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honeylikewords · 2 years ago

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bedrest (jack russell)

jack’s wife feels a little under the weather. (pregnancy arc!)

(warnings: sickness, very brief mentions of nausea and vomiting, mentions of food, and, obviously, indications towards pregnancy! just a short little fic about how cute jack is when he’s playing nurse; word count: 2.5k)

It starts with a heavy feeling around her temples. Her shoulders sit sorely, and the ache spreads all the way down to the small of her back. There’s a pressure behind her eyes. The core of her throat becomes sticky and swallowing suddenly is something she has to think about doing, and doing it sends sharp prickles radiating through her neck.

Now, hovering over the kettle as it rumbles to a boil, she can feel her head becoming foggy, growing faded; trying to have a clear, linear thought feels exactly the same as trying to run in a dream. A torpidity descends, and her attempts to lift the kettle and pour it into her mug are frail to say the least.

This kind of grogginess usually fades in the first hour of being awake, for her, even with the emergence of a somewhat regular nausea that she attributes to her recent attempts to quit caffeine. It also isn’t often accompanied by the other strains; this feeling has been lingering since late last night, and has carried over into the current noon. She’s trying not to let it worry her, but she has a worm of worry nibbling at her, telling her things are about to get a lot worse.

Her splashed tea sits on the countertop brewing as Jack comes into the kitchen, holding a pile of books and gesturing at them with all the excitement of a cartoon dog. He’d been fiddling around in the garage for the better part of the morning, having gone out before she even woke; the telltale sounds of boxes sliding and falling over one another (followed by his swearing) filtering back into the house had given him away. Now, he emerges, triumphant.

The grin he greets her with is unavoidably adorable-- the crook of his snaggletooth lends his smiles an eternal air of childlike glee, and it still turns her belly with butterflies, even after all this time-- and she tries to return it as he rounds furniture between them to come plop the stack next to her.

“I found the moving box our biographies ended up in,” he chirps, holding up one with a picture of Che Guevara’s face on it and wiggling it tantilizingly. “I can show you the part where--”

Jack slows himself, plainly noticing something off in the atmosphere. At times, it can be disturbing how perceptive he is; always her trusting, bouncy Puppy, she forgets that Jack is an old, experienced soul, and is keenly attuned to senses she couldn’t imagine possessing. Keeping secrets from him has never been an option, and whatever obliviousness he plays at melts away immediately, replaced by the his clear and instinctive observational nature. She’s being reminded of that nature, now.

His voice trails off, movement stilled, as he sets the book atop the pile on the counter and she feels an uncomfortable gnarl rise up in her tummy at the thought that Jack is somehow disquieted, off-put. She wants him to keep rambling about Cuban political history, even if she’s hardly in the headspace to digest it; she wants things to be normal, for nothing to be wrong.

She puts on an expression she thinks is close to reassuring, and turns to see that he’s scrutinizing her, green eyes coasting up and down, but lingering primarily around her face. Embarrassment flushes over her features as she tries to look away, somehow admonished, back towards her likely overbrewed mug when she feels Jack’s wide fingers gently slip under her chin.

“Look at me for a second, honey.”

His words ring soft; whenever he drops his voice into a low whisper like this, his accent becomes stronger, taking on a breathy quality that makes it stand out. His consonants mellow more, and there’s a languidity to his long, warm vowels, melting her resolve as he guides her chin, half with his voice and half with his hands.

He tilts her face back towards his, ever-so-lightly, and allows his thumb to brush her chin in a soothing arc when their eyes meet again. Now that she's facing him, she can see Jack's brows drawn in focus, his gaze studying every inch of her; his full upper lip parts from his lower one as he blows out a concerned breath, and she watches him as he guides her chin up with one hand and trails his fingers down along the tense sides of her neck.

"Your throat is swollen," he mumbles, gaze not breaking from her neck. "And here… how does this feel?"

He puts two warm digits against the pulse point below her left ear and presses, ever so lightly; she pulls a sour expression at the sudden awareness that there is pain underneath. Jack tuts something she can’t quite make out and apologetically rubs the breadth of his palm against her collarbones, sweeping from side to side and warming her clammy skin.

