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There is a hand holding his own, Harold realizes foggily in the first couple of seconds of waking up, and it’s not Julias.
In the next second, he realizes it’s definitely a mans hand, slightly dry and wholly unfamiliar, and he’s not sure what he expected to see when he opened his eyes, but it was not Jude in the chair next to him.
I’m in the hospital, he remembers, as he tries to make sense of the image he’s seeing – he had had heart palpitations at home right after dinner, strong enough that he and Julia had maybe panicked a little, and a rushed trip the ER had revealed not a heart attack as they had both feared, but elevated enough blood pressure that he was admitted to observation for the night.
An annoyance, more than anything, he thinks, still blinking sleep from his eyes, but why on earth is Jude here, he is wondering – he’s still in work clothes, rumpled as they are, and he’s holding Harolds hand in both of his, head pillowed awkwardly on his arm that’s resting on the bed. His eyes are closed, but there’s enough tension in his shoulders that Harold knows he’s not asleep.
He looks so tired, Harold thinks, frowning, trying to orient himself, and he must shift because Jude straightens up abruptly, fingers flexing over his hand and eyes wide.
They stare at each other for a second, Harold is still groggy but Jude is sharp, appraising, his eyes flickering over to the monitors attached to his arm before his shoulders drop with a shaky exhale.
“Where’s Julia?” is the first thing that leaves Harolds mouth, bizarrely, even as he remembers insisting she go home before he must have fallen asleep. Jude blinks.
“She’s at home. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. Just tired, I – Jude, why are you here?”
It must come out wrong, the confusion he feels, his mind still trying to process that Jude is here not even six hours after he had been admitted, with the little clock on the wall reading 2:37 – Jude flinches, and it’s like watching a turtle go back into his shell, the way he retreats into himself before his very eyes.
Jude is decidedly not looking at him anymore, and mumbles something like I’ll let you rest as he lets go of Harolds hand and his chair scrapes back. Suddenly wide awake, Harold sees this play out in his head, and he knows he has to stop it – he knows he has to stop Jude’s brain from catapulting ten steps forward in the wrong direction, has to stop him from leaving and sitting in the hallway because he thinks Harold doesn’t want him here, or thinks him selfish and uncaring, or leaving the hospital all together towards the vicinity of a number of sharp and harmful things to his being.
There’s a crux to this situation, he also realizes in dismay, in the split second he has – if he tells Jude to go home and rest as he wants to do and should do, to spare him from a miserable night of barely any sleep and hurting his back, Jude will take it as a rejection, will read it only, again, as Harold not wanting him there, which so selfishly, is the exact opposite of the truth. Harold wants him to stay so badly, he realizes - to not be left alone in a hospital room surrounded only by unfamiliar faces and the smell of illness.
He decides in that split second, fueled by instinct and a sprinkling of selfishness, and reaches back and takes Judes hand as he stands, face ducked towards the floor, and Jude stops. “Wait. Come here, Jude.”
“I’m – “ Jude says to some spot on his blanket near his legs, hushed and hoarse. “I should let you get some rest, it’s –“
“Jude.” Harold says, snaps almost, and the words leaving his mouth do not match the tone in his head, although the tone in his head is concerned and guilty, but his mouth recognizes that if Jude leaves now, they will never correct this, just as they have never corrected any of the misconceptions Harold has let him leave with over the years. “Come sit here. I can’t get up, so I need you to come to me.”
Jude nervously chews the back of his lip for a second, his skin pale in the hideous half-fluorescent lit room, but then he comes, sits next to Harold on the bed, and the second he’s close enough, tilting a little bit to adjust what must be a very sore back, Harold switches his hand, takes it with his right, and pulls him into his shoulder with his left.
There’s an incredible simmering of pride in Harolds chest at the fact that Jude doesn’t flinch away, although he does stiffen in Harolds arms, his sweaty hand trembling slightly in his, and Harold keeps his hands gentle enough that there’s no doubt that Jude could pull back if he wanted to.
