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The first time Jack notices David is sick, it’s because he stops arguing.
Usually, David Jacobs always has something to say. About headlines, about strike plans, about Jack skipping breakfast for the third morning in a row. But tonight he’s quiet beside the flickering lantern in the lodging house, curled under a thin blanket with his shoulders tense.
Jack looks up from his sketchbook. “You gonna lecture me for slouchin’ or what?”
David only hums vaguely.
That’s wrong.
Jack sets the charcoal down. “Davey?”
David blinks at him slowly, cheeks flushed pink beneath his glasses. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah? Then why d’you look like ya got run over by a trolley?”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
David tries to sit up straighter and immediately winces, hand pressing against his ribs. Jack’s stomach twists.
“Hey.” His voice softens without permission. “C’mere.”
“I’m already here,” David mutters.
Jack rolls his eyes and scoots closer on the mattress until their knees knock together. Up close, David looks worse - fever-bright eyes, pale lips, exhaustion carved into every line of his face.
“You’re burnin’ up.”
“I probably just need sleep.”
“Probably need a doctor.”
David groans. “Jack, we can’t afford-”
“We’ll figure it out.”
David shakes his head stubbornly, then coughs hard into his sleeve. Jack rubs a hand carefully between his shoulders until it passes.
The room goes quiet except for rain tapping against the windows.
Jack hates this feeling. The helplessness of it. Seeing David hurt and not know how to fix it.
“Why didn’t ya tell me?” he asks quietly.
David stares at the blanket. “You’ve had enough to worry about.”
Jack lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, ‘cause worryin’ about you ain’t automatically included.”
That finally gets David to look at him.
Jack reaches over, brushing damp curls off David’s forehead. The touch lingers. “You’re an idiot sometimes, y’know that?”
David’s mouth twitches faintly. “You say that very affectionately.”
“Only ‘cause you’re pretty.”
David actually blushes deeper at that, which feels unfair considering he’s half-dead with fever and still somehow adorable.
Jack grins a little. “There he is.”
David leans unconsciously into Jack’s hand before seeming to realize what he’s doing. He pulls back slightly, embarrassed.
Jack pretends not to notice.
“Stay still,” he says. “I’ll get water.”
“Jack-”
“Stay.”
David sighs dramatically but doesn’t argue further.
Jack hurries downstairs, borrowing a pitcher from Kloppman after enduring five straight minutes of complaints about “sickly newspaper boys contaminatin’ the establishment.” By the time he gets back upstairs, David’s eyes are closed.
For one awful second, panic claws up Jack’s throat.
Then David shifts with a sleepy mumble.
Jack exhales shakily. “Jeez, Dave.”
He sets the pitcher down and crouches beside the bed. Carefully, he presses a damp rag against David’s forehead.
David sighs at the coolness.
“Better?”
“A little.”
Jack sits beside him again, close enough their shoulders touch.
“You don’t gotta take care of me,” David murmurs after a minute.
“Too bad. I’m gonna anyway.”
“You’ve got work tomorrow.”
“So do you, genius, and you ain’t goin’.”
David frowns immediately. “Jack-”
“Nope.”
“We need the money.”
“We need you not collapsin’ in the street more.”
David opens his mouth to argue again, but another cough cuts him off. When it passes, he looks exhausted.
Jack softens instantly. “Hey. Easy.”
David’s eyes glisten behind his glasses. “I hate this.”
“Being sick?”
“Being…” He swallows hard. “Useless.”
Jack stares at him.
Then he reaches up and removes David’s glasses, setting them carefully on the crate beside the bed.
“Don’t say that.”
“But-”
“I mean it.” Jack’s voice comes rougher now. “You ain’t useless a day in your life, Davey.”
David looks away. “I can’t even help with selling papes right now.”
“So what?”
“So everyone else has to pick up my slack.”
Jack cups David’s jaw gently, turning his face back. “Listen to me.” His thumb brushes across David’s cheekbone. “You carried all of us through the strike. You help Les with schoolwork. You make sure Spot don’t murder half of Manhattan when he gets annoyed. You remember birthdays. Ya patch up everybody when they’re hurt.” His voice drops softer. “You take care of me.”
David’s expression crumples just slightly around the edges.
“And right now,” Jack says, “you’re allowed to let somebody take care of you back.”
For a moment, David just looks at him.
Then, very quietly: “Okay.”
Something warm aches in Jack’s chest.
“Okay,” he echoes.
David shifts under the blanket. “Will you stay?”
Jack snorts. “Try gettin’ rid of me.”
That earns him a tired smile.
Jack settles beside him against the headboard, pulling the blanket higher around David’s shoulders. After a hesitant second, David leans sideways until his head rests against Jack’s chest.
Jack freezes.
David tenses immediately. “Sorry, I can-”
“Don’t move.”
David goes still.
Jack wraps an arm around him carefully, like he’s handling something precious. Which, honestly, he is.
David’s breathing gradually evens out.
“You know,” Jack murmurs into his hair, “you’re real clingy for a fella who claims he’s independent.”
“Mm. Fever.”
“Convenient excuse.”
“Shut up.”
Jack laughs softly.
Outside, the rain keeps falling over New York. The lodging house creaks around them, crowded and noisy and imperfect. But here, in this little pocket of lantern light, David is warm against him and alive and safe for now.
Jack presses a kiss into David’s curls before he can overthink it.
David tilts his head up sleepily. “Was that-”
“Nope.”
“You kissed me.”
“You got a fever. Hallucinatin’.”
David smiles - small, soft, beautiful.
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
The words hit Jack so hard it almost hurts.
He pulls David closer instead of answering right away, because sometimes feelings are too big for words.
Finally, against David’s hair, he whispers, “Love you too, Davey.”
And for the first time all night, neither of them feels cold.