#But I am a simple girl | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

deantfwinchester · 5 months ago

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Neighborhood Walgreens

Pairing: No-Outbreak!AU, Joel x Teacher!Reader like always

This one takes place before the other two timeline-wise, I guess - just a few months into knowing each other. No established relationship, and some ridiculous flirting.

Summary: A busy, sick Joel gets a little care from the people in his life - including the neighbor and friend he's been crushing on for the past few months.

Warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff-fluffity-fluff. Bout to get a standing root canal appointment, tbh.

A/N: The bulleted fics are piling up in the notes app, but boy are the well-crafted girlies a bit of a trek. More to come, if the functioning part of my brain has anything to say about it.

Word Count: 5.9k. absolute unit.

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Joel wakes up feeling like shit. He’d felt a bit of a scratch in his throat the night before, but tried to write it off as allergies or something - until he woke himself up coughing before his alarm could even go off. He knows he has a cold the second he tries to breathe through his nose - no dice. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and it’s pounding before he can open his eyes. He shivers when he moves the blankets aside to get up, and each muscle in his body begs him to crawl back into bed.

Ever the trooper, he rises anyway, heading to the bathroom and checking the medicine cabinet to find what he’d feared - no cold medicine. Awesome. Resigning himself to trucking through the day, he blows his nose, pops a couple tylenol, and gets ready. His respiratory system isn’t too fond of the assault, however, and he’s coughing up a lung before he can finish. Today should be fun. He’ll need to stop by the drugstore on his way home.

Once he’s dressed for the day (trying his best to look alive), Joel trudges down the stairs to see Sarah at the kitchen table, half-eaten bowl of cereal in one hand and a pencil in the other as she finishes the last of her homework. She hears him shuffle in and looks up just as he sniffles, locking eyes right before he can still his features into a facade of rested wellness. The look on her face tells him he’s not getting away without worrying her, and he hates that. She doesn’t say a word as he makes his way to the coffee pot, she just watches him, only speaking up when he shivers at the mug’s warmth in his hands. The weather’s typical for an early autumn morning, but nowhere near chilly. Though the temperature should drop today with rain in the forecast, Sarah knows her dad and he’s never cold.

“You know, I could just head next door. I guarantee she’d be happy to drive me,” she says smiling into her textbook, trying to be nonchalant with her concern. She was referring to you, their neighbor of a few months now, who’d given Sarah rides, helped her with homework, or checked in on her when Joel needed. You’d been around since the day you moved in, and neither of them could complain — certainly not Joel. Maybe she was hoping to fluster him a bit as well, suspecting his feelings for you were a bit more than the friendship he insists they are.

He chokes on his coffee and coughs a little, shaking his head as she closes her book and begins leafing through her notes. Joel’s been worried enough lately that he’s taking advantage of your kindness too much — afraid he’s inconveniencing you and you’re too nice to say no, despite your insistence to help on more than one occasion. Besides, he already feels crappy, the last thing he wants today is for you to see him like this, hardly able to keep himself together. Or worse, to get you sick as well. Absolutely not. He opens his mouth to respond, but she speaks first. “It’s not like she hasn’t before. Maybe just one day? You need…,” she trails off, losing the battle with her expression as her eyebrows knit together and she notes the pallor and exhaustion on his own.

He takes a swig of his coffee hoping it will soothe the growing soreness in his throat before responding, “That’s alright kiddo, I-,” but the words catch in his throat before he can finish, and he cuts himself off coughing harshly into his elbow. Sarah grabs a glass and fills it with water while he coughs, longer than he has all morning, and hands it to him when he catches his breath. The look on her face is challenging now — she knows she won’t win this game, but she’ll still put up a fight. Predictably, Joel continues his previous thought as though unfazed by the fit, though his voice tells another story. “It’s just a cold, I’ll be fine. You don’t need to be worryin’ about me, babygirl,” he says hoarsely, waving her off with a sniffle. “You got a science test today, worry about that. You feelin’ ready?,” he asks, subverting talk of both his illness and mentions of you.

Sarah relents with a sigh, “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she says, gesturing to the textbook and notes on the table. He’s more confident than she is, and he smiles brightly at her.

“You’ve got it down, not a doubt in my mind. Now finish getting your stuff together before we’re late. I’ll get the car runnin’,” he says, moving his coffee to a travel thermos before grabbing her lunch from the refrigerator and getting it packed up. She looks back at him hesitantly before leaving the room to gather the last of her school stuff.

Joel’s got his coffee in hand and Sarah’s lunch in the seat next to him as he waits in the truck. It’s nice enough outside, but he’s still chilly, and wonders if he should run back in and grab a jacket. He forgoes this idea when he realizes Sarah’d put up more of a fight if he did, knowing he’s warm-blooded as all hell, and vocally hot until at least November. Not to mention Tommy’d see right through him the second he shows up to work. No, it’s just early in the morning. The day will warm as the sun climbs to its apex for sure. He’ll be alright.

