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jawritter · 5 years

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Your Better Half

Request: Jensen Ackles x Sick!Reader

Warning: Some swearing, fluff, tinny bit of angst, doctor and medical realted stuff, fear of needles. That’s about it I think.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Sick!Reader

Word Count: 2050

Want more? Check out my masterlist!

******MASTERLIST******

Hit by a moving bus, after being dropped from an airplane, then thrown into a frozen lake, after having every joint in your body unhinged. That's what you felt like when you rolled out of bed this morning. You barely made it to the bathroom and back to the bed without nearly passing out. You had a high fever, that much you knew, and your stomach felt... Off... Not quite nauseated, but definitely on the verge of it.

Your head was pounding like it had been split open. You had a cold chill even though you were sweating, and your whole body seemed to ach deep down in your bones. You knew that your husband would be awake any minute, but you just couldn't even get yourself together to drag yourself to the coffee pot.

When you crawled into bed again Jensen stretched in his sleep and rolled himself over to face. Blinking sleepily at you as his mossy green eyes focused on you.

"Morning." He mumbled. Giving you a weak smile. Still not quite awake.

"Morning." You said, your voice sounding like you had attempted to swallow glass, and burning with every syllable.

Jensen's eyes shot open immediately. Sitting up he started to look you over, putting his hand on your forehead, checking you for a fever.

"Sweetheart your burning up!" He said. Ripping the thick comforter from your body, leaving just the sheet. You whined in protest, but he was already on his feet. Fetching a glass of water and a few Ibuprofen for your.

You took the pills and attempted to swallow as much of the water as you could, but it just didn't want to go down smooth. Sending you into a coughing fit that made your chest burn as well as your throat. Jensen sat there staring at you wide eyed. You could tell he was on the verge of panic.

Jensen was a natural worrier, he almost had a little bit of superman syndrome. Like he could save, protect, and do anything, and those things that were out of his control. Like sickness. It made him worry. Especially when it comes to you.

"Y/n we need to go to the hospital." Jensen said. Getting up and digging a pair of your yoga pants and a T-Shirt out of your shared dresser drawer. Throwing them on the bed at you. "Don't make me dress you and throw you over my shoulder to carry you out of her, because you know I'll do it." He threatened. Eyes narrowed and arms crossed. Watching you closely.

You knew he'd do it, so even though you'd rather die than go to the doctor you dressed yourself as best as you could. Not even really bothering to brush your hair. Just throwing it into a messy bun.

You looked horrible, but you felt horrible. So you didn't care too much.

"Jensen there really isn't a point in going to the doctor. It's just a cold, I'll be fine." You complained as he grabbed you by the hand and hurriedly drug you out to the car. He didn't speak until you were seated in the car, and he was backing it down the driveway.

"Your sick y/n, you need to go to the doctor so they can check you. What if you have pneumonia or something." He said. His voice was tense, and you knew he was overreacting. Even if it didn't always show visibly on Jensen. He was worried.

"Jensen what if they want to hook me up to an IV or give me a shot, you know how I feel about needles." You protested. Your insides starting to shake, and you couldn't tell if it was the fever or fear. You really had always hated needles, even though your ears, belly button, and nose and a piercing, and you had a few small tattoos. Something about a doctor and a needle scared the hell out of you.

"Then I'll be right there to hold you." Jensen said, his eyes softening a little when he looked at you this time before diverting his eyes back to the road. He knew how much you hated needles, shots, and doctors.

------------------------------

After what felt like an eternity in the waiting area with at least a hundred other people who looked just as bad as you probably did and felt. They called you back and took your information. You sat there on the crinkly paper in a cold sterilized room Jensen sitting next to you, one of his strong arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

He never left your side. Through the paperwork, through the blood pressure checks, through the temperature checks, through the chest x-rays. He was right next to you like he promised he'd be. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the doctor to come back in with his diagnosis.

"Jay this is ridiculous. I want to go home." You tell him. Burning your face into his shoulder. Wanting nothing more than to disappear from this horrible place before the doctor returned to do god knows what to you.

"It's all gonna be fine, they will give you some meds to help you feel better. Then we can go home, watch shit TV, and cuddle until you feel better." He promised. The thought of spending the rest of the day wrapped up with Jensen in your warm bed didn't sound half bad at all, but it wasn't enough to keep your mind from worrying that they were going to come in with a shot of some sort.

Before you could get a word out the doctor came into the room. Looking over a chart. A nurse with him.

"Okay Mrs. Ackles. It looks like you have the influenza type A. So we're going to give you some Tamiflu to help with that, you also have a pretty high fever. So you will need to alternate tylenol and motrin every three hours. When it comes to fever it's best to stay on top of it before it gets bad. Makes it easier to control. Stay in bed, no physical activities for at least a week." The doctor cleared his throat and closed your chart.

"Now lastly we're going to give you a steroid shot to try and stave off any pneumonia that might try to develop. If you start coughing more, feeling short of breath, or your chest starts to feel tight or too heavy, come back in. We may have to do it again. I've seen us have to do it as many as once a day for three days for some people That's not the case for everyone though, so don't think that you have to come in every three days. Once may be enough." He said. His nurse prepping your upper arm already as he was talking. Getting ready to stab you with the shot.

"Jensen..." You said. Tears already starting to make their way down your checks.

Jensen pulled your head tight to his shoulder, and held on to you as tight as he could. Almost crushing you. "Look sweetheart, just look at me. It will be quick." He said, tilting your chin up to look at him.

You had never wanted to die so much in your entire life, If you had to do this for three days, this very well might kill you.

---------------------------------

Once you had gotten your prescription form the pharmacy, and were back home Jensen tucked you into bed. Insisting you take a nap while he prepares lunch. Tried to tell him you'd rather just cuddle with him, but insisted.

When he brought the lunch into you, you hadn't been able to doze off at all. Everything was just cold and uncomfortable. The steroid shot was probably working on you too, so you were miserable, and wide awake.

You didn't realize how sick your stomach was unil Jensen entered the room with the chicken noodle soup in a bowl on the tray though. You turned your head away from the assaulting smell as Jensen sat the tray down next to you on the bed.

"Baby you need to eat something. You haven't eaten all day." He said, watching you turn away from the food he'd sat down in front of you.

"I'm not hungry you mumbled." Pulling the covers over your head. Refusing to look at him.

"Y/n..." Jensen's voice warned, but you continued to ignore him.

"You know if you don't eat you will have to go back to the hospital and you will probably have more problems than just a shot." Jensen threatened and you gave him your best bitch fact.

"I'm sorry Jay, but I don't feel like eating. My stomach feels off, and if I eat it's probably just gonna come right back up." You protest. Jensen ran his hand down his face harshly.

"Y/N YOU'RE NEVER GONNA GET BETTER IF YOU DON'T EAT, NOW STOP ACTING LIKE A CHILD AND AT LEAST EAT A LITTLE BIT OF THIS FOOD!!!"

Jensen rarely ever yelled at you, you sat there for a moment eyes wide. Trying to not cry. Knew you could be difficult when you were sick, you were never the easiest patient, but you didn't know he thought you were acting like a child.

Rolling your sore body into a sitting position you tired to not cry as you picked up the tray of soup. Moving the spoon around the bowl. The silence was so thick you could cut it with a knife as Jensen watched every move you made.

Finally he sighed and took the bowl from you. Setting it on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. Chewing on his lower lip.

"I'm sorry. You don't feel well and I shouldn't have yelled at you. We will try the food again later after you've rested some more. I'm just worried about you and wanted to get you feeling better as quickly as I could." Jensen said, moving closer to you and wrapping his strong arms around your body. Holding you close to him and nuzzling his face into your neck.

"I'm sorry Jay, I shouldn't have been acting like a child. I know I'm not the easiest patient in the world to take care of, and I know you're just trying to take care of me. I'll try not to be so difficult." You muttered, and Jensen laid the two of you down, picking up the controller and turning something random on netflix.

