Hello, everyone! I have to post this quickly, because I have to be somewhere, but I want you to know that if you've sent me a message, it's been read-I'm just waiting for a good time to sit down and give a decent reply. This fic is pretty much nothing more than a plotless hurt/comfort sickfic, because I have a serious weakness for sickfics.

Duxut Custos

It started so small.

It had happened a hundred times—Harry returned home after working a case with Murphy, tired and thoughtful. This time, he explained to Bob that a body had been found in a snow pile on the edge of the city, and they had spent the entire day going from one end of the city to the other following up leads. With the whole day spent outdoors and nothing but that thin rag he called a scarf to keep his face and throat warm, it was no wonder the idiot had started coughing by the end of the night.

The next day Harry got home even later, having followed up a difficult lead that left him so weary and worn that he collapsed into his bed without even changing his clothes or speaking more than a grunt to Bob.

Two days later, the case was finished and the killer caught; Murphy was pleased and the police department impressed; and Harry was curled up in his chair with a steaming mug, a bag of cough drops, and an aspirin.

Bob refused to show him any kind of pity, reciting only that he'd told him to buy a new scarf and a decent coat at the beginning of autumn, and if he couldn't at least pretend to be a responsible adult who plans ahead every once in a while, it shouldn't take him by surprise that there might be a consequence here and there.

Then the next morning came, and Harry didn't feel like eating despite that his last meal had been a grilled cheese around noon yesterday at some sticky cafe in downtown. Instead, he made himself another pot of tea (but he would have slept until it was cold had Bob not made a sarcastic comment about it in his ear).

Bob did not let his worry show until the following afternoon, when he felt movement in the house for the first time in over fourteen hours. He entered the kitchen and found Harry seated at the table, head resting in one hand, eyes barely open and bright with fever, his entire body shuddering with every bout of coughing. Hearing the faint rattle in every breath, Bob suggested that perhaps he needed something more medicinal than a diet of only tea.

"I don't have the money, Bob; you know that."

"You do recall you're a wizard."

Harry rubbed his forehead with a tiny wince.

"Too tired to figure it out right now," he muttered. "I'll find a spell later."

He stood and poured his tea, either ignoring or not noticing that Bob was watching his trembling hands. The sofa creaked as he laid down on it, and then three more hours passed in a silence that was only shattered by the unpleasant clamor of the phone.

When it rang seven times and he heard no response to answer it, Bob emerged from his skull, wondering if Harry had gone out without his realizing it.

He paused in momentary confusion, seeing the motionless lump of a form beneath a thick blanket on the sofa. The low late afternoon light made Harry's face difficult to distinguish until he was bent down in front of him. Bob took in the beads of sweat on Harry's forehead, his fluttering eyelids, and the gauntness of his face, and felt a pang of unease.

"Harry?"

There was no answer except the now-obvious rattle of the younger man's breathing.

"Harry!"

This time, there was a faint twitch in his peaceful expression, and then Harry's deep brown eyes flickered open. It took a long moment for them to become alert and focused.

"Bob."

He seemed to choke on just that one syllable, and he did not stop coughing violently into the blanket until it seemed his body simply got too tired.

"Harry, you need to get up," Bob told him, loudly, because the man's eyes hadn't opened again. "You need to call someone to come and take you to a doctor."

He glanced over at the phone, sitting on the table across the room, and he pushed aside the feeling that it was almost mocking him, reminding him that he couldn't call and get help for his friend himself.

Harry murmured something, shifting under the covers.

Bob reached out and allowed his hand to caress along Harry's forehead—never touching, of course, but at least he could get a sense of the heat there; the spiritual world and the living world had overlaps so that in some ways not even the High Council could stop him from feeling, or being felt.

"Bob," Harry grunted irritably.

Bob's touch seemed to be enough to pull him a little more awake, however, because he opened his eyes once more and saw his friend's concerned face.

"Your fever is much too high, Harry," Bob told him lowly. "You must get out from beneath those blankets."

Harry frowned, only pulling the blanket tighter around himself.

"Cold," he insisted.

Bob resisted the urge to say something condescending at the underlying rebelliousness.

"You must get up. You've barely eaten in days. You need food to regain strength."

"Bob. . .I really don't feel well."

Bob knew there was no hiding the way the soft, almost pleading words and those childlike brown eyes broke his heart (or whatever semblance he had in this form). He had seen Harry sick many times, particularly when he'd been a sad, lonely little boy, and suddenly that boy was all he could see in front him—then again, that's all Harry had ever really been in his eyes, though neither of them would ever admit it.

When Harry's eyes slipped immediately closed again, and his body relaxed in his cocoon of blankets, Bob sighed but did not leave him.

To be continued

Next chapter soon!