While he’s thinking too hard through the fog in his head, Sarah climbs into the car with her backpack on, pulling it off to throw into the seat next to her. But not before she’s placed two additions in the seat between them - a box of tissues and a water bottle. She doesn’t say anything to him, just gives him a knowing look before loading her lunch into her backpack. Joel stills a moment — he’s not surprised by her care, but softens at the gesture. As Sarah shuts the passenger door, Joel wonders how the hell she turned out so sweet, and kisses the top of her head in silent thanks before pushing the truck into drive.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Joel gets to work, his headache has bloomed into pain behind his eyes, leaving him squinting hard in the bright morning sun. He’s also used quite a few tissues since he dropped Sarah off at school. He’s definitely grateful she thought to grab them, but unfortunately, his congestion won’t budge. He’s not naive enough to think he can hide from Tommy, but hopeful that his brother might at least leave him be today. He can muscle through if he’s just working and not being nagged by his brother for hours. He’s sure of it.

—--------------------

Tommy’s not an idiot, but he lets him slide for the first few hours. It’s clear he knows something’s wrong. Joel’s a quiet enough guy, but never this silent, only speaking up when the work demands. He noticed when Joel got out of the truck this morning looking particularly drained - both in face and demeanor - and had checked in as casually as possible, hoping to avoid his brother’s evident and exceptional irritability. Joel, of course, had promptly brushed him off and clammed up for the remainder of the morning. Speaking only when spoken to hadn’t stopped Joel from making noise, though, much to his brother’s dismay. Tommy had seen him all morning, breaking into intermittent fits of coughing he’d attempt to mask beneath the racket of power tools. Tommy’s just about as good at hiding his concern, and Joel catches him looking in his direction in the thick of it on more than one occasion. After which Joel would rip his eyes from his brother’s fretful gaze, hoping to deter him from moving forward to give him a once-over.

Despite his many efforts otherwise, Tommy knows Joel’s sick - too sick to be working like he is today. It’s when the guys break for lunch around noon and Joel just quietly nurses a bottle of water (which he only has because Sarah made sure of it, no less), that Tommy decides he’s got all the evidence he needs. Tommy sidles up next to his brother who’s leaning against his truck bed, and by the looks of it, allowing it to hold most of his weight, too weary to do so himself. Tommy sighs next to him, and Joel braces for what’s coming.

“You know, we’ve pretty much got it covered over here today, not a lot left to do before we pour anyhow. Probably a good thing, bottom looks like it’s gonna fall out before long,” he says, gesturing to the darkening sky above them. “We can manage for the day if you wanna head on home, maybe take a nap? Hate to tell ya, but you look like hell.” Tommy nudges his brother’s shoulder with his own playfully, attempting to lighten the mood. Joel rolls his eyes at Tommy, sniffing and clearing his throat to talk.

“Nah. ‘S just a cold. I’ll be alright,” Joel says, hoping to end the discussion with his curt response, but failing when his throat catches on the last word. Tommy’s face is etched in worry at the sound of the cough tearing up his brother’s throat.

While Joel attempts to catch his breath, Tommy takes in the reddened flush on Joel’s otherwise pale face, and the distant glassiness in his eyes. Taking advantage of his distracted state, Tommy places the back of his hand against Joel’s forehead. He’s barely there long enough to get a read on his temp before Joel swats his hand away, but it’s enough. No wonder he’s caught Joel shivering more than once today.

“Dammit Joel, you know better. We’ve sent guys home for less and you know it,” says Tommy, face twisting in frustration and concern.

“Tommy it’s fine I-“ Joel attempts to reply, but Tommy cuts him off.

“Did you even bother to check it before ya left? You know this is a fuckin’ hazard on the job. Damn accident waitin’ to happen,” his tone is grave, but his expression is worried and achingly sincere. Joel pushes the thought from his mind and shapes up - not his little brother’s job, he can take care of himself.

“No. I’m fine to keep workin. That’s it. We got stuff to do,” Joel says with finality, turning on his heel and promptly returning to his tasks. Tommy’s not happy about it, but he could spend all day arguing with his bullheaded brother, tiring him out more without making any headway. No, he’ll just keep a closer eye on him while they work. That’ll have to do.

—--------------------

It’s when the rain starts coming down a little after two that Tommy hits his limit. Once he notices a couple drops beginning to fall, he looks to Joel, just in time to see his brother shivering when the drops make contact with his overheated skin. That’s enough of that. Tommy stalks over to his brother, whose reaction time is significantly slowed, and Joel turns to look at him a bit dazed.

“Alright, that’s it. Rain’s coming down, you’re shaking like a fuckin’ leaf. Go home.” It’s Tommy’s turn to remain steadfast in his convictions. Joel looks over at him with tired eyes and Tommy can’t help but soften.

Only when a few chilled drops hit Joel’s face and neck making him colder than he’s felt all day that he concedes. “Yeah, alright.” It’s clear he doesn’t have the energy to put up a fight, especially when Tommy pats his shoulder comfortingly and he slumps a bit. Joel’s shivering again as Tommy ushers him back toward his truck.

“We’re heading out soon as we get cleaned up anyway. How ‘bout I pick up Sarah? Just go home and get some sleep?” Tommy asks, hopeful now that his brother’s folding.