"I love you baby girl. I just want to see you feeling better again. I don't mean to be pushy and mean, you know I just worry. Now let's lay here and watch Netflix until we go to sleep. I won't push you again. I won't yell at you anymore either. You just tell me what you need, and I'll do my best to make you feel better, and take care of you okay?" Jensen asked. His eyes softened as he looked at you. The lines showing around his eyes more than they usually did. Telling you that he was just as tired as you were.

"I love you to Jay." You tell him as he gives you a peck on the forehead before tucking the covers around you tighter. Lacing his fingers with yours. Letting you snuggle back into his warmth as sleep finally started to take you. They said it could take up to a week before you started to feel better. This was going to be a long week.

You were thankful thought that even if he had to take you back once a day for three day, put up with you being grumpy and emotional like you tended to do when you got sick, or even just laid there being completely boring because it was all you could get your body to do just stare at the TV, you knew there was no place he'd rather be than right here. His arms wrapped around you. Holding you close.

Because even before you were sick he never ceased to tell you how much he loved you. How much he appreciated you, and how he'd always be there.

Jensen didn't take the vows he took on your wedding day light. When they said in sickness and in health he meant every word, and you didn't know what in the world you would do without your better half.

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Tag List:

@deanwanddamons @imabitch4jensen @rvgrsbrns @bi-danvers0 @onethirstyunicorn @i-love-superhero @akshi8278 @alanegaming

#jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #jensen x sick!reader #jensen ackles x sick!reader #jensen x reader #jensen x you #SPN fanfiction #SPN Fanfic #jensen ackles one shot #jensen ackles drabble #fanfiction #sick!reader #jawritter

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justlookfrightened · 6 years

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prompt. jack taking care of sick bittle or viceversa?

This is really fluffy. Like, cotton candy-fluffy.

Jack knew the moment he heard Bitty’s voice on message.

It would have been extremely disappointing, if not for the rasp and slight quaver Jack could hear,

“Hi there, sweetpea. I hope practice is going well today. I, um, I have some bad news. I’m not going to go to Providence today. I’m just not really feeling up to it, so I’m going to stay here and rest, and not get you sick. I’ll miss you, sweetheart. Love you.”

As it was, the message was simply worrying, because Jack was pretty sure Bitty had been looking forward to this weekend as much as he was. Six weeks into Bitty’s school year and two weeks into his season, with preseason games just starting for Jack, they were reminded once again of how hard it was to see each other regularly when Bitty was at Samwell and Jack was in Providence.

“Something wrong?”

Marty was watching Jack frown at his phone.

“Bitty’s sick,” Jack said. “He said he’s not going to come for the weekend.”

“That’s rough,” Marty said. “Can you head up there for a while? Bring him some soup or something?”

“What? Little B’s not coming to our game tomorrow?” Tater said.

“Doesn’t look that way,” Jack said. “Sorry, Tater, no pie this weekend.”

“I’m not worrying about the pie,” Tater said, looking affronted. “You go see him, make sure he’s okay. Talk to coaches if you need. They’ll let you off morning skate tomorrow.”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “He’s pretty stubborn. And he called when he knew I was in practice so he wouldn’t have to talk to me.”

Which really kind of sucked, Jack thought, because he wanted to talk to Bitty. Even if all Bitty said was those four sentences.

“He probably didn’t want to worry you,” Marty said.

“It didn’t really work,” Jack said. “I think I will go down there. Maybe I can get him to come back with me if I drive him. Otherwise I can just go back and forth. It’s not that far.”

Jack stowed his gear at home and packed an overnight bag with a change of clothes and a book just in case he ended up staying. The Haus would have basic over-the-counter medicines – Jack was pretty sure Bitty maintained the medical kit – and a thermometer, and he’d left a phone charger there last year, after he and Bitty told the Samwell team that they were dating.

He did try to call Bitty, but it went straight to voicemail.

“Hey, bud, I’m sorry to hear you’re sick. Do you think you’d be more comfortable at home in Providence if I could come get you?”

Then he called Bitty’s favorite diner in Samwell and asked for them to pack up a quart of chicken noodle soup to go.

Last, he texted Lardo to get Ford’s phone number.

***************

Ford hung up the phone and shook her head.

Why anyone worried about Bitty when Jack Zimmermann was on the case was a mystery. A real, true mystery.

Well, of course she knew why. Jack couldn’t always be there, given his one-of-the-top-players-in-the-NHL work commitments. But she was pretty sure that if he could find a way, Jack would take care of Bitty as well anyone could. Even if it meant calling Bitty’s own mother and flying her here.

Jack’s call had come just at the end of Ford’s Theater as Design class, ringing as she packed her things for the trek to the dining hall, and she picked up without registering that it was from a number she hadn’t saved.

When she answered, Jack had apologized for going to Lardo for her number and then just started in without waiting for a response.

“How’s Bitty? Has he been to see a doctor? Do Hall and Murray know he’s sick? Is he taking care of himself?”

Ford spared a thought to wonder why Jack hadn’t called Chow, or Ollie or Wicks … someone he actually knew, more than having been introduced a few times. Then she remembered the way Hall and Murray had told her to make sure Bitty got to the health center after they pulled him off the ice at yesterday’s practice. He clearly wasn’t himself, and his cough was concerning. As he dressed and walked with her to the clinic, Bitty had admitted to coughing so hard he vomited before practice, and he was clearly feverish.

“The nurse practitioner said it’s an early case of the flu,” Ford said. “She gave him Tamiflu, and said that given his general health, he should recover in a few days. But he’s off the ice for at least a week. I got him excused from all his classes through next Thursday, too.”

“Fuck,” Jack said. “He just told me he was under the weather.”

“Yeah, he was pretty clear he didn’t want anyone calling you,” Ford said. “He was afraid you’d get sick if you came down. But he didn’t say I couldn’t talk if you called me.”

“I’m on my way down,” Jack said. “I’m bringing soup, but I think it would be better if I brought him home with me. If he’s that worried, I can sleep in the guest room, but we’re not on the road this week.”

“It’s probably a good idea,” Ford said. “They people who live in the Haus love him to death, but they don’t clean the way he does. And if the place turns into a sty, he’ll feel guilty. Just give me 24 hours notice before you bring him back and get them to get the place back into shape.”

“As long as you make them do it,” Jack said. “You’re the manager, not their mother.”

He paused.

“You think I should call his mother?”

“Maybe leave that up to him?” Ford said. “I mean, no one seems to think this is a really dangerous illness. At least not at this point. But she could tell you what he likes to eat when he’s sick and everything.”

*******************************

Jack let himself into the Haus, glad that he had never turned in his key, and made his way to Bitty’s bedroom as quietly as he could. He opened the door and peeked in, only to see Bitty’s head pop out of the nest of blankets on his bed like a meercat.

“Jack!’ he said, his voice now a raspy whisper. “I told you I didn’t want to get you sick!”

“I’ll take my chances, bud,” Jack said. “You’re sick. I brought you some soup.”

He saw two bottles of Gatorade next to Bitty’s bed, along with a bottle of ibuprofen and prescription bottle.

“I see you’re keeping hydrated,” he said. “That’s good. Have you eaten anything today?”

“I had some toast earlier, but I couldn’t keep it down,” Bitty said. “I mean it, stay away. I’m all gross and covered with germs.”

Jack sat at the end of the bed anyway, taking in Bitty’s greasy hair and the sweat-sheen on his face..

“How about you eat some soup and see how it goes?” he said. “Maybe take a shower if you’re up to it? That might make you feel better.”

Jack opened the soup carton and handed it over with the plastic spoon.

After the first couple of bites, Bitty’s voice was stronger. “Don’t think you’re staying here,” he said. “I see your bag, but you can’t share a twin bed with me, and I will not have you stay on the couch.”

“Then come back with me,” Jack said. “I can stay in the guest room.”

“Jack!” Bitty paused to cough, and yeah, that didn’t sound good. “I won’t put you out of your bed.”

“Then you can stay in the guest room,” Jack said reasonably. “But if you’re sick, you should be where someone can take care of you. I can get Carrie or Gabby to look in on you when I have to be away more than a couple of hours.”

“I’m not that sick!”

“Sick enough to miss a game this weekend, and a week of classes,” Jack said. “And I really don’t want to be on an air mattress for a week. I suppose I could call your mom ..”

