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Arthur looks fucking terrible.
This isn’t unusual, of course, but knowing that does little to soothe Parker’s building irritation.
Arthur usually isn’t so careless about his drinking during active cases. Maybe he’s not always sober, but at least he keeps it under control enough that he doesn’t make himself into an obstacle.
It might not be Parker’s favorite thing, but so long as Arthur isn’t a hindrance, then all Parker has to worry about is trying to keep a lid on his concern for his friend instead of being angry at his business partner’s indiscretion.
Sure, this case isn’t their biggest or most important...
Just a string of petty crimes that ended up nabbing some poor soul’s great grandma’s prized silver tea service. No one is dead or missing or anything else high stakes. Just some good old trawling through pawn shops and trying to figure out what the pattern of robberies is so they can maybe catch the person responsible.
Their client isn’t high profile either, so there’s no political pressure.
But that doesn’t mean Parker is okay giving their client anything but their best.
And it sure as hell isn’t their best if English is looking rough enough that Parker has his doubts he can even half ass their job today.
Part of him wants to kick himself for not making sure Arthur didn’t get shit faced the previous night.
Honestly, Parker hadn’t even noticed .
Maybe Art snuck out after he’d gone to bed.
Maybe he’d gotten into his household stash.
Parker doesn’t know.
No matter the fact they live together now, it isn’t his fucking job to keep Art on the wagon.
He isn’t angry about it, but there’s a bitter disappointment in the back of his mouth as he watches Art slumping over his desk, shying away from the sunlight spilling in their “office” window.
(Truly it’s their sitting room that they shoved two desks into.)
He doesn’t know why they decided to spring for two desks instead of two beds.
But, he does have to admit, it’s nice to have a warm body breathing next to him at night, especially since the Arkham nights stay frigid most of the year round.
He can’t keep his eyes off his friend as he pours over the work laid out across his own desk.
Sometimes, one of them finds a lead and the other pulls his chair up close and they sit side by side, knocking elbows together as they piece together a puzzle.
Parker likes cases like that.
He likes the casual intimacy that’s come with years of working together. Years of trust.
It’s comforting.
He trusts Arthur.
He loves his friend.
Even when Art stinks of old whisky and stale coffee and vomit and his eyes are ringed with despair and regret. Even when he’s wearing yesterday’s clothes and his stubble shines in the sunlight and the dark circles under his eyes look like he’s taken up a second job as a punching bag.
And Parker still loves the guy even when he’s fucking pissed at him.
Art knows better than to get himself into such a bad state during a case.
There is a big difference between English squinting through a hangover, but still able to scour old newspaper clippings or dutifully fill out the paperwork they’ve gotta get turned over to the cops so they don’t lose their license at the end of a case and English folded over his desk with his eyes squeezed shut, not even fucking helping.
Parker doesn’t regret peeling him off Jack’s bar.
Of course he doesn’t. Art’s his best friend.
English’s drinking isn’t any of his business. All he can do is be there for his friend and try to distract him when things get bad.
The thing is, Parker can’t think anything set Art off, this time.
He finds that it pisses him off more without a cause.
He gets it when a case is rough. He’s not particularly temperate himself, after all.
He gets it when Art gets in his head about the big fucked up thing that drove him into Jack’s bar every night a couple years back. (A lot less often these days, thankfully).
Parker has some guesses about that. And a couple names Arthur screams in his nightmares. But he sure as fuck won’t be poking at that mess. Not unless Art invites him to, and Art ain’t exactly the type to hand out invitations.
But he doesn’t think this is any of that.
He knows it ain’t so simple, but he thinks Arthur Lester was just a bit too careless and drank too much last night. And it annoys him just the same as when Art forgets to clean up his empty bottles, or when he lets the toilet paper run out, or when he forgets his keys, or doesn’t clean up any of his tea or coffee mugs that he leaves everywhere.
So maybe Parker isn’t his most quiet today.
He’s a big guy and while he can be light on his feet, he doesn’t feel charitable enough to do that to spare Arthur’s careless hangover.
He yanks the curtains open, nice and wide before plopping down with his afternoon cup of joe, and is none too quiet about scooting his chair closer to his desk.
He enjoys a small, petty when Arthur’s eyes crease in pain in response .
The sunlight nearly makes Art’s worn shirt transparent and Parker tries not to worry how loose it looks on him today. He tries to tell himself that’s just because it’s wrinkled to shit.
Art didn’t spend the night in it, but it’s the same one he wore yesterday and that he took an unplanned nap in the previous afternoon.
