...Is A Friend Indeed

by TeeJay

Author's Note:
Originally, this was going to be a one shot, only showing the Joan/Adam part of the story. But then I became slightly obsessed with poor, little, sick Adam (blame the mother hen in me) that I thought it might be fun to write a Grace/Adam part as well. I just like the often unspoken of but still somehow natural friendship between the two of them. This will start a little earlier and finish a little later than the first part of the story. You'll get the hang of it, I guess.

The corniness factor of this one won't be quite as high as in part 1. It's yours to decide if that's a good or a bad thing.

Reviews welcome, no, craved, as always. Please leave one. Make my day. Thanks, guys.

Disclaimer:
These characters and settings are not mine. Nor am I claiming they are. They are property of CBS, Barbara Hall Productions, Sony or whoever else they might belong to. I'm not making any money out of this, although I wish I was.

"Hello?"

Rove's familiar soft voice greets me from the other end of the line, but today it doesn't sound quite so familiar. It sounds exerted and weary. My brow furrows as I say, "It's Grace. Dude, are you okay?"

"Not really," he replies, but doesn't elaborate.

I start to worry despite myself. I know Rove gets depressed easily by things that involve emotions. And ever since that day his mother died, I can't help but be anxious he might do something stupid when life presents him with another challenge, emotional or otherwise. Although I would never admit that to anyone. "Out with it," I urge him to explain.

He manages a strained chuckle that filters through the phone receiver. "That's exactly the problem. I've been throwing up all day," he sighs.

I wrinkle my nose because I have too much of a graphically active imagination. "Okay, Rove, oversharing alert. Please—no details. Did you get wasted last night or something?" I just want to make sure, because I can't really picture Rove getting drunk.

"No," he replies, "Stomach flu, I guess. Maybe something I ate." There's a pause before he asks, "Why did you call?"

"Oh, uh... it's not important now. You just..." I hesitate, because I don't wanna sound like a mother duck, saying stuff like 'get back to bed'. Instead I say, "...go back to your throwing up, if you have to."

"Yeah, gladly," he says sarcastically.

It is then I remember that he said his dad was going to be out of town for the week. "Look, uh... you need anything?" I ask him carefully, throwing off my cold-hearted façade for a second.

"I think we ran out of Tylenol. Could you maybe bring some by tomorrow after school, I think I'm running a fever."

"Tylenol?" I say. "Ouch, not when you're puking your guts out. I think something lame like chamomile tea might be a better option in your case."

I can't say if he's making a face at the other end or is just beyond caring or maybe even likes the stuff. But obviously not the latter, because he says hesitantly, "Uh... I don't think we have any of that."

I look at the taskbar clock on my computer that's in front of me and make a quick decision. "Okay, that does it. I'm coming over."

"No," he says weakly, "you don't have to do that." But his tone of voice is far from convincing.

"No objections, Rove."

"Okay," he resigns before we hang up.

Twenty minutes later, I ring the doorbell to his house. The person who opens the door is barely recognizable to me. "Dude, you look like death warmed over," I greet him.

His hand rubs one of his eyes as he tiredly says, "Yeah, feel like it too."

"Off to bed with you, then." I wave my hands in a 'shoo' gesture. "The lesser physical proximity here, the lesser the chances I'll catch whatever you have. Go. Bed. Now," I order him, but my tone sounds playful enough for him to know I don't mean it quite the way I said it.

I watch him miserably crawling back upstairs and venture into the kitchen. A quick glance into cupboards, drawers and the refrigerator tells me that there's some vital edibles and other necessities missing. A trip to Wal-Mart might be in order here.

But first I unpack the box with some special herbal tea concoction for gastrointestinal conditions that I have brought from home. Mom keeps stuff like that around and I never thought it would come in handy. I put on some water to make him one, carefully sniffing the teabag to determine whether the scent won't already make him throw up. But I'm surprised that it actually doesn't even smell that unpleasant.

When it's ready, I carry the mug upstairs to his room. When I carefully knock on the door, a low "Yeah," tells me I can come in. I put the mug onto his bedside table, telling him, "Okay, this might not look or smell like the most delicious treat, but if there's anything you should ingest, it's this."

He picks up the mug and sniffs it carefully, much like I did downstairs. His face scrunches into a disgusted expression. "I don't think I can drink anything right now," he says as he sets the mug back down.

I shrug my shoulders. "Whatever." I try to sound indifferent, but what I really would like to say is: 'At least give it a try, all right?'

