Hold Me Tighter (And Share the Umbrella Next Time)

Chapter 2

The trip to the hospital was eventful, to say the least. At first, they were turned away and given directions to rehab as the receptionist assumed Quinn was drugged up to the eyeballs. Bert stood forward as Quinn's main defender, insisting, demanding, and threatening emails to superiors should his bandmate suffer as a result of the piss poor excuse for a health system.

They waited for hours, Bert's small frame doing what it could to cradle the lanky blond in his arms, sacrificing his own comfort for the little sigh of gratitude that left Quinn's lips. He's getting better if I have to smack the sickness out of him, thought Bert, wondering if it would be hard to cook up some veggie broth to soothe the ill man to sleep once they got out of there. It couldn't be that difficult, right? The singer had never really cooked before, but he thought he could give it a whirl, just for Quinn. Especially for Quinn.

The appearance of a doctor brought relief to the group hovering nervously in the waiting room. McCracken had major issues with the thought of leaving Quinn's side, and it took serious convincing from Jepha to let them take Quinn for examination.

Alright, the singer thought, if I can't be there, I can be ready for when they let him back out.

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The guitarist was let go with a prescription in hand, back into the arms of a concerned little man toting around a shopping bag, and mercifully allowed to rest in his bunk again. With Quinn sent off to sleep by a soft lullaby and a decent dose of medication, Bert took over the microwave to start stage one of his 'Get Quinn Healthy' plan.

He was gonna make him okay again.

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Bert had underestimated how hard it was to cook on a tour bus when he was running on two hours sleep.

"I made you something, Quinny baby, drink up!"

"Ngh?"

"Yeah, it's fucking veggie water. It'll help you get better." His brow was furrowed with his intense focus, watching as he helped Quinn take a sip.

It was definitely a coincidence when the guitarist puked it out. And the second batch a few hours later.

The third batch of soup was the winner. Quinn leaned against Bert on the sofa, wrapped in blankets like a gigantic newborn baby, and reluctantly slurped the spoonful of toxic green sludge the lead singer placed against his lips.

"That's it, baby, that's good," Bert assured him, expression soft, the way you would look at the smallest kitten. "We cancelled the next two shows, so you can rest up and get better, Quinny baby."

When the bowl was empty, he set it aside, urging Quinn to fall back asleep on his shoulder. The bus was quieter with Bert's energy channelled solely on the recovery of the blond boy, a strange sense of peace they had never experienced before. Every failed attempt at cooking, every kiss, every hug and snuggle and assurance would by no means magic away the sickness, but he could damn well try.

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Bert committed to his goal, acting as Quinn's personal caretaker on the road to recovery. He lay in his bunk when the sick man slept   , refusing to spend more than a moment away from him should his condition worsen somehow. He operated with a single thing in mind and showered the guitarist with attention.

"Quinny, I got your medication!"

"Quinny, if you're too sick for the next show, okay, we can cancel it. It's okay."

"Go back to sleep, Quinn-baby, you shouldn't be awake. Don't worry, I'll stay right here. Papa Bert is gonna take care of you. I'm gonna take care of you."

It was the night of what would have been the second show that Quinn smacked him over the head for calling himself papa, and pulled him in closer for "just another little bit" of cuddling. Pressed together in the damp heat on the bunk, Quinn's head on his shoulder, Bert waited for him to inevitably fall asleep first.

He checked his forehead, face nuzzled securely into the mass of blond hair.

"All better, Quinny baby." murmured Bert, shutting his eyes. For the first time in three days, he relaxed. "I told you I would take care of you."