"I thought he was with you," John commented, snagging a biscuit from the basket on the table. The biscuits were only marginally better than the coffee. A liberal application of butter helped. "Contrary to what the internet thinks, I'm not with Chris." "Besides, Jon would kill you if you cheated on him with someone prettier," Zoe grinned, around a mouthful of eggs. "True." "I lost sight of Chris last night about three bars in," Simon remarked, resetting his ever-present Star Wars baseball cap on his head. The night before, Chris had suggested an old-fashioned pub crawl ("We have a free night and no morning interviews, we shouldn't waste it!") and everyone had gone along for at least a little while. Chris tended to get his way a lot, especially once he started getting all puppy-affectionate. "Karl, when's the last time you saw him?" "He was sandwiched between two brunettes on the dance floor of that one club – the one doing the '80s alternative night." Karl gave the coffee up as a lost cause and switched to orange juice. Somehow, it seemed safer. "I went back to the hotel not long after that." "Anyone tried his cell?" Anton asked. He was the only one who'd been brave enough to try the "kitchen sink" omelet (which was pretty much exactly what the name suggested – a little bit of everything mixed with cheese), but Anton had the iron constitution of the very young. Still, Karl thought he'd keep an eye on Anton later. Just in case. Everyone else, including Simon, was sticking with the hash browns special (the consensus was that not even this diner could fuck up hash browns.) "Straight to voicemail," John confirmed, after checking his iPhone. "Alright, who wants to volunteer to check his room?" Zoe asked, looking around the table expectantly. "I've been babysitting him for the last three days, so don't even suggest me." Babysit was perhaps too strong a term, but Chris did tend to get lost rather easily, especially in strange cities, so it helped if he had a wingman with him to act as a human GPS. "I'll do it," Karl offered, as he debated eating the last piece of bacon on his plate. He wasn't really hungry, but bacon was bacon, and wasting it seemed like a crime. "If the brunettes are with him, get pics or video," Simon grinned. He was the only one that was still stubborn (or stupid) enough to still be drinking the coffee. "I have to live vicariously through my single friends these days." "You can always come with me." "Wish I could. Instead, I get scintillating round tables with the local press." "Sounds exciting," Zoe remarked. "I'm on my way to some talk show after this. Envy my life." "We all do," John replied, with a perfectly straight face. "And let us know if you find Chris," Zach said to Karl. "And if he's in a ditch somewhere, warn us so we can all get the hell out of the country before the wrath of Paramount descends upon us for letting anything happen to the captain of their brand new franchise." "I'd be more worried about the wrath of JJ if anything's happened to him," Karl replied. "But I'll let you know." *** After five straight minutes pounding on the door of Chris' hotel room, Karl was starting to get a little worried. Sure, Chris was notorious for being a heavy sleeper, but this was ridiculous even for him. Karl was dreading the inevitable conversation with JJ when he finally heard shuffling, then the sound of a chain being pulled back. The door creaked open. Chris, clad only in his boxers, with crazy bed-hair, skin a sickly pallor, peered at him through blood-shot, hooded eyes. "Fuck," he croaked, sounding like he'd been on an all-night bender with a nicotine company. "Time's it?" "Just after ten," Karl replied, doing his level best not to laugh. Chris looked like a cross between a drowned rat and like someone had stuck his fingers into an electrical socket. "Can I come in?" "Only if you've got a shotgun," Chris stated, in what sounded suspiciously like a whine, and shuffled away. Karl stepped into the dark room while Chris collapsed back on the bed. He was (sadly, for Simon's sake) the only occupant. "Kill me now," Chris groaned, and covered his head with a pillow. "My skin hurts. I didn't even know that was possible." That was definitely a whine. "Hangover?" Karl guessed, although he already knew the answer. He'd had enough of them himself over the years to know the signs. Chris lifted the pillow from his face long enough to say: "Two things. No more Jell-O shots ever. And no more vodka ever." "Ouch." Karl winced