It is at that moment that I notice the bucket standing next to his bed. And it's not empty. I briefly swallow down my initial disgust and then pick it up. "Okay, you gotta admit this is seriously gross, and it's not what I normally do, but for you I'll make an exception this once." With these words I walk out of the room with the bucket and dispose of the contents into the toilet, rinsing it and leaving some water in it for easier cleaning afterwards.

I place the bucket back next to his bed when I return to his room. "Try not to make it your goal to fill this thing."

"Yeah, I'm working on that," he tells me meekly.

"Listen, I'll be back in an hour or so. I'm gonna get you some Tylenol and other stuff you might need the next few days."

"Grace—" he starts, but I interrupt him.

"Save the gratitude for later, Rove."

He just nods and I leave him to his solitary misery for now. Downstairs, I grab the set of keys that I know are the ones for the house, and leave to buy some of the things he might need, including the pain and fever meds he requested.

One shopping trip later, back at his house, I stock the refrigerator and cupboards and then trudge back to his room. His eyes are closed when I enter, but he opens them when he hears me coming closer. I put the Tylenol onto his nightstand and tell him, "Okay, here's your drugs and I hope you find the kitchen appropriately equipped for your needs."

The look he directs at me says more than words and he adds, "Thanks," to underline what his gaze has already told me. And I don't really want any gratitude because it's what friends do. I know he would do the same thing for me if the need arose.

"Sure," I mumble. "Look, you have my number, so call if... you know... you need anything else," I quickly finish. "Oh, and I'll take your set of keys, if that's okay. Just in case."

"Yeah," he answers, but his voice sounds like he's already half asleep.

"Okay," I say as I leave. On my way out, I put the keys to his house into my pants pocket and then suddenly remember that I won't have time to check up on him tomorrow. Well, then I'll have to find someone else to do it for me. Joan? Luke? Mrs. Girardi? Friedman? I'm gonna ask them in that order. I'm sure that one of his friends will take pity on him.

I sigh as I lock the house after me. Being sick sucks. Being sick without anyone to nurse you sucks even more.

"Grace!"

I hear Joan's voice approaching from behind as I stand by my open locker. She approaches me, jingling the keys in the air that I gave her yesterday morning. "Adam's keys. I suppose you want them back."

I take them, saying, "You're not expecting me to ask how he is, do you?"

"No, I would never do that. That's why I'm telling you anyway." She grins at me, then her face becomes more serious. "He was pretty out of it. Look, if you go back there today, you should make sure he drinks enough, especially if he's still running a fever. I don't think he drank anything at all yesterday."

"What, do I look like I'm his mother?" I shoot at Joan. She lifts her arms in a mock defensive gesture.

"I'm just sayin'..." Joan says. "You don't have to make it quite as obvious to him. You could tell him I threatened you with... with... making you watch Harry Potter in the theater with me."

I consider the option for a moment. "Okay, that works for me," I agree.

Joan smiles at me and I consider this conversation over, especially as from the corner of my eye I see Luke walking inconspicuously in the direction of the biology closet. Slamming my locker shut, I turn around and follow him, hoping I'm not looking too obvious.

"Rove, you awake?" I say aloud as I unlock the door to his house yet again and step into the hallway.

I walk into the kitchen and deposit a fresh container of milk in the refrigerator. When I turn around, he stands leaning against the doorframe in the doorway, answering, "Well, I'm now."

He looks much better than when I saw him two days ago—on Tuesday—when I would have described him as something akin to deep-frozen spinach. Though, when I look at him, he still seems a little peaky and pallid.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" I inquire.

"I must have nodded off on the couch. But don't worry," he assures me, "I think I've slept enough these past few days to last the whole next month without sleep."

"Hey, you hungry?" I ask him, trying to sound disconnected, uncaring, even though I know I can't fool him. We've known each other long enough to know each other's ways, and it doesn't matter that we don't admit that to each other.

He gives me a sheepish smile and it's good to see him smile. "What—are you gonna cook for me now?" he asks, the smile widening.

I shoot him a look that says, 'You're kidding, right?'. "Dude, you should know me better than that." I take a can of ready-made macaroni & cheese from the cupboard I put it in and place it on the counter. "This is all I have to offer. Your stomach up for that?"

He shrugs. "I can always try."

"Okay," I say as I fish the can opener from the drawer and start opening the can. Two minutes later, the pot with the yellowish mix of noodles and cheese sauce stands on the stove, slowly heating up. I look over at Rove, who's still standing in the doorway, and still grinning stupidly at me.