“Okay,” he breathes out, running a hand down his face before trying in vain to rub out the pain behind his eyes. Joel stops just outside the driver’s side door and looks to Tommy to thank him.

“‘Course. Now head home. I’ll see you in a little bit,” Tommy responds, to which Joel nods, then climbs into the truck. Tommy takes another look back to find his brother sitting in the driver’s seat gathering himself, mildly satisfied with this result

_____________________________________________________________

For once you actually make your way to the parking lot right after school on a Friday. You're notorious for staying too late, grading, planning, or straight up yapping, but today you’d made a rookie mistake. You’d showed up to work on Day 2 of your period without checking your advil stash. Fuck.

After a day of cramping, crabbiness, and guilty apologies after being kind of a bitch to your students a couple of times, you head to your car as soon as the bell rings. You’ll stop in the Walgreens around the corner from your neighborhood for a quick supply run, then head home to be comfortably horizontal for the remainder of this fine Friday afternoon.

—--------------------

Truth be told, Joel is relieved to be done for the day by the time Tommy makes him leave. The last of his resolve had crumbled and fallen with the first raindrops and the chill they set in his bones. He turns the heat on in his truck and settles in, letting the air warm him up and willing the pounding in his head to subside just long enough to focus on the road. A few minutes and a bout of coughing later, he finally works up the strength to drive home, only to realize he’s still horrifically unmedicated. Shit. Guess he’s stopping at the drugstore on his way home if he wants even a little relief.

—--------------------

Joel’s standing in the cold and flu aisle of his neighborhood Walgreens, sniffling miserably and squinting heavy-lidded at different cold medicine boxes in each of his hands. He remembers one particular medicine helping at least a bit more than others last time he was sick, but for the life of him he can’t remember which one it was. Dammit, he really just wants to get out of here. He’d much rather keep this cold to himself than be hacking in public, but he needs something if he’s ever gonna stop coughing long enough to get the sleep he desperately needs.

The tiny white letters on the back of these orange and green boxes are starting to run together, and the pain behind his eyes digs its heels into his frontal lobe. He squeezes his eyes shut and curses a little louder than he realizes, triggering a coughing fit in the middle of the store. Great. Now everyone in the store knows he’s carrying a respiratory plague. He’s sniffling and feeling like a walking germ when he hears his name called.

“Joel?” you call from the end of the aisle, having heard his voice from a few lanes over. Joel turns his head to see - oh no. Jesus. Boy did he wish you weren’t the one seeing him look so gross right now. As you come closer to find him squinting under the clinical brightness of the drugstore, you get a good look at him. He looks… rough. His hair’s a bit damp, and more disheveled than usual - not the fresh, styled damp you see when he leaves the house after a shower, but a clammier mix of sweat and rain. His posture is far from the typical confidence and swagger he typically wields with each step, and is more evidently haggard. You notice his eyes first though, with dark circles and brows creased in confused exhaustion. They’re half-closed too, like he’s fighting to keep them open.

He tries to open them wider and stand up straighter as you approach, clearing his throat to speak, but he’s coughing again before he can get a word out. He’s shaking with the force of it and you notice his shirt is damp in places as well - must have gotten caught in the rain. Just minutes ago, he’d have been uncomfortable under your scrutiny, but he’s too wrapped up in catching his breath to be embarrassed at this point. You draw nearer with pure concern in your eyes as his coughing subsides, and his resolve melts a bit more.

“Whoa, hey, you okay over there? That sounded painful,” you say, finally meeting his eyes. He notices the fretful tone in your voice — it’s gentler than his brother’s but carries the same intention.

“Yeah, can’t say it feels great,” Joel says hoarsely before attempting to clear his throat once again, hoping his lungs will cooperate this time. “Can’t seem to remember which of these damn pills will give me a hand though.”

“Didn’t I just see you on Wednesday? When did you start feeling bad?” you ask, leaning against his side to take a closer look at one of the boxes from his hands. Maybe with some details you can help figure something out to get him feeling better, or at least let him rest.

“Last night, I guess. Came on pretty quick. Was workin’ okay this morning, but once the rain started, Tommy sent me packin’.”

“You went to work like this, Joel?! Isn’t that like, dangerous? You could really hurt yourself,” you chastise, rubbing his upper arm comfortingly while staring up at him looking utterly devastated. Christ he may melt into a puddle right here. He’s seen this look before, and though he doesn’t want you close enough to catch this, he doesn’t have the heart to shove you away like he did Tommy. He bothers to look at least a little guilty, and you sigh before continuing: “Bad idea. And you know it. Now, let’s figure this out. You’ve got the cough down for sure - what are your other symptoms?”

Before Joel can respond, he looks down into the small basket hanging over your arm and notices its contents: a box of pads, tampons, a bag of peanut M&Ms, a resealable bag of bite-sized chocolates, sour gummy worms, two different pain medications, and a box of peppermint tea. Pain relief, pads, and candy salad. Caught. This is not a conversation you want to have with Joel — men get weird about periods for some childish reason, and you’re really not in the mood. You glance down and move the basket behind you a bit, ready to brush him off and keep the conversation on him, but when you meet his eyes they’re wider and his brows are furrowed above you, drinking you in.

