Ok THIS IS MY LAST REQUEST OF THE NIGHT So Please Take Your Time If You Cant Do It Rn But Ive Genuinely

ok THIS IS MY LAST REQUEST OF THE NIGHT so please take your time if you can’t do it rn but i’ve genuinely LOVED seeing your prompt fills this is so so so fun and im so happy

okay this time it’s jj’s turn to be whumped because he has had it far too good for far too long (for 2 fics)

a scenario that immediately comes to mind is jj with a NASTY fever. i’m talking an utterly debilitating fever that he has to push past for some reason, and morri only notices/realizes when they find him asleep at his desk/wherever makes sense, looking absolutely exhausted and practically delirious because his body just… couldn’t keep up anymore

preferably fluffy if you’re in the mood, but it it takes angst to get to that fluffy ending it’s a sacrifice i’m willing to make

my deepest apologies bug it turned out more angst than fluff. however. you are totally right and JJ needed the worst fever known to man.

here you go!!!

--

The worst part about it all, is that he's alone.

Journey is a team player, usually. Especially before he was iced. JJ was a confident leader, a warm director, he knew people's strengths and how to protect them. He always had someone to fall back on. But the Cages were stretched thin, and they needed information, desperately.

Breaks aren't common when you're the Hero of the City. So Journey persists, and JJ shivers uncontrollably in his jacket.

He walks as quick as his legs will let him through the halls, pleading the forces that be to keep everyone else away from him--he wouldn't be any good at acting like he's meant to be here.

Morrigan would be better at this. Morrigan would be unbothered by the heat trapped between his jacket and skin, and how it does nothing to soothe the wracking shivers down his spine. Morrigan would be in and out, no problem, like they've done a thousand times before.

But Morrigan had a different mission. So JJ is alone.

Terribly, horribly, alone.

His breath hitches. God, he wishes he was at home right now. But he takes a left, scurried down a hall, and meets the first door.

He pulls up a stolen keycard from the guard he knocked out on the way in, and it buzzes. He pushes through into a connecting room, with plain white chairs like waiting rooms.

JJ moves onward and to the right, and pulls out a burner phone. The next door opens when he presses the fake code of an eye into its lense--something Morrigan cooked up on their own--and he swings it open, pulling the jacket tighter around him and shaking his head against the sudden onslaught of dizziness.

Glancing around, he finds the desk.

Perfect.

This is a science officer's desk. There's a diploma hung on the wall, signed with scribbly writing, and there's several papers and clipboards sprawled about the poorly lit and moderately cramped room. He stalks over, and begins snapping photos of as many pages as he can.

Morrigan would just be scanning them. They'd have the information downloaded.

God, he's fucking useless.

"Keep going," their voice whispers. "The only way out is through. You're almost through."

He wants to cry. His hands are shaking. He can't take a breath. Everything's too cold and too warm and he's dizzy and he just wants to go home, go to Morrigan, go to sleep.

He snaps the last photo.

"Okay. Out. There's a service elevator."

If it weren't for the fear pressing against his throat, JJ would be worried about hearing voices. But he can't help the wave of relief he gets and the thought of maybe, maybe not actually being alone.

Service elevator. Check. With raw and desperate strength, he pries it open and carefully grabs the cables, wrapping his legs and arms securely. The journey down is a long one. But he's never one to shy away from something difficult.

Even if he really, really wants to.

By the time he's sitting on top of the elevator car, there are tears in his eyes, his limbs are completely numb, and he nearly collapses when his legs give out. But somehow, he pulls the emergency door open. Somehow, he slides down into the car.

"Almost there," someone whispers, and he can't tell if it's him or Morrigan.

He presses the ground floor button. The rocketing of the car makes him want to vomit, but he grips the handles as tight as he can, and waits it out.

The doors open. JJ tries to put on a brave face.

Marching through, as quick as his wrecked limbs carry him, he keeps his head down and takes gulping breaths. Fresh air would be so nice right now. So would being at home. So would...

"Sir, are you alright?"

It's the lady at the front desk. She's standing, watching him approach with concern.

He nods shakily, not stopping. "Peachy."

"Wait, hey! You look really pale, you should sit down, I can call someone--"

"I, uh, live not far from here, I'm fine," he tries to reassure through the thick tongue in his mouth, "I'm going, I'll be out of your hair soon."

