Title: A Never Ending Story
Author: MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)
Rating: K (this chapter, M overall)
Spoilers: Everything
Summary: Christian and Syed know better than anyone that there's no such thing as happy endings - just new chapters in a never-ending story.
A/N: This started out as just a fic with Christian and Syed lounging about on the couch. And then I got ill. So this happened. Self-insert? Moi? How very dare you.
Thanks once again to Jenn for the beta!
A Never Ending Story
Sick Days
Christian is not very good at being ill.
Perhaps it's because he isn't actually ill all that often – Syed suspects that the germs take one look at him and decide to run in the other direction – but when illness does strike, it strikes him hard. Syed wouldn't be surprised if the stress of the past few weeks (he swallows back the guilt, because at this point, there are more prescient issues that need attending to), plus the fact he's been too busy settling them both into their new surroundings to catch up on his jetlag, has lowered his defences just enough for the germs to have a rare go. Or it might just be the stress and the exhaustion finally catching up with him. Or he might, as Syed heard him croak earlier, be dying.
Whatever it is is irrelevant – all that matters is that they've barely been at the Clarke's house a week, and Syed finds himself propped on the couch with a feverish, whining forty year old child sprawled across his lap.
The television is on, but Syed is more focused on keeping Christian's head level in his lap, on combing gentle fingers through his hair, on nodding sympathetically every time a disgruntled or pathetic noise creeps out of Christian's lips (he gave up on words a few hours ago, speaking obviously too much effort when the odd moan would pretty much cover it).
Without wanting to sound a little sadistic, Syed has to admit that he doesn't mind this set up at all. For now, just for now, he's able to look after Christian without anything or anyone getting in his way – he's the protector, the one doing the reassuring, brushing Christian's hair behind his ears (it isn't long enough to be pushed back, but it's an action, a touch, that Christian has always loved), letting him cling to his other hand and just generally doing his best to make him feel better. He likes this role. And he's not taken it enough recently.
Because he doesn't want Christian to be his protector. Christian isn't his protector. They protect each other; look after each other; together, a partnership, and, although that might have stuttered lately, he is going to prove to himself and to Christian and to the rest of the world that that still holds true. And this seems like as good a place as any to start.
Christian's breathing begins to even out – still catching in his throat, still slightly shaky, but more even than it's been since Syed woke up to find him overheated and irritable on the other side of the bed. Syed brushes his fingertips through Christian's hair again, mussing up any remnants of yesterday's styling that still clung to the fibres. The hand that clutches his relaxes slightly, but remains locked against Christian's chest, as though it's Syed's job to make sure that he's still alive.
A tiny smile dances on Syed's lips as he watches Christian's features slacken, his body growing slightly heavier against his legs (Syed can foresee pins and needles at some point in his near future) as his head falls gently against Syed's stomach. In sleep, he suddenly looks very, very young. And Syed wants to do physical harm to anyone who would even dream of hurting him.
Which is a mind-set that has its issues, considering –
"Is he feeling any better?"
Syed looks up at the sound of Linda's voice; she's standing by the armchair, one hand on the stick she's using to steady herself and the other clutching the back of the seat as she eases herself into it. Syed moves instinctively to help, but she shakes her head, waving him away before jerking her hand back to support her weight.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," if Syed ever wondered where Christian's stubbornness (or pig-headedness, whichever one suited the situation), this past week has put that curiosity to rest. "Anyway, you look like you've pretty much got your hands full there" – she nods her head at Christian's sleeping form, which seems set on pinning Syed to the sofa – "so I'll be alright."
Syed's hand moves back to Christian's head, his palm settling against his hair; still apart from the gentle movement of his thumb just behind Christian's ear. It takes a few seconds more for Linda to successfully settle herself in the chair, her expression a mixture of triumph at having succeeded and pain at it ever having been a challenge to start with (Syed is quickly compiling a mental file of every time he realises where another of Christian's traits have come from).
"He never did like being ill," Linda's gaze settles on Christian; Syed follows her line of sight, a tiny smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as the man in question burrows further into his shirt. "He always liked being in control, even when he was little – he could cope with bruises, and cuts, and bumps, and gashes, but one hint of a cold or a sickness bug and he was on the couch before you had time to get the thermometer out."
Syed's smile stretches further as Linda speaks, a warm feeling coiling within him as Christian's breath gently buffets his stomach. He knows so very little about Christian as a child; Christian is a man of the present, and any talk of his childhood has always been brushed away with a smile or a joke or a more underhanded tactic (and Christian was very good at making Syed forget his train of thought). It's never that Syed detects any large undercurrent of pain. It's more that it's just a topic that Christian would rather not talk about.
But he can imagine Christian as a little boy. It makes him smile just to think about it. He can imagine a bundle of energy, badly behaved but never maliciously so; kind, friendly, the kind of child that wants to talk to everyone and do everything.
"He was such a lively child; that's why he coped so badly with being ill, I think."
Syed can feel himself taking note of everything Linda is saying, for the same reason that Christian is so eager to learn about his religion – he doesn't want any part of this man closed off to him.