“You sure you’re feeling alright?,” he asks, gesturing to the contents of your little black basket. His tone mirrors the worry you’ve been bleeding since you turned onto the aisle. You’re taken aback by the question at all, given the obvious nature of today’s dilemma — one most men you know wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. His voice doesn’t waver, and his expression doesn’t falter, or express an ounce of discomfort. It’s interesting, but you’d rather not dwell on it, and laugh him off anyway.

“Oh, yeah. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before of course,” you smile and wave your hand in the air to brush off his concern, but his eyebrows inch closer to one another, and his head tilts slightly to the side. You’re the one growing warm under his perusal now, so you turn the subject back to him. “Anyway, talk to me. What’s the matter?”

Joel stares a moment longer, but begins to rattle off a list of fairly standard cold symptoms. You’re glad it isn’t anything too serious, he’ll probably just feel crappy for a couple of days while his immune system does the heavy lifting. Now to figure out what can be done to make him more comfortable in the meantime. One thing you know for certain after hearing the growing congestion in his voice and the rasp in his throat — he’s gonna need the stronger stuff. You take the boxes from his hands and return them to the shelf. He looks at you perplexed, struggling to sniffle against the congestion that — according to the pained squinting he’s still doing beneath the fluorescent lights — is giving him a hell of a sinus headache, and keeping him from breathing through his nose. Fine as he may be in a few days, at the moment he looks devastatingly uncomfortable.

“Yeah, this crap on the shelf isn’t gonna work. Let’s get ya some of the stronger stuff,” you say, patting his shoulder before tugging him along to the pharmacy. He doesn’t ask any questions, just quietly follows your lead. Along the way, you explain the useless nature of the phenylephrine in the easy stuff, and how the good stuff requires you to show your ID. You tell him why the drugs with the pseudoephedrine are more helpful, and he nods and snuffles in understanding. Sounds good to him, he’ll let you take the lead on that one. As smart as he knows you are, he more than trusts your judgment.

You approach the counter and begin perusing the options, talking with the pharmacist about what you need, when Joel starts coughing again. You can’t help but rub his back and whisper soft words in comfort when his face twists in pain from the fit wreaking havoc in his chest. As your hand moves in soothing circles across his back, you can feel the heat of his skin through his t-shirt. Shit, he didn’t say anything about a fever. You need to get him home as soon as possible.

When he’s composed a bit, you wrap up with the pharmacist, and she asks for your ID. You pull yours from your bag and hand it to her, but pause. Should you show her your own? Does she need to see Joel’s too?

“Oh, for sure. Uhm, do you need to see his too, since he’s the patient?” you ask, wanting to get done with this as quickly and smoothly as possible so you can get him out of here. She’s looking at the card in her hand intently and entering your information into the computer, busy with the transaction.

“No ma’am. We don’t need your husband’s ID since you’re the one purchasing,” she responds, not lifting her eyes from the computer. You blush at this, but she doesn’t seem to notice until Joel’s eyes go wide and he chokes, forcing him into another bout of harsh coughing. Jesus, his throat must be torn up. You reach for him with one hand and place your own basket and a few other sick day supplies on the counter with the other before she finalizes the transaction.

“Thanks for all your help!,” you say a bit frantically as you begin to usher him toward the exit. You walk out of the store in silence, neither one of you looking at the other, each of you trying to keep a nervous smirk at bay. Only when the automatic doors shut behind you do you turn to look at each other and laugh heartily, extremely entertained by the pharmacist’s assumption. The laughter only ceases when it sends Joel coughing again — you need a read on that fever he’s sporting. Once he’s mostly caught his breath, you move closer and place a gentle hand on his forehead, then move it down toward his cheek. Joel closes his eyes and without realizing, leans forward into your soft touch. When your hand leaves his face, his eyes open to find that look again, and he muses that you may make him sweat before the fever gets the chance.

“You didn’t mention this earlier. Did you know you’re running a fever, Joel?” you ask him, and he looks guilty toward the asphalt.

“Tommy mighta mentioned somethin’ about it earlier, but I’ll be alright,” he responds, but fails to suppress a shiver when the breeze kicks up. Your heart breaks a little seeing him shaking — how did you miss that earlier? You sigh deeply before telling him you’re hesitant to let him drive home. He insists it’ll be fine, and you understand it’d be more of a hassle to come get his truck later on. You concede since it’s such a short trip back, but you’ll follow him back to your adjacent homes.

—--------------------

After parking your car in the driveway next to his own, you meet Joel at his truck. You bat his hand away when he attempts to grab the bags from yours, and tell him to go unlock the door. Ever the gentleman, he’s a little perturbed, but follows your instructions anyway. Once you’re both inside the house, you set the items on the table and sit him down next to it before heading for the cabinet and filling a glass with water. After passing him the glass and watching as he slowly sips, you unload the bags, and begin reading the back of the box from the pharmacy.

“Have you eaten anything today? It’s probably not a great idea to take this on an empty stomach,” you say. He goes a little green at the thought of eating anything before swallowing and huffing a response.