"Sir--"

JJ picks up speed and throws open the doors to the big city. The fresh air is nice, pushes away some of the vertigo, but the horrible trembling that takes over his body is much, much worse.

"Left turn on 17th," Morrigan's voice urges. "You're out of the hard part. Now you need to get home."

The walk to his apartment is arduous. It's long. Chicago is not a small city, he knows this, but he'd give anything to be living in some bullshir farm in South Dakota again, where the market is three blocks away from his house, where his brothers could carry him, where home is.

When he finally stands in front of the door to his apartment, he doesn't know where he is.

A scramble for his keys, a few more steps, and the warmth of his living room finally catches the cold off guard. For a small, brilliant moment, he is finally warm.

The exhaustion hits him. His legs give out.

"Morrigan," he whispers. He clutches the side of his couch, eyes fluttering shut against the sudden spinning of the room. "What do I do now?"

Something inside him reminds him--he has to report back on the mission. He's not done. God, when can he be done?

JJ furrows his brows, grits his teeth, and forces himself up off the floor. His feet drag. He places both hands firmly on his desk, and collapses into his chair, pulling out the burner phone and locking it away in the drawer.

He grabs a pencil. His eyes blur. He begins to write.

--

Morrigan has blood on their cheek. It's not a big deal, certainly not theirs, but it's quiet obvious and hard to hide. They'd wipe it off, but JJ has a sink they can wash their face in.

They're closer to his apartment than their own underground room. And they have a key, anyway.

The door is unlocked.

Morrigan shifts their posture into something defensive, and gently pushes into the room. Their eyes dart quickly around, cataloging the untouched mess of clothes on the couch, the handful of dishes drying on the rack--

Oh, JJ.

"Hey. Jace. Wake up." They're by his side in less than a second, shaking his shoulder, hot to the touch.

He moans, and shifts, but doesn't wake, instead revealing the notepad on the desk. Written in messy handwriting, repeatedly, is, "I want to go home."

Oh, Jace. What did you do?

Morrigan throws open the bedroom door and shoves off a pile of clothes, pulling the covers back. They find a glass and fill it with water, and grab a bottle of Tylenol to set on the nightstand.

Returning to the living room, they hoist JJ up into their arms in a fireman's carry.

Jace is warm. Too warm. They can feel the muscles twitch in an attempt to reorient himself, help Morrigan carry him, but all it does is send a wave of trembling down his body.

Morrigan tucks him in. "Journey, report."

It's a cruel way to wake him. It works nonetheless. JJ's eyes snap open, and the dilated pupils blow wide. He glances around. "Sir."

"Tell me what happened."

"Mission successful. One witness post-seizure. Burner phone protected. No injuries, or property damage. One guard neutralized, no fatalities." His eyes are glazed over, and he mutters it with slurred words, like he's said these things half a million times.

Even five years asleep can't get rid of thorough training. Morrigan's chest hurts.

"JJ, you're home safe. You don't need to be Journey right now."

"Mmm?"

The sound is heartbreaking. It's partially a whimper, like he thinks it's too good to be true. Like it's a test.

Morrigan threads their fingers through his hair, as gently as they can manage through the sweat-soaked strands. "It's me, Jace. Come back, okay?"

JJ leans his face into their hand and whines. "Not here. You're not 'ere. Just imagining it."

"I'm right here. You need to take some medicine, okay?"

"'Kay, Morri." JJ starts to get up.

"Hey, no, I have it here--" Morrigan pushes his chest back into the pillows, and grabs the pill. "Here. Open?"

His jaw drops. He looks up at him, dumbstruck. "Morri?"

They hum, grabbing the water too. "Yes, JJ?"

"You're really here?"

"In the fabricated flesh."

There's a hitched breath. Morrigan glances over, and sees a tear fall down his cheek.

They nearly drop the glass, reaching over to take his face in their hands, looking them over. "Jace, what's wrong?"

"Don't feel well," he mutters. It's as honest as he's ever been. Which is deeply concerning.

"I'm here," they soothe. "I'll take care of you."

He grabs their hand, tightly. "'Kay."

"Now take your medicine, and then you can go to sleep."

"Won't leave?" he asks, looking up through already half lidded eyes. "Please?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Morrigan promises. "Not for the world."