He’d slept through dinner.
Which is probably why whatever he’d drank hit him so hard.
The thought twists a tiny bit of pity in Parker’s gut. Just enough that he does lower his voice a hair when he asks Art how his paperwork is coming.
Art opens his eyes just enough to squint at the papers, mouth pulling in discomfort at the glare of afternoon sunlight on the white paper.
Sunlight on an April afternoon in Arkham Massachusetts. Maybe there is a god after all.
There are an awful lot of papers on English’s desk, and Parker is pretty sure Art’s looked at maybe 4 of them since he’d dragged his sorry ass to his desk sometime in the late morning.
Hell, Art hasn’t even reached for the coffee pot today. Just filling his glass with water, and has been pressing it against his head every now and again.
Must be feeling rough indeed. Parker isn’t even sure he’s swallowed any of it.
Again, that’s not Parker’s job.
“Working on it,” Art grunts, and he makes an effort to unstick his eyelids so he actually can start to work on it.
It’s painful to watch, Parker turns back to his own work so he doesn’t have to.
His patience is more than gone by the time they get back from their late afternoon meeting with the client.
Arthur left him to do most of the talking, which isn’t all that unusual, but most of the time Parker can count on him to at least chime in now and again with some helpful details. Anything , really.
Instead getting Arthur home again feels more like the nights Parker has to help him home from the bar.
Except Art’s more or less walking on his own.
Must have drunk a hell of a lot if he’s still feeling it now.
He’s seen Art worse , to be sure.
Something pings as unusual, but Parker’s still a little too annoyed to examine what that might be.
He maybe slams the door a little more forcefully than the humidity of the day demands.
Arthur winces at the noise and keeps on wincing as he bends down to pull off his shoes. Even that proves too much and he’s worryingly pale as he eases himself back up to standing, shoes still on his feet.
“Fuck, English, didn’t think you’d fuck yourself up enough to not get your shoes off in the middle of a case.” Parker thinks he means it as a joke. He thinks about following it up with an offer to take Art’s shoes off for him, that would only be a little condescending.
But, he can’t quite keep his tone in check.
He decides to remove himself from the room before his mouth runs away from him again.
He doesn’t want to start a fight right now, and a hungover Arthur can be prickly.
He makes it to the kitchen, where he plans to pour another mug of coffee, before he hears a sniffle .
Not a quickly stifled sort of thing, but a sniffle-sob that he really can’t ignore.
Art doesn’t do that.
Not often . Not out of the blue like this.
This isn’t Art blackout drunk and weepy. This isn’t the times he cries in the middle of the night. This isn’t the end of a bad case after they find a too small dead body after too many nights of too little sleep.
Parker turns back, guilt and worry starting to gnaw a while in his annoyance. Irritation draining so fast it damn near gives him whiplash.
Arthur’s face crumples . His lips press tight to hold back the quivering of his jaw. “‘M not hungover,” he warbles out.
The fuck ?
Parker walks back. Looking his partner over.
His eyes are red rimmed and filling fast with tears, but they aren’t bloodshot.
Parker isn’t catching a whiff of old alcohol on his clothes.
Parker doesn’t remember him sneaking out of bed last night, and Parker doesn’t know why Art would bother to sneak anyhow, it’s not like Parker has tried to stop him drinking before. It’s not like Parker gives him shit about it when it doesn’t endanger a case.
He just… Gives an occasional warning that he’d better be sober for one thing or another.
“I’m not ,” Arthur says, voice steadier as he gets the tears under control. Defensive, now. But significantly more distant.
He sways slightly.
Parker can’t think of a damn thing to say.
He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on with Art, but he’d fucking assumed the worst of him without any actual fucking proof. Guilt licks at his insides.
He just stares at Art.
Arthur looks sick . Really sick.
“I need to sit,” English says, and Parker isn’t fast enough to ease him to the ground when his knees give out on him.
Knowing Arthur as he does, Parker is fast enough to grab for their office trash can before Arthur doubles over it, heaving painfully.
“Shit,” Parker mutters, more to himself than to Arthur.
He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on.
What the fuck is happening?
What the fuck is happening?
If Arthur isn’t hungover, is he sick?
He isn’t his fucking sister, he doesn’t know how to tell if a guy is sick or what to do if he is.
When he’s sick, he usually just… Lays in bed until he can force himself up again, and gets on with things. Rent waits for no germ.
He reaches to feel Arthur’s forehead.
Clammy, but cool.
