#i know i knowwwwww it's old by now and it's not the worst thing in the world but like also

[birbs-in-space]

<- guy who just went on desktop and is not having a good time

[pedge-stuff]

it's not that kind of cold shower (pedro x gn/m!reader)

a/n: POLL RESULTS ARE IN... and this was the result! would y'all still be interested in a "pedro takes care of sick reader" fic, too?

(this story specifically comes at the request of two anons, who requested bathing/showering while sick, and emetophobia. I don't have much experience on the latter, so I apologize if it's incorrect??)

you knowwwwww it had to be the Dieter pic, tho.

as always, same vague universe as “marked.” drop a line if you have a sug.

summary: 2am on the bathroom floor.

——————————————————————————————————

You wake up alone.

This doesn’t register, at first. You roll over, running a hand over your face as you blearily open your eyes. You’ve gotten used to having a bed to yourself, with Pedro’s current production schedule. (Although the dogs always end up migrating from the foot of the bed in the middle of the night.)

Except, the bed beside you is still a little warm. Pedro is home— has been home, for two days now. He took a car straight from the Disney lot to LAX, and was on a flight to JFK about three hours after the voice work for Mando wrapped. Something about “needing to see his boy,” which he swore was Edgar, with a wink and a kiss blown over Facetime.

The room is dark, still, and quiet. But as you sit up, a sliver of light becomes noticeable under the crack of the bathroom door. You blink the last dredges of sleep away, waiting for him to finish his middle-of-the-night pee. It’s nice, having him here. Waking up beside him always kinda feels like a luxury; you savor it while you have it. His next job— some stupid commercial for a game on an app? He explained it twice but neither of you really understand it— doesn’t start until the end of the month. If you fall asleep before he finishes peeing, you’ll miss an opportunity to fall asleep wrapped around him. These are sacred in their scarcity, at the moment.

Except, the toilet never flushes. After a few long moments, you swing your legs over the side of the bed.

A quiet knock yields nothing. Frowning, you gently push the door open.

Knees to his chest, head propped backwards on the edge of the tub, Pedro is lying on the bathroom floor. His eyes are squeezed shut against the fluorescents.

“Baby,” you whisper, “Pedge, what’s going on?” You kneel down, rubbing a gentle thumb over his kneecap. He’s just in a t-shirt and boxers, the cold tile leaving his exposed calves littered with pinprick goosebumps.

Without opening his eyes, Pedro grimaces. “I dunno,” he says quietly, in a rasp that makes you wince. “Woke up feeling like this.”

“Nauseous?”

The muscle of his jaw twitches. “Hate throwing up.”

“I know, love, I’m sorry.” You bring your hand upwards, carding a few fingers through his hair before palming his forehead. Alarmed, you brush it with the back of your hand, as well. “You’re really burning up, Pedro, Jesus.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows reflexively, but says nothing. Then swallows again.

You reach for the closed lid of the toilet, before returning to your feet. “If you need to throw up, throw up. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

Busying yourself with filling a glass by the sink, you purposefully don’t look, attempting to give him some privacy. But he doesn’t move. Barely lifts his head up, when you offer the water. A sheen of sweat glistens on hollow of his throat, and the collar of his sleep shirt (yours, actually— some soft old 5k thing he always reaches for) is damp.  

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Thought I escaped the curse this time.”

The curse, of course, being your nickname for the way his body absolutely freaks out at the panic of having downtime. Without fail, every time he gets a break, he’s down with something— at best a cold, at worst, what was eventually dubbed the “shittiest Christmas present ever” last year. It’s like his immune system decides it’s on vacation, as well. You’ve started planning around it, blocking off the first few days he’s home just in case. After two days, though, it really seemed like he was in the clear.

Your train of thought is interrupted by the sounds of a grown man gagging. All you can do is kneel behind him, rubbing a hand softly down the length of his back. The muscles flex and tremble beneath as Pedro coughs and coughs. Any part of you that might have been grossed out, is eclipsed by concern. You can feel the heat of the fever through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

When he finishes, you flush without looking while he reassumes his position against the tub. “M’sorry,” he says, after a sip of water. “Go back to sleep, I’m good.”

“Don’t apologize, and don’t be dumb.” You press a kiss to his shoulder before resting your cheek there for a moment. “You gonna puke again?”

His jaw clenches again. “I don’t think so?”

Abruptly, Pedro sits up, and you tense in anticipation of another round of heaving. Instead he reaches back, grabbing the collar of his shirt to tug it over his head. Lacking his usual gusto, he tosses it towards the hamper in the opposite corner of the bathroom, and misses spectacularly.

“I won’t tell the Lakers,” you tease, “if they call to offer a job.”

Pedro huffs a quiet laugh. “Snitches get stitches.”