--

i don't usually do POV switches but this one felt necessary. this was so fun to write. i love my guys!!! i love them so much!!!!

thank you for the asks bug!!! always feel free to send more, it's so much fun to trade guy rambling with you! :DDD i am sorry it wasn't as fluffy. but JJ seems to be very sad when he's sick. morri cuddles him later. i decree it so

being aromantic and into whump is like. shoutout to whump for being a great opportunity to engage with stories about intimacy and vulnerability and powerful emotion and physical interactions with other people and intense relationships that are not presumptively based in romance. what would i do without you.

I LOVE THEM WITH MY HEART AND SOUL GNEINFVISUSFGVNES

I’d like yall to say hello to Team Phoenix, my new Heartless OCs!

These guys were so much fun to design and come up with! I figure I should tell you bout’ them and their powers, though…

This is Apollo Flash. He’s 19, and a Jury Spy. Or, he was a jury spy. Until one night, on a mission to capture the infamous bird-man who was terrorizing a small town. As he and the wizard made their way back to the Jury, his powers suddenly manifested and flared up. He had no idea he was magick, and he feared for his life. Luckily, the bird-man took pity on him, and decided to help him.

His Magick is something I’d like to call Finger-gun Fireworks. Which. Is basically exactly what the title implies. He can shoot fireworks out of his hands!

And this is the infamous bird-man. His name is Fledgeling Blythe, he’s 20 years old, and I don’t have a whole lot in the way of backstory right now, but I do know that his Magick is something that I think is very cool. i call his Magick “Bird Whisperer.” He can fly, has bird features, attracts birds, and can communicate and command birds when he needs to. The crow perched on his hand is one of his best friends, her name is Edwa and she delivers letters for him!

Fledgeling takes pity on Apollo and decides to bring him to the magistratum, where he’ll be safe from other jury soldiers. After they get there and Apollo learns more about his Magick and how to control it, he works as an auger, and goes back to the Jury with the purpose of being an under cover spy. He and Fledgeling use Edwa to send letters back and forth, and I’m thinking maybe Fledgeling eventually becomes a sort of honorary auger (I don’t think he could be an actual auger since his Magick is so obvious sadly)

oh yeah also theyre gay I forgot to mention that.

after

cw: brief description of illness-related weight loss and a near-death illness experience

“Where’s B?” A hangs their coat on the hook and kicks off their work boots, moving closer to stand by the stove.

“In bed. Wanted to rest before dinner.” C’s bent over the table, a spread of papers and documents covering the surface.

“Let me guess. They tried to do too much today and wore themselves out.”

“What do you think?” C looks up from the desk, glasses perched on their nose. “I found them dead on their feet in the kitchen, blanket wrapped around their shoulders, trying to do the dishes. Had to practically carry them upstairs.”

It’s not a suprise, but it still makes A’s heart squeeze a bit. A few weeks ago, B had caught a bad cold which turned to pneumonia. For two weeks it had been touch and go, and though B had made it through the worst of the illness had passed, it had still left B weak, gaunt, and pale.

They weren’t bedridden any more, but they tired easily. The dark bruises still painted the skin under their eyes, and they were frequently chilled by the drafty winter air. A could tell they were so much thinner than they used to be, and they shuffled around like it hurt to move.

Yet still, B pushed themselves to do things, and A hated it.

“I’ll go up and check on them, see how they are.”

“Be gentle. You know they don’t like it when you tell them what they ought not to be doing,” C warned.

“Then they ought not to do it,” B called over their shoulders as they headed upstairs.

—————

B’s just waking up when they see A gazing at them from the door, a haunted look on their face.

“Don’t look at me like that.” B shrinks into the covers like a turtle retreating to its shell as A enters the bedroom.

“Like what?” A crosses the room to stir the fire in the stove.

“Like I’ll vanish if the breeze blows too hard.”

“B, you’re hardly more than skin and bones—I think I get to be concerned.”

B reflexively wraps their arms around their midsection, trying not to wince at being able to feel each rib. For weeks, they’d been so nauseous and delirious that all they could manage was a few sips of broth at a time. They were already lean to begin with—now, they could count bones they didn’t realize they had. Everything about them felt frail, shaky, insubstantial—so incredibly weak. They could hardly stand to catch glimpses of themselves in the mirror.