“Jack Zimmermann!” Bitty had to cough again, “I will not have you worrying my mother!”

“Then I guess you’ll tell me which books and notebooks you need,” Jack said, already putting Bitty’s laptop and charger into his bookbag. “Do you need anything else besides Señor Bun? I think you have enough clothes in Providence.”

“Fine,” Bitty said. “I need my medicine.”

“Got it,” Jack said. “Ready for a shower? I’ll wait in the bathroom to make sure you’re alright.”

“And I should text Ford and the guys – and the coaches – to let then know,”

“I’ll do that while you’re showering,” Jack said. “Then we can go home.”

Bitty closed his eyes briefly before opening them and pushing the blankets away.

“That sounds good,” he said. “Thanks. Let’s get going so we can go home.”

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kyolosa-blog · 6 years

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mitroophel-blog · 6 years

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lonelyeyes707570-blog · 6 years

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hangonimevolving · 6 years

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Attempting some gratitude, for once.

I need to post this, before the thought and the mood from which it’s sprung both dissipate into thin air.

I suck at gratitude, on the whole. Seriously, I do, and I know I need to work on that. I’ll spare everyone my sob stories, explanations, justifications, etc. for why I have had a hard time with gratitude in recent years, but suffice to say - I am aware that I suck at it, and I heard somewhere that the first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one.... so fine. I admit it. I’m ungrateful and unappreciative in my life most days.

But today, I’ve had multiple - MULTIPLE - moments of just feeling this weird, inexplicable, warm and fuzzy, happy, sigh-inducing THING just bubble up in me. And I was like WTF is this feeling?! Why is my tummy all glittery and light? Why am I sitting here on the sofa smiling for no damn reason?! OHHHHH! Wait! Is this.....gratitude?! HOLY SHIT, I think it is! So I’m gonna write it down and note it for all posterity. I, Evolver, have felt gratitude on this 7th day of September, 2018.

It all started last Saturday night, where, right in the middle of Labor Day weekend and my sister Rithers’ visit to our hike in Miami along with her hubby, Uncle K, and her kids H20 and NiNi, our 5.5-year old Vevvy fell ill. We thought that perhaps he was just overly exhausted from a long and happy day in the pool when he felt warm to the touch on Saturday night, but mid-day Sunday, during a beach excursion - Vev’s FAVORITE thing in the world, he completely fell apart, acting listless, fatigued, and not having fun at all. One look at him, standing statuesque on the beach, staring out to sea longingly while tears rolled down his cheeks, said it all: “what is going on?! I’m so confused, mommy! I’m in my favorite place in the world, and yet I feel so miserable! What is happening to me?!” A hand on his forehead revealed that he was burning up. Without a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Spouse loaded him up in the car and headed for home, while I remained at the beach with Dey to host Rithers and co. a while longer. Poor Vev needed a shower, some kiddie Tylenol, and bed rest, stat.

the “I am siiiiick” face :(

Over the next seven - SEVEN! - days, Vev would continue to have relentless fevers or 101-103F even with continuous children’s Tylenol and Motrin. He also developed monster congestion in his sinuses and nose, headaches, body ache, and general fatigue. I was sincerely shocked and more than a little intimidated by his congestion snot (keeping it real), which was so thick and oppressive, it would choke his throat and inhibit his from breathing if he dared to rest in even a semi-reclining position.

The poor kid had no choice but to be completely upright if he didn’t want to gag on his own phlegm, which meant that he (and by transitive property, I) could really sleep no more than 90 minutes at a stretch for four nights straight. He was miserable, and I was doing everything I could to help him, staying with him each night either on an air mattress in my bedroom, or just holding him against my shoulder/chest in my bed while he desperately tried to sleep and breathe at the same time. I felt awful for him, and mused for a moment about parents whose children have respiratory disorders like CF who live their lives this way.... good health is such a blessing that we all take for granted.

As much as I hated every minute of Vev’s suffering, there was something a bit nostalgic in holding him sleeping in my arms for several consecutive nights. Wasn’t there a time in the not-so-distant past where this was the ONLY way he’d sleep?! I bitch and moan all the time about how clingy, dependent, and non-self reliant my kids are — but it has been years since Vev needed me at night this way. My Vevvy has grown up a lot.

And to his credit, despite all this sicky misery, he was really a trooper while ill. Against his traditional character, when sick or not, he really didn’t complain much - just went quiet and kept to himself for days, forming a little nest on the sofa each day with a warm blankie, big box of Kleenex, and his iPad, not really asking for much at all except quiet and rest. He never really complained when I had to give him medication, and he did his best to heed my urges to drink clear fluids even when I could tell he really didn’t want to. And - forgive the TMI here - but you know your kid is really growing up when they begin to have some way of forewarning you and/or running to the bathroom on their own steam and hitting the preferred target of the toilet when they’ve gotta vomit. Fortunately, Vev only puked twice this week, and I suspect that too was only bc he gagged on his own copious snot — but both times, he announced “throwwww uuuup!” to me before sprinting to the loo and handling affairs with no mess and accurate aim. HALLELUJAH! This should be considered a major developmental milestone!!! (And yes - poor, poor kid! I really am glad it was only the twice, because that must have sucked a lot for him!)

Yeah, so. He’s growing up. Way to go, buddy!!!... and, sniff.

(supposedly this says “Mommy I love you ”... but he always starts writing at the bottom of a page and works his way up. He may also be of the mind that “Mommy” is spelled “mom-E.” Yes, we’re gonna work on it)

It was only yesterday, Thursday, that we got an official pediatrician diagnosis of his illness: the flu, as in the legit flu virus, or Influenza A. The word came too late for antiviral medications to be of any great use to him, unfortunately, but I was grateful anyway that we got a halfway-decent pediatrician BRILLIANT nurse practitioner who needed my assertive request demand for a prophylactic prescription or Tamiflu for Dey. We’ve had shitty luck in South Florida with pediatricians who appear to be reactionary and unnecessarily nonsensical in their responses to my requests for help - but this time, our pedi NP was A+. She treated our family like competent, educated people and did things that made sense as far as ensuring this highly-contagious virus wouldn’t spread to another healthy child living in the same household. I wish she could be our regular PCP (but of course, I bet she can’t be, bc she’s not a doctor. Grr, fucking managed care. Oops, hold it - I’m supposed to be channeling gratitude here, not my customary bitchiness. My bad.)

Anyway, speaking of Dey, I’ve got to brag about him a bit here too. At 3.5 years old, Dey’s baseline is definitely chill, go-with-the-flow, glass-half-full, and a pleasant, happy and easygoing “whatever you want, dude!”-ness that Vev NEVER was at that age. It’s been really awesome to see. But this week, his general outlook on life, combined with impressive moments of being a team player, cooperating, helping out, and exhibiting formidable empathy really made me sooo proud.

It’s certainly understandable that he’d be potentially jealous that his older brother got to skip an entire week of school while he still had to go. It would be even more understandable since they are actual CLASSMATES at school this year (yes, our Montessori school groups ages 4-6/preschool, pre-K and kindergarten in one classroom, so they’ve been together at school and at home since the start of the academic year). So I was very impressed when Dey accepted his brother’s illness and his need to stay home from school, while he was forced to go. Without one word of complaint, he’d get up each morning, eat his breakfast, get washed up and dressed out in uniform, gather his things, then visit Vev quickly and dispense a goodbye hug and a “hope you feel better, Vev!” before loading up in the car for school drop-off. What a trooper. At afternoon pick-up, when I’d ask about his day at school, he’d say with a little frown, “oh, school was okay...but Vev wasn’t on the playground.” It was kinda weird feeling my heart simultaneously break a little, but also burst with pride at how much he loves his brother. Sweet kiddo.

At home, each afternoon he’d run excitedly to Vev to see how he was doing, his face full of hopeful anticipation that perhaps today, Vev was feeling better and could play with him... but when he’d find Vev too miserable and tired to play, his face would momentarily fall in disappointment, but then he would muster some compassion and understanding, silently shuffle away, and find a quiet game to do in the vicinity, just so he could be nearby without disturbing Vev. Or, cuter still, he’d snuggle down on the opposite side of the couch as Vev, and tune his iPad into the same YouTube video Vev would be watching, so they could give each other silly smiles and glances during the funny parts. The boy would periodically race off in the house to find his toy doctor kit, and would affix his little plastic stethoscope to his ears so he could “give Vev a checkup” and “make him feel better.”

