damage any of his stitches."
"Hurts," Jason whispers to Hercules' surprised delight. The lad is clearly more aware of his surroundings than he has been for some time.
"I know," the big man answers, "but it'll be better soon."
"Thirsty."
Hercules nearly beams. While it is true that Jason is still caught in the grip of fever and has yet to say more than a single word at a time, his older friend feels his hope rising. He reaches down for a cup of water, stashed beneath his stool in case he became thirsty in the night himself. He holds it to his friend's lips, allowing Jason a small trickle at a time to ensure that he will not choke.
After a few minutes Jason relaxes against the pillows, watching his friend passively through heavy lidded eyes. He is clearly still exhausted but is stubbornly fighting sleep. Hercules smiles.
"Tell me," he says, "have I told you about the time my friend Orius fell in love with a mermaid?"
He settles in to tell his story, reaching out with cloth and gentle hands to mop his friend's hot face once more, relying on the small rag to lower the young man's temperature further, and preparing to lull him to sleep with his voice.
"Urgh."
It is daytime when he wakes up properly, the sun riding high in the sky. He slowly and painfully turns his head and looks about himself as the room begins to come into focus, and tries to work out in a fuzzy way why he feels like he's been run over by a cart. His first attempt at sitting up makes him groan loudly and instantly give up on the attempt, falling bonelessly back against the mattress.
When the stars fade from in front of his eyes he realises that Pythagoras is there smiling happily.
"What happened?" he asks. His voice sounds weak and rough and laced with pain but Pythagoras' smile grows as though it's the sweetest sound he has ever heard.
"Your wound became infected," Pythagoras says. "You have been quite unwell for the last two days." He reaches out with one thin hand and brushes his fingers against Jason's forehead, smiling widely at the fact that his friend is now only a little warm. "The fever broke just before dawn."
"Thank you," Jason says. "For looking after me I mean."
Pythagoras nods, still smiling, struck by the sincerity in his friend's voice.
"How do you feel?" he asks brightly.
"Sore," Jason answers honestly.
Pythagoras' bright smile dims momentarily and he looks a little guilty.
"Yes… well… that is only to be expected," he says. "I had to reopen the wound and clean it out properly to remove the source of the infection." He looks at his hands guiltily, knowing he has caused his friend extra pain.
A firm hand is placed over his and he looks up into warm and resolute hazel eyes.
"Thank you," Jason says again. "I know that you wouldn't have done anything that wasn't needed."
Pythagoras swallows hard.
"I will get you something to dull the pain," he says quietly.
Jason smiles softly – tiredly – as the mathematician hurries away. Yes he is in pain and yes he is completely exhausted right now, but for all that there is something very comfortable and comforting about lying in his own bed with the sounds and sights and smells of everyday life in their small home going on around him. He wonders languidly where Hercules is – remembers vaguely waking in the night to the older man's gruff ministrations and falling back asleep to the sound of one of his tall tales – and wonders if the burly wrestler is still in bed.
Seeing Pythagoras hurrying back across the room, a cup in one hand and a dish in the other, he feels the need to at least attempt to sit up properly. The pain in his abdomen and the weakness in his limbs soon remind him that that is a bad idea at present and he flops back with an audible hiss. Pythagoras looks at him with exasperation.
"For goodness sake Jason," he grumbles. "Do not try to run before you can walk. You have been very ill and even without that you would be extremely weak from blood loss. Pushing yourself will only make you ill again. I do not want you sitting up for at least the next couple of days anyway. You need to give your wound a chance to heal and I do not want you to risk tearing my stitchwork."
Jason chuckles lightly at his exasperation but relaxes back and allows the young genius to fuss around, straightening his blanket and elevating his head and shoulders on the pillows just enough so that he can eat and drink and talk in comfort without putting any pressure on his side or stomach. Truthfully he feels very weak and shaky and isn't entirely sure he could push himself too hard right now. It had been a completely different matter when they needed to return the Palladium to Atlantis – then there had been more at stake than one man's life or health. Now, however, with his tasks accomplished he is more than willing to rest and heal.
He takes the cup that Pythagoras proffers and drinks the contents without complaint, knowing that whatever it is will be designed to take away his pain and make him feel a whole lot better.
"Where's Hercules?" he asks as Pythagoras removes the cup and puts it down on the floor, trying not to spill the contents of the dish as he does.
"Ariadne was here," Pythagoras answers obliquely.
Jason blinks at the sudden apparent change of subject, then his face shutters off – becoming guarded, his eyes blank.
