Chapter Text
At the end of the day they return to their camp to sit around the fire. To eat, drink, listen to Yeshua preach. Sing, pray. Judas wants none of these things today.
Perhaps he can just lie down quietly without his absence being noticed? It is a benefit of their numbers swelling, as uneasy as this makes him. It is much easier to slip away amongst a crowd of disciples than when he was one of only twelve.
So he goes to his tent and rolls out his sleeping mat. He tries to lie still but somehow the pounding in his head becomes even harder to ignore. It seems to start in his sinuses and throb out through his teeth and under his eyes in waves of pressure and heat. His throat is parched and raw but getting water would involve standing up, which he is reluctant to do. He coughs instead, which makes him sneeze, which makes him groan into his hands and roll over onto his stomach with his head buried in his arms to block out the light.
Time passes. Canvas moving, someone entering and squatting beside him. Hands on his shoulders.
He grumbles and goes to swat them away but then his eyes open and take in Yeshua, his dearest and oldest friend. His hair is tied back and he wears a new white shirt. He looks worn, tired, dusty, happy.
“You were not at dinner.” Yeshua frowns, making it a question.
Judas feels a kick of heat in his stomach that Yeshua had noticed. He’d assumed the man had stopped looking. He’s only one among the twelve, and only one among the hundreds receiving God’s message each day. It’s nice to be noticed.
“I wasn’t hungry. I’m not feeling well.” He explains. “Nothing serious-” he hastens, when Yeshua’s eyes get big and compassionate. It’s that uncanny, radiant look that carries impressions quite beyond itself; a warm breeze through the olive trees, a mother cat licking her kittens, milk fresh from the cow. A compassion that seems greater than human. It’s way too much. It’s a bit weird. It makes Judas feel quite out of his depth.
He sits, hugging his knees to his chest. Yeshua settles beside him.
“I’m glad you’re resting, but you should eat, too.” Yeshua gestures to a dish on the floor holding preserved figs, olives and some flatbread. It looks dry and Judas coughs just looking at it, finds he has raised a hand protectively to his throat.
“Poor Judas.” Yeshua murmurs. One of his own hands settles over Judas’ and the other cups his cheek, as he presses a firm, dry-lipped kiss to Judas’ forehead. Judas lets the cool wash over him, soothing his fevered skin. Gooseflesh rises on the back of his neck.
He’s heard Yeshua has healed cripples this way. Raised the dead. It’s why the masses are following him now, hungry as desert dogs for salvation. Judas still isn’t sure he believes all that stuff, but something about that touch wants to cling to Yeshua and never, ever, ever let him go. He closes his eyes despite himself and half believes that when he opens them his malady will be gone, kissed up to God.
It isn’t. His nose is running and he has to turn and swipe the heel of his hand against it. Yeshua’s intense eyes crease at the corners with a smile and the moment breaks.
“Were you expecting a miracle?” Yeshua asks. He seems genuine.
“Don’t.” Judas grits his teeth, tries to gather himself. Honestly, one slight fever and he’s as ready to believe this messiah stuff as the peasants. “Don’t,” he says again. More to himself, because he can feel the fight they keep almost-having rearing it’s head and he does not have the energy. Damn Yeshua, damn his disciples and damn this cold.
Judas shakes his head against the thought. He regrets it; it feels like rock is rattling around in there. He sneezes suddenly and feels the rock thumping against the tender inside of his skull. This is miserable.
“Health,” Yeshua pats him on the arm with the blessing, and again when it happens a second time. “Health. I’ll bring water. You should drink. And eat. And sleep.” Yeshua holds a hand up to halt Judas’ eye roll. “I know you know. It’s all I can offer you for now, so humour me.”
It’s a genuine plea. Yeshua rises and the light of the setting sun catches through the canvas, gilds his hair and skin and hands. He looks holy, then. He often does, these days, damn him again.
“Be well.” Yeshua says softly. It sounds like a command. Judas closes his eyes and tries to obey.
END.