B stiffens as a shiver wracks their body—they can’t seem to stop shivering these days, a side effect of having no insulation and the persistent, low-grade fever the doctor said could remain for months afterward.

“Cold?”

B tugs the blanket tighter, willing it to warm their chilled body. “I’ll manage.”

A slowly closes in on B’s bed and takes a seat on the edge, putting a hand on B’s shoulder. B hates the feeling of someone so solid, warm, vital against their own frail body—a reminder of what they’re not. “I know the doctor said not to worry.”

“I’m getting better,” B insists.

“Yes, you are. But the keyword is getting better. And it’s going to take so much longer if you don’t pace yourself.”

B flinches at the words as if A hit them. “I know what I need.”

“I don’t know if you do—“

“See, I knew this would happen.” B’s voice cracks on the words. “You can’t just let me be. You have to tell me what I’m doing wrong, when you don’t know the first thing about what it means to lose your ability to do anything.”

“Because you won’t stop.” A’s voice is tight. “You push yourself and act like nothing happened, like you didn’t almost die—“

“You think I don’t know that?” B’s voice elevates. “You think I don’t feel the effects of what it did to me?”

“You know, but you won’t give yourself the chance to—“

“To hell with what you think you know. It didn’t happen to you—it happened to me!” B jackknifes to a sitting position, unable to hold themselves back.

“And I had to watch it happen!” A’s voice raises a degree, and they shoot off the bed, pacing before whirling back to face B. “You have no idea what it was like to see you half-mad with fever, thrashing about while we held you down and tried to cool you down while you screamed, or to hold you in my arms while you shook and you sobbed because you were so cold, or to hear you fight for every breath and beg the heavens for you to take just one more, all while being terrified you wouldn’t.”

The words hit B square in the chest. They thought you would die. A’s eyes are glassy, and B doesn’t know what to say, how to respond to something like that, and they take a deep breath to center themselves—

—only to be cut off as a coughing fit wracks their frame. They cough so long they see stars, but then they feel it—the warm, solid hand they hate so much on their back, rubbing soothing circles.

They couldn’t shake off the hand if they tried.

After it ends, B slumps back into the nest of pillows, breathing hard, chest aching from the exertion. “I hate this.”

“I know.” A’s whisper is soft. And it should make B mad, A thinking they know anything, but it doesn’t.

They sit in silence for several minutes, the anger fizzling out of both of them.

“Were you really that scared?” B says, when their breath stabilizes enough to speak.

“Yes.” A’s voice is quieter still, and B can catch the glint of the unshed tears in their eyes.

They’re quiet for much longer, and A speaks again.

“I just….I see you, and I just want to make everything okay for you and I can’t,” A says, voice cracking, a tear slipping out that’s quickly wiped away with a sleeve.

“That’s not your job, A. I’m not how I used to be, and I don’t know how to go back or if I even can,” B says, staring at the ceiling. “I can barely catch my breath, I’m always freezing, I look like a skeleton, and I can’t do anything without being exhausted. And it doesn’t make it better when you’re hovering over me, telling me I can’t do things when I already know.”

“I know.” A heaves a sigh. “And I’m sorry. I made it about me and my stuff instead of caring about you and I….I haven’t handled this well. None of it.”

“No, you haven’t.” B can’t stop the snarky retort that sneaks off their lips, and A’s mouth twitches with the faintest of smiles.

“Just…please. Know that we don’t expect you to be up and at it all of a sudden. Or ever. You don’t have to push yourself for our sakes.”

B sighs. “I know. And I’m sorry, scaring you like that.”

A takes in a shaky breath, and for the first time in the dim evening light, B can see that A’s a little rougher around the edges too—sleepless shadows under their eyes, hair that’s mussed and out of place, and a thousand -yard stare that wasn’t there before B got sick.

“Are you okay, A?”

A pauses for a moment. “Sleeping has been…hard. We were up most nights with you, C and I, for a long time, and even when you started getting better…” A shakes their head, as if to clear the cobwebs. “It’s like my body’s always trying to stay alert, in case you…in case something happens.”

B can’t even make a joke about that.

“Sometimes I’ll just…sit at your door and make sure you’re still breathing.”