“That’s your lymph node, mi amor. ‘S not so bad, in terms of the swelling, but it’s not good, either…”

Turning over his hand, Jack presses the backside to her forehead and squints, trying to take her temperature. After a few fruitless attempts, he wrinkles his nose in frustration and puts his hands on her shoulders, squeezing together softly. She likes the pressure and the affection, but can’t help the twinge of pain that shoots across her face when she feels her sore muscles clench, and Jack notices.

“Oh, lo siento, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“You’re fine, Jack,” she manages, noting with no small share of resentment that her voice hurts to use. “I just have a knot in my shoulder or something.”

“You need to get to bed,” he says firmly, coming to her side and putting one hand on the small of her back and using the other to lift her hand, interlocking their fingers so he can guide her as he starts walking.

“I don’t need to-- I have tea, hon-- I’m really okay, I swear--”

All her fruitless attempts to babble something convincing are met with a stern glance from Jack, who continues walking up towards the stairs that will lead to their bedroom. She’s hardly putting up that much of a fight, all things considered-- she’d walked with him this far, and she’s letting him coax her up the first few steps, with his wide palm resting just above her hipbone and pushing lightly-- and her glances back towards the puddle of tea around her mug don’t dissuade him from his pursuit.

“You don’t need to be up,” he counters, effortlessly steering her up the curve in the staircase with all the genteel grace of a ballroom dancer, “And I’ll bring your tea. Or, actually, I’ll make you something else; that batch didn’t smell so good.”

She shoots him a pointed look, and Jack merely smiles entreatingly as he sweeps her up the last few steps and towards their bedroom door, left slightly ajar. His hands haven’t left her, and he strokes his fingers up and down the notches between her knuckles, smoothing over the skin there as he tips the door open with his shoe and he tugs her into the room.

Their spacious bed does look inviting. She’d forgotten to re-align the pillows and comforter this morning in her sluggishness, but somehow the rumpledness draws her further still, and Jack can see her strength of will ebbing. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth and he leans over, kissing her cheek.

“I want you to rest,” he says. “I’m worried, amorcita.”

“It’s not that… bad… didn’t you say so yourself?”

“The swelling,” Jack corrects, tugging her closer to the bed and lifting his one hand from her hip to pull the pillows from his side of the bed so that her stack will be taller. “I said the swelling wasn’t so bad. But, and I, uh, I don’t mean to be rude when I say this, mi hermosa, but, um…”

Setting her lips in a thin line, she glowers at Jack, who gives her a hangdog smile and gestures for her to sit on the edge of the bed. Obliging him, she does.

“You don’t look so well… Um, I mean, you are so, so beautiful, as always,” he stammers, fluffing the pillows in his discomfort, “But, you know, drained? It’s kinda dark around--”

He touches her face and traces the hollow under her eye with the pad of his thumb, giving her a sympathetic frown. She sighs; she’d known she looked a little worse for wear this morning, but was hoping it wasn’t terribly obvious. Yet another embarrassing reality she can’t hide from Jack, she supposes. But, still, Jack shows no signs of being embarrassed, himself, by her situation: instead, he hovers, as attentive as ever, as affectionate as usual. It remains a resolute comfort to her.

One tan hand lays itself on her shoulder and tenderly guides her into a prostrate position on the pillows, her head elevated as Jack bends down and lifts her legs into the bed. She could have done it herself-- she’s not that incapacitated-- but he seems intent, and watching him tend to her is a sight in and of itself. Once her legs are situated on the bed, Jack covers her in the comforter and strokes up the length of her side, fingers tracing the outermost edge of her over the blanket and coming to rest under her chin, where he again guides her into looking at him.

“I’m going to go make you something to drink,” he instructs, voice again low, “And something to eat. And then you’re going to sleep.”

His tone broaches no argument, but there’s a glint in his eyes; Jack’s a born caregiver, always looking for the chance to help, to support, to uplift. She wonders if, on some level, he likes when she’s sick so he can more openly dote on her, or if, maybe, her dizzy mind has spun off in some obtuse direction. Whatever the case, the reality of Jack’s lips on her forehead sets in, and she sighs contentedly at his touch.