(Dr. Cutie Pie is in)

It was adorable, man. His whole world spins because of his brother. It’s so touching. I don’t know how it is that I managed to have two kids who love each other so much, because karmically I’ve done NOTHING to earn this. My sister and I were rotten to each other as kids, and only really turned a corner on it in our... what, our late 30′s?! Haha :) But I’m so grateful for these two dudes. These two little people are the best of friends, and they can’t live without each other. The feels.

One more funny brag about Dey. Dr. Spouse and I often jokingly refer to him as Dory, i.e. the lovable blue fish, voiced by Ellen DeGeneres from the Disney movie “Finding Nemo.” Dory’s schtick is that she’s easily distracted and has short-term memory.

Fittingly, Dory is one of Dey’s favorite cartoon characters, and he’s not shy to let the world know....

youtube

Anyway. Remember that whole prophylactic script for Tamiflu? Mind you, I was so grateful to get it. But. Ummmm, pediatric Tamiflu tastes FOUL. It is seriously the most bitter, disgusting, viscous goo I’ve ever gingerly licked to mentally prepare myself for my kid’s reaction to. I began fearing Dey’s reaction, and the ensuing tantrums to come over the five-day course of the drug. But I spoke matter-of-fairly to Dey about how this was a medicine he’d need to take to keep himself healthy, and that it would be a little bit yucky, but that I’d give him a HUGE spoonful of sugar right after to make it taste better (and THANK YOU, blessed Mary Poppins, for your genius).

Luckily, little Dory just took my words at face value without any further thought, opened his mouth, and downed the nasty shot of devil’s semen Tamiflu that I dispensed into his mouth. Immediately his face went every shade of red, purple, and white, with a coordinating expression like “what the hell is this shit?!” — but I swooped in there prepared, like a crack-smoking Mother of Batman, giving him a swig of water then heaping a MASSIVE spoon of white sugar directly onto his tongue. The result was nothing short of magical - the kid instantaneously closed his eyes in pleasure, turned up his cute little round cheeks to the ceiling with a huge smile on his face, and loudly cooed “Mmmm!” as if it was the best damn thing he’d ever eaten in his life. Moments later, the sugar fully dissolved, Dey matter-of-fairly reminisced with a RainMan-esque tone, “hey mommy, that medicine was kind of yucky for me. Kind of salty. Kind of spicy. But the SUGAR WAS YUUUUUUMMMMMY!” I worried that at the next dosing (and man, the kid’s gotta take it morning and night, poor little dude) he’d run screaming from the salty spicy medicine, and wouldn’t fall for the sugar trick — but amazingly, when I announced “medicine and sugar time,” the child came RUNNING to me with a huge grin on his face like he’d just won the lottery. He gulped down the medicine like a champ, swigged the water himself, then began changing “Su-gar! Su-gar! Su-gar!” till I ladled a bit into his mouth. Naturally, my mind spun forward a bit, concerned that his ease of overcoming the Yucky Taste Barrier and downing this stuff for a cheap reward might translate into some unsavory teenage and young adult behaviors (err, tequila shot champion in the making?! Please god, help us). But, for now - eternally grateful for my little Dory’s easy distractability and forgiving memory!!! Vev, at that age and even now, would have NEVER gone along with this!

(is it just me, or do they even kinda sorta look alike, Dory and Dey? No one else sees it?! No one?!!! Hmm...)

Anyway. In conclusion, it’s not normal for me to have something kind of bad happen, like the flu hitting one of my kids, but finding some good in the mess. But here I am, in spite of myself, awash in all the warm fuzzies.

1. I’ve got two healthy, happy kids, when many people have children with serious health issues and have to live their lives watching their kids sick and miserable all the time

2. my kids are growing up, becoming wonderfully independent, self-reliant, empathetic and helpful. But they still sometimes need me, and that’s nice too.

3. They both have such fun, distinct personalities.

4. I admit that it’s pretty awesome that my second kid is so chill. Love them both to bits, but if kid #2 has been more ornery and neurotic, I think that would have sucked. Having a chill kid #2 is a godsend.

5. They frigging LOVE EACH OTHER. It’s a goddamn brotherly love fest up in here.

6. Last but not least - the flu sucks, but it isn’t forever, and life will go on. Soon, in fact. And we’ll be onto the next adventure together. Look forward to seeing what it’ll be!

#Vev #Dey #parenthood #influenza #flu #brotherlylove

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searchingwardrobes · 7 years

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Happy Valentine’s Day, @lassluna! I’m your cssv! It’s been great getting to know you these past few weeks. I hope this little gift lightens the load of your studies. You said you liked modern aus, friends to lovers, and angst. I hope this delivers. I’m not one hundred percent thrilled with the ending, but I wanted you to get this on v-day. Hope you like it anyways!

Title: Calling in Sick

Rating: G

Words: 7,00+

An irritating boss, a bikini, and Emma faking an illness. That’s what Killian Jones says brought them together. Emma Swan says he’s overplaying the bikini and downplaying the flu and fever-induced delirium.

Maybe we should go back to the beginning of the story . . .

A flu epidemic had hit New York, the entire US actually, and maybe beyond. But Emma Swan’s had the flu shot. Regina Mills, her boss, doesn’t know that, however. So Emma’s got a plane ticket for a long weekend in Bermuda. Just the thing she needs to escape from the bitter cold, her infuriating boss, and the sneezing, snotting masses on the subway.

Emma grins as she packs her suitcase, humming under her breath as she glances at the clock. It’s 9 am, which means Regina is most likely already on the rampage about something, stalking around the office in her sensible pantsuit with a murderous scowl on her face. Emma is already glad she’s called in “sick,” and she hasn’t even headed to the airport yet. Just as she grabs the brand new, bright red string bikini she just bought from her bureau drawer, she hears a loud knock at her door. She frowns as she walks out of her bedroom and down the hall. Security in her building is tight, and the doorman hadn’t buzzed her about a visitor. There are only two people Marco would just let upstairs to her apartment. Either Mary Margaret or –

“Killian?” Emma frowns in irritation as she leans against the door jamb.

She realizes the bikini is still dangling from her right hand and quickly balls it up in her fist, which she then tucks into her side. Killian doesn’t even seem to notice, however, which should have been her first clue that he wasn’t himself. He is a master flirt, able to turn almost anything into an innuendo. It was why she had hated him at first, until she saw that the cocky, bad boy persona was nothing more than that – a persona. Just like her prickly, screw the world attitude. In the end, they understood each other. Which switched Killian from the “work enemy” column to “work best friend” column. (“You mean your work crush,” corrects Mary Margaret’s voice in her head, but Emma silences it like she always does.)

“Why aren’t you at work?” Emma adds when all Killian does is stare at her with glassy eyes.

“On my way,” he croaks out in a scratchy voice, “but I had to stop by and confirm my suspicions. You, my darling, are clearly not sick.”

Emma huffs, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her face, “Please, Killian, like you didn’t call in sick after the World Cup last year because you were hung over. Just call it a mental health day. Believe me, it’s in Regina’s best interest.”

“Well, your mental health day is why I’m having to drag my sick arse to the office. Because we both called in, Regina thinks I’m faking.”

Killian, who is normally infinitely patient where Emma is concerned, sounds thoroughly pissed at her. Emma takes a minute to really look at him. His hair is messier than it normally is, and his blue dress shirt is slightly wrinkled, buttoned up wrong, and only half tucked in. Killian may go for “artfully disheveled,” but he’s never downright messy in his appearance. His eyes are also dulled rather than their normal bright blue, and his cheeks are flushed. When he sways slightly on his feet, Emma becomes truly alarmed. She goes to him immediately, ushering him into her apartment as she slings his left arm over her shoulder. He sags against her.

“That bitch,” she mutters as she maneuvers him onto the couch, “she said, what? Come in today or you’re fired?”