“Okay, that’s weird.” B chucks a pillow at A, trying to shatter the heaviness around what A just confessed. To their credit, A yelps, and when B laughs, A smiles.

“But also sweet. And a little unhinged. Maybe both.” B says, propping themselves up on their elbows. “So what do you say if we both just give ourselves some time?”

A nods. “Some time.”

“Good.” B slumps down. “Now, that conversation took all the energy reserves I was saving for dinner, so I need another nap. You planning to take one with me, or are you going to watch me in my sleep again?”

“I think I can handle a nap,” A says, allowing themselves to tip over onto the covers.

When dinner time comes, it’s C who finds the pair fast asleep and curled into one another, A’s hand on B’s chest as they breathe the deep, even breaths of sleep.

We need to give winged whumpees more love. Consider:

As hurt, we've got...

Sick Whumpee struggles to sleep because their wings make lying down tricky. This makes them extra miserable when they're already sick, tired, and desperately need to sleep but just can't get comfortable.

When Whumpee gets badly injured on the field, it takes the whole team to pin them down so they don't thrash around and make it worse while Caretaker tries to treat them. They've got people holding their legs, arms, and wings, and as much as Whumpee screams and writhes in pain, they don't let go. While they try to pull their wing from their teammate's grip, Whumpee accidentally dislocates it.

Whumper restrains Whumpee and rips their feathers out, one by one... Or all at once, if they are so inclined.

Whumpee gets caught in some kind of trap that covers their wings in gunk, effectively pinning them to the ground as they desperately try to escape from Whumper.

Sick with a horrible fever, Whumpee feels freezing cold no matter how much they're actually burning up. They keep trying to wrap their wings around themself for warmth, but Caretaker keeps stopping them by spreads their wings out. Whumpee groans as they try to pull their wings back. Caretaker whispers an apology, but they still can't let Whumpee risk making their fever worse.

Whumpee gets knocked out in midair, plummeting to the ground completely helpless. Or slamming into every tree branch, rooftop, or clothes line on the way down.

And as comfort, there's...

Caretaker gives Whumpee a warm bath and massages the dried blood out of their feathers. By the time they're done, Whumpee is fast asleep.

Caretaker repositions the pillows and blankets on Whumpee's bed into a sort of nest, trying to help Whumpee get as comfortable as they can. Afterwards, they bundle Whumpee in a blanket, wrapping Whumpee in their own wings first to make the blanket fit around them better and provide some extra warmth.

After Whumpee gets badly injured, Caretaker bandages up their wings, trying to soothe them whenever they cry out from the pain. Unable to fly, Whumpee gets increasingly impatient with themself over the following days. Caretaker notices their frustration and gently encourages them to take it easy and let their wings rest.

Whumpee uses their wings as a blanket for both themself and Caretaker as they snuggle together on the couch.

When Whumpee can barely walk due to their injuries, the weight of their wings only adds to the struggle. Though they encourage Whumpee to stay in bed and rest as much as possible, Caretaker is happy to wrap their arm around Whumpee's waist and help them around the house. Whumpee rests a wing on Caretaker's shoulders as they make their way to the kitchen for some warm food.

Caretaker asks Whumpee to hold still so they can draw their wings in their sketchbook. They say it's so Whumpee can see what their wings look like without trying to bend backwards in a mirror, but there's a silent understanding between the two that it's because they're both craving some time together. Whumpee starts to feel stiff from holding their wings out, but they can't help but smile a bit at the way Caretaker leans closer to watch the light move across their feathers. Though Whumpee had never seen their wings as anything particularly beautiful, they set off a sort of sparkle in Caretaker's eyes.

And maybe some wing-related dialogue, such as...

Whumper grinned, picking up a pair of wire cutters. The tool glinted in the flickering torch light. "Well, you've gone and flown a little too close to the sun, didn't you, Whumpee? Not to worry, though. You'll never fly again, when I'm through with you."

"Oh, why won't you sing for me, my beautiful songbird?" Whumper drawled as they ran a finger along Whumpee's throat. Whumpee only glared back. If it weren't for the muzzle, they would have spat on Whumper's shoes. They squirmed in their restraints, leather straps binding their wings close to their back.

"Oh, you poor thing... What happened to your wings? C'mere, let me look at them..." Caretaker pulled Whumpee into an embrace, grabbing their wings with gentle hands. Their breath hitched as they noticed that, under the tattered feathers, Whumpee's injuries were even worse than they thought.