Art startles badly enough at the sudden contact that it starts him puking again.
Parker cringes.
“Sorry, sorry,” Parker says, slowly telegraphing his movements before pushing Arthur’s unkempt bangs off his forehead, trying to keep them out of the way.
It sounds goddamn painful and it takes Arthur several minutes before he can look back up at Parker, gaze hazy with pain, and tears dripping down his cheeks.
“I haven’t had a drink since Monday,” Arthur whispers, voice utterly wrecked.
And the guilt settles in the pit of Parker’s stomach.
He still doesn’t know what the fuck is going on with Arthur. But that’s nearly a goddamn week.
He assumed the fucking worst of Art, and hadn’t even noticed the probable longest stretch Art’s gone without drinking since they met.
Not only that, Art hadn’t told him he wasn’t feeling well.
Did he think Parker would tell him no to taking a sick day?
Would he have? Even if he’d still thought it was Art’s own fault?
Probably not. It’s not a strenuous case. They don’t really need the two of them working around the clock on this one.
And he wouldn’t want Art in a state he could fuck up a delicate case even if he really did need the help.
Puking on a client never does a case any good.
But, he should know Art wouldn’t ever intentionally endanger a case.
Right?
But that doesn’t fucking matter. None of it fucking matters, because Art hadn’t fucking told him.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, partner?” He demands before he can think better of it.
The worst part is how goddamn fast Art’s eyes fill with tears over it. Parker’s tone and the volume.
The other worst part is how calm Art’s voice stays, despite the tears. But Parker can read the tension in his jaw that betrays the effort it takes to keep his voice even. “I’ve had worse.” Arthur says. In that “stiff upper lip,” painfully English way of his. He frees one hand from his death grip on the trash can to swipe numbly at his eyes, clearing the clinging tears from his lashes.
Art gathers himself for a moment before trying to get his feet under him. He lurches to his feet, and Parker has to leap to his to catch Arthur before he can drop the soiled bin or collapse altogether.
“Shit!” Parker can’t help but shout.
Arthur flinches away with a whimper, but still his legs have completely give up on him again.
It’s an awkward dance to get Arthur and the trash bin he’s still clinging to over to the couch.
Arthur’s doing more to hinder than to help.
Hell , Parker’s had easier times walking him home drunk off his ass.
“Hey, English, when’s the last time you had water?” Parker asks as softly as he can manage after Arthur flops onto the couch with another pained whimper.
Arthur half shrugs.
Well, that isn’t good.
He looks at the untouched glass of water on Art’s desk, and wonders if he’s felt this sick all day.
Probably, Parker reasons given the aversion to light and the fact Art forwent coffee entirely and hadn’t even had a sip of water.
“Can I get you some water?” He asks when Arthur’s more settled on the couch.
Arthur answers by starting up another round of dry heaving.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” He asks, real and actual fear taking root. “Can you tell me what hurts?” He can’t help the way he sounds like he’s talking to a child. He can’t help but see his kid sister after she scraped up her arm playing baseball with the neighborhood boys when she could barely toddle. Seeing her down with a bad stomach bug and trying to help. Taking care of her when she’d gotten in her first fight.
“Head hurts,” Art answers in an exhausted slur, finally setting the bin down, stomach either calming or too empty to matter or maybe just too tired to hold it anymore, and he curls up tight on the couch. Knees to his chest, because his long, spindly legs don’t fit on the couch any other way.
“Will you be okay if I make a call?” Parker asks, really not wanting to leave, but seeing nothing else to do than go and call his sister. Because he’s afraid and he doesn’t know what else to do.
Art hums, eyes closed against the late afternoon light.
Parker closes the curtains and hurries down to the payphone on the corner.
~
His sister laughed at him.
Fucking laughed at him.
No , he didn’t remember their aunt suffering from migraines. There’s kind of a lot on his mind, thank you very much.
He’s a little fucking busy hating himself for Art not trusting him to tell him when he was feeling like total shit. And a little fucking busy with his hands full of a sick English toothpick.
Still, he hurries back up the stairs to make sure Arthur hasn’t passed out and choked.
The curtains don’t block out all the light. They’re old as balls and as threadbare as Art’s shirt.
But the relief of not being in direct sunlight is apparently enough that Art’s fallen into a fitful dose.
It does mean that he can’t try to get some water into Arthur right now, even if he thought Arthur might have a chance of keeping it down, but it at least means he doesn’t have to see the agony in Art’s face.
