Permit Me a Father Fantasy

A/N: Found this one collecting dust in my documents. Probably not amazing, but I figured I shouldn't let it go to waste.

Jim doesn't know what he's saying.

He's sick, really sick, shaking so badly he can barely sit up, cheeks flushed red with fever, blue eyes bright and glassy, tangled dark hair clinging to a sweat-soaked forehead, and cracked lips parting slowly as he tries to talk again, and he doesn't know what he's saying, and Silver refuses, as he wipes down the kid's sticky forehead with a cool cloth, he refuses to believe anything else, because there's no other way to explain how he just said—

"…Dad…" It's quieter this time. Softer. A drowsy mumble, and barely that. Jim's eyes slip shut, and he turns his head slightly to the side, letting out a small whine of protest against Silver's ministrations. "D-dad…" A sudden, harsh cough interrupts him, racking his skinny frame, and he lifts a hand to his mouth to try and muffle it. He's silent again for several minutes after that, shifting and stirring restlessly in his hammock.

He's sick, Silver has to remind himself – he doesn't know what he's saying. He's really sick, fever raging far too high for safety—hell, he's practically delirious at this point—there's no telling what else will come out of his mouth in this state—he doesn't know what he's saying, he doesn't, because there is absolutely no other way to explain what he's spent the last ten minutes calling Silver.

And he doesn't know what he's saying when he comes stumbling down into the galley three hours later, eyes still glazed with fever, and looking smaller than Silver has ever seen him, and asks in a trembling whisper if he can stay here so he doesn't have to be alone in the crew's quarters any longer—and he doesn't know what he's saying when he's sick all over the floor, murmuring apologies and promises to clean up the mess between retches and sharp, choked gasps—and he doesn't know what he's saying when Silver helps him back down to his hammock that night—he's swaying side-to-side every time he tries to stand up, and the last thing he needs is some kind of head trauma on top of the fever—Silver keeps a hand on the kid's bony back, and tries not to think about the sweat soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt—his temperature must be rising again—and he tries not to think about how, when he eases the kid back into the hammock and tells him to go to sleep, that Jim doesn't even put up a fight—he never just does what he's told—he probably doesn't even know what he's doing, either, but he definitely doesn't know what he's saying, because just before Silver leaves the room, he can swear there's a small, tired thanks, Dad from somewhere behind him.

Jim just doesn't know what he's saying. That's all.

And Silver hates how he has to make sure of that. He tries to tell himself he doesn't—the kid wasn't even in his head for half of it, and that should be enough for him, but it isn't, and when Jim's finally well enough to be back at work (a week after he said he was well enough), and they're washing dishes, and the kid looks a little too pale and a little too tired and a little too thin, but better than he has in weeks, Silver has to ask.

"You don't…" He doesn't want to go through with this, not really, but it's almost like he can't stop himself. "You don't happen to—to remember…" He swallows thickly; his throat has gone dry, and he hates that. "…to remember anythin' you said while you were…" He hesitates. "…ill…do ya?"

The silence that follows lasts a second too long.

"Why?" Jim asks at last; he looks up from the dirty plate in his hands to meet Silver's gaze. He looks a little wary, but the uncertainty in his voice rings true. "Did I—did I say something?"

"No." It comes out a little too quickly, but Silver can't help it. "Nothin' at all."