“No, haven’t really felt like it. Don’t think it’d sit well right now, to be honest. I’ll be alright with just the medicine, I bet.” You sigh in response, a little anxious it’ll make him feel worse, but either option could do that at this point. At least the thought of the medicine isn’t nauseating for him at the moment. You’ll let it slide, for now.

“Fine. But you’ll definitely need to eat something substantial later,” you tell him, giving him a once-over, taking advantage of the single instance he’s below you to get a good look at him. You’re already thinking through take-out options that might help tonight. Another day, you’d make some soup for him — get him full and warm him up. Hell, tomorrow you might. But today you’re exhausted, with the period fatigue and the cramps that won’t let up, you’re definitely ready to get into some more comfy Friday Afternoon Clothes.

“Alright, you get changed and get comfy on the couch. I’m just gonna run home and get outta these work clothes, then I’ll be right back.”

“You’ve done plenty already today, darlin’, really. Helped me out more than you know. And I’d hate for you to catch this too,” he explains, looking guiltier than you’d like. You’re plenty aware of the risk here but at the moment you couldn’t care less. You don’t really feel like sitting by yourself in your house right now anyway. No reason both of you should feel crappy alone.

“Uh, Joel, did you forget that we’re ‘married’ now? I’ll be back in just a minute to check on you,” you insist, smiling at him. He looks at you admonishingly and smiles back, shaking his head. You have no idea how happy that makes him — his stomach flutters at the joke, and it isn’t from his illness. You hesitate on the way out the door, and turn to check with him once again. “If having me hovering is gonna keep you up though, I can totally leave you be. I don’t want to keep you from getting the rest you need.” Your voice and expression are apprehensive, afraid to be a bother.

He probably doesn’t still his face well enough, and he’s certain you can see desperation in his eyes when he shakes his head. He can’t tell you quite yet, but he’s over the moon you want to stick around. All semblance of nobility is dropped - having you near him could never be unwelcome. “You don’t hover, sweetheart. Nothing about you is bothersome. I’d love the company, actually,” he tells you in earnest.

Your expression settles at the reassurance, and you smile back at him. “Good. I’ll just be a few minutes,” you begin, but your smile turns to a grimace with the last few words as you feel a sharp twisting in your stomach and lower back. Your hand instinctively grips your stomach, hoping to ease the pain. There’s definitely no escaping that one. Joel’s eyes widen, but you cut him off before he can ask if you’re okay. “Yep, I'm gonna get out of these pants and into something loose before my uterus tries to kill me,” you joke, reaching for the knob.

Joel chuckles in response but he’s frowning a bit. The look from the drugstore is back, and you don’t know what to do with his sympathy. You can’t look long before heading out.

He hates seeing the pain you’re in, but what upsets him most is the way you brush it off. Like your pain is smaller, or insignificant by comparison — one he wouldn’t draw anyway. It sticks with him more than it probably should, but he can’t seem to shake it. He needs to act, somehow. Once he’s changed, he grabs a few blankets from the closet and the heating pad they keep around for his back and for Sarah’s own cycles. He knows how much it can help her, so he figures it couldn’t hurt to offer, at least.

He sets up a spot on the couch for you both — a little nest for staring at the tv and, (he hopes), cozying up just a bit for extra comfort. He’s still not hungry, but he microwaves a bag of popcorn and grabs some other assorted salty snacks to join the candy you’d picked up. He’s seen how snacky you can get after school sometimes, and wants to make sure you have an array of options, prepped for any craving.

You return as he’s placing the last of these items down on the coffee table — he’s rather proud of his little presentation — and sees your hair up and a comfy set of sweats that are just a little too long in the arms and legs. Lord help him, you look fucking adorable. He can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face when you walk toward him.

“Well don’t you look cozy,” he says with eyes shining at your improved expression. You give him an exaggerated little twirl to show off the baggy outfit you’ve adorned yourself in for this evening’s activities.

“Damn right! I’m ready for anything now,” you say, stuffing your hands in the pocket of your hoodie. He’s laughing in response before it catches in his throat again and he starts coughing.

“That makes one of us,” he jokes once he’s caught his breath.

“Yep, I want you on the couch. Right now. Go ahead and get comfy and I’ll get the medicine. We gotta get you drugged up enough if you’re gonna get any sleep.” You’re ushering him to the couch when you stop in your tracks. When you catch sight of the coffee table snacks and the heating pad set up on one side of the couch, already plugged in and waiting, you nearly tear up. You’re speechless for a moment — no one’s ever done anything like this for you before. This little thoughtful gesture means the world, and you’re not sure what to say.

“Joel! You didn’t need to do all this. You’re sick, I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” you insist, nudging his arm with your own, leaning lightly into his side.

“Wasn’t hardly anything, darlin’, just some stuff I know helps Sarah when she gets to feelin’ like you do. She likes her snacks salty, and always feels better with this little fire hazard next to ‘er,” he says, gesturing to the heating pad on the couch. His grin turns mischievous before he starts again: “Besides, you said it yourself, we’re ‘married’ now, huh? I oughta know what my wife needs just as well,” he finishes, voice too satisfied, and eyebrows raised in jest.