"What are you smirking at?" I ask threateningly.

"Oh, it's just... this whole motherly side of yours, it comes across a little unexpected."

"Shut up, Rove." I throw the tea towel at him, but he fends it off by catching it with his hands. "If I ever hear the word 'motherly' associated with my person again, there'll be hell to pay, I swear. Oh, and speaking of threats, Girardi made me promise to make sure you drank enough. So, have you? Drunk enough?"

He finally steps into the kitchen, sitting down at the kitchen table where I join him, only to get up occasionally to stir the macaroni. He raises his eyebrows slightly. "Uh... I had, maybe, a liter of tea and water today. You think that's enough?"

I lift my hands, shrugging my shoulders. "Hey, don't ask me. Wasn't my idea!"

Rove is silent for a while before he says in that quiet, thoughtful voice of his, "Joan said you asked her to come over on Monday. Why?"

I look at him incredulously for a split second, then say, "You're really gonna make me say it?"

He looks at me quizzically, asking innocently, "Make you say what?"

I sigh, giving in. "That I was worried?" I make it a question, but it isn't. It just makes it easier to say.

"That why you came over almost every day? Wow, I'm flattered, I didn't know I deserved all the attention," he says, sounding slightly ironic.

I hate when I have to admit things that make the tough façade that I worked so hard at creating crumble away. "What—you think I was gonna leave you here to rot all by yourself? And I swear, if I come down with the same thing you had, I'm gonna kick your butt for good!"

"Unchallenged," he laughs. "And besides, it wasn't like I was mortally ill."

"Didn't seem that way to me two days ago. You were talking in your sleep, all feverish and wretched."

"I was?" Adam asks, looking confused, unbelieving.

"Believe me, it wasn't pretty."

"Yeah, sorry for that," he apologizes, but I shrug it off.

"I survived. Well, at least for now." I stand up again to walk over to the pot with noodles on the stove. I stir them again and then taste one. When I have decided that they're hot enough, I spread the slightly gooey mixture onto two plates and place his wordlessly in front of him before I sit down with my own.

We eat the noodles in silence. In the way he starts pecking at his food after finishing only half the plate, I see that he's still not quite up to speed, but I guess that was to be expected. I'm just glad that he seems to be somewhere further along the road to recovery.

Shortly before the last bite of my macaroni vanishes in my mouth, I hear his voice again, gentle and unsure. "Grace, can I ask you something?"

I just look at him, silently saying yes with a mere glance.

His fork fiddles absently with a macaroni on his plate. "You think she'll ever forgive me?"

I want to ask 'Is this about Girardi?' but I don't have to. We both know it is. What can I tell him? I think he needs to hear the truth, so I give him my version of it. "Honestly? I don't know. It's been a few months now, but what you did, that's not something you just forgive and forget, Rove."

"Yeah, I know," he sighs. "And I'm not asking her to. But is a second chance too much to ask for?"

"I'm not really the one you should be asking this question to. If Luke did something like that to me, I don't know what I'd do. I don't know if I could ever forgive him," I tell him. I look into his eyes that can radiate such incredible sadness. To try and give him some hope, which I hope is not misplaced, I add, "But, you know, we're talking about Joan here. You never know with her, right? If she's one thing, she's unpredictable."

"Yeah," he simply acknowledges, the doubt not having vanished from his features and voice.

I get more uncomfortable by the minute. I'm not good at talking about this stuff. "Look, I should probably get going, let you pass out on the couch again." I stand up and carry both our plates to the sink, placing them in amongst other dirty dishes that have accumulated there. Being motherly is one thing, but I'm not his maid. I draw the line at washing up.

As I walk into the hallway, I tell him, "Seeing that you're up and about again, don't expect me to come back any time soon."

He gives me another smile that again tells me my words can't belie the soft core I rather hide in front of people. I hand him the keys I took with me the previous days. I open the door, but before I can walk out, I hear his voice again.

"Grace?" I turn around to look at him. He simply says, "Thanks."

I wave dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

He knows it's my way of saying 'You're welcome.' He sees me off with a, "See you in school on Monday," as I walk off his front porch and into the street.

The truth is, I've known Rove since kindergarten. We grew up together, went through thick and thin when we were kids, were there for each other when we needed to. That might have changed somewhat in recent years, but no matter how much the other person would mess up, in time of need, we would always have each other to turn to as a last resort. This friendship had been put to the test a couple of times, but it always persevered. And that's the way I hope it will stay.

