Andrew was sick, quite sick in fact. Boone had known, deep down, that when his son started school, he was more than likely to come down with some of the more common childhood ailments. Still, he'd picked him up time and again, seeing other kids with sniffles and runny noses, without Andrew exhibiting any signs of illness at all, that he'd developed a false sense of security.
It was chicken pox, very virulent, and very unpleasant. It'd had woken him one night, the child's misery penetrating his sleep, and he'd padded down the hall, after donning his boxers, to find the boy tangled in the sheets, brow sweaty and hair plastered to his skin. He'd pressed the back of his hand against his forehead, alarmed at the heat that he felt. Leaning closer he'd seen the tell tale red spots, and knew that he was in for a bit of a rough time.
He'd turned to leave the room, thinking the boy still asleep, but a faint 'Daddy?' had penetrated his thoughts.
Boone had gone back to the bed; Andrew's eyes were still closed. 'I'm here.' Boone assured him.
'I was waiting for you.' Boone could hear the whine in Andrew's voice even though the words were only in his head.
'Why didn't you wake me?' He'd continued the silent conversation.
'I did." Andrew pointed out.
Boone had to give him that one.
'I don't feel good, and I need to go to the bathroom.' His eyes finally flickered open. Boone could see how dull they were, even in the minimal light seeping around the half-open door to the hall.
'No, I know you don't feel good, but why didn't you just get up and go to the bathroom?'
'I tried to get up, but my head feels funny, and I'm so hot. I need you to take me.' Andrew explained.
Boone had picked him up and taken him down the hall. He'd kicked the booster stool over in front of the toilet and stood the boy on it, holding him securely as he swayed a bit. When he was done, he'd kicked the stool over in front of the sink, so he could wash his hands; then carried him back to bed.
The boy was frightened, rarely ever sick, which Boone attributed to their healthy way of eating, and the minimal amount of contact he had with other children. Unaccustomed to how awful he felt, he mewled and fretted, pleading with Boone to help him. His heart breaking, Boone did all he could, running himself ragged up and down the stairs, attending to business and Andrew simultaneously.
He'd called Kate and Jack, searching for an easy solution to the problem, but had just been told to administer ibuprofen, and wait it out. In desperation he'd also called Sun, who told him to make some ginger-laced chicken soup for the child. She knew that it was just a placebo, but it gave him something to do, and certainly wouldn't hurt.
Pamela had called at lunch on the first day. "I got your message." He'd phoned the school as soon as he thought the office was open to let them know that Andrew wouldn't be coming in, reminding them to tell all his teachers. "Chicken pox eh?"
"Yes." Boone pressed his hand against his forehead, already frustrated.
"It's going through the school. I've got four away myself." She told him.
"He's so sore, and miserable. I feel so bad for him." He could only imagine Shannon's impatience and irritation at the whining of a sick child.
"He'll be up and around in no time." Pamela assured him. "You know what to do right?" She was concerned that he'd give the boy aspirin.
"Yeah, I called Jack first thing this morning." He replied.
"Your friend Jack, from when you went away for the weekend? Why?" She wondered.
"He's a doctor; and his wife is too." Boone wasn't really paying too much attention, his thoughts on more immediate concerns.
They'd been on a few more dates; it was late October now. Pamela hadn't pressed any more about his background, sticking more with current events, and in response he'd become far more comfortable with her. She was pleased he was letting slip another tidbit of personal information. So two of his friends were doctors? Interesting. "I'm not going to be able to make it on Friday." Boone added.
"No I guess you're not. I'll miss you though." They'd been planning on going to a performance by the local theatre group.
"You're going to go without me?" He sounded sad and wounded.
"We paid for the tickets. I'm not going to let them go to waste." She pushed his baggage, whatever it was, out of her mind. She'd made a decision early in the relationship, to take him at face value. He had issues, which she hoped he'd reveal eventually, but she wasn't going to let it disrupt her enjoyment at being with him.
"No, only makes sense, I guess," he conceded. "I wish I was going to be there." She could hear the pout even over the phone.
"Me too," the sentiment was heartfelt. "Tell Andrew I said hello." Pamela rang off.
By day three, Heather thought he was going to have to go back to the hospital. He sat at his desk, staring blindly into space; exhaustion etched on his face, more a zombie than thinking human. He had stubbornly said that this was his problem and was dealing with the sick child alone. She'd asked him, on the first day, if he'd had the chicken pox himself, and he'd absently answered yes he was pretty sure he had.
Not overly confident with his answer, she called Sabrina, who had asked what chicken pox were, and if her son, in another moment of madness, had decided to raise poultry. Heather gave up at that point, if the man hadn't had the disease as a child, he was certainly going to now.
On day five, Boone dragged himself again to Andrew's bedside in the middle of the night. He was well into the itching stage now, and had woken Boone from his desperately needed sleep, with his desire to tear bloody welts into his skin. In a stupor, Boone ran a medicated bath and submerged the child in it, just wanting to lean over the edge of the tub and drown himself. He wished that there was someone to share the burden with him, but he wasn't about to inflict this kind of torture on Tom and Heather. He thought bitterly about his absent spouse.