You’re giggling when you grab his hand and squeeze it, thanking him. “This goofy little bit we’re doin’ ends the second Sarah and your brother walk through the door, by the way. Not looking to scare her, that’s the last thing I wanna do,” you instruct.

“‘Course, but fuckin’ with Tommy sure woulda been fun,” he says to you, and you laugh in agreement. Once you see he’s settled, you make tea for the both of you, hoping it’ll work magic with the medicine to get him resting comfortably and — with any luck — napping before long. He’ll probably protest, but with a little coaxing, you’ll get it into him.

When you return with the tea, he takes it from you with both hands, before using one to pull you down on the couch next to him. He’s pulled you a little closer than you may have sat yourself, and he’s pleased when you don’t pull away or readjust. You just grab the heating pad, crank it up, and stick it behind your lower back while leaning forward to grab the medicine. You check his temperature again with the back of your hand while he’s preoccupied taking the medicine you’d doled out to him. He’s a little warmer than he was outside the drug store.

“Maybe we should get a number on that. Where do you keep your thermometer?” you ask, worry written on your face all over again. You attempt to rise from the couch to go hunting, but he grips your hand again, keeping you in place.

“Nope, nope, it’s fine sweetheart, I promise. You need to get some rest too. Sit,” he directs, his tone leaving no room for discussion. You roll your eyes, but wriggle back against the couch again before pulling a blanket into your lap. Joel fiddles with the cord of the heating pad and readjusts it behind your back, making sure it isn’t folded or sitting uncomfortably against you. You sigh in relief and fall a bit toward him as you settle in, and he inches you way as well. You arbitrarily turn on a movie you’ve both seen, fully aware neither of you will be making it to the end, and snuggle closer. The fevered heat humming beneath his skin is pleasantly warm against you as he settles deeper, and he’s slipping in and out of conversation within minutes.

_____________________________________________________________

Sarah walks through the door with Tommy in tow while end credits roll across the tv. They head into the den to check on Joel, but conversation falls silent and they stop in their tracks at the sight they discover. You’re sleeping peacefully, legs tucked up under you and head lolled against the back of the couch. Joel’s head has somehow found its way into your lap, and he’s resting warmly on your stomach, no doubt alleviating some of the pain with his warmth and weight. Your hand rests on his shoulder, holding him securely.

Tommy’s face goes slack, but Sarah’s smiling ear to ear, and turns to her uncle, trying to quiet her laughter. He looks at her wide-eyed, but says nothing, and she holds her hand out between them, fingers curling toward her palm.

“Pay up,” she says, way too satisfied for Tommy’s liking, and far too much like her father. He rolls his eyes, and digs his wallet out of his pocket. He really thought his brother would be too chicken to do anything about this — at least for a little while longer.

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wishluc · 11 months ago

Note

Hi!!! I was wondering if you’d be willing to write a yan!alhaitham/Kaveh or heizou for a fem!reader? Anything else is up to you! Totally cool if not tho - love the blog!!!

CW: Yandere! Kaveh (though on the subtler side), drunk Kaveh, manipulation, Reader makes poor decisions

PAIRING: Y! Kaveh x Fem! Reader

I really like Kaveh ♡ Sorry this took some time! Supposed to be a drabble but...(Happy Holidays!)

In retrospect, the first time was already a mistake.

It was hardly a sensible decision to make, but given his pitiable state and your bleeding heart, you couldn't just leave him slumped over behind some building in the city. Kaveh had always been friendly with you, sparing you a warm smile and going out of his way to make light conversation when he bumped into you, though the two of you weren't exactly close, and it would be heartless to walk away from him when you had a perfectly good room that he could stay in for the night. It wasn't the best idea you had—most things involving unfamiliar men weren't—but it would be the right thing to do, wouldn't it?

It's exhausting, having to drag an inebriated Kaveh down the streets of Sumeru City, but after a couple of gentle attempts at introducing yourself and making your intentions known, Kaveh seems to sober up a little. He rubs at his eyes and mumbles something incoherent, still stumbling on his feet as he tries to walk, but him being able to support some of his own body weight is enough to make the journey noticeably less strenuous on you and your conscience.

You lose yourself in nervous chatter while guiding him down the stairs and past large gates. You tell him about mundane things regarding your job and stories from your time in the Akademiya, and updates on the project you've been working on; the one he took special care to ask about whenever he saw you. (Kaveh was always so thoughtful, remembering the littlest of details. The kind of person who'd wait for you in the mornings with the snacks that always sold out before you could make it after you had mentioned it to him once. The kind of person you couldn't leave in such a vulnerable state.) In response, Kaveh only hums and yawns, his head bumping into yours and his arm almost sliding off you. He must have had more to drink than you thought.

When you first saw him sitting out on his own, you wondered where his housemate was, and if you should try to contact him. But you figured Alhaitham had a strict routine he abided by and wouldn't like being bothered at such a time, and the two of them may have gotten into a fight; which was far from an uncommon situation. For a minute again you consider taking him to the scribe, but one thought of the indifferent—or perhaps more likely, irritated—look he might shoot you and you stick to getting home as soon as possible.