“Pretty much,” Killian answers as he pulls the afghan slung over the back of the couch over himself. He tries to chuckle, but his teeth are chattering too much.

Emma hurries to the bathroom for a thermometer. When she comes back, Killian has discovered the string bikini that she had tossed onto the coffee table when she brought him inside.

“I must say, Swan,” he teases as he dangles it from his fingertips, “I do wish I were faking sick. You were going to don this on your getaway without me there to enjoy it?”

Emma rolls her eyes as she snatches it out of his grip. At least he’s well enough to waggle those eyebrows of his. She silences any further innuendos by shoving the thermometer under his tongue, but even with the instrument in his mouth, he grins at her salaciously. This is their thing. He flirts audaciously, she purposefully ignores him. Sometimes she tosses him a biting retort. And for some reason, it works.

“Killian Jones!” she exclaims after the thermometer beeps its result, sounding far too much like Mary Margaret when she scolds David. “103.9! You should be at the hospital!”

Killian shakes his head as he pulls the blanket to his chin. “N-no w-way,” he stutters against his rattling teeth, “th-that place is a zoo right now.”

Emma frowns and swears some more under her breath as she pulls out her cell phone and dials the office. “I’m giving that woman a piece of my mind,” she mutters, tapping her fingers impatiently against her thigh as Regina’s cell rings. “Does she live under a rock? There’s a flu epidemic for God’s – “ Emma is cut off when Regina answers in her typically half-irritated voice.

“Regina,” she bites out, standing up and pacing with her free hand on her hip, “listen, I don’t know what the crap you’re thinking demanding that Killian come in today. He’s got a fever of almost 104, and he can barely walk. It’s obvious he has the flu.”

“And yet the two of you are together,” Regina snaps back. Emma can almost feel her smug grin through the phone. “Just as I suspected. And you sound rather hearty and healthy to me, Ms. Swan.”

“We ran into each other at the doctor’s office for your information,” Emma seethes. She catches Killian’s eye, and he arches both eyebrows, clearly impressed at her smooth lie.

“Fine, Ms. Swan, but I expect a doctor’s note.” And with that, Regina abruptly hangs up.

“Crap,” Emma mutters as she tosses her cell onto the coffee table in irritation.

“What is it?” Kilian asks, his brow furrowing in concern. He starts to try and sit up, which requires way more energy than it ought to.

“Oh no you don’t,” Emma reprimands him quickly, sitting down next to him and grabbing hold of his knee before he can stand. “She just wants a doctor’s note, that’s all.”

Killian whimpers and frowns like a puppy. “I don’t want to go to the doctor either.”

Emma laughs lightly, “Don’t worry, I’ve got something up my sleeve. Now let’s get you out of this shirt and jeans so you’re more comfortable.”

Killian must be getting worse because the innuendo she was fully aware of walking into never comes. Instead, he silently lets her unbutton his shirt and ease his arms out. Emma goes to her bedroom to retrieve a t-shirt she had swiped from his place, and when she comes back he’s down to his boxer briefs and is easing his legs back under the afghan.

Emma helps him into the soft, cotton shirt, and he sighs as she props an extra pillow under his head. “Thank you,” he half-whispers, his eyes fluttering as he struggles to stay awake.

Emma shakes her head at him as she swipes his hair out of his eyes, “Why didn’t you get the flu shot like a sane person?”

“I meant to . . . just . . . ran out of time . . . “ Killian mumbles, voice trailing off as he drifts off to sleep.

Emma has to wake him up when Ruby gets there. Her friend is standing behind the couch where Killian can’t see her, and Emma shoots daggers at her as she mouths “Oh. My. God.”

“Killian,” Emma tells him as she shakes him gently by the shoulder, “my friend his here. She’s a doctor.”

Killian blinks rapidly, then groans as he sits up too fast, clutching his head as he flashes Ruby what would normally be a charming smile. “Apologies, lass. I don’t like meeting one of Emma’s friends in such poor condition.”

Ruby smiles coyly as she sits next to Killian on the couch. “Oh trust me, it won’t take much to impress me. Most of my patients require a lollypop and a sticker.”

Both of Killian’s eyebrows shoot up as he glances at Emma, who laughs. “Ruby’s a pediatrician.”

“But,” Ruby explains as she slips her thermometer in Killian’s mouth and a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm, “I can get you both doctor’s notes for the Evil Queen, no questions asked. And get you a prescription of Tamiflu.”

From her spot on the arm of the loveseat, Emma shrugs at Killian. “And she makes house calls.”

Ruby swabs Killian’s mouth so she can run the flu test. Fifteen minutes later, the test results are positive. She also finds that his blood pressure is low, which means he’s probably dehydrated, and his temperature has gone up to 104.3. It all concerns Emma greatly, even more so when Killian falls asleep before Emma’s even shown Ruby to the door. Not to mention that Ruby is extremely attractive and a major flirt, yet Killian didn’t hit on her once. At the door, Emma’s frowning deeply as Ruby gives her directions on giving him plenty of fluids and warns her that the Tamiflu and his fever might cause him to be a little loopy.

Emma nervously crosses her arms over her chest. “I won’t lie, Ruby I’m worried. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s obviously really sick.”

“I promise you, Emma, he’ll be okay. It’s not the worst I’ve seen, and he caught it early. The medicine will help.” Ruby tilts her head and narrows her eyes as she peruses Emma’s face. Then she leans forward and presses her hand to Emma’s forehead.

Emma leans away from her. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Making sure you’re not sick. Because I can’t understand how a healthy woman could be around a man – a single man – who is that hot on a regular basis and still have him firmly in the friend zone.”

Emma frowns and bats Ruby’s hand away. “Because I don’t make a habit of sleeping with guys I work with.”

Ruby arches one brow at her. “Not talking about just sleeping with him. Now that I’ve actually met him, it’s clear that Mary Margaret is right. You care about him.”

Emma rolls her eyes as she grabs Ruby by the shoulders and steers her through the front door. “Yeah, okay, because I want to make sure he doesn’t die on my couch. I must be madly in love.”

“You sure are protesting an awful lot,” Ruby shoots back.

“Goodbye, Ruby,” Emma tells her, shutting the door on her friend just as she goes to open her mouth again. Emma sags against the door for a moment before shaking off Ruby’s comments. She needs to get fluids in Killian and run to the pharmacy to fill his prescription.

And she also has to make a phone call to the airlines about the trip to Bermuda that she won’t be taking.

*******************************************************

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. She gets Killian to take his medicine, but getting him to take any fluids proves much more difficult. All he wants to do is sleep. At lunch time, she brings him some chicken broth, but he shakes his head. When he does, she notices that his hair is soaked and plastered to his forehead. When she checks his temperature again, it’s 104.5.

“I’m freaking out here,” she tells Ruby when she calls her friend in a panic. “Are you sure I shouldn’t take him to the hospital?”

“I’m sure. The ER is insane right now anyway. He won’t be priority, and he’ll sit there miserable for hours.”

Emma’s brow creases with worry as she shifts the phone to her other ear. Even though he’s sleeping, Emma turns her body away from Killian and whispers her next words into her cell. “But aren’t people . . .dying of this?”

“That’s mostly the elderly and very young children,” Ruby quickly assures her, “Killian is a strong, healthy man in his thirties.” Despite Ruby’s words, news stories Emma has seen swim before her mind. One about a seemingly healthy fifteen year old and another about a 28 year old mother of two. As if she can read Emma’s mind, Ruby continues, “Or they are people who waited too long to go to the doctor or they refused medication. I promise you, he’s going to be fine.”

Emma lets out a shaky breath. “There isn’t anything more I can do?”

“A cool sponge bath could help with the fever –“

Emma groans as she interrupts her friend. “Ruby! I’m being serious!”

“So am I! Geez, Emma! If you’re so uncomfortable with his masculinity, just bathe his face and neck. Of course there’s nothing I can do to protect you from his pretty face . . .”

“Hanging up now, Rubes!” Emma tells her as she pulls the phone away from her ear. Even then, she can hear her friend’s laughter before she ends the call.