in sympathy. No wonder Chris was all but crawling this morning. "Please just kill me." The plea was muffled by the pillow, but the misery in Chris' voice still came through loud and clear. "Asking me again isn't going to make me say yes." Karl sat on the edge of the bed and looked down. Chris did present a rather pathetic figure. His skin did look rather sickly – sort of a jaundiced yellow and a little clammy. "You take any aspirin yet or drink any Gatorade?" "No." It was a small, pitiful sound. "Alright, stay put." Karl patted Chris' knee. He wondered exactly when it was his character had started to bleed over into real life. "And take the pillow off your head before you smother yourself by accident." Chris just made a small, muffled noise that Karl took as an affirmative. He found an unopened bottle of Gatorade in the mini-fridge (also snagging a bottle of water) and two packets of Advil in the gift basket in the bathroom. When he got back to the bed, Chris had flopped to his stomach. He didn't look any better, but at least the pillow was gone. His hair, if possible, was even messier. It reminded Karl of a bird's nest he once saw – minus the twigs, of course. "C'mon, roll back over and sit up." Chris' back was warm against Karl's fingers, but not feverish. Small favors. "Kaaaaaaaaaaaaaarl..." Chris whimpered, flopping his head to the side to glare at Karl. Not that it worked – it was hard to get a good glare going when one's eyes were all puffy. "You Americans are such babies about a little headache," Karl stated, shaking his head sadly. And to think, Chris had made such a big deal out of having a great head for alcohol the night before. "Not to mention lightweights." "Yeah, whatever, we have cooler cars," Chris argued and made another pained sound as he sat up. Well, it was more like slumping against the headboard, but at least he was somewhat vertical. "I hate you." "You hate yourself more." He gave Chris the Gatorade and Advil. "Drink all of it. You need to replenish your electrolytes." "Yes, mom," Chris replied – more moped, really – and downed the Advil dry before chasing it with the Gatorade. Karl barely resisted the urge to smack the back of Chris' head. Definitely, McCoy's irritable nature was rubbing off on him. "Play nice." "What, I totally was." Chris stared back at him through Bambi-wide eyes. "You're a great nurturer. It's an admirable quality." "You're lucky I like you." "Yeah, I am," Chris agreed readily, but finished the bottle before lying back down, pillowing his head on Karl's thigh. "You feel nice." "That's nice." Karl's mom had always taught him to humor the sick. He guessed self-induced illness applied, in this case. "Drink your water." "You're a real slave driver, you know that?" "You'll thank me later." Karl stroked his fingers through Chris' hair. "A hot shower would help, too. And no, I'm not scrubbing your back or washing your hair, so don't ask." "You're mean," Chris complained, but didn't move. "The meanest," Karl said, with a grin. "Which explains why I'm letting you use my thigh as a pillow." "You've got nice thighs." Chris made a happy noise, and closed his eyes. "Did I mention my scalp hurts?" "Not surprising, considering all of the blood vessels in the head," Karl replied, then stilled his fingers. "You want me to stop?" "Nuh uh, that's the only thing keeping the drummers quiet." "Drummers?" Karl asked, afraid of the answer. "Mmhmm." Chris curled into a ball, but nudged at Karl's hand. "Th'ones in my head. Thump-thump-thumping away, like...a marching band, y'know?" "Not really," Karl said, but started rubbing Chris' head again. "You know you've got interviews this afternoon." "One more hour," Chris pleaded, cracking open an eyelid. He looked marginally better, but not by much. "I promise, no more whining." Karl looked at his watch. "Alright, one hour. But then you're getting up and grabbing a shower and joining the human race." "Let's just...concentrate on the first two, okay?" "Good point," Karl conceded, then shuffled so he could rest his back against the headboard. Chris made a small noise of protest, but moved easily enough. "Now sleep." "M'kay." Chris closed his eyes again. "And thanks. I owe you." "We'll talk about it later," Karl said, but watched with a fond smile as Chris' breathing started to even out. Karl spent the hour amusing himself by thinking of all of the ways he'd collect on the debt. It was a surprisingly long list.
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