Footsteps clicked into the room with near-military precision. "Are you all right?" Hillary's voice asked, briskly.
"Yeah," Bryce replied, not opening his eyes.
"You haven't been sneaking cigarettes, have you?" A too-warm, long-fingered hand descended onto Bryce's forehead, and he jerked his head away, opening his eyes to stare at Hillary with annoyance.
"You took me fags, and you've been watchin' me like a goddam hawk to make sure I don't get up. Where would I have got 'em?" Bryce felt annoyed and petulant, and he was determined that Hillary should know that - on the off chance that the man had managed to forget it in the ten minutes since he had last been in the room.
Hillary looked slightly startled as he pulled his hand back. "I'm just trying to make sure you're all right. Cigarettes will not help you shake this."
"The shakes I'm gettin' from not havin' 'em sure as hell in't helpin'!" Bryce snarled back.
Hillary stepped back and tugged his jacket straight. "Well. Just let me know if you need anything to be comfortable."
Bryce grinned. "I can think of somethin'..." He snaked his hand from underneath the stifling blanket. Hillary grabbed him by the wrist and tucked the arm back in.
"You need your rest," he replied, his voice chiding. "I'll bring you some tea when I take Lady Croft hers." He turned on his toe and strode out of the room.
Bryce stared glumly at the ceiling, just as he had before. Coming down with a touch of flu in the late winter was nothing new. He had done it in years past, and had done just as his mum had - drank gin and smoked until he felt better. But Hillary had his own ideas of what to do when sick, and he wasn't content to just keep them to himself. No, he insisted on forcing them on Bryce. He had dragged the man bodily out of his trailer and tucked him into his own bed. Any ideas Bryce might have entertained that this was to allow him easier access - which Bryce would have heartily approved of - were tossed out on the first night, when Hillary slept in a chair near the door, stuffing Bryce back into bed when he tried to sneak out. Bryce was beginning to wonder if the 'intent' of the treatment was to make him so damn sick of being sick that he would heal faster just to get out of there. It didn't seem to be working. He was as tired of the situation as a human could be, but his temperature stubbornly refused to drop, and his voice would not lose the additional harshness the 'flu had given it.
Bryce punched the pillow a few times and flopped back onto it. Being in Hillary's bed did not help things. The 'flu had not brought congestion with it, so Bryce could clearly smell Hillary over the bedclothes and in the air of the room. It was pervasive - a slightly musky smell of clean human, one that was readily identifiable as Hillary, with just the faintest touch of toothpaste and a whiff of cologne over the top. The man was refusing to touch Bryce as anything other than a nursemaid, and Bryce was bloody well sick of it. Then, to layer insult on top of injury, no cigarettes! His body was aching for nicotine, making him sweat, screaming at him that it needed it, and there was not a cigarette to be had. They were all in his trailer. Bryce entertained the idea of knotting the sheets together and climbing out of the window, but he was no good at knots. He'd fall and break a leg, and Hillary would tie him to the damn bed until it healed.
The idea of Hillary tying him to the bed nudged at him in ways he did not intend, and he flopped his head to the side and groaned.
"Are you all right?" Hillary asked, walking in with a tea service on a tray.
"Take yer tea service and jam it up Lara's rectum sideways," Bryce moaned.
Hillary shook his head as he set the tray on the nightstand. "Those cigarettes are no good for you. Look at what they've done to you..."
"You've done this to me," Bryce muttered. But his mouth was arid, and he took the tea Hillary poured for him and slurped it down, noisily, barely tasting it.
"Quitting abruptly is always difficult, but you've made it this far; if you just keep..." Bryce smiled and nodded, letting Hillary ramble. He did not listen. He thought about the pleasures of the flesh he would be able to indulge in once he was well again. A good, satisfying cigarette, drawing warm, relaxing smoke into his lungs. A shot of whiskey - the gentle, smooth fire of it, perhaps mixed with a cup of espresso. Yes, the bitter, buttery power of the coffee would complement the whiskey perfectly. And after that, Hillary - even if he had to pretend his trailer needed a jolly good straightening up in order to lure the man into it. Then out of his clothes and onto Bryce's cot. Or even on the chair in front of Bryce's computer desk. Or perhaps in the manor, on the marble countertop - or on that immaculate kitchen floor. Yes, that had possibilities, and Bryce had no problem smiling and nodding about whatever get-healthy drivel Hillary was spouting. The butler felt Bryce's forehead again with his too-warm hand and cleared the tea service, walking out to leave Bryce stewing in his Hillary-scented bedclothes.
Just you wait 'til I'm well Bryce purred, internally, and almost felt sorry for the man.