Emma squares her shoulders and goes to wet a washcloth in the bathroom. When she returns to the couch, she reminds herself of all the times Killian has put her to bed when she’s had too much to drink. Of all the times she’s nabbed one of his t-shirts and then curled up next to him on the couch to watch Netflix. All of that was completely platonic.

And so is this, she reminds herself as she settles Killian’s head in her lap. He lets out a long, shuddering breath as she brushes back his sweaty bangs. Then she runs the cool cloth along his forehead, trying not to be alarmed at the heat pulsing from his skin.

“Are we on the beach?” he mutters.

Emma laughs, “No, Killian. We’re in my apartment. And it’s winter.”

“But I thought you were wearing a red bikini.”

She bites her lower lip, “No, Killian.”

“Oh. Must be dreaming then. I have lots of dreams about you.”

Emma shakes her head, smiling at his delirium. She isn’t sure if it’s the medicine or the fever, and she wonders what will come out of his mouth next.

“Because I love you, you know. I dream about you because I love you.”

Emma’s hand freezes where it was running the washcloth along his jaw. She forces a nervous laugh past her lips. “You’re delirious, Jones.”

His eyes flutter open, and even though he’s clearly struggling to focus his gaze on her face, the blue of his eyes holds an intensity that arrests her. “I’m not. It’s true. I love you, Emma. I have since that very first day.”

His voice is strong until the last few words, and then he sags a bit against her, as if speaking has drained him of all his energy. Yet he continues talking, his words slurring and dragging as he fights sleep. “But you had such high walls . . . took . . . my time . . . and now we’re friends . . . don’t want to . . . mess that up . . . “

Emma keeps bathing his face for a moment, staring at the familiar ginger sprinkled amidst his dark scruff, the tiny scar beneath his right eye, the unfairly long lashes fluttering against his skin. Skin that feels a little less heated than it had before, so Emma eases Killian off her lap, and rises on shaking legs. She paces to the window, gazing out at the dreary, gray January day. She rubs at her throat as Killian’s words play on a loop in her mind. “I love you, you know. . . It’s true. I love you, Emma.” And it is true, she knows this. She could see it so clearly in his eyes. Maybe she knew before, if she were honest, but it had been easy to pretend that those feelings weren’t there. That he was just her friend and nothing more. But now the words have been released and there’s no going back.

Emma contemplates continuing on as before, pretending nothing has happened. He probably won’t remember any of this tomorrow, anyway. Emma paces some more, gnawing at her bottom lip. The thing is, she will still know. And what makes it worse is that his declaration, whether he will remember it later or not, has made something else startlingly clear.

She loves him, too.

Everyone has tried to tell her. Mary Margaret. Elsa. Ruby just now. Even their boss, Regina Mills, albeit through snarky, thinly veiled comments. Yet she’s always protested, scoffed, rolled her eyes, insisted they were just friends. But now? Now she has to lie to herself, too. And to him.

Emma lifts shaky hands and rubs them down her face. She stares outside and watches the gray clouds turn to mist. There’s only one thing she can do. It will hurt like hell, but they’ll both eventually move on. It’s the only way. She squares her shoulders as she goes to the laundry room to toss the washcloth in the machine.

Emma purposefully avoids looking at Killian. He looks so vulnerable when he’s asleep, and her heart has to remain steeled.

*******************************************************

The remainder of that evening is difficult, considering she still has to make sure Killian takes his medicine, drinks his fluids, and keeps his fever down. As that last happens, his delirium lessens and his eyes get back to their lively sparkle. He only says one more thing to her in his stupefied state, mumbling that she’s “so beautiful” as she checks his temperature.

The next morning, he’s still sick, but much better. He insists on taking a cab back to his own apartment, and Emma tries to hide how relieved she is at that decision. Normally, she probably would have protested and joined him on the couch for some TV binge-watching, but she knows she can’t handle that kind of casual intimacy. Not anymore. So she gathers up his medicine, relays Ruby’s instructions, and walks him to the door. He says, “goodbye, see you at work in a few days,” casually, with a backwards wave of his hand. Emma responds in kind and hates herself for it, feeling like it’s a lie.

It’s a week before Killian is fully recovered and able to return to work. Regina was apparently ripped to shreds by corporate for endangering the office by insisting sick employees come to work, so Killian is actually told specifically to stay away for a full seven days to ensure he isn’t contagious. He starts to get stir crazy by day five, and starts texting Emma almost daily. Her responses are half-hearted, and she prays he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t seem to.

Which is probably why he’s so shocked when his first day back at work he finds Emma packing up her cubicle. He looks like a puppy again as he looks at her with a crestfallen expression.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” Emma says with false brightness as she weighs a half dead potted plant in her hand. She debates for a minute, then tosses it into the trash can. “Remember my college roommate, Elsa?”

Killian’s brow furrows as he leans against the partition between his work space and Emma’s. “Aye. The blonde interior designer?”

Emma nods as she sticks her pencil cup into her box of things and reaches for a framed photo of her and Mary Margaret. “Well, she’s been bugging me to partner with her in this new startup of hers, and well . . . I decided, why the hell not?”

Killian frowns for a moment, then puts on a bright smile. She knows him well enough to know that it’s forced. “That’s a great opportunity, Swan. You’ll be bloody brilliant. I have no doubt.”

Emma avoids his gaze as she finishes boxing up her things. She knows it’s cowardly to time her departure this way, on the very day he returns. But his clumsy declaration at her apartment has kept her up at night. She can’t do it, simple as that. It’s too scary. And neither can she try for some casual, physical thing. That ship has sailed; they’re already friends. It would go straight to serious.

And Emma Swan doesn’t do serious relationships.

***************************************************

Emma’s already in her pajamas, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, her face freshly scrubbed when a knock sounds at her door. She knows it could only be two people, and while she really hopes it’s Mary Margaret with a congratulatory bottle of wine to celebrate her new job, she sort of senses deep down that it will be him even before she opens the door.

“Killian,” she says with false brightness. His face is already intense, his jaw clenching and his eyes doing that thing where they gaze right through to her soul.

So it doesn’t surprise her when his words cut right to the heart of the matter. “I know why you’re doing this.”

Emma feigns ignorance, crossing her arms across her chest and narrowing her eyes. “Doing what?”

Killian dips his chin and raises both eyebrows in that look he gives her when she’s full of bull shit. “I was delirious, but not that delirious. I remember what I said.”

The color drains from Emma’s face as she processes what he’s saying. Her mouth falls open, but words fail her. Of course, Killian’s always had enough words for both of them anyway.

“And now you’re running,” he continues, “You’re scared, and I get it. But Emma, your friendship means too much to me. If you don’t feel the same, I won’t push it.”

Emma presses her lips together as she shakes her head. “It’s not that, Killian.”

It’s his turn to look confused. “What do you mean?”

Emma has always said that words aren’t her strong suit. And maybe she could claim that lack of words is what spurs her in that moment. But it’s really more that she can’t let it go without some memory to cling to. Or without at least knowing how he kisses.

So she grabs him and hauls him in, lips crashing together and teeth scraping. Killian is a quick study, pulling her close and pressing her flush against him. One hand toys with the hem of her shirt, his fingers barely brushing against bare skin. His other hand tangles in her hair, yanking on the rubber band that holds it up so it goes tumbling down her back. Emma’s fingers are threading through his hair, too, but it’s the familiar feel of that softness that yanks her back to reality. She pulls away, breathless. Killian tries to chase her lips.

“That was –“

“A one-time thing,” she cuts him off.

She doesn’t even give him a chance to respond before turning around and shutting the door. Later, he texts her, but she never answers. It says only one line:

That was goodbye, wasn’t it?

*************************************************

The next morning, Emma’s trying to concentrate on Elsa’s tour of the office. Trying in vain to stop replaying the kiss from the night before on loop in her brain. Suddenly, they’ve completed the tour, ending up back in Emma’s office, and Elsa’s standing there with an expectant look on her face.

“I’m sorry, what was the question?”

Elsa laughs in that soft way of hers. “I was asking who the flowers were from.”

Emma shakes her head and blinks in surprise at the arrangement of yellow daisies at her desk. She knows before she even opens the card who they’re from. She told Killian once that people ought to give yellow daisies in the winter because they were like little bursts of sunshine. Then she had rolled her eyes at herself for sounding like Mary Margaret.