"I see," he says.
Pythagoras frowns. There is a story here he is sure of it. Jason is not usually secretive when it comes to his beloved Ariadne no matter how private he might be in other respects. Something has happened that the mathematician is as yet unaware of but he is sure that with a little wheedling he will be able to get the full story out of his friend. Not yet though, he decides. Somehow it seems more than a little unfair to try to press Jason into talking to him when he is still clearly unwell.
"Yes," he answers brightly. "Dion was here the day before yesterday and apparently he told the Queen that you were unwell. Ariadne came here the night before last. She stayed all night and for as long as she could yesterday as well. She only left when she had to. We promised her that we would keep her informed. That is where Hercules is now… at the Palace."
Jason nods. Whatever his feelings towards Ariadne at the moment (and to be honest they are swinging between hurt and anger and complete adoration) he would not want her to be worried or upset in any way. Once again he silently curses the fates that brought them together only for their respective positions in life to drive them apart. What does it matter that she is a Queen, a goddess on Earth, and he is ordinary anyway? Surely the fact that they love one another should be enough. He closes his eyes and sighs.
When he opens them again he finds that Pythagoras is eyeing him worriedly, fingers clearly itching to check for rising temperature. He tries a smile, although it is a listless shade of his normal grin.
Pythagoras bites his lip.
"You are tired," he says. "I am stopping you resting."
"No… no," Jason answers sincerely. "I'm not ready to sleep yet. Tell me about what's been going on in the city for the last couple of days."
Pythagoras peers at him, blue eyes probing – assessing. Apparently satisfied by what he sees he holds out the bowl in his hands to Jason.
"Very well," he says, "but I would like you to try to eat. You need to build up your strength once more."
Jason grimaces lightly.
"I'm not all that hungry," he admits.
"Nevertheless it will be good for you," Pythagoras insists.
Too tired to really argue, Jason gives in without any further fight. Pythagoras hands him the bowl and settles back to talk about the latest city gossip. The stew in the bowl is hot but Jason cannot help but pull a face at the taste.
"What is it?" he asks gesturing at the bowl disdainfully.
"Lentil and beetroot stew," Pythagoras answers promptly.
Jason wrinkles his nose at the blonde mathematician.
"I don't really like beetroot all that much," he admits, although if it comes down to a choice between eating this and starving he knows which he will choose any day.
Pythagoras raises an eyebrow.
"I would still like you to eat it," he states. "Both the beetroot and the lentils are good for helping the body to replace lost blood. I believe that it will be good for you to eat plenty of both over the next few days to replenish your strength."
Jason resists the urge to grimace at the thought. He appreciates the sentiment – really he does – and actually Pythagoras looks so worried that he can't quite bring himself to deny the mathematician what he wants. If he has to eat beetroot he will do it just to take the perpetually worried knot from his friend's forehead.
Pythagoras smiles at his acquiescence. In his opinion Jason is always too eager to please other people but sometimes (as now) it works in Pythagoras' favour. He settles back once more.
"The city is… recovering. So many lives were lost…" he sees the darkness growing in Jason's face and hurries to change the subject – his friend is really still far too weak to be upset. "We will endure," he assures Jason. "Queen Ariadne is still to be crowned but she has decided to wait for a few weeks… to wait until the city has recovered somewhat. By then you should have more than recovered yourself."
Jason shrugs noncommittally. He should, he knows, be more interested in the coronation but right now any thought of Ariadne brings pain. All too soon he yawns, however, exhaustion beginning to catch up with him at last.
"I should really let you sleep," Pythagoras frets, taking the nearly empty bowl from his unresisting hands.
"It's fine," he answers. "I'm still not ready to sleep."
"Well you should be," Hercules rumbles from the doorway. "We could all do with some sleep."
Jason looks between his two friends and realises with a guilty start just how tired they both look. He bites his lip.
"Sorry," he mutters, abashed. "Don't worry about staying awake on my account."
He yawns again, unable to stop himself. Annoyingly both his friends eye him knowingly, each realising that he will not manage to stay awake for much longer.
"Just rest Jason," Hercules says coming forwards and pulling up the blanket to tuck around his shoulders. "You'll feel better for a sleep and you'll heal quicker too. Don't worry about anything else right now. Just you rest."
Jason relaxes back into the bed, allowing his exhaustion to claim him. Surrounded by the love and care of his family he drifts back to sleep, knowing that tomorrow will be a better day and that whatever happens the two wonderful idiots he lives with will always be there for him.