Caretaker slapped sick Whumpee's cheek, trying to wake them up. "Hey, Whumpee, um. Listen, y-you're fever's getting worse and I just need to know... Whatever you are, do you go to a doctor or a vet?" They weren't exactly prepared for this winged stranger to show up on their doorstep half-dead. While they might have normally found their dilemma a bit comedic, right now it was hard to laugh. Whumpee desperately needed medical help, but they had no idea where to take them.

"Ngh-stop! Let go of my wings, or so help me I'll---" Whumpee's protests turned into a scream as Caretaker poured antiseptic onto a cloth and pressed it against their gaping wound. Whumpee passed out from the pain, falling limp with tears still streaming down their face. As their vision faded, they heard Caretaker's whispered apologies.

"Six months for the feathers to grow back?!" Whumpee's lower lip started to quiver. "B-but... I can't fly..." They took a wing in their hands, running their fingers along the bare, bloody skin where their feathers had been ripped out. Caretaker reached out to put a hand on Whumpee's shoulder, but Whumpee flinched back. A tear rolled down their cheek, stinging them as it landed right on an open cut on their wing. "Nonononono, th-there's gotta be something you can do! Anything! Please... I want my feathers back."

Just... Wings. Yeah.

no one asked nor requested this but. i had to. i promised a sickfic and i had to deliver because i am finally feeling vaguely ok enough (-｡-;)

please enjoy this little fluffy moment between my boys that are definitely totally just friends and nothing else

whumpee: Simon

caretaker: Archie

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•

The catalyst had been Simon’s shift in the pediatric unit.

Contrary to what most people might think, Simon actually really loved kids. He found working with them to be very entertaining, and they tended to bring out a softer side of Simon.

It’s just that, well, he was assigned to the pediatric unit in January, the height of flu season.

Now, Simon prided himself on being a very healthy man despite some of his unhealthier habits. He may not sleep as often as he should, but he drank lots of water and ate well and got his flu shot every year.

So when he came home from his shift feeling a little more run-down than usual, he chalked it up to skipping a cup of coffee in the morning and moved on.

He made himself a hasty dinner (a leftover bowl of microwave mac ‘n cheese from the night before) and settled into the couch, content to nap the rest of the day away in preparation for his shift tomorrow, when suddenly his phone chimed.

It was a text from Archie.

[Hey Simon! Just checking to make sure we’re still on to go see that movie tonight? I just emailed you your ticket!]

Fuck.

Simon had completely forgotten about his plans with Archie. Plans that had been in place for nearly two weeks now. Plans that took place in thirty minutes. Flaking was out of the question. No, Simon couldn’t do that to Archie, not after he finally agreed to take a day off of patrol to do this with him.

Simon dragged a hand across his face and groaned lowly. He shot Archie a quick reply of confirmation and let his phone slip from his hand.

He could sleep when he was dead. He could power through a few more hours, surely.

He got up and reluctantly made his way to his bathroom to get ready. The reflection in the mirror looked.. off. His hair was mussed and his entire face was paler than he’d seen in a while, save for the red splotches high on his cheeks. The dark circles that were ever-present were somehow even darker and more pronounced. He looked terrible.

Simon blinked dazedly at the mirror before spurring into action. He doused his hair with water and combed out all the tangles. The wet hair on his neck made him shudder. Then, he quickly splashed his face with cold water to eke more color into it and changed out of his scrubs and into his shirt. 

Once he deemed his appearance acceptable, he texted Archie that he was on his way and locked his door behind him.

••••

Simon arrived at the theater feeling even worse than he had before.

It was with great shame that he silently admitted to himself that he may have picked something up from work.

Now, to go along with the exhaustion, was a vicious chill that clamped around his body and had him pulling his knit sweater even tighter around himself. He also had a splitting headache that made it hard to think and he felt vaguely nauseous, but he elected to ignore that particular symptom.

Just a few more hours, Guevara. You can do this.

He straightened and put on a brave face before finding Archie standing outside the theater and walked right up to him.

“Simon! You made it!” Archie chirped, practically bouncing over to him. “God, I’m so excited. I’ve been wanting to see this movie for months!”