At your doorstep, you sit Kaveh down beside you with a quiet sigh of relief and search your pockets for your keys. His head lolls sideways against your legs, his unkempt hair brushing against the side of your calves. You'd think it was endearing if not for how awkward the position was. After a few moments of struggling, you push the door open and lean over to lift up the dozing man again. But when your hands go to pull his face away from your legs and lean him against the wall instead, Kaveh slowly blinks and looks at you with a dazed look in his eye.

It dawns on you then that your position—crouched over him with your hands on his cheeks—coupled with where you had taken him, would look extremely suspicious to someone just waking up from a drunken nap.

"It's not what it looks like!" You cry out, immediately letting go of him. His head flops against the wall and you wince.

Kaveh blinks again, unaffected by the sudden movement, and says your name with a slight frown.

"You were passed out outside and I thought you might need a place to stay," you splutter, "I really wasn't going to—to—do anything else!"

Kaveh groans instead, a hand over his eyes, "Can we...talk later?"

"Sure! I'll just help you to the spare room—if that's alright? I'll leave right after, I swear, and—"

He reaches out for your hand with his free one, and you scramble to carefully pull him up. With a little effort on your side, you manage to take him to his bed for the night, ignoring the growing discomfort of having his head buried into the side of your neck at an uncomfortable angle. It wasn't like he was aware of what he was doing, anyway.

You catch a sigh of gratitude when you slowly lower him onto the sheets and tug off his shoes, and it's enough to make you feel like bringing him here was ultimately the right thing to do, even if a little out of the ordinary.

The next morning, Kaveh apologises to you profusely over breakfast.

“I can’t believe you brought me all the way here. I’m really embarrassed—I’m usually not so careless when I go out,” Kaveh only pauses his rambling when you fill his plate again, sending you yet another bashful look before continuing to eat.

“I’m sure anyone would have tried to help if they were in my position."

“Thank you, really. I’m…glad someone cared that much.”

You take in his slumped shoulders and the relief in his eyes. His mouth is drawn into a straight line and you find yourself making an offer without thinking.

“Kaveh," you begin, "if you ever need someone to talk to, you could always come here. I’ll be happy to have you.”

His eyes widen, "I don't want to trouble you again."

"It's alright," foolishly, you don't let yourself think over it for a moment longer, "I don't mind helping out when I can."

You know it's mostly out of pity, far from a sincere offer, and clearly not a rational one. But Kaveh is nice, you reason with yourself, he's polite enough to never take you up on it. And even if he did, he'd be considerate enough to not stay too long. You were certain that you knew all there was to know about Kaveh from the cordial smiles and the tranquil mornings. Certain that you would not regret the offer.

You start seeing Kaveh more, after what feels like an abrupt shift—far more than you ever had in your years of staying here. At every opportunity, he would make sure to ask you about your day (listening, you note, with unnecessary eagerness and an onslaught of questions you pretended not to have time for), and offer to have a meal with you. Each time, you find another reason to decline him. You even struggle to find a polite reply to his increasingly intimate compliments; from commenting on your outfits, the clips in your hair, and the color of your eyeshadow to your smile and the sound of your laugh. You thank him, your voice hollow, while desperately wondering when he'd run out of things to say.

It's not that you don't like Kaveh; it was only that his newfound interest in you was starting to be distressing.

But it wasn't enough reason for you to be suspicious.

He shows up, a week or so later, a little less drunk but far more talkative, and your evening is spent learning all about the fight he had with Alhaitham. You don't tell him that you agree with his housemate (if only out of courtesy), but you can't hide your shock when he casually mentions his bankruptcy.

"It's not that bad," he rushes to assure you, "I'm working towards fixing things. It'll still be a while before I can move out, but things could be worse."

You accept his explanation, realizing that there was no point in admitting that you were now certain that Alhaitham was right to chide him about his spending habits. Instead, you offer to let him stay for the night to cool down before going back. He beams at you and thanks you profusely, and you decide against commenting on the overnight bag he brought with him.

You wake up the day after to find Kaveh preparing breakfast in your kitchen.

"It's the least I can do for you," he says, carefully bringing over two plates to the table. He blushes when you thank him, and when he places your mug next, you're surprised to find that he's made you your usual drink. You pretend it doesn't bother you that he already knows how much sugar and milk you prefer to have and match his smile with a weak one.

Questions can wait until after breakfast, you think. Or after he's out of your house. But while you're halfway done with your meal, Kaveh hasn't even had a bite of his. His eyes are glued to your face with an expectant look in them.

"...It's very good." you swallow what feels like sand and rubber in your mouth, "thank you."

Kaveh grins before finally starting to eat. Was it his eagerness to please that made it difficult for him to hold on to money, too?

He takes your plate before you can stand up and goes to wash them, ignoring your protests. You've never felt more like a guest in your own home, but Kaveh's humming under his breath while scrubbing at your plate, still donning your apron.

"It's the least I can do for you," he parrots.

He eventually leaves, dragging his feet out sometime before midday with a somber look back at you. You only hope your smile doesn't betray your relief as you wave him off, anticipating lounging around without another lingering presence.

