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evilfloralfoolery · 2 months ago

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Detestable Misery - Part 2/2

Man, I went hard on the caretaking here, y'all. I do hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing the thing. Heh.

This is some fluffy shit right here.

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Indigo lolls his head back against the arm of the couch with a congested sigh. No, he did not really wish for aid from anyone, particularly not this shockingly gentle brute. But admitting that this illness had practically devastated his reserves is even worse.

“Okay.” Grimm pats his wrist like some manner of damsel in distress. “Be right back.”

Indigo has nearly dozed off within the ten minute span of Grimm’s departure and the other man kneels beside him, knuckles brushing his cheek.

“You okay to walk?”

Is he? He catches Grimm’s gaze for a moment and shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it.”

A soft noise of unease escapes him as Grimm slips his arms beneath his body, lifting him from the couch as if he weighs nothing at all. The fabric shifting against his skin is a giddy sort of discomfort, but his need to regain at least some semblance of composure is far greater than his need to disclose the level of how much his fever may be adversely affecting him. As if he has the stamina for such theaterics.

The resistance against his own skin does not go unnoticed by Grimm, who does his best to shift Indigo into a comfortable position.

“It’s all good,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

Gods, there it is again . . .

Grimm’s steps are sure and even, jostling Indigo as little as possible, as if he is a precious and fragile thing, something to be cared for in the most scared of manners. And it is the consummate professional who is at the mercy of this rough-mannered mercenary, one hand upon Grimm’s chest, the other other curled within his own lap.

He carries Indigo as close to the edge of the claw foot tub as he is able and sets him gently upon his feet, hands upon his waist to steady him.

“Let’s get these off.”

His pajamas. Yes, one would have to remove those in order to climb into the massive tub. Grimm holds his gaze, intent and warm, but full of nothing but attentive concern rather than the usually overtly sexual candor.

Indigo nods once. “Do as you must.”

Grimm unbuttons his top, slides it from his shoulders and drapes it over the chair near the bathtub. The pants and undergarments follow, tugged slowly over his hips and down his legs, placed upon the seat of the chair.

Indigo allows the other man to help him into the bath, guiding him down into the water with a slow leverage of weight and limbs. Once Indigo is properly submerged, Grimm takes a seat beside the tub, allowing him to enjoy the warmth seeping into his chilled skin. Surely his fever will spike in such warm water, but Indigo cannot be bothered at present. He leans back against the slope of the tub and sighs, shifting his feet against the smooth porcelain.

“That good?”

“Wonderful,” Indigo replies.

He runs a damp hand through his hair, finding it in unmanageable disarray. Perhaps he had been sweating in his sleep a bit more than he had realized.

Ugh, what a sight he must be.

“Grimm,” he says. “Would you mind fetching the brush near the sink?”

“Already got it.” Grimm holds up said-brush. “Can’t have you walking around looking like a damn ‘80s horror movie.”

Indigo’s laugh evolves into a weak cough, his voice catching into a pathetic rendition of ragged silk. “I appreciate your concern.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Grimm flips and catches the brush a few times without glancing at it, a lazy yet somehow attractive skill. “How about you just sit there and let me handle it.”

Indigo starts to argue, to contend that he can most certainly brush his own hair, but the words die in his throat before they can so much as consider passing his lips. “I would like that very much, thank you.”

Grimm sets to work untangling the absolute disaster atop his head one lock at a time, using both his finger and the brush to detangle and rearrange it. “You really need to wash this shit.” He squeezes Indigo’s shoulder. “I’m gonna do it.”

“Grimm, really. You needn’t–”

“Shut up, Indy.”

And so he does.

Again, Grimm is prepared, having procured a pitcher of sorts from gods only know where. He takes his time dampening Indigo’s long locks with a slow stream of water, carefully avoiding his eyes and face and begins to lather the shampoo through his hair with such gentle, rhythmic pressure that a soft groan escapes his lips.

“Good?”

“Quite,” Indigo murmurs.

“Lean back.”

Grimm rinses the lather away with the pitcher near the window ledge, cradling Indigo’s head in one massive palm, not a single sud crossing his field of vision. After applying the requisite conditioner, he moves to Indigo’s neck, his shoulders, fingers tracing a soapy path down his arms, working into his hands, lingering upon each finger.

“How long have you been like this?”

Indigo tilts his head back, the warm slope of the tub supporting him. “A few days, I suppose. I assumed it would be gone by this time, but it seems to have worsened. Nothing to be done for it, really. It will simply have to run its course.”

Nothing but the soothing glide of Grimm’s hands over his body, cleansing every inch of him until the ache of his skin has grown complicit and treacherously responsive. Surely his occasional soft groan will implicate him, or the roll of his eyes before they flutter shut with bliss. To his credit, Grimm says nothing, but works with diligent thoroughness until Indigo grows limp within the confines of the tub, slipping low towards the water.

“Hey, now.” Grimm’s voice near his ear. “You can’t pass out here.”

“I would if I were able to keep myself from drowning,” Indigo says.

Grimm chuckles. “That’s not really my kink.”

A soft snort of a laugh escapes him and Indigo muffles it into a damp palm.

“Time to rinse you off and get you out before the fever fucks up your brain,” Grimm says.

