#sorry i cant stop thinking abt newt in heelys dhsjskbdskcdkcl

[hermannsthumb]

coming with a sickfic question/suggestion for ya... who's the worse patient, hermann "grumbly" gottlieb or newton "it's fine" geiszler?

i think they’re both bad but for different reasons. like they both act like it’s the End Of The World whenever one of them gets sick bc theyre both melodramatic babies. also this is partially inspired by a convo w @gaylieb​ on twitter this morning about newt Missing the Man That He’s In Love With while he goes shopping for his sick hubby

Newt’s really opposed to the idea of leaving Hermann home alone for a multitude of reasons. It’s the weekend, after all, which means it should be their weekend together, no work or other distractions from Thursday at 8:30pm ‘til Monday at 10am, just three nights and three full days of Newt and Hermann Time. All he really wants to do is curl up on the couch with Hermann, or curl up in bed with Hermann, or curl up on Hermann’s lap, or have Hermann curl up on his lap and watch bad movies. Or watch bad TV. Or have Hermann read to him and play with his hair. Really, you know, Newt’s not that picky, he just really digs his husband.

Mostly, though, he doesn’t want to leave Hermann home alone because the poor guy is sick. Probably picked it up from campus. Newt woke up Friday morning at the gorgeously late hour of eleven, with sunlight streaming through the bedroom window, and rolled over to pester-slash-kiss Hermann awake, only to find Hermann a) already awake and b) fever-hot, shivering, and blinking hazily at Newt with a noticeable air of misery.

Newt jumped into action in seconds.

A long kiss to Hermann’s forehead half-confirmed his suspicion of fever, while the thermometer (a few moments later) confirmed it entirely. He got Hermann water, fished out the Motrin bottle from behind their respective prescriptions in the medicine cabinet, forced Hermann to take some, got Hermann more water, fretted over his blankets for ten minutes, until finally Hermann--weakly--held up a hand and said “Please calm down.” Which was rich coming from Hermann, who’s the drama queen of all drama queens, the guy who cradled Newt in his arms like Newt was on his fucking deathbed when Newt twisted his ankle in an ill-advised attempt to test out Heelys around the kitchen breakfast bar. The guy who lies in bed and groans with a hand flung across his forehead for hours like an ailing protagonist from an 18th century novel when he has so much as a cold.

That was three hours ago. Now, Hermann’s insisting on sending Newt out to the grocery store, of all places. In the rain. The cold rain.

“But what if you need more water,” Newt says, twisting the hem of his t-shirt, “or more medicine, or--”

“I can manage on my own for half an hour or so,” Hermann says huffily. It’s lose-lose with sick Hermann, really; if Newt coddles him, he’s pissy, if Newt doesn’t coddle him, he’s pissy. Basically, he’ll be pissy whether Newt goes to the store or stays behind. 

Hermann beckons him closer, and Newt plops down onto the edge of the bed and leans in, close, and expectantly. Perhaps a little too expectantly. Hermann makes a face, and says, grouchily, “I’m not kissing you when I’m ill, darling. What on earth are you thinking?”

“Habit,” Newt sighs, truthfully a little disappointed. Hermann huffs, rolls his eyes, and then reaches and pat Newt’s cheek gently. His palm is warm, which is wildly unsettling. Hermann usually runs so cold. Still: Newt appreciates the gesture. “Only half an hour,” Newt says. It’s for an important cause, anyway, for Hermann: they need more ibuprofen, more food that Hermann can stomach (saltines, and light soup, Gatorade, maybe, Newt’s dad used to give him Gatorade when Newt got sick), maybe some tissues and cough drops, too. Hermann is only letting out the gentlest little coughs at the moment and hasn’t sneezed once, but you can never be too careful. 

Newt pulls on his jacket, snatches up the car keys, and is out the door in the flash. Thirty minutes. He can do it. (He’ll get Hermann something fun, too, something to look forward to once he’s feeling better. Like ice cream. Or those dumb chocolate tea biscuits from the international food aisle that Hermann used to have to specially order when they were in Hong Kong.)

Newt calls Hermann from the snack aisle fifteen minutes later, four packs of the chocolate cookies clutched in his fist. “I can’t find the saltines,” he declares. 

There’s a little rustling of blankets on the other end of the phone, like Hermann’s sitting up, and a little cough. “They’re in aisle nine,” Hermann says, “not aisle eight.”

Hermann can really read his mind sometimes. It’s weird, but it’s also kind of romantic. Newt ducks into the next aisle, where--lo and behold--the saltines (and the other crackers and pretzels) are stocked. “God, babe, you’re a genius,” Newt sighs. He tosses the cookies and a few boxes of saltines into the basket.

He can almost hear Hermann preen through the phone, but he’s all back to bossy business in a second. “Have you gotten the soup?” he says. “The kind I like?”

“Yep,” Newt says. He pokes around in the basket, past Hermann’s favored canned chicken noodle with noodles shaped like little stars and rocket ships. (Hermann is ridiculously adorable.) “And the meds, cough drops, tissues...” Hermann coughs again, but louder, a terrible raspy thing, and Newt’s heart twists. His poor husband. All alone at home, without Newt there to take care of him. “Hermann,” he says, verbal inventory forgotten instantly. He cradles his phone sadly, like Hermann would be able to feel the touch, somehow. “Aw. Honey, I miss you.” 

“Then hurry home already,” Hermann says. Then, moderately softer (though his voice is still raspy), “I miss you, too.”

Newt speeds through the self-checkout so fast he almost leaves his bags behind. He’s back at Hermann’s side, and contentedly playing nurse as Hermann huffs and sighs and groans, within the promised half-hour.