“I’ll be right back, bebé,” Jack mumbles into her hairline. “You be good for me and stay here, yes?”

Some kind of agreeing hum issues out of her as she eases herself back against the pillows; she does have to admit, it feels good. As sore and taut as her body is, and as irritating as swallowing and breathing has become, it feels good to be here, in her bed, with her husband taking such measures to ensure her wellbeing. Knowing he cares, and cares enough to actually do something to improve her situation, however minimally, is itself a kind of balm to her wounds, and she lets her eyes close as Jack pulls back, trying to relax.

“My sweet girl,” he purrs. “Stay right there.”

She has no plans to move, really, but the praise is nice.

Jack ekes open the bedroom door, trying to support the tray in his hands while guiding the door with his hip; it’s hard to balance a full bowl of pozole and a mug of tea, surprisingly, as the liquid always wants to travel. Somehow, he manages, and quietly enters, smiling to himself as he’s met with a familiar sight.

His wife, prone in the bed, hair messy and limbs curled in on one another, deeply asleep. She’s buried into one of his pillows, and heavy, exhausted breaths slowly fill and escape her lungs as she burrows in, slightly, unconsciously. He wonders if she can smell him on the sheets the way he can smell her, and hopes that she can; her scent brings him endless comfort, and he wishes for her to feel that same comfort, especially now, in a time of need.

He sets the tray on the bedside table, clearing aside her accoutrements-- a few loose hair ties, a paperback, an off-schedule weekly caddy for vitamins-- and sits beside her on the bed, stroking the hairs that have stuck to the sides of her face.

She’s remarkably beautiful, in his estimation, even when crashed asleep and, yes, drooling into his pillow. There’s something eternally enticing to him, some quality that he lacks the poeticism and deft to describe. Decades of digesting art and he still finds himself at a loss for words, entrapped by the magnitude of his love. What can he say that she does not embody, herself?

Jack’s fingers brush against her cheeks, and she feels markedly hot: he’ll remember to bring in cooling pads and fresh water. He lifts one corner of the blanket to try and let some air in to hopefully stablize her temperature, somewhat, and as he does, he sees her belly, exposed from beneath her shirt.

He reaches in and settles his hand flat atop it, watching his broad palm cover her skin as it rises and falls with her breathing. In and out, up and down, Jack slowly curls and unfurls his fingers in time with her inhales and exhales, pulling his fingers in as she draws in a breath and splaying them out as she lets it go. He sits in absolute stillness as he practices, revelling in the sensation of her soft skin under his fingertips, the tiny brush of her itty bitty peach-fuzz hairs around her navel.

Distantly, when he breathes in, Jack can detect the tang of her stomach acid in the bathroom, and knows she must have gotten sick again this morning when she woke up. He tries not to let the thought run wild through his head and send him reeling, but he can’t deny the inkling of hope that’s growing ever more steadily inside himself.

All those articles and books he’s read over the years have indicated that this is very common-- a decreased immune system as her body devotes its energy towards a new kind of growth-- and that she would feel nauseous, tired, and even feverish in the very early stages. If, indeed, that is what these symptoms indicate; he tries again, in certain vain, to steer himself off the path of foregone conclusions. He has to be more patient, he tells himself, even as he strokes her belly and allows himself to imagine it rounder, firmer, higher.

Jack also allows himself to push the sheets back just a little bit further and lower his face to her tummy, kissing her bellybutton as lightly as he can.

“Be good,” he whispers. He wants to believe he’s only speaking to himself, but his smile can’t help but wriggle past his obstinate will and onto his face. He kisses her again. “For her, please.”

When she wakes, he’ll make sure she eats and drinks. He’ll massage her tired shoulders, if that’s what she’d like, and pop her aching back, then coax her back to sleep. But, for now, he pulls the covers back over her and sits still, tracing a hand along the curve of her sleeping jaw as he watches her dream, lost in one of his own.

#werewolf by night #wwbn #wbn #jack russell #jack russell x reader #marvel #jack russel #jack russel x reader #why do i keep including those misspelled tags. WHATEVER #point is! here's a new one!#it's WAY short (to me) but i am not feeling well irl so this was just a lil indulgence and we'll have a longer one soon >;3 #enjoy!!

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