Spanish? English? Spanish, right? I quickly squint my eyes, trying to remember whether it's Spanish next or English. I see Rove coming up next to me, opening his own locker, saying very cheerfully and alert, "Good morning, Grace," since we didn't see each other before first period today.

My brow furrows in bewilderment. There's something different about him, something that contrasts starkly with the normally so quiet, retreated, soft-spoken Rove. "We have Spanish next, right?" I ask him.

When I don't get an answer, I turn my head sideways to look at him. He's just staring at the inside of his locker as if there's a door to another world at the far end, a stupid grin on his face. I wave my hand at his face. "Hellooo? Rove! There's people talking to you, real people."

He turns his face at me now, still looking a bit spacey. "Sorry. What?" he asks, sounding confused.

"We have—Rove, what is up with you? You're not yourself."

He glances at me and his eyes are lit up with an unfamiliar happiness that makes me raise my eyebrows. "Did you win the lottery or something?"

He smiles again, answering enthusiastically, "Even better." Then his voice becomes more mellow, "I got my—"

Just at that moment, Joan approaches us from behind, greeting us with her usual but also very bright, "Hey." She goes straight for Adam and the way she touches his waist from behind and the look they give each other tells me more than words. I complete his sentence, asking, "Second chance?"

He nods at me. I look at him as Joan walks over to her own locker next to Adam's. She takes out a few books and tells us, "See you guys later, I gotta head over to Price's office."

"Price's office?" I ask. "What did you do this time, Girardi?"

"Nothing," she pipes up happily. "Just, you know... stuff."

"Stuff?" Adam asks, confused.

Joan waves dismissively. "I'll tell you later, okay?" Then she turns around and walks off.

I share a confused look with Rove before I give him some well-meant advice. "Just don't mess up this time," I tell him matter-of-factly.

He looks back at me, his face falling ever so slightly. "What—you don't think we should...?" He doesn't finish the question.

"No," I deny. "I'm happy for you. See, I'm smiling on the inside. I just don't want to get caught in the aftermath again. Once is more than enough."

A shadow crosses his face at the unpleasant memory, but then he smiles again. "Okay, I'll keep that in mind."

"You better," I threaten him mockingly. Then the bell rings and I still don't know if it's Spanish or English next. "Dude, do we have English or Spanish next?" I ask my initial question again.

"Spanish," he says, then adds, "I think."

I lift my arms exasperatedly. Isn't there anyone of any use today? I sigh and pull the battered schedule out of my bag. It's indeed Spanish coming up. I wave the schedule at him, "You have a photographic memory. Shouldn't you be able to memorize this stuff?"

He just shrugs and we both make our way to class. Guess no one's perfect.

THE END

Author's Note (cont'd):
As an afterthought... As I already said, this story is corny as heck (at least the Adam/Joan part). It's so corny that I was kinda mocking it (thus mocking myself) when I was chatting with GermanJoan the other day and showed her the story. And while we were talking about that Joan has to switch on the lights on first before she can read to Adam, I had this totally irrational parody scene pop into my head—and it made me giggle quite a lot. Instead of what I wrote up there, just imagine this taking place when Joan comes to Adam's bed:

Joan entered Adam's room, noticing that he was asleep in his bed. She went to his nightstand and switched the lamp standing on it on and off and on and off repeatedly in rapid succession. In a loud voice, she hollered, "Adam, rise and shiiiiiine!"

Adam's eyes flew open very suddenly, very widely. He stared at Joan contemptuously, spitting at her, "Piss off, Jane, I'm sick." Then he doubled over and puked onto her shoes.

Joan jumped back a few steps. "Ewww, gross!" she exclaimed with a disgusted look on her face.

And then there's the scene were Adam kisses Joan on top of her head. And GermanJoan found it kinda weird when I said Adam was leaning down and kissing her hair (because the way I imagined them sitting close to each other, he couldn't reach her face or her forehead). She said she couldn't imagine Joan's hair would taste very nice. And then this came out:

Adam leaned down and kissed the top of Joan's head. A few stray hairs got caught between his lips and he spit them out with a grossed out sound. "Jane, your hair tastes icky. Can't you try another shampoo next time?"

Okay, sorry. I don't know where that came from, but I thought I'd share it with you. I get silly like that sometimes. Don't know if it will make anyone else laugh as well. Sometimes I think I should write a JoA parody, but then again, I love that show so much that I don't really want to ridicule it.