“Harold –“ Jude says somewhere between his pillow and his neck, and Harold shushes him, cradles the back of his head, doesn’t releases his hand with the other.
“It’s okay, Jude. We’re okay.” He soothes, rubs his thumb through the soft hair on the back of his sons neck, and after a beat, Jude melts in his arms, the tension bleeding out of him just as it had when he’d seen studied Harolds monitor, except this time it shudders out of him in one long breath, warm against Harolds neck. The hand in his curls into his fingers, slightly awkward stretched across his chest, but Harold couldn’t care less. “I was just surprised to see you, Jude, I promise.”
“Okay. Are you sure you’re okay?” Jude says, nervous and like he’s dreading receiving an answer, and Harold rubs the back of his head in an automatic response, the need to soothe so strong it seems to override everything.
“I’m okay, Jude. I’m sorry I scared you, but I’m okay, I promise.”
Jude takes another shuddering breath, and actually moves closer, and this close Harold can feel his heartbeat against his chest, hair tickling his cheek – he’s so cold in his arms, no trace of warmth in contrast to himself, buried under two separate blankets, and it tugs at Harolds chest.
“I’m – I’m really glad you’re alright.” Jude’s almost whispers into his shoulder after a few seconds of silence, like this is a secret he could only share in the safety and privacy of Harolds arms. “Julia said you would be, that it was just a precaution, but – I just couldn’t go home thinking about you in here.”
“Oh Jude.” He sighs, although he can’t help but be touched even as his chest continues to flip with concern. “Did you come here straight from work? You drove?”
Jude nods. “It’s – I couldn’t go home, it was – I don’t know, I’m sorry to just show up, but –“
“Hush.” He says, firmly but not unkindly. “I’m sorry I scared you, and I promise I’ll be okay, but I’m – I’m glad you’re here, Jude. I love seeing you, always. It was very sweet of you to come.”
Jude is quiet against his shoulder, but Harold feels the last of the tension in his thin frame bleed out of him at the words.
“You would do the same for me.” Jude says finally, and it slurs slightly with exhaustion, and it’s surprising enough that he has relaxed enough in his arms for this and Harold has to keep from twitching, well aware that this moment is held together with hope and prayer, and he thinks he will sue the pants off any nurse that comes in and interrupts this, interrupts the way he is able to hold his son in his arms in the most unexpected turn of events, after an objectively terrible day. “You have done the same for me.”
Harold weighs the things he could say in response to this, but in the end says nothing, continues to run his thumb through the hair under his palm, hitting the top of his shirt collar with every downward motion.
He can almost imagine Jude in his office late, getting the call from Julia, and sitting there in anxious silence. How long had he lasted before he had cracked, before he had gotten into his car and made the four hour drive to Cambridge? It’s only 3am, so he thinks it had to have been almost no time before Jude was in his car, shredding his fingers to bits between his teeth as he drove in tense silence, and he finds himself looking sideways without even thinking about it, and sure enough, the hand in his own is rough around the nails, dotted with dried and bloody hangnails in spots, and dry, from the hand sanitizer Harold knows he would have periodically kept using to keep it all clean.
How long had he convinced himself he was intruding as he drove here to check on his adoptive father? What were the worst-case scenarios his mind had conjured up as he sightlessly kept his tired eyes on the freeway? Did he think Harold was suffering while he raced over?
The upsetting thing is Harold can relate, has related in the rare events that Jude was sick or in pain enough that he had actually let Harold know he was in the hospital, and Harold had made that tense drive over, but –
But Harold has always had Julia to hold his hand through the drive, the both of them quiet but soothed by each others presence.
Harold has always kept a go bag in his car, full of snacks and water.