"If he couldn't do what he wanted to do, then he didn't know what to do with himself. But he was never really bad. Annoying, sometimes - difficult, definitely – but still good, you know?" – Syed knows, and he knows that Linda knows he knows – "And he was kind as well. Sometimes too kind. Too trusting. It got him into some trouble, I can tell you now – I lost track of the amount of times I had to deal with tears and tantrums because someone hadn't treated him how he wanted to be treated. And he always knew exactly how he wanted to be treated."
She stops suddenly, as if she's suddenly remembered that Syed is still there.
"I'm not boring you, am I?"
Syed feels like the affectionate smile is making him look a little bit silly, but try as he might he can't get it under control.
"Not at all," Christian stirs slightly in his lap, his hair tickling gently at Syed's palm. "I always wondered. My mum practically ambushed him with the family photo albums a week after we – I mean, as soon as she had the chance – but there was never anything like that with him. I could imagine what he was like, but he never talks about it, so I never – "
"It wasn't that he was unhappy."
Syed feels his face go slightly red.
"I didn't mean that."
"No, I know you didn't, but I just think it needs saying," Linda smiles, and the crimson flare on Syed's cheeks begins to recede – at first, the similarity to his own mother was disconcerting, but now, especially as he begins to place the similarities alongside the obvious differences, it's reassuring. "He was happy. When he was younger. Even got on with his father, not that you could tell to look at them now. It's just as he got older – "
Linda sighs, her gaze falling gently on Christian as though the glare of her eyes could wake him; Syed wonders if she's really seeing the man he sees, or whether she's seeing the little boy, the teenager, the young man that she remembers so well and Syed knows so little about. She smiles thinly, sadly, real affection holding hands with regret.
"I've not been the best mother to him," her gaze flicks to Syed, coaxing his eyes up to hers. "But, from what I hear, you've not necessarily been the best husband."
Syed's hand freezes mid-stroke. He pales slightly. His mouth opens. No sound comes out. He's midway through a deep breath, trying to form words to try and explain to Christian's mother – his mother of all people – when Linda lays a gentle hand on his wrist.
"I don't know you, Syed, and I barely know my own son, not the man he is now. I don't have any right to criticise. So I won't. I'll keep an eye on you, mark my words, and if you ever hurt him again - but my son knows himself better than I do, and after seeing the way that he looks at you – the way that you look at him –" another sigh, her hand falling from Syed's wrist, hovering just a moment over Christian's hair before settling back in her lap – "I've made a lot of mistakes, with Christian, and it's too late for me to do much about it now. It would be almost insulting to try. But it's not too late for you to do something. So just – keep loving him? Looking after him? Promise me that and I'll be the most – well, not necessarily nice, but tolerant – mother-in-law you could ever hope to have. Do we have a deal?"
Syed opens his mouth to answer - eager, sincere, feeling the honesty swell within him after the lies that he's let haunt him for too long – but at that moment Christian stirs, turning his face away from Syed's shirt as his eyes crack open, flicking from Syed to his mother. A low groan croaks from his throat as he shuts his eyes again almost immediately.
"Oh god," the hand that isn't still clutching Syed's comes up to cover his face. "You're talking about me aren't you? Can't you just - " he buries his face into Syed's stomach again, his arm coming up over his head to cocoon himself against Syed's shirt " – let me die in peace?"
Syed tries, and fails, to stifle a laugh. Christian grunts in protest, smacking his hand feebly against him before letting it flop back to cover his head. Linda just smiles and begins to manoeuvre herself out of the chair.
"I think you've got this," she directs the smile at Syed, letting him return it before making her way out of the room.
As her footsteps begin to recede, Christian peeks out from Syed's shirt.
"Is she gone?"
Syed sighs, his feigned exasperation betrayed by the affectionate grin that stretches his face.
"Yes, she is."
"Good," Christian's head flops back, his voice muffled against Syed. "Now I'm gonna die on you."
"You're not going to die."
"Tell that to my head. And my stomach. And my everything. And while you're at it, could you have a word with God as well? We haven't talked in a while. And He likes you."
Syed's smile twitches down, just a little.
"I wouldn't be so sure."
"Well he should. Because I like you. You're comfy," Christian's words begin to run together, vibrating into a whirr of noise against Syed's stomach. His hand clenches around Syed's, pressing them both against his chest. It's as though everything of the past few weeks – every little thing – is, in this moment, forgotten, because Christian needs Syed and wants Syed, and that's all that matters.
His fingers brush through Christian's hair; once, twice, slowly and gently as Christian's breath grows steady against him.
"You should go back to sleep."
Christian makes a tiny noise of assent, his body curling so his torso presses Syed into the couch.
"You'll still be here when I wake up?" Syed feels, more than hears, the tiny whisper as Christian begins to drift off.
"Yeah," he feels Christian's heartbeat beneath his fingers, and feels his stomach twisting with too many emotions for him to have the energy to pinpoint. "Even if you're ill and whiny and snotty and just a tiny little bit gross. I'm not going anywhere. I'll never - "
He stops before he even gets into his stride.
Because Christian is already asleep.
Thanks for reading! If you have any suggestions for vignettes I can do, or issues you'd like covered, or scenarios you'd like me to incorporate, just let me know and I'll see what I can do.