Adult chickenpox occurs more often in some tropical climates, of which Matt Parkman is happily unaware until Molly's friend Lily Ng unwittingly brings it into their home. He and Molly are already immune; but the Chennai-bred Mohinder is soon a blistered mess.
A grumpy, bitchy blistered mess. He's always hated catching the mildest of colds, let alone erupting in itchy scabs and collapsing feverishly at his laptop. He treats illness like a personal failing, a thing of disgust. Equally repulsed by Matt's nursing efforts, he squirms away from calamine dabs like they're acid.
"Will you sit still?" Matt bursts out. "You're the worst patient ever!"
"I didn't ask-" Blisters in Mohinder's throat make his voice a cracked whistle. He coughs sharply.
"Now might be a good time to remember you live with a telepath."
I didn't ask you to do this!
"Gee, you're welcome," Matt replies dryly, dabbing at his cheek. "You mad that I'm better looking than you for once?"
This earns a surprised snort from Mohinder. That's absurd. You can't be blind to your hands, your shoulders... He catches himself. Anyway, I'm like a freshly unwrapped mummy.
Matt laughs, and aims another spot of lotion at Mohinder, who flinches and goes very still.
"You really hate this, don't you?" Matt murmurs.
Eyes shut, Mohinder nods.
"What are you, embarrassed?"
Not at all. I love looking like an open sore in front of my boyfriend.
"Freshly unwrapped mummy was funnier," Matt says. "And you've seen me with gunshot wounds, so I think I win the looking-like-crap contest."
Not the same.
"Why?" Matt challenges, but Mohinder only scowls and keeps his thoughts to a low Tamil grumble. "Is it some transcultural masculinity thing I'm not getting?"
No, but I appreciate the reminder not to discuss my friends' sociology papers at dinner.
"You're ashamed," Matt tries gently.
Mohinder's eyes fly open. Oh please, that's just...
"Makes sense," he continues. "Your sister dies of prolonged illness. You get sick, your parents probably go a little nuts."
Mohinder's glare, made harsher by the blisters, could melt steel. Don't you get enough interrogations at work? How dare you judge my parents?
"Whoa," Matt says. "I'm not judging. Just trying to figure out..."
How nuts they were?
"You know I didn't mean it like that."
Certain you're not projecting? As soon as the thought is formed Mohinder regrets it, his eyes widening in visible chagrin.
"Fine." Matt throws up his hands, having lost patience. "What do you want?"
...I think I should just sleep.
Thus Matt retreats to the living room. He plays with Molly, pays bills, half-listens to Mohinder's dreams shift from irritable to delirious to afraid. But when he goes in to check, or bring Tylenol or juice, Mohinder won't budge from his sour, blanket-wrapped exile.
Matt's flipping channels when he finally shuffles out of his room.
Mohinder's in ratty sweats, a blanket around his shoulders. His face is still a mess of spots. Gingerly, he settles beside Matt on the couch.
"Uh, what's on?" he rasps, voice still shot.
Matt shrugs. "Paula Deen. She makes me look like a health food nut."
He snorts. "That's rather frightening." But he's not looking; he's focused on his hands, fidgety in his lap. "I, um, think I was a bit of an ass to you earlier."
A bit? Matt thinks. But aloud he says: "It's OK. I shouldn't have pushed."
Mohinder shrugs. "You were being good to me. I was being an ingrate."
"Mohinder," Matt says firmly. "I said it's OK."
"You weren't wrong, entirely," he admits. "You're in the right line of work."
He's all frail and guilty-looking now. Instinctively Matt reaches out, his irritation forgotten; this time Mohinder does not fight, but curls into the embrace. He winces at a brush of raw skin, but soon settles heavily against Matt, who kisses his pockmarked temple.
On TV, Paula's frying buttery meat, and Matt attempts normal conversation. "Why don't we ever make things like that?"
"You might have to nurse me through bypass surgery?" Mohinder mumbles.
"Point taken."