And Harold –
Harold is used to illness. Harold is used to hospitals and the smell of antiseptic and the meditative breathing he has to do when he needs to remain calm and has had the singularly unpleasant experiences of watching his parents pass, of holding their hands through their sickness and injuries and last breaths in suffocating hospital rooms and good and bad nurses and Jacob, has rushed his son to the hospital numerous times in varying stages of panic, trying to keep him calm, and –
God help Harold, he thinks by the time Jude was adopted, he was a seasoned veteran in the tumult of life, and when he had realized the amount of help Jude needed, as much as he was willing to let Harold be there for him, it was heartbreaking more than it was ever stressful.
Harold already knew how to remain calm on those last minute calls to sit with Jude at the hospital, to fuss over him without feeling anxiety crawling up his throat at all times, knew what questions to ask Andy when he had a chance to talk to him in the hallway, to remember to drink water and eat something and try to sleep when he could, and –
Jude does not know these things. Jude is so new to being someone’s son, as pitiful of a job as Harold does sometimes, and likely for the first time in his life has felt the singular panic of finding out a loved one, a parent, is ill enough to be hospitalized, so he knows there was no calming techniques or sustenance or breaks or anything until the moment Harold woke up. He knows there was only panic and catastrophizing and concern and exhaustion and ash in his mouth.
Harold is blinking back tears as he sits and thinks about this, and Jude is safe and exhausted and practically boneless in his arms, his breathing slow and close enough to a light snore that Harold thinks he might even have dosed off, and thinks he could not feel more guilt at the amount of panic and concern his son must have felt to let his guard down like this, to let himself be held and soothed, to race over as fast as he could just to be able to be with him.
The moment is interrupted, sadly, when there are footsteps outside the closed door, and Jude straightens up right before there’s the creak of it opening, and Harold mourns the warmth and closeness, although he cannot bring himself to be angry at or try to sue the night nurse, who has taken great care of him the whole time he’s been there.
She cheerfully greets Jude, who politely nods back, his dark skin holding a deep blush as he avoids both their eyes. He moves back to his chair, listening intently as the nurse checks his vitals and proclaims they look good, asks after Julia and checks if he has any other symptoms.
“Are you going to be staying the night?” She asks Jude, smiling, and Jude nods. Harold resists the urge to deny this, happy enough that Jude feels he can stay without intruding.
“This is my son, Jude.” Harold says, before Jude can say anything, and he’s sure Jude’s blush is deepening even as he continues before he can stop himself. “Actually, is there anywhere he can still get something to eat here at this time of night?”
“Oh, I don’t – “ Jude says, quietly enough that it’s barely audible, and the nurse is already answering, telling them that unless he leaves the hospital there isn’t, but there’s a vending machine down the hall that he could get water and a snack from.
When she leaves, with a promise to bring back an extra blanket, Jude sighs, turning a mildly annoyed look at Harold. His cheeks are deeply flushed, although he doesn’t know if it’s from basically falling asleep in his arms or for being embarrassed in front of the nurse. The effect is completely lost with how messy his hair is and how red rimmed his eyes are. It’s such a wholly domestic look for someone usually so neat and composed, that it’s almost enough for Harold to forget about his guilt over the whole situation.
“Was that necessary?” Jude asks, voice slightly raspy.
“What? She was very nice.” Harold says, reaching over to smooth some of his hair down from where it was smushed into his pillow, and he just can’t help himself and he’s giddy with it, at the way Jude lets him, just sits there patiently without inching away or twitching, as if in the dimmed lighting of this hospital room they are completely different people. “And you do need to eat. Don’t give me that look, I know you haven’t eaten or drank anything for hours.”
“Harold.” Jude says, finally turning his head to the side away from Harolds fingers, his tone edging on frustrated patience. “You don’t need to take care of me. Especially not right now.”
“I’m your father.” Harold says, just to watch the pleased barely there twitch of Judes lips at the words despite himself. “I’ll always take care of you. Now, my jacket is over there, and so should my wallet. Go get us some snacks and some water, will you?”