“Real tough threat from the man on the bathroom floor.”  

He pouts. “You have to nice to me, I puked. I could be on my death bed.”

You press another kiss to his shoulder; the skin is clammy. “America’s Peepaw Pedro Pascal Found Dead at 47, In Bathroom Like Elvis But Way Less Cool. Turn to A7 for story.”

“Now who sounds old! Who reads celebrity death announcements in tabloid magazines anymore?” The joking puts you at ease, a little. He is less green in the gills than he was when you found him, although the tops of his cheeks are still flushed with fever. It seems like he has to convince himself to reopen his eyes after every blink; his eyelids rest at half-mast.

“Mm. You got me there, I guess. Do you feel okay enough to go back to bed?”

Pedro runs a hand across his chest. “Think I might need to rinse off first.”

He braces himself on the edge of the tub, and you reach out a hand to steady him as he slowly rises to his feet. If his knees audibly crack, well, you didn’t hear anything.

Pulling off your own sleep shirt (his, also stolen; some old Fleetwood Mac shirt that hangs to your fingertips), you tuck it into the towel rack, and move to turn the shower on.

“What are you doing?” The invalid has paused changing with his boxers halfway down, in a way that would be so fucking funny if it wasn’t equally, achingly endearing.

“You are leaning on the counter to stand up right now. I’m not gonna let you slip and fall to your actual death in the shower.”

He looks down at his own hand in betrayal as you adjust the water to an acceptable lukewarm— not so cold as to be unbearable, but cool enough that it might take the edge off the fever. Pedro frowns mournfully as you step out of your own boxers.

You roll your eyes. “We will do this again when you can enjoy it.”

The shower is plenty big enough for the two of you, and you position yourself behind him, legs splayed, arms wrapped around his waist. Cheek smushed between his shoulder blades, close enough to let the warmth of his skin deflect the chill of the water.

It’s not really a shower for washing. Moreso a “stand under the water until you feel human again” type of rinse. But you twist anyways for the body wash Pedro likes, when you are sure he isn’t about to faint into the glass door. He sighs as you rub the gel across his shoulders, reaching around to wash the sweat from his chest and stomach. It does something to you, having him here— within arm’s reach, pliable, soft with sleep. Comfortable beside you.

You stay there awhile, letting the water wash over you, until you feel him sway, ever so slightly.

“Love,” you say softly.

“Mm?”

“Are you falling asleep?”

Pedro reaches blindly for the handle, twisting until the spray subsides. You place a kiss to the wet center of his back. Revel, one last time, in the feeling of his body against yours, before you hand him his towel.

There is a coordinated, albeit wearily measured, return to bed. Pedro foregoes a new shirt, choosing instead to fall face-first on top of the rumpled duvet. You track down some Tylenol PM, with fingers crossed that maybe this is just a 12-hour thing. But, just in case, the bathroom waste basket is also placed beside the bed.

Finally, you slip beneath the comforter, maneuvering your patient until he is at least partially covered as well. And then, in turn, allow him to manipulate you into precisely the position he wants to be held: your face tucks into the damp, curling hair at the base of his neck, arm wrapped snug around the middle of his torso, legs entangled.

In the morning, you’ll deal with the next hurdle. Hopefully not the next hurl. But for now, you sleep.

[hanasnx]

Indyyyyyy indyyydarling, indy5000, ok I'm fried rn but but Ok so now that I know you play guitar, imagine how cute and fun it'd be jamming with Hobie!! I used to be really into 90s Britpop, I think it'd be so fun and stupid to annoy the shit out of him by having no clue how to play any pre-existing punk or ska, but knowing how to play all the bullshit that came out in the 90s by heart. Like, can you improv together, sure, but trying to play a cover of any song together would be impossible. And this isn't a hallmark movie, neither one of you are surprising the other by learning how to play each other's favourite song, it's too much fun bickering about music.

Not to say that he's stuck in the past with his music taste, Hobie's definitely into grime, drill, all the underground stuff happening in the UK, modern punk you know??, probably some shitty, unsigned SoundCloud rappers too because of course he is, how much more punk can you get than a 16 year old screaming into a usb mic over an FL studios trap beat? It's a laugh but he loves them unironically. Def some dancehall classics too 'cause I just knowwwwww when Dutty Whine comes on that waistline is movingggggggggg, and if I were tall enough and my ass wasn't knee height, just know I'd throw it back so hard for him 😭🤞 Hobie come catch these backaz NEEOOWWWWW

i got your other msg saying this is donnie so hiii donnie <33 i hope you’re having fun during your seshhh (also indy 500 omfg💀)

i’ll be honest i’m only good at improv when it comes to singing (not just harmonies and stuff but free styling lyrics a little too), i know the chords of the guitar and can play a song and if you gave me enough time i could figure out the chords in a song but i’m the worst at thinking on my feet during guitar improv. however that does not stop me from imagining a universe in which i can do that

trying to play a cover together would definitely result in silly things like

“c’mon this genre don’t need all that fancy schmancy strummin pat’ern. you’re doin too much! it was famous doing it this way”