Some mornings Kaveh walks with you, arm pressed too close to yours and eyes on you. He picks up on every flicker of interest, offers to buy you the small trinkets that you pause to run your fingers over, and folds into himself every time you turn him down. It's only pity that forces you to swallow down any signs of discomfort when he reaches out for your fingers moments later, but Kaveh is oblivious to it all. He brightens up and tells you instead about the details of his latest projects. You hum, hoping your stiff fingers send the message for you. It goes unheeded; Kaveh is observant, but only when he wants to be. He's good at ignoring signs, too, when they upset him.

When he has to leave for a long trip into the desert, he frowns and drags his feet throughout the entirety of the morning. He looks at you, catches the concern in your face, and immediately springs upon you an invitation.

"It'll just be us two for a whole month," he says, as though you should find the prospect enticing, "and you've never been, have you? You'd love it there."

The sweetness of his voice candies the nightmarish reality of such a trip. Honestly, you might have entertained the plan if he wasn't always giving you strange looks and standing too close. A whole month, alone in an unfamiliar place with Kaveh? Your fingers curl into themselves as you shake your head. You mechanically recite an excuse from the top of your mind, meshing together mentions of work and obligations. Kaveh tries again, to lure you in with promises of adventure and excitement, but you take a moment to think of spending hours cramped with him and sharing meals only with him, and your refusal is stauncher this time.

The distance and time spent so far apart, you hope, would make him realize how uncomfortable his constant proximity was.

A week into Kaveh's absence, you find that you've never felt so excited to step out in the mornings. The days feel lighter, the mandatory trips out less daunting, and talking to people comes with an ease you've missed. A letter—the first of many—arrives and lays unopened on your desk.

You've fallen back into your usual (pre-Kaveh) routine by the start of the second week, and everyone around picks up on and fusses over your brighter demeanor. Despite this, you still have to bite back the frustration at the lingering mentions of your friend Kaveh and his whereabouts.

Nearing the end of the third week, you meet someone you've only ever been able to catch a glimpse of from afar on your way back home. Alhaitham regards you with a glint of curiosity and his mouth set in a straight line. He's more captivating up close, you realize—something you hadn't thought was possible—almost like a doll with the unusual color of his eyes and his impassive expression.

"Kaveh mentions you a lot," he says, in lieu of a greeting, "but I suppose that should come of no surprise to you."

"He talks about you, too."

He raises an eyebrow, sleek and fluid, "I don't expect that he would find me as pretty or as charming as he makes you out to be."

Your smile falters, "I don't think—"

"I received a letter from him the other day, and he asked me to check up on you. I think you would know why that may be."

"I haven't had the time to respond to him," you attempt to explain, "it's not on purpose."

"It doesn't matter to me," Alhaitham replies, "and I won't be writing back to him either. I only thought you'd want to know of this," then, after a brief pause, "You're too kind to him."

His parting words, coupled with a polite smile, sound almost like a warning to you. As he seamlessly falls back into his usual route, you wonder if it would have been the right choice, after all, to simply send Kaveh back to his housemate that night. At least, you're certain the unhappy looks would have been far more welcome than this puzzling conversation.

And maybe you are too kind to him. Too tolerant of his many unannounced visits, too sympathetic to his drunken admissions. Too careful of his feelings and too accommodating of his proximity despite how it troubles you. Maybe you should tell him to go home the next time he shows up, bottles of wine in hand. Put your foot down, and make it clear that you'd like to be alone.

Maybe you will try.

Kaveh stands, shifting on his feet by your door a few days later; earlier than you had expected him. As you approach the door from behind him, you entertain the notion of running away, but he turns around almost immediately, as though sensing your presence.

He's flushed, wringing his hands together, "it's been some time, hasn't it?"

He smiles at you and it's deceivingly warm. Your own smile is plastered on.

"I hope your trip went well."

He shrugs, then hesitates for a moment, "I missed you. Did you get my letters?"

You nod. Kaveh's smile grows tight.

"I didn't get anything back, so I figured..."

You stare at the bag beside him, "there was nothing for me to say. Nothing new to tell you about."

Kaveh follows your gaze and goes to pick it up, "for you," he says, and your stomach drops.

"I thought we could have dinner together."

"I already had my dinner," you tell him, gentler than you had hoped to sound; as though coaxing a distressed animal, "I'm heading to bed now. You should go back too, Kaveh. You must be tired."

"I don't mind. I can even spend the night here."

No, you think.

"I don't know," you say instead, "I'm really tired."

He steps forward, "just for a while? I really missed you."

At your lack of a reaction, Kaveh tries again, with yet another step forward, "I don't really want to go back yet. Alhaitham...wasn't happy with me taking up this job. I wanted some time before—"

He cuts himself off and sighs.

"But you're right, I should be on my way." He sends one last glance to the paper bag leaning by the wall and then a sorrowful look at you, before going to leave. You're reminded of his efforts; of the money he shouldn't waste on you and the letters he carefully wrote out. The sky, cloudy and restless, was starting to grow dark.

One night shouldn't hurt too much. You could talk to him in the morning, when the both of you are well rested, and you're certain he'd understand then. Certain that he wouldn't see through you and shut you down before you could even start.

You never learn from your mistakes, do you?

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