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Kind words seem useless at this point, so Cordelia brings food. Not rugelach or matzah, because she has accepted defeat at the hands of Jewish cuisine. No, instead she brings a watery tomato soup in a sturdy container, as if the quality of the glassware could compensate for the vinegary creation within. Whizzer sips it politely; luckily she stopped by a bakery for a sesame bagel, which he now devours despite his diminishing appetite and previous hang-ups about eating around others. So much has changed about him, Delia muses, as they lie in the squeaky cot, a hand trailing absently up and down his thin arm. She feels the hard stretch of bone, the strange new coldness of his hands.
In another room Marvin is being tested for reasons Whizzer refuses to disclose. So they share his threadbare blanket in silence, listening to each other's breaths and the strange way they mingle with the surrounding machinery. Whizzer lifts his head a little, drawing her attention.
"I'm really glad you're here."
Her smile is soft, and when she says, Me too, it's not a total lie.
"And I'm glad it's just us,” he continues, looking sheepishly at his hands. Since when was he shy around her, or anyone? “I love Marvin, but he's always so damned sad. He tries to hide it but I see the way he looks at me, and how he pretends that I don't look like shit. So being with you is just..." His voice becomes weak after that length of speaking, so she says:
"Easier?"
He nods, and curls against her once more. She runs a hand through his thinning hair. His hair which used to be such a joke among them: the inordinate time he spent attending to it, the fact that it never seemed to recede, not even at thirty-three. So much has changed about him, and so rapidly, it takes her breath away when she thinks about it too much. They're content to be silent, until Whizzer again lifts his head. Cordelia wants to tell him to rest easy, but he's talking again, and asking:
"Can you tell me about our farm?"
She furrows her brow on the assumption that Whizzer is in one of his spacier moods; the medication sometimes carries him away from himself. But his eyes are clear. Determined, even.
At her questioning look, he clears his throat and prompts: "Our farm. Remember? The farm we're all gonna live on. Me, you, Char, and Marvin,” here he takes a shallow breath; Cordelia tightens her grip on him. “Even though he'll be such a drag and totally ruin the mood."
"Oh, our farm!" she suddenly remembers their pact, a little dream they brought up when they were all together and happily drunk. "Right, well... our house is gonna be huge, first of all. Ranch-style, exposed beams, the whole shabang. With all the rooms painted different colors. Tastefully, though. Of course, you’re gonna pick everything out."
"Of course," he nods very seriously.
"And we'll have seven bedrooms. One for me and Char, one for Jason on the weekends, one for Mendel and Trina. One for you and Marvin. Another for your clothes. And then two empty ones, because our lovers are rich, and we have to show it off."
He makes a small happy noise; the vibration warms Cordelia’s chest. An odd thing she notices is that Whizzer smells, improbably, the way he always has. Like his brand of soap, with a hint of leather. In some childish part of her brain she takes this to mean there's some irreducible part of him that can’t be broken.
"Right,” she continues, thinking of new details on the spot. “And we'll have a bunch of horses which you and Char can train and Marvin can complain about and I can hang out with when you all get on my nerves."
"Marvin always needs something to complain about."
"Exactly. And we have to hire this jockey to race the horses because you're too damn tall for it."
"He'll try to get in my pants."
"Oh, absolutely! You're irresistible. And it'll be a whole thing," she sighs, wearily, as though Whizzer had already run off with the imaginary man, and he stares up at her wonderingly, the perfect blonde mess of her. "We have to fire him."
"Aw, do we have to?" he pouts.
"Yes! It's unprofessional and messy, and I will not have your sluttiness ruin our perfect little life. So we’ll hire an older, less cute but not totally hideous guy."
"Does he still want me?"
"Of course, but he's too intimidated by your perfect physique to try anything." He nods as if that’s only fair. "Our horses win every race. And you'll look so hot in plaid."
"I look hot in everything," he interrupts. "I even make this ugly gown work for me."
With a start, Cordelia is brought back to the reality of the situation. The plasticky garment stuck to Whizzer’s skin. The IV drip attached to his forearm. The fluorescent glow and chemical stench of the awful little room.
"You do, babe,” she kisses him on the cheek. "I'd definitely do you, if I wasn't a flaming homo."
"And if I wasn't dying --"
"Whizzer."
"What?" He laughs. "I am."
She gazes at him levelly, her blue eyes cool and watery. He looks so weak; she wishes he would be quiet. It’s important to build up his strength; she still believes it’s something he can retrieve, that thing that he only temporarily misplaced.
"You interrupted my story,” she finally says.
"Sorry.”
"We'll also raise chickens," she continues, with renewed force. "Marvin can slaughter them because he's totally heartless, and I'll fry them up. And we can all pick apples in the pretty orchard. You and Marvin can make out behind a tree and we'll pretend like we don't always notice you guys loving up on each other anyway."
Whizzer laughs. "We're that obvious?"
Cordelia rolls her eyes. "You know I'd take a bullet for either of you, but holy shit, are you guys fifteen?”
He hums softly, pressing himself closer into his best friend's side. Her lovely warmth seeps into him, and he fights the sleepiness that comes with it. "Sounds perfect."
She adjusts his little cotton cap so it covers the tops of his ears. "It will be."
Delia eagerly embraces the ensuing silence. It’s impossible to think of anything more to say to her best friend, now small enough to hold in her arms. She feels crazy, like all her words are inappropriate or stupid or simply useless. It's Whizzer, with his relentless need for noise, who drags them yet again into conversation:
"You know, being with Marvin has done me a lot of good."
"Whiz, you need to rest -"
"But one of the best things -" he tries to interrupt her, but his words stutter into a coughing fit. Cordelia sits up straight, but he waves her back down as it subsides. "One of the best things," he repeats, placing a hand over Cordelia's, and she notices the way his sentences fall off at the end, "is that he introduced me to you."
"If I didn't know any better I'd think you were hitting on me."
He smiles knowingly at her. "I mean it."
"I know.”
And, finally, nothing more needs to be said. She succeeds in getting him to get some shut-eye while she sits nearby, watchful. She's no doctor, but she's learned enough about the machines to know when to call one, and what vital signs to look for. Vital signs. God, she hates how that sounds. Like her best friend could be swapped for any other patient. When Marvin appears in the door-window she waves him away; Whizzer's eyes are practically shut and she won't let him be disturbed, not when the cynicism that always clouds his face finally disappears, and his soft handsomeness comes back, at least a little. She kisses the top of his head, wipes away her own tears which fall onto his brow.
She doesn't know how long she stays there. Maybe thirty minutes, or an hour. His breathing deepens and slows, as much as it can. She takes the chance to make a quiet exit, but even medicated, his sleep is thin. He wakes at the creak of the door opening, bleary, confused.
"I think I'd better get going," she says, before he can expend any of his energy asking questions.
He mumbles, almost like a child, "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Yes. And the day after that," she says, smiling thinly. "And the day after that. And the day after that." She pulls the blanket up around his shoulders, ignoring the tears that stream down his face. "Alright? You warm enough?"
He grabs her hand and squeezes it weakly. She leans in so that he can cradle her face. "I love you, Delia."
She kisses him on the forehead. "Don't be so dramatic."
He chuckles at this. It's nice to be reminded of his laugh, and in the doorway she turns to get one last look. "See you tomorrow, love."
"And the day after that," he smiles, but Delia notes that it's a touch rueful.
"And the day after that, she confirms, leaving the light on.