Simon smiled, and despite everything, it wasn’t forced. They were going to watch some new murder mystery movie-- not necessarily a movie Simon would have picked out himself, but seeing Archie so riled up made it worth it.

“Well what are we waiting for? Wouldn’t want to miss those trailers, would we?” Simon managed, leading the way for Archie. He walked in front, mostly so he could hide his sickly appearance from Archie until they were in the dimly lit theater.

Soon, they were situated in the fold-up seats with a big bucket of popcorn. Archie was practically vibrating with excitement, and as much as Simon wanted to match the energy, he could feel himself deteriorating.

He was regretting not washing his hands more often with those kids.

His entire body was hurting now. His headache was raging on, even when the lights shut off for the beginning of the movie. His eyelashes felt like they had weights on them.

Simon tried to stay awake, he really did. Archie had been looking forward to this little outing for so long, and the last thing Simon wanted to do was make his illness known and ruin the evening.

He tried various methods-- biting his tongue, digging nails into his palm, adjusting his position every five seconds-- but he found that his efforts were in vain.

Soon enough, his eyes drooped shut and his head lolled forward.

He hoped Archie would be too enthralled in the movie to notice.

••••

The first thing Simon registered when he woke up was someone shaking his shoulder, and the blurry silhouette of credits rolling on the movie screen in front of him.

“Simon? Hey, wake up. Are you okay?” Archie’s voice filtered in.

Simon groaned softly and scrunched his eyebrows together at the disturbance. He felt a hand settle on his forehead, then slide down to his cheek, and finally his neck. He couldn’t help but lean into the cool touch.

“Oh Simon.. You’re burning up,” Archie cooed, smoothing some hair away from Simon’s sweaty brow. “Why didn’t you say anything..?”

Simon’s head slumped forward as he groaned again. He was having trouble focusing on Archie’s voice, let alone what he was saying. He felt so groggy. Usually he could bounce back from a nap with no problem, but presently, every muscle in his body was screaming at him to curl up and go back to sleep.

He whined lowly. Not only did he feel so miserable, but he had knocked out for the entirety of the movie Archie waited months to see. He had to be the worst friend ever. He hoped Archie would forgive him.

“Hey, it's okay! We can rewatch it another day! Lets just get you home, okay? I’m going to carry you,” Archie declared, adjusting himself a bit.

Something about this didn’t compute. Simon knew he was taller than Archie. There was no way he would be able to carry him all the way to the parking structure where he parked. It couldn’t be possible.

“I have super-strength, silly,” Archie whispered with a soft laugh. “Carrying you feels like carrying a carton of milk to me.”

Oh right. Super-strength. Made sense.

Simon didn’t have too much time to dwell on it before his center of gravity suddenly tilted and he was pressed close to a warm body.

Instinctively, he curled up against it. He let his head fall on Archie’s shoulder and draped his arm around his neck. Archie was so warm and he felt so cold. It was heavenly to be so close to him.

“Someone’s clingy,” Archie mused, beginning the gentle walk to the car.

The process of getting to the car went by in a blur, but Simon was eventually settled in the passenger seat, his own sweater draped across his legs and Archie’s pulled up to his chin.

“Get some sleep. I’ll carry you into the apartment when we get there.”

Simon slept.

••••

The next time Simon woke up, he was laying on Archie’s couch with a thick Darth Vader print blanket. Despite this, he was somehow still shivering. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” Archie smiled as he crouched next to Simon and brushed a knuckle over his brow. “Still warm. I wanted to wait until you woke up to give you medicine.”

Simon blinked. Something felt wrong. Archie shouldn’t be the one doing this. This was one of his rare days off where he let himself just be a person. He shouldn’t be stuck looking after a med student who failed to take the proper precautions during his residency.

Simon couldn’t allow it.

He sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His arms shook as he pushed himself up.

“No. I’m fine.. Archie.. you should be relaxing.. it’s.. your day off,” Simon managed, yanking the blanket off his legs, only to be met with a ferocious shiver that overtook his entire body.

Archie didn’t react. He only calmly guided Simon back to the couch and covered him with the blanket yet again. Simon couldn’t help but be grateful.

By the look on Archie’s face, Simon had a vague idea that in his previous feverish hazes, he had tried to escape as well.

“Respectfully, if anyone needs to relax here, it’s you. You can hