~will you still love me when i'm no longer...breathing~

chapter two - gatsby

My hands are slick with blood as I scoop Nick into my arms, the fabric of my swimsuit fashioned around his torso to stop the bleeding, and carry him into the house. A butler greets me at the door, and his eyes grow wide at the sight of the dying, (sexy) man in my arms.

"Sir, shall we call for a doctor?"

"Yes," I growl, brushing past him hurriedly. "Don't waste any time. And send Andrew out to deal with the other unconscious man outside. It's only a matter of time until he wakes up."

I don't pity Andrew at all, the new butler-in-training that I signed on through Wolfsheim. Whatever he finds out there by the pool, he deserves it.
I take the stairs two at a time, going as fast as I can so as not to hurt my old sport, who is currently passed out in my arms. I only pause for a moment before deciding where to take him, running down the hall and depositing him onto my bed. I pray he will be too drowsy when (more like if) he wakes up to notice the Lightning McQueen comforter, since there is simply no time to switch it out for a more dignified set.
My heart is racing, both from the exertion of taking the stairs and the excitement of the past five minutes. After verifying Nick's pulse is still there, I walk over to the window. Down below, I watch as Andrew attempts to drag Wilson's limp, unconscious body into the house. Weakling. I bet he couldn't even lift a carton of milk if he tried.

Anxious, I retreat back to the bed and sit beside Old Sport™. His chest rises and falls shallowly and his eyelids flutter restlessly. I lift the hem of his shirt; he has already bled through my pitiful attempt at a bandage. I rush to the bathroom, but after a futile minute of searching, I can't find any first aid supplies. Back in my room, I'm out of options. Back in the war, we used to just patch up wounds with spit and a little bit of pixie dust, but that almost never worked, and the idea of letting Nick die...I can't even go there right now. I dive into my closet full of my shirts that Daisy loved and pick out a pink silk button down. The thought of Daisy makes my stomach swim with dread. This shirt was her favorite...good, it deserves to be bloodied. I can't help but blame her for all of this. Old Sport would never have been put in this position if not for her.

I decide his shirt is too much of a nuisance, so I take it upon myself to remove it. I become momentarily distracted by the fact that he had hidden abs concealed underneath his dapper little sweaters and bowties this whole time, but then I slap myself. Focus, Jay. That's no way you should be thinking about your poor, platonic Old Sport who is currently bleeding out all over your collector's edition Cars™ sheets. Carefully, I peel away the swimsuit fabric to reveal a nasty, bloodied wound that doesn't belong on such a beautiful angel as my old sport.

I use a damp monogrammed towel from the en suite to clean the area. Nick protests in his sleep. "I'm sorry, Old Sport," I tell him, even though I know he won't hear. "It's for the best." Without thinking, I reach a bloodied hand up to his face and brush the hair from his forehead. The tension between his eyebrows dissipates at my touch. I let my hand linger for a moment longer before pulling it away like I've been burned. Horsefeathers! His skin is as hot as a stovetop. I'm no doctor, but the fact that a fever has set in so quickly can't be good.

Hastily, I secure the shirt over his wound before rushing into the bathroom and wetting another hand towel with cold water. As I'm returning to his bedside, he has begun to stir. I lay the towel over his forehead just as his eyes flutter open.

"Jay?"

I smile weakly at him. "Hey, Old Sport. How are you feeling?"

Nick stares at me blankly as I adjust the wet towel. "Huh?"

Is he stupid? Wait no, that was mean. "How are you feeling?" I repeat myself, feeling his face with the back of my hand.

A moment later, he seems to remember his pain and his face contorts. "Oh, good God! I think my appendix burst!" His hands reach for his wound but I gently push them away.

"No no no, calm down, Old Sport," I tell him softly, my fingers closing over his wrists so he can't touch the bloody gaping hole in his abdomen. "Your appendix is fine...(hopefully)."

The alarmed expression in Nick's eyes only grows. "Well then, what..." He lifts his head and glances down at his stomach. "Oh my God!"

I've never seen him express this much emotion. Usually he just sits there like a little lost puppy and stares at me blankly. He tears his wrists out of my grasp and cautiously lifts up the shirt, which is already soaked through with blood. His eyes grow wider and he looks up at me, scared and confused.

"Do you remember what happened?" I ask him. At first, he looks entirely lost. But after some encouraging nods of my head, and after the panic starts to die down, understanding dawns on his face.

"Wilson," he says. "Wilson tried to shoot you."

I nod, not breaking eye contact as I gently fix the shirt pressed on top of his wound. "But you saved me," I tell him. "You really didn't need to do that, Old Sport."

"I took a bullet for you?" he asks, his brow sweating underneath the cold towel. "Why would I do that?" His voice softens. Something in his expression is resigned and closed off, like he already knows the answer.

I can't help but smile at him. "Because you're a nitwit." I touch his face again even though I'm already perfectly aware just how hot he feels. "And a gongoozler." I soften my voice. "And...my hero."

He holds my gaze for a second longer, and then he shakes his head. He opens his mouth, probably to tell me I'm wrong, and then tries to laugh. He immediately regrets it when his body tenses in pain. I stand by, helpless, as he grits his teeth and lets his head fall back onto the pillow, the momentary spike of pain subsiding.

In his fit of pain, the towel fell off his forehead, so I replace it. Impossibly, in those few seconds since I felt him last, his temperature seems to have risen.

"Oh my, Old Sport," I say, shaking my head. "You're so hot, I could cook an egg on you."

His face, which had previously been deathly pale, starts to turn pink.
"The doctor should be here soon," I tell him. "In the meantime, let me get you some water."

When I come back and help him take a sip, he winces. "This is definitely not water."

"I know. I thought you could use something a little stronger. It's rubbing alcohol." He spits it back into the cup, alarmed. I laugh. "You know I'm just kidding, Old Sport. It's just vodka."
He eyes me suspiciously before taking another sip. "You know, rubbing alcohol is supposed to clean wounds," he tells me in a strained voice.

"Oh, really?" I ask, and he nods, his face twisted in pain. For some reason, pride swells in my chest. Even when he's bleeding out, my Old Sport never fails to amaze me. I can't imagine where he got so smart. Definitely not at Yale.

His eyes are fuzzy by the time I find the rubbing alcohol and begin to apply it. The moment it touches his wound, his hand flies to my wrist, his grip tightening painfully. I don't brush him off.

"I'm sorry, Old Sport, I can stop if it hurts too–"

"JUST DO IT!" he cuts me off, his eyes closed tightly.

"Okay, okay." Reluctantly, I continue, although it is just as painful for me to see him in such agony. His grip tightens on my wrist with each press of alcohol on his wound. The application becomes even more difficult with only one hand, but I can't bring myself to care. The feeling of his sweaty fingers against my skin spreads a blossoming feeling of indescribable warmth through my entire body that has nothing to do with his fever.

I finish up in a matter of minutes, and mourn the loss of Old Sport's touch as his hand starts to unclench and his muscles relax. Before I can properly bandage him up again, however, there comes a knock at the door.

The doc is in (and she'll fix u up).