After the bath, he carried the somewhat more comfortable boy back to his bed and tried to lie him down.
'No Boone, you too, please?' Andrew clung to him. 'I don't want to be alone.'
Heaving a sigh, he reversed their positions, lying in the bed with the small pyjama clad figure draped over his bare chest. He'd put his underwear on, when he'd gotten up, but that was all he'd managed.
As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out.
Heather had heard them, the noise of the water running, and the footsteps in the hall, she was a mother, and was sensitive to those particular sounds. When she listened to them return to the one bedroom, but not the second, she went to check on them.
She shook her head at what met her gaze. The two of them, passed out in exhaustion, one of Boone's feet still on the floor. She lifted it and put it on the bed, he was so deep in sleep that his breathing pattern didn't even change. She pulled a spare blanket out of the chest at the foot of Andrew's bed and draped it over the two of them, kissing each in turn, before leaving the room and closing the door.
God, but he was relieved when his son was well enough to go back to school.
It was just before four o'clock and Pamela had noticed that Andrew had been looking kind of excited for about the last five minutes. When Boone entered the room, the boy, as usual, was already at the back door waiting for him. He grabbed his hand, and all but pulled him from the room, not even giving his dad a chance to smile and nod at her. She frowned in puzzlement at the strange behaviour, and after a minute moved to the window to see if she could tell what was up.
There was a very large man standing in the shade of the oak tree on the front lawn. The size of his hair was in proportion to the rest of him, and made it look as if two small fuzzy brown dogs had taken up residence on either side of his head.
When Andrew came out the front door, he made a beeline for the guy, and scaled up him, not unlike Sir Edmund Hillary must have conquered Mount Everest, she thought. Boone approached the pair, smiling and chuckling, as Andrew hugged the man. The three of them headed for a Humvee parked at the curb, Andrew's arms still wrapped about the large man's neck. He'd obviously been awarded the shotgun position, as Boone clambered into the rear passenger seat, and Andrew was deposited into the front.
Realizing that the vehicle was an extremely expensive one, she wondered about Boone again. She'd been getting a distinct sense that there was far more to him than she had assumed. Another part of the life that she'd concocted for him had been shattered when she'd finally asked him what he did. When he'd answered that he worked at the general store down by the lakefront, she'd been floored, so secure in the persona she'd created for him that it just didn't even occur to her that he'd answer with anything other than what she'd expected.
Boone thought he was only being honest with his response, after all owning the store was something he had, working at the store was what he did, and that's what she'd asked. He knew that it was kind of not answering the intent of her question, but he thought that saying he owned the place was kind of overblown, and boasting.
When she told him what she'd imagined he did, he'd just laughed.
"Grounds keeper and handyman?" He'd echoed, with a lopsided grin. "Well, I'm pretty good at cutting the lawn, but you don't really want to ask me to fix anything more complicated than changing a light bulb."
Tom had attempted to get him involved in basic home repair projects, but after Boone had almost put a drill bit right through the palm of his hand, during what should have been a routine procedure, the man had stepped forward and quickly removed the power tool from his grip, before he impaled himself on a door frame. Tom had then told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was never to touch one of them again, and, just to be safe, to leave the screw drivers and hammers in the tool box as well.
Pamela was disappointed that she still hadn't gotten past the kissing stage with Boone. She'd tried to progress it a few times, but he'd always backed off. He was such a good kisser, though, awakening such passion in her that she wasn't sure how much longer she could deal with the frustration of wanting more of him, only to be denied it.
She'd ask Boone about his large friend, and his car, when she saw him next, though she'd be sure to come at it a bit obliquely, he was still skittish about answering any even marginally personal questions, though she had to acknowledge that she was slowly learning more about him. She went back to her desk, and tried to push her girlish daydreams involving the enigmatic Mr. Carlyle to the back of her mind.
Boone hadn't been expecting Hurley but had gotten a sense of his impending arrival about five minutes before he'd pulled the gargantuan vehicle into the driveway, and so had been out on the asphalt waiting for him.
"Dude, good to see you." He'd clapped Boone on the back sending him staggering forward.
"Hey man." He'd greeted, righting himself. "What gives?"
"Ma." The two letters explained everything. Boone liked Mrs. Reyes, but she could be a bit opinionated and pushy sometimes. "I had to get away. She's been driving me nuts lately. I didn't think you'd mind if I crashed here for a few days."
Boone was more than happy to have the company, and as soon as they saw him, and heard that he was staying for an extended visit, Tom and Heather were too. Not only was he guaranteed to keep them laughing, he usually helped out in the store as well, loving to talk to the customers.
At three-thirty, when Boone announced that he had to go pick Andrew up, Hurley had immediately volunteered to drive. "Can't wait to see the little dude, he's the coolest."
After dinner that night, and putting Andrew to bed, the two friends wandered across the street to sit on the beach. It wasn't the same as sitting by the ocean on the island by any means, but it was a pretty good substitute. Lying on the sand, under the stars, they filled each other in on what was going on in their lives, talking well into the wee hours.