Jude sighs and gets up, although he reaches into his own briefcase which is lying discarded by the small sofa in the corner of the room along with his suit jacket. “What would you like me to get you?”
“No, no.” Harold snaps his fingers, pointing to his own jacket when Jude pauses and looks back at him. “Take my card.”
“I have my wallet.”
“No. You’re taking mine.” Harold insists, ignoring Jude’s incredulous look. “You’re not paying for me.”
“I think I can afford some vending machine snacks, Harold, it’s –“
“I don’t care.” Harold says, pointing more insistently at the jacket. Jude pauses for a second, then sighs, going over the jacket.
“This is so silly, Harold –“
“Yes, sure.” Harold cuts him off. “Make sure you get me a Nutter Butter.” He adds, enjoying their banter more than anything, the comfort he feels in the moment, arguing with his son over something so small and inconsequential. Jude is smiling even as he shakes his head, rooting around for his wallet, the tiny little smile he always gets when Harold plays the fool, like he can’t believe it’s something he’s witnessing, and it’s like sunshine on his tired and drawn face.
“It’s 3am.” Jude says as he finds the wallet, handing it to Harold so he can fish out his card.
“Great point. You should also grab some of the peanut butter crackers if they have them.” Harold says, pulling out the first card he sees and handing it over.
“And something crunchy. Also some water.” He pauses. “Also whatever you want, of course.”
“I’ll just have –“
“No, I’m not sharing. At least one thing for yourself, Jude, I mean it.” He says, letting his voice dip into sometime serious and insistent at the end of his sentence. “You look tired and I need you to eat something. Please.”
Jude looks down at him for a long second with a slight dip in his brow, the smile gone, his fingers flexing over and over on the card in his hand by his side, and Harold isn’t sure if he meant to protest or question him or acquiesce, but then he nods, looking uncomfortable.
“Okay.” He says quietly. “I’ll get something for myself.”
Harold smiles up at him. “Good. And remember, Nutter –“
“Nutter Butter, yes. And something crunchy. And water.”
“And maybe something salt and vinegar if they have it.”
Jude gives him an unimpressed look. “You’re in here for high blood pressure.”
“I don’t see your point. Now go, and I better see my spoils when you return.”
Jude does come back with spoils, and its comical to watch him walk in still in half his suit, laden with colorful vending machine snacks. He sets them all on Harolds lap and sits on the chair again and they munch on them quietly, and Harold is glad to see Jude open a pack of the pretzels he likes and actually eat them, washing them down with sips of water.
He likes to imagine he sees the energy return as he eats, that he sees Jude sit up a little straighter, sees the bags under his eyes diminish, but he looks tired as ever as he quietly eats – Harold can feel the exhaustion permeating off of him, in the way he’s blinking slower than normal, the way he’s sightlessly looking somewhere past Harolds bed as he eats almost absently, the pallid look of his skin now that the blush is gone, the way his eyes are shot with red.
He doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, though, thinks they have pushed their unspoken boundaries enough tonight, and he’s scared that anymore will scare Jude away, and he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want him anywhere but here where he can keep an eye on him.
He wordlessly offers up some of his Nutter Butter, and Jude blinks back to the bag he’s holding up.
“I thought you weren’t sharing.” He says, smiling tiredly. His voice doesn’t sound as raspy anymore with water in him, and Harold clears his throat.
“Peace offering, since you’re actually eating.” He says back, and Jude shakes his head and takes a piece, still smiling.
Twenty minutes later, they’re done eating, and the snacks have been cleared away to the table next to him, and Jude is leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed and long legs stretched out to under the bed, and he’s blinking groggily at them as they sit in silence.
“How was the Burns trial?” Harold says finally, trying to think of how he can segue into telling Jude to take a nap on the couch. He remembers them talking about it on the phone the week prior, and Jude had rambled on about the details, excitement barely hidden in the steady tone of his voice.