If he can’t get Art to keep fluids down in a couple hours, Mary did say to bring him to the hospital, or to her, at least. For now, Parker figures it’s best to let him sleep the worst of it off.
He gathers Art’s unfinished paperwork onto his own desk and gets to work, keeping half an eye on the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest.
~
Parker is well and truly lost in the paperwork by the time Arthur stirs again.
Parker startles, just slightly.
Not enough to alert Arthur to his watchful gaze.
He flicks his eyes up to Arthur, trying to be subtle about his observation.
Arthur doesn’t like being pitied . Parker gets that. Parker respects that.
If he’d been the one hungover, he’d be too embarrassed at himself for the attention.
Of course, Parker has to remind himself, Art isn’t hungover this time.
…Maybe Parker should have cleaned out the bin while Arthur slept.
But he’d been afraid of waking him, and of Arthur waking himself up sick again.
Arthur groans into the cracked leather cushion. Hiding his eyes from even the dimming light of late evening and from the glow of Parker’s desk lamp.
It isn’t really enough to work by, but Parker couldn’t stomach the thought of causing English more pain by turning on more lights.
Arthur hisses as he cracks his eyes open. Rubbing at them with clumbsy fingers. He squints at Parker.
Parker pretends to be studying the case notes intently.
If Art wants to talk, then so be it.
Arthur spots the glass of water Parker left out for him and pushes himself somewhat more upright with a bitten off whimper. His spine creaks loudly enough that Arthur has to stop, holding his head in his hands like he thinks it will crack open. Parker winces his sympathy.
Clearly, the nap hadn’t been enough to fix his head.
It takes Art a good ten minutes to finish the glass in slow sips. After spitting the first mouthful into the trash to rinse his mouth.
Parker pretends to flip the page twice.
Art sets down the glass with another glance at Parker.
Not the puppy dog eyes begging for conversation, but the furtive glance of someone who doesn’t want to be talked to, or even noticed.
Yeah, that tracks. English isn’t the sharing sort. He gets more snippy while in pain. Like a cat with an injured paw. More likely to show a guy his claws than his soft belly.
Art eases himself to his feet. Grabbing at the couch for support as he sways. His face drains of what little color he’d had. But when he reaches down for the bin, it’s to pick it up and not to puke.
Good. He needs that water in him.
Mary had been very clear on that.
Her main worry for Art is dehydration.
Arthur cradles the bin as he shuffles his way to the hall.
Pausing halfway across the room, looking sick again. But he swallows hard, and keeps shuffling.
Parker hopes he’s dragging himself to bed. But, he’d bet his share of rent that Art isn’t gonna be that kind to himself.
Sure enough, it’s the bathroom door that creaks open instead of the bathroom door the bedroom door the clicks closed.
Parker sighs and sets aside his notes. Time to keep an ear out that Art doesn’t hurt himself in there.
His spine files its complain with a loud series of pops when he sits up in his chair.
Yikes .
He’s getting too fucking old to be hunched over his desk for that many hours. Fucking hell.
Not much he can do about that now.
It’s getting late. He should get himself something to eat. He’d planned on some sort of stir fry. But he doesn’t know if cooking while Art’s in this state would be too many smells in their cramped apartment.
That could easily upset his stomach again. Not that Art’s stomach is particularly settled now.
But that just makes the point for him.
It might be overstepping, but he keeps an ear out for his friend.
The sink runs. Parker hazards a guess Arthur’s brushing his teeth.
A toilet flush. Self explanatory.
Sink again.
The shower running.
Fuck , Art. That is gonna be loud . And being vertical doesn’t seem to be agreeing with English right now.
Then again, it looks like maybe a few days since Art washed his hair, it might help? Maybe?
What the fuck does Parker know? He honestly kinda thought Art was dying before his sis knocked some sense into him.
Hell, alcoholics keel over all the time. Just because English hasn’t yet, just because he hasn’t shown too many signs of liver failure yet doesn’t mean he’ll dodge that for sure and forever.
Parker tries not to think about that as a rule.
It’s a miserable way to go and it hurts Parker’s heart to think of Art ending up that way.
He isn’t gonna bring it up. It isn’t his business. And even if it was, he knows Art had been drinking to die when they met. He’s afraid what Art would say if he asked that now.
Fuck . He hears gagging underneath the sound of their shitty pipes rattling out a lukewarm at best shower.
(Although knowing Art, he’s probably running it cold. Might help his head a little.)
He’s half out of his seat when he hears Arthur’s irritably cursing about it.