But Indigo has already grown delirious enough to be somewhat careless in spite of himself, a notion he keeps under wraps while Grimm rolls up his sleeves in preparation for extracting him from the warm confines of the water. He manages to sit up on his own as Grimm lifts him to the edge of the tub where he balances precariously for a moment before he is swaddled in a towel and pulled to his feet.

“Easy,” Grimm says.

Indigo clutches at his shirt for stability while Grimm pats him dry, combing his damp hair away from his face with one hand.

“I got the flannel.” He nods towards the chair where Indigo’s most hideous, yet comfortable pair of pajamas are folded upon the seat.

“Gods, these are horrid,” Indigo says as he struggles into the soft material, allowing Grimm to basically dress him.

“Nah.” Grimm fastens the last button. “They’re functional.” He gives the dark gray flannel sleeve a cheeky tug. “And you’re still pretty.”

“Hmmn,” Indigo says. “Because that is my utmost concern.”

He wavers a bit and Grimm slips an arm around his waist to steady him.

“Nope.”

Before Indigo can protest, the other man has hefted him into his arms for proper management.

“It’s fine,” Grimm assures him. “You ain’t heavy.”

“Clearly,” Indigo says, the word a drowsy slur.

He leans against Grimm’s chest as the other man carts him towards the bedroom, wincing as the tickle in sinuses seizes him anew. “Oh, G-Grimm . . .I . . hhuh-hh!” He ducks into the crook of an elbow with a wrenching, “Hhh–EKGSSCHuh! EKSSSCH! AESSSCHuuh!”

To his credit, Grimm does not falter, but his grip upon Indigo’s body tightens as he navigates the length of the bedroom.

“Gods, I am so sorry, Grimm. I do swear I am not doing this on purpose.”

“I know you’re not,” Grimm says. A sly smile curves one side of his mouth and Indigo feels his face warm with something other than fever. “That’s some shit I’d do.”

“Honestly, Grimm.”

“Yeah, what of it?”

He sets Indigo gently atop the mattress, pulling the blankets back and mounding a pillow beneath his shoulder. He nuzzles Indigo’s ear with a warm hint of breath. “Bless you anyway.”

“Thank you,” Indigo says with a tired sigh.

Grimm tucks him beneath the covers with such tender slowness that Indigo can barely look at those honey-brown eyes with his usual cool regard. Instead, he offers Grimm a weary gaze with a half-hearted smile, resting his hand atop the other man’s knuckles. Grimm flips his hand so that Indigo’s fingers nestle within his palm, his thumb dragging slow circles across the skin, prickling the hair upon Indigo’s arm to rapt attention.

“You need anything?”

“I . . .” Indigo licks suddenly dry lips and clears his throat. “I could use a bit of warmth.”

One dark eyebrow arches. “Body heat?”

Indigo nods. “Yes. Although, I understand if you do not wish to--”

Grimm kicks off his shoes and nudges them beneath the bed and reaches for the buttons on his shirt. “Mind if I take this damp bullshit off?”

“Of course not,” Indigo says.

The man strips himself of his shirt, pausing to at least hang it on the back of the nearest chair along with his belt before making his way to the other side of the bed and slipping beneath the sheets.

“Come here,” he says.

Indigo is not one for commands, but this is an invitation, not a demand, and one that he gladly accepts. He edges closer, fitting his body against the planes of Grimm’s chest, willing and compliant as the other man drapes an arm over his shoulders. This kind of intimacy is rare and something he affords to no one, but his professionalism is set aside for the moment in favor of comfort. Grimm’s warmth is compelling and soothing to his fevered body. Indigo curls against him as tightly as he is able, the fresh handkerchief clutched between his fingers to muffle his indecent sniffling.

And the obnoxious twinge in his sinuses returns with an utter vengeance.

*IihhEKKTSSH! EKKGTSCCHuh!”

He curls into himself with a clenching shudder and muffles a horrifically wrenching “-AEKKGSSCH’u!” into the pillow.

Arms ensnare him in a protective, bracing hold and draw him impossibly closer.

“Bless you,” Grimm murmurs into his still-damp hair.

“Thank you,” Indigo says, his voice a hoarse whisper.

A hand brushes his hair aside, hooks it behind his ear. “You warm enough?”

He certainly is.

“Yes,” Indigo leans back further into Grimm's embrace. “You are very much like having a personal furnace.”

Grimm chuckles.

Indigo allows himself to relax, a combination of quite a lot of Grimm and heavy blankets lulling him into a complacent warmth, despite his overly sensitive skin.

“How you feelin’?”

He sniffles thickly and rests his head against Grimm's chest. “Dreadful.”

Again with the chuckling. “Just sleep. I'm not going anywhere.”

As if he has some type of choice in the matter.

“Thank you,” he says. “For . . . caring for me in such a manner, Grimm.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grimm’s dismissal is light, even playful. “Sleep, goddamn it.”

Indigo has already begun to drift into the abyss when Grimm turns out the light. Lips brush a gentle kiss atop his forehead and whatever Indigo might have cared to say is lost somewhere between the darkness of the room and the last remaining threads of his consciousness.

Finis.

#EFF writes #Grimm and Indigo #Indy HATES ME for this lol #Almost as much as he hates me calling him “Indy”#LOOOOOOOL #I'm so warm and fuzzy and full of fucking dopamine now #JFC

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