“It was fine.” Jude says, staring almost fixedly at his shoes for a second before blinking up to look at Harold. “It got thrown out yesterday. Today? No, yesterday.”
Harold winces internally – he knows there were enough sleepless nights involved for this to be terrible timing. It’s Friday, but he imagines this is the end of a very long week for Jude, with likely no respite the coming weekend.
He wants to ask if Jude needs to be back tomorrow, but decides against bringing it up again. Judes exhaustion is permeating the air, it feels, and Harold finds himself suddenly groggy too, although later he will find it odd that he found it odd to begin with, but he supposes that is the strange timelessness about the hospital, with its bright lights and feverish activity at all times.
Even with the lights of the room dimmed, he feels a pull of anxiety, like he should be doing something, like he shouldn’t be here, like he is getting something wrong just by being here.
Jude is calling his name, and he realizes he’s zoned out, and his son looks back at him with concern.
“You should get some rest, Harold, I’m sure it was a long day.”
Harold sighs, lying back fully against the pillows, because he’s admitting to himself now that it really was – all the testing and anxiety and blood draws and unfamiliarity have really taken it out of him, and he finds himself wondering once again how Jude manages to deal with medical anxiety as much as he has had to.
“You should too.” He says instead, raising his eyebrows to the little sofa in the corner, which is likely still too small for Judes frame. There’s a comfier chair next to it that he suspects reclines, but either of them look like better options than the hard plastic one Jude is cramped into right now. He hopes the nurse comes back with an extra blanket soon.
Jude nods. “Don’t worry, I will - I’m just gonna give Julia a call, I told her I would.”
Harold doesn’t really believe him, but he watches as he looks through his phone, his face illuminated by the light of it, and watches as he calls and greets her softly, quietly, and they chat for a few seconds, and Harold finds himself blinking back sleep at the sound of Judes voice filling the quiet air, and he isn’t really following the words and then he’s out before he knows it.
By the time he blinks awake to another nurse apologizing for waking him to collect blood, Jude has indeed moved onto the little recliner that he’s dragged over right next to him, and he’s curled up with a hand under his cheek and fast asleep under the blanket that finally must have arrived.
He wakes up as the nurse moves around and there’s the clattering of equipment and a light being turned on, but he just lies there, silently watching her work, and Harold can barely stay awake himself, and is out before the nurse is even finished. He registers that it’s a little bit after 5, therefore too early to be awake, and that’s all he seems to need.
The next time he wakes up, only an hour later, he has to go to the bathroom, and Jude blinks awake the second he moves and gets the nurse to unplug what they can and hovers behind him as he takes his pole that is still attached to his IV (Glucose, he later learns.)
Harold wakes up a couple of times after, barely, caught between being half awake and half asleep, when there is another vitals check, and he thinks a doctor comes by at some point and he registers Judes hushed voice as they go into the hallway to talk, and there’s another point where the bathroom door closes softly, but he mostly sleeps through it all, groggy to the point of not being able to fully open his eyes for more than a few seconds.
He's surprised when he opens his eyes and has blinked away the fog in them sufficiently that it’s almost 10am. He feels well rested, despite the amount of interruptions, and it’s almost a surprise – he supposes he’s made up for the quality of sleep with the sheer quantity he’s managed to get.
Neither of those seem to be true for Jude, he realizes with dismay, who is already awake but looks terrible in the cheery morning light, his eyes fully bloodshot and his entire person almost visibly crumpled where he is curled up on the recliner, typing just a smidge too slow on his phone.
“Jude.” Harold croaks, and he startles, looking back at him with his red eyes, so shadowed that he looks ill. He’s not wearing his shoes, and the sight of his socks tucked under him gives Harold a feeling in his stomach he can’t really identify.
“Oh, you’re awake.” Jude says, immediately getting up to hand him a cup of water, which he drinks gratefully. “How are you feeling?”