Well. At least he’s with it enough to be pissed about puking his glass of water back up. Definitely a better sign than him bursting into tears again like he had in the doorway earlier.
Parker heaves himself to his feet so he can fetch Arthur another glass for when he’s off his feet and maybe feeling a bit more steady.
Parker dithers in the kitchen. He debates making tea, but decides if Arthur wanted tea, then he would have made it earlier when he had his head up his ass and was pretending to do work all day.
…But, maybe some ginger tea would help settle his stomach.
The last thing he wants is to take an unwilling Arthur to the hospital.
To his sister, more likely. So at least it will spare them the financial strain. And she said she’d be home studying until her night shift. So she’s still home, but he doesn’t want to bother her and Arthur sure as fuck won’t be walking well if it gets to the point that Parker has to take him anywhere.
It’s a little funny watching a tipsy Arthur climb the stairs to their apartment.
It’s more like sucking the balls of a smarmy politician climbing up them injured or sick.
(And a lot less funny trying to get Arthur up them when he’s been at his worst: Near catatonic with sick down his shirt and soaked through with the freezing mist of late March the last time Arthur really did try to drown his sorrows. Not just in a bottle.)
Maybe he should get Art some dry toast, but given what he just overheard, that might be a little premature-
He’s cut off by the water shutting off.
Chance to make tea missed, he just fills a glass of water and starts making his way to their bedroom.
The bathroom door is open now, and he catches a glimpse of Arthur blearily brushing his teeth a second time, towel sliding down his skinny hips.
Under other circumstances, Parker might be idly distracted by the graceful curve of Arthur’s spine and the tantalizing hint of his freckles catching in the dim light of the hall… But Frankly, Arthur’s looking too much like a cryptid in need of a visit to the vet to be any sort of alluring. And the jut of his hipbone is a little too sharp to be healthy, which would kill any sort of mood Parker could ever imagine there being.
He loves Arthur.
He isn’t in love with Arthur.
But, he can still appreciate him physically on occasion.
Arthur finishes with his teeth and sips at some water from the tap with cupped hands. Then he trudges to the bedroom with the bin he apparently cleaned himself instead of asking Parker to take care of. Because of course he did.
Parker sighs, and places the water down on the nightstand on Arthur’s side of the bed just as Arthur flops lifelessly onto his side of the bed, the trash can in easy reach.
He moans to himself, not even registering Parker’s presence.
His wet towel is mostly undone by this rough treatment.
Parker sighs again.
He goes to their dresser and rummages for some of Art’s boxers.
He throws a pair at Arthur’s loosely curled form.
“Come on now, English, you can’t sleep like that.”
Arthur does not move to remove the boxers that landed on his head.
He doesn’t look at Parker.
He doesn’t move at all.
Parker would laugh if he wasn’t so worried by the sharp ridges of Arthur’s wrist as he throws it over his boxer covered forehead.
“I think moving again might kill me,” Arthur says with only a trace of drama.
“Yeah, well, sleeping on a wet towel will wrinkle your balls, and you’ll get my side of the bed all damp too. Come on now, scoot!” He keeps his voice down, but he means business.
Arthur doesn’t move, so Parker yanks the towel away.
Arthur rolls slightly to cover himself, but makes no other efforts.
Parker sighs again.
He pulls the boxers from between where they’ve been jammed between Arthur’s face and his pillow. .
“Do you want me to dress you?” Parker asks good naturedly.
He’ll do it. Art better not test him on that.
“Go away,” Arthur mumbles into his pillow without any heat.
But when Parker makes a move to make good on his threat, Arthur aims a kick at him without any force and drags himself to sitting with another pained sound.
His face drains of color again. His freckles stand out. He wavers, swallowing thickly again.
He sticks out a hand blindly, eyes pressed closed against the light filtering in from the hall. “Give them here, you dick.” He sound nauseous as all fuck.
Parker bites back a smart comment about Arthur’s exposed dick, and hands over the boxers. Now certainly isn’t the time.
Arthur gets them halfway on before letting himself tip onto his side again to wiggle the rest of the way into them.
He curls up on his side, arms around his stomach, eyes scrunched shut. The picture of misery.
Parker decides it isn’t worth it prodding Arthur into anything warmer, so he tugs the covers over Arthur, who gives him the tiniest smile that only sort of resembles a grimace.
“There’s water on the table. Give a shout if you need anything,” And he cracks the door on the way out.
He goes to put on some soup and maybe read a book, and keep an ear out in case Arthur needs anything.