Page 45 of Bridget & Gabe Are Not Okay

Gabriel went awkwardly down on to his knees and peered under the bed. Arthur was waving a bit of feather down at the cat, who was huddled in the corner by the wall, watching the feather without much interest.

“Here, Merlin,” Gabriel said, digging in his pocket for a twist of jerky he kept on his person to distract the cat from chewing on valuable vellum or council members’ body parts. It was tricky to lean forward while trying not to put pressure on his scar. He tried anyway. “It’s a treat, look.”

Merlin Lucifer stayed where he was, and worry flared in Gabriel’s gut.

“See? There’s something wrong with him,” said Arthur. “Maybe he ate a rat with poison in it? Or another hair ribbon?”

His elbow was flush with Gabriel’s, their heads almost touching, the two of them physically closer than they had been in a week. Arthur turned toward him, his cheek almost brushing against Gabriel’s, and then he had to turn rapidly away again to sneeze.

“Dusty,” he said.

“Mmm.”

“Maybe we could try to grab him from the other side?”

“I don’t want to upset him.” Gabriel thought for a moment, watching Merlin Lucifer breathe in and out, a sad loafof gingerbread. “I’ll go and ask the Master of Hounds what we should do.”

“And bring the physician,” Arthur added. “And the Wizard.”

When Gwen bumped into Gabriel in the hall and he explained where he was going with such a dire expression on his face, she insinuated that it might be overkill to bring every possible health professional in Camelot to investigate a hiding cat, but then again, she’d never been much of an animal person.

Half an hour later, five pairs of legs were sticking out from under the bed; Masters Truman, Buchanan, and Torres were all lying on the floor to give their expert opinions, bookended by Arthur and Gabriel.

“Could be that his humors are misaligned,” said Master Truman. “He’s a boy cat, is he not? So he should be warm and dry, like a man. Women are cold and wet. He might be phlegmatic.”

“Or perhaps worms,” said Master Torres, who spent almost every waking moment of his life with the castle’s hunting dogs. “Have you noticed any? In his feces?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No. Arthur?”

“I live by the doctrine that a man’s feces are his own business,” Arthur said solemnly. “Also, he mostly poos in the grounds somewhere and buries it, except when he does it in Lord Best’s shoes. We could ask Lord Best if he’s noticed any worms in his stockings.”

Things were difficult enough with Lord Best, and talk of worms would not improve things.

“Perhaps he’s in love, and has found himself unrequited,” said Master Buchanan. The Wizard was prone to such romantic notions. “Or dehydrated.”

“Most likely he’s in some sort of internal discomfort, if he’s been vomiting,” said Master Torres, the most useful of the lot. “Give him plain chicken broth, see if he improves.”

“Yes,” said Master Buchanan, pleased. “And perhaps some goat’s milk for pudding, if he wants it.”

The royal council of the ailing cat disbanded, and Gabriel went personally to oversee the production of some broth and some plain boiled chicken in the kitchens, which the cook obviously hated. Back upstairs, Arthur took the dish from him and pushed it over to Merlin Lucifer, who sniffed it thoroughly, licked his lips, then lapsed back into loafish indifference.

“Poor little man,” Arthur crooned. “I can watch him, if you want to go back to… kinging.”

Gabriel couldn’t imagine being anywhere but this room. “No, I’ll have Oakley cancel my afternoon.”

They were back under the bed together again, the steady rhythm of Arthur’s breathing next to him a comfort. “You’re mad. What if someone invades?”

“Gwen can deal with it.”

Arthur laughed, and nudged Gabriel fondly, a sort of full-body nuzzle like he was a cat himself, or an inquisitive horse hopeful for a carrot. He was very tactile like that, always wanting some part of the two of them to be touching, which was why this recent distance had felt so strange.

He seemed to notice what he’d done—and that it was no longer normal between them—because he stopped moving, then put his hand on Gabriel’s very gently, almost as if it could have been an accident of under-bed shuffling.

Gabriel didn’t move. Arthur started talking softly to Merlin Lucifer, and only broke away to fetch pillows, a candle, and the book Gabriel had been reading. They stayed like that, campedon the floor, watching until Merlin Lucifer unclenched slightly and went to lap at his broth, at which Arthur cheered under his breath.

Eventually Merlin Lucifer finished off the entire bowl, then took a few bites of the boiled chicken, and even acquiesced to a few scratches on the head. The danger seemed to have passed, but neither Arthur nor Gabriel moved. They had recaptured something elusive here on the floor during their cat vigil, and as soon as they got up, it would be over.

“Read to me,” Arthur said, turning over onto his side.