“Bloodless.” He says, gesturing to the bandages still on the crook of his elbow. The IV is gone, he realizes, and has no memory of that happening. “I’m okay though. Did you get any sleep?”
Jude nods, although it’s clearly a lie, rolling the recliner closer to him as he sits back down. “Don’t worry about me, Harold, I’m okay. The nurses said you can go home soon. Julia is coming but I can drive you if it takes her a while.”
The relief he feels is immediate. “When?”
“They said in a couple of hours. Your blood pressure looks great, by the way.” Jude says, shuffling through the papers on the now very cluttered table. A stray nutter butter falls to the ground but Jude doesn’t seem to notice, rubbing at his eye absently as he scans the paper before handing it over. “I took down all the instructions for you here. Sorry, the doctor came by but you were sleeping so I let you. It’s all here though.”
Harold takes the paper but only glances at it, too busy frowning at Jude, very disconcerted by the sheer carelessness of his movements, so unlike him. Even Jude’s handwriting is an untidy scrawl from the second he looks at it. It’s on his tongue, the urge to demand Jude go back to the house to get some sleep and he would wait for Julia, but he holds it back, still not sure how it will be received.
“Are you staying the weekend?” He asks instead, sure to inject a hopeful tone into his voice. Jude looks at him warily.
“If - if that’s okay.” It’s awkward, nervous, and Harold understands the moment of the dark hospital room in the middle of the night is over, and he mourns it viciously.
“Of course it’s okay. I was hoping you’d stay, but Jude, I hope you’re not missing out on anything important at work because of me.”
“No, with the trial over, Lucien told me he didn’t want to see my face until Monday.” He pauses. “Also, he said to tell you verbatim, salt is a real killer Harold, you should lay off the Nutter Butters.”
“Everyone’s a critic.” Harold mumbles, and Jude chuckles as he finally reaches down to pick up the discarded packet, and it looks like he’s moving on autopilot, his movements precise but dragging.
“Jude.” Harold says, reaching out to take his hand before he can think about it, and its cold and still dry. “Thank you for staying with me. Really, you don’t - it was very comforting to have you here.”
Jude blinks at him, blinks at their joined hands, and adds his other one into the mix, and Harold thinks his heart could burst.
“Always, Harold. You don’t have to thank me.” Jude says, his eyes so relieved suddenly despite their redness, despite the way he's partly avoiding his gaze. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”
And it really had been so comforting, he realizes - there really had been something very soothing of not being alone in an unfamiliar hospital room, to look up in the darkness and see a familiar face, to know that he could call for Jude and he would wake up and be there with his calm, steady voice and just his sheer presence, and he had. While he feels guilty at how tired he looks and the fact that he slept frankly excessively, he knows there was no chance he would have been able to do that had he been alone, and while he aches at how stressful it must have been for Jude, he is so overly grateful to the boy (man, really) in front of him.
When they get home, Jude hovers around until Harold gets settled in on the couch, and he looks like he wants to protest when Harold orders him to go take a shower and go to sleep upstairs, but he finally listens when Julia comes and sits right next to him in her armchair, like he’s satisfied someone is watching Harold.
He doesn’t come back down until late in the evening, but Harold still goes to check on him every few hours, and finds him peaceful each time, cuddled into the quilt and deeply asleep.
There’s a singular pleasure, he thinks, in watching someone he loves so much finally get some peace, and that night when they have dinner together and Jude is still blinking sleepily but in good spirits as they all chatter aimlessly, he will be so grateful to know somebody so selfless and kind and good, the pride at being his father so strong it will be crushing.
When they move to the living room, Jude under another blanket and halfway to dozing off again on the couch, Julia will bring out a bowl of Nutter Butters and they will look at each other and laugh, an inside joke that they won’t explain to Julia no matter how much she wheedles for it, and he will sear the sound of Jude’s giggles into his brain.
This is my family, he will think, and that is my son.