“well i want to play it this way” shying the neck of your instrument away from his snatchy hands

ofc making fun of him and snickering arrogantly all the while

if it was a hallmark movie, i’d imagine he did something really stupid by learning the bare minimum and that’d be the single plucking tabs of the melody of your fave song. played for you with a roll of his eyes and a little smirk bcos it’s almost too dumb to not be embarrassed about

hobie unironically liking some soundcloud stuff 💀💀

i have a headcanon that hobie is so good at dancing, and he doesn’t even do that much like he’s not overkill about it, he’s just good at it. more than staying in rhythm, and grooving. he just knows how to move his body that’s just so hypnotizing. including those snake hips

imagining dancing with him omfg 🫠 pressed up against him in a bump and grindddddd im in anguishggghh memsmsmdcncm. i have to write a snippet about it bcos i literally think about dancing with hobie at a club all the time

also

[96thdayofrage]

But thankfully, he’s white, which, in America, oftentimes is more than enough to be rewarded with opportunities that are by no means deserved.

He’s a failed quarterback (for four different teams), a minor league outfielder (allegedly), an astute affable college football analyst, a devout Christian, a LeBron James-endorsed TV host, a children’s book author (despite being dyslexic), a filmmaker, a staunch pro-life supporter, a tech entrepreneur, and the recipient of one of the most egregious examples of white privilege I’ve probably ever seen in my entire fucking life.

But one thing he absolutely is not, under any circumstances whatsoever, is a professional football player.

So when his former college coach Urban Meyer—the same Urban Meyer who, after becoming the Jacksonville Jaguars coach in January, proceeded to hire a guy who was fired from his last football gig for constantly spewing racist bullshit—revealed that Tebow, who is now 33 years old, recently worked out for the Jags, I laughed out loud because there was no way in hell this actually happened.

Tim Tebow???? The same Tim Tebow who hasn’t played a snap in the NFL since 2015? That Tim Tebow? I knowwwwww you’re fucking lying.

But it gets better. Because lo and behold, not only did the 2007 Heisman winner try out for the Jags, he tried out at a position he’s only played one time his entire career: tight end.

“Tim has come in and worked out as a tight end,” Tony Khan, the Jags’ chief football strategy officer, told Bleacher Report. “That’s not a position that we’ve seen him play, but it’s a position that he’s been practicing at with us. So that will be interesting to see how that contributes to us on offense, too. Obviously Urban knows Tim really well and Tim has got a great history of winning. Urban really believes he can help us, and I think it makes a lot of sense. And it’s a position where we need to get better.”

Considering that the Jaguars arguably have the worst collection of tight ends in the NFL, it’s absolutely a position of need with a rookie quarterback taking the reins. But out of every free agent and draft-eligible player available, you’re really gonna try to tell me that Tim fucking Tebow, a guy who’s 33 years old and has been targeted as a receiver exactly once in his entire life, is the best option available?!

Really?!?!!???!!!

Apparently so, because after working out for the team, Tebow has officially been offered a contract to return to the NFL.

White privilege will never cease to amaze. But one aspect of this move that’s important to note is that one of the biggest reasons teams were averse to bringing in Tebow in a past life, aside from the fact that he was a shitty quarterback, was because of the media circus that comes with him. He’s a polarizing figure and whether you love him or hate him, he’s absolutely going to create a spectacle that could become a distraction. So teams wanted no parts of that.

“He seems like a great guy to have on a team, and I’d be tempted to bring him in as our backup,” an anonymous NFC head coach said in 2013. “But it’s just not worth dealing with all the stuff that comes with it.”

“You don’t want to put up with the circus,” another AFC head coach added.

Now I really don’t want to bang this drum, but is this not the same thing they say about Colin Kaepernick when they use every excuse imaginable to justify him being blackballed from the NFL?

These are obviously two entirely different situations, but the primary differences are:

1) Kap actually belongs in the NFL

 2) Coaches talked the talk, but unlike Tebow, not a single one brought Kap in for a tryout last summer and

3) Kap doesn’t have some morally corrupt white guy to vouch for him.

But this ain’t about Kap, this is about Tim Tebow. More specifically, this is about how white privilege has yet again denied a far more deserving individual the opportunity of a lifetime. Because again, playing in the NFL is a privilege, but so is being offered opportunities you don’t deserve solely because of the color of your skin.