Sure enough, the card is in his flowery script. “Good luck on your first day, though I doubt you will need it. I also want to let you know that I’m not going anywhere. When you want me, I’ll be here. Love, Killian.”

Emma can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth nor can she resist the urge to press the card to her lips. She forgets Elsa’s even there and startles when her friend speaks again.

“What happened, Emma?”

“What are you talking about?” Emma slips the card into the top drawer of her brand new empty desk, hoping Elsa doesn’t notice that her hands are shaking.

“With Killian,” Elsa clarifies gently as she leans against Emma’s desk.

Emma groans and rubs at her temple as she collapses into her desk chair. “How did you know?”

Elsa gives her a pointed look. “I know you took care of him when he had the flu, cancelling that trip to Bermuda that you had been going on and on about –“

“Postponed,” Emma corrects with a roll of her eyes, “I postponed my trip.”

“Whatever,” Elsa dismisses with a wave of her hand, “and I’ve been begging you to partner with me in my company for how long? Then suddenly, you’re quitting your job in less than a week? Come on, what happened when Killian got the flu?”

Emma slumps further in her chair, swiveling it back and forth with her toe. “Please, can we not talk about this?”

“Okay,” Elsa concedes, pushing away from Emma’s desk. Before walking out the door, she tilts her head towards the flowers. “Those are from him, aren’t they?”

“Of course they are.”

********************************************************

The gentle knock on Emma’s front door sounds more like a pounding. She groans and throws the afghan over her head. She gropes for the remote with one hand and turns up the volume on the TV to drown out whoever is at her door. Of course, it can only be two people . . .

“Swan!”

Emma groans again, covering her face with both hands.

“Emma, love, Mary Margaret and Elsa both called me. I know you’re sick. And I’ve never done this before, but I think this constitutes as an emergency, so . . . I’m coming in.”

Emma hears the rattling of keys in the lock and rolls her eyes. She flings the afghan off her head with a huff, her hair going wild with static electricity and clinging to her sweaty forehead. Killian merely raises his eyebrows and pushes back an amused grin when he finds her that way, glaring at him when he walks through the door.

“Why are you here?” she snaps as he stops directly in front of the couch. “And you’re blocking my view of the TV. Lorelei and Luke are bantering over coffee again.”

Killian just stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, looking down his nose at her. “A lady calls in need of assistance, and I’m there.”

“I didn’t call you.”

“Your friends did.”

“They shouldn’t have.”

“But they did.”

Emma lets out a long sigh punctuated by an eye roll. “I had the flu shot, Killian. So unlike some people I know, I’m not on death’s door.”

“Mhm,” Killian mutters, practically ignoring her as he heads to the kitchen, “but I know you, Swan. What have you eaten today?”

“I nibbled a pop tart,” Emma replies as she plops back down on her pillow.

“Precisely. Let me make you some decent food. Surely you’ve got a can of soup around here somewhere . . . “

He brings her a mug of chicken noodle just as the episode she’s watching rolls credits. She has to admit the warmth of it in her hands and the steam rising to her nostrils is comforting. Killian leans over and puts the back of his hand to her forehead, and the contact of his skin makes her shiver involuntarily. He frowns.

“You’re running a fever, aren’t you?”

Emma shifts uncomfortably as she sips at her soup. “Yeah, but it’s low. 101.3. Like I said, I’m not dying.”

He pats her leg, and even through the afghan is across her lap, it causes awareness to prickle along her nerve endings. “Well, it’s still nice to be taken care off.”

She smiles at him over the rim of her cup. She’s told him about her childhood, and he’s shared about his. They both get it. So she nods her assent, and he grins. “But what about work?”

His grin broadens. “No more Evil Queen for me. You inspired me, Emma. You are looking at a private CPA who works from home and sets his own hours.”

Emma beams back at him. “That’s awesome, Killian! I’m so happy for you!”

He shrugs and waves off her compliment. “I just got to thinking about it, you know? I was miserable at that job, just the same as you were. And I realized I had all these friends with small businesses. My friend Ariel with that tourist shop of hers, her husband Eric’s fish market, Jasmine’s jewelry boutique. They’ve all struggled keeping their books, so . . . “

“You already have all three of those accounts?”

Killian scratches behind his ear, bashful from her praise, “Those three and four more based on their references.”

Emma reaches for his hand as she tells him how proud she is, and for the first time in two weeks, it doesn’t feel awkward.

The rest of the day is the same way. Killian refills her cup, making sure she drinks enough, and makes her more soup. He checks her temperature and brings her extra pillows.

“Grab my husband pillow from the corner of my room,” she tells him at one point.

“Why do women call these things husband pillows?” he asks as he slides it behind her back.

“You know,” Emma explains, patting the tall back of the pillow and the two arms that extend out at each side, “instead of a husband’s chest and arms, you lean against this pillow.”

Killian waggles his eyebrows at her as he pats at the spot near his heart. “I have a perfectly fine chest if you want it, Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, happy to once again be in that sweet place where they can tease and flirt. But just as soon as that happy, comfortable feeling flares within her, something else takes its place. She imagines him in her bed, his arms around her, her cheek against his chest. She bites her lip and glances away from him, cursing the blush that stains her cheeks.

“Um,” he says, awkwardly clearing his throat, “can I get you anything else?”

Emma swallows the lump in her throat, hating that he can sense the tension in her. “Uh, no, I’m fine.”

By that evening, Emma is already feeling better and her fever is completely gone. She tosses aside the afghan and moves to stand up. Before she can, Killian is at her side.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I feel much better, so I’m going to take a shower.”

“No, absolutely not, Swan. I’ll draw you a bath.”

Emma starts to protest, but Killian’s already in the bathroom, and she can hear the water going. She sags against the couch in defeat. She has to admit, the thought of standing up long enough to take a shower sounds exhausting.

When the tub is ready, Emma enters the bathroom to find a towel, a bathrobe, and a fresh pair of pajamas stacked next to the sink. She strips down and lets out a long, deep, contented sigh as she slips into the warm water. It feels heavenly. She runs the soap over her body, washing away the grime from her sweaty fever. Then she sinks down to her chin, just enjoying the feel of the warm water as it eases away the achiness that has consumed her entire body.

But the longer she lays there, the more conscious she is of Killian in the other room. Is he thinking of her as much as she’s thinking of him? Is he thinking of her in the next room, nude? Because her mind is definitely going places that are far from platonic.

Emma rubs her hands down her face in weariness, then eases herself out of the tub. She towels off and changes, once again touched by his thoughtfulness. She exits the bathroom in her bare feet, shivering even though she’s in both flannel pjs and a terry cloth robe. She sinks onto the couch next to Killian, who’s flipped the TV to a hockey game.

“Emma?” he says with concern as he brushes a finger over her cheek, “Are you okay? You look flushed again.”

Wordlessly, Emma curls herself into a ball and tucks herself into his side. His arm comes around her and pulls her closer against him. They’ve cuddled like this dozens of times as just friends, but now it feels different.

“I think you have a fever again,” he whispers against her hair. She’s pretty sure she does, too, considering the way she’s shaking. Or is it fear?

Killian gets her to take some ibuprofen, then obeys without protest when she asks him to hold her while they watch a movie. She falls asleep against his chest long before it ends, but she wakes up when he stands and scoops her up into his arms. She pretends to sleep so she can nuzzle against his neck as he carries her to her room. She imagines him sharing her bed for the second time in less than eight hours, but not in that way. She imagines falling asleep with him beside her, of waking up to his heartbeat against her cheek. She imagines the rise and fall of his chest against her back as she drifts off.

He tucks the blankets around her, squeezing her hand in his before turning away. Part of her wants to tug him down to her, just like their kiss, all heat and pent up desire. But she knows deep down it isn’t what she wants. So instead, she gently laces her fingers with his. The movement startles him – clearly he thought she was still asleep – and he pauses.

“I ran because I do love you,” she confesses in the dark.

“I know.”

That’s all he says before leaning down to brush a feather-light kiss across her forehead. Most men would take advantage of the situation. Neal certainly would have. But Killian doesn’t. He leaves on soft footfalls, closes her door gently, and lets himself out.

*******************************************************

Emma calls in sick the next day, too. She doesn’t have a fever or any other symptoms, but she still feels like she just got run over by a truck. And her bed is the only place she wants to spend the day.

But by that afternoon, boredom has set in as her energy slowly returns. She’s mindlessly scrolling through Netflix, trying to find something that appeals to her when there’s a knock at her door. She knows who it is this time. Only Mary Margaret can make a knock sound perky.

“Come in,” Emma calls, voice flat.

Mary Margaret turns her key in the lock and then comes bustling in, all smiles with a plate in her hands covered with aluminum foil. She tells Emma they are fresh baked cookies. She chatters away about her day as she tidies the room. Emma clicks off the TV, finding her friend’s voice more relaxing.

“ . . . and so, while I adore Valentine’s day, I’m positively exhausted. Third graders plus tons of sugar is just chaos.” Mary Margaret ends her enthusiastic speech with a dramatic plop to Emma’s love seat.

Emma frowns in confusion. “Today is Valentine’s Day?”

As if fate wants to confirm it, there’s another knock on her door followed by Marco the doorman’s voice, “Ms. Swan, I have some flowers that were delivered for you.”

Before Emma can even process this, Mary Margaret is jumping from the loveseat as she squeals with joy. She practically bounces to the door, thanks Marco, and returns to place the bouquet on Emma’s coffee table.

“I think I know who these are from,” Mary Margaret teases in a sing-song voice. “Buttercups and forget-me-nots are your favorite, right?”

“They are.” And only three people in the world know that. Sure enough, the card is in Killian’s handwriting.

Since we met, not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of you. Happy Valentine’s Day! Love, Killian

Emma sinks back down into the couch as she traces her thumb over the writing. She’s been purposely pushing the memory of last night far from her mind. Hoping that she dreamed the whole thing. Surely she didn’t actually tell Killian Jones she loved him. Because she wouldn’t do that. Would she?

“What’s going on between you two?”

Emma fiddles with the corner of the tiny square of cardstock. “In a nutshell, he had the flu and confessed his love to me. Then I got the flu and did the same.”

Mary Margaret smiles eagerly as she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “That’s great!” but her smile quickly falls to a frown instead when Emma sighs deeply and tosses Killian’s little note on the coffee table. “Wait, it’s not great? How can this not be great?”

“Because,” Emma groans, tilting her head back and covering her face with both hands, “I don’t do relationships, remember?”

“Yeah, I know,” Mary Margaret deadpans, “which is why I stopped setting you up. Remember?” She pauses for a moment, then leans forward to squeeze Emma’s knee. “But I think this is different, don’t you?”

Emma lets her hands drop to her lap as she glares at Mary Margaret. “Yeah, it’s different. Killian was a great friend, and now I don’t even have that.”

Emma expects Mary Margaret to launch into one of her famous hope speeches, but instead the brunette rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Or you could have something even better.”

“But how can I be sure? How do I know that it won’t result in a broken heart like every other time?” Emma’s gesturing with both hands as her voice rises.

Mary Margaret gets up and sits next to Emma on the couch, grabbing both her hands in hers. “Listen to me right now, okay? We can never know the future, but with Killian there are a few things I do know. Neal abandoned you, I get that. But hasn’t Killian proven that he sticks around?”

Emma’s brow furrows as she thinks over their friendship. Of all the times her prickly attitude and high walls should have sent Killian running in the opposite direction. But instead, all of that had only seemed to draw him closer. She thinks of his actions since she packed up her cubicle. Two bouquets of flowers and taking care of her when she got sick. Emma lets out a shaky breath.

“Yeah, I guess he has.”

“And Walsh,” Mary Margaret continues, “he lied. He pretended to be someone he wasn’t, and you got your heart broken. But has Killian ever lied to you?”

Emma gnaws on the bottom of her lip as she avoids Mary Margaret’s gaze. “No, he hasn’t,” she admits begrudgingly.

“So are you going to let those two jerks from your past keep you from a guy who already makes you so happy? You’re going to let those assholes have that kind of power over you?”

Emma practically flinches at those words. Emma prides herself on making her own way in life, of punching back when people try to tell her who she ought to be. Mary Margaret knows this well. She’s leveled a sucker punch, and Emma can’t ignore the truth of what she’s said. Emma leans forward and fingers the soft petals of one of the forget-me-nots. Then she makes a decision. Maybe the scariest one of her life.

“So it’s Valentine’s Day . . . “ she muses out loud.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Mary Margaret sighs as she sags against the back of the couch, “it’s cheesy and commercial and –“

“Actually,” Emma says with a huge smile, “I was going to say maybe I want to celebrate it for once.”

*****************************************************

The look on Killian’s face when he opens the door makes Emma second guess this whole thing. Shock is the number one look in his eyes as he blinks three times in rapid succession.

“Swan?” he asks tentatively, as if she might be some sort of hallucination.

“Surprise!” she announces with a shrug. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

The silence stretches on, and the only thing that calms Emma’s nerves is the slight half-smile that hitches up the left corner of his mouth. “Um . . . well, this is a surprise,” he finally says with one arched brow.

Emma clears her throat awkwardly, almost dropping the giant chocolate lips as she juggles the even more gigantic stuffed monkey to her other hand. Killian reaches out and takes the monkey and the candy leaving her standing there holding the string of the red, heart shaped balloon like a kid at the county fair. She shuffles her feet from side to side.

“I shopped last minute, and the selection wasn’t that great, plus I wasn’t sure what you’d like . . . “she trails off when she realizes she’s rambling. “Look, I’m trying to say that I . . . think, anyway . . . that I might possibly . . . want to stop running. From this. I mean us.”

She grimaces at her horrible, stuttering choice of words. She watches Killian’s face closely. Watches as that humorous, half grin morphs into a generous smile that fills his face and lights his eyes. He drops the stupid monkey and the tacky chocolate lips and steps quickly forward, cupping her face in his hands. Just as his lips are about to brush against hers, Emma lifts her fingers to his mouth to stop him.

“I might still be contagious.”

Killian’s eyes darken with desire and his voice drops lower as he brushes a kiss against her cheek and whispers in her ear, “Don’t care.”

Then his lips are on hers, soft and slow. Emma lets go of the balloon string to wrap her arms around his neck, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. She can see the balloon out of the corner of her eye bouncing against the ceiling until it reaches the stairwell where it floats up to the next floor and out of view. Emma kind of feels like that balloon right now. Weightless and soaring, the dizzying heights of Killian’s kisses making her feel free and light for the first time in years.

*****************************************************

The airline had been understanding when she called about her ticket. She told them her plans had changed due to the flu, though she hadn’t offered any details. Since they clearly didn’t want the flu virus sealed in an airtight cabin with dozens of people, they had been incredibly accommodating. She had ninety days to transfer her ticket to another flight.

So here it was, March, and finally Emma was packing for Bermuda. Luckily, she had been able to get a second ticket as well. She’s folding a yellow sundress when Killian comes up behind her and nuzzles her neck.

“Morning love,” he mutters against her skin, “excited about our trip?”

Emma leans back against him, giggling as he nibbles her ear. “Incredibly,” she teases with a suggestive bat of her eyes.

Killian actually growls low in his throat as he grasps her tighter with one arm. With his other hand, he lifts something in front of Emma. Dangling from his fingers is the same red bikini she had bought months ago.

“Don’t forget this,” he teases, “I’ve been dreaming of seeing you in it for weeks now.”

Emma tosses the bikini into her suitcase then turns in Killian’s arm. He grasps her tighter around the waist as she loops her arms around his neck. Their lips meet in a kiss that starts sweet and slow, but quickly turns passionate. Emma is tempted to shove him backwards onto her bed, but suddenly a thought overwhelms her and she breaks the kiss to gaze long into his eyes.

“What is it, love?” he asks, his brow furrowing with concern.

“I’m just happy,” she tells him, fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck.

He cups her face gently and smiles at her in return. “Me too.”

#cssv #cs ff #cs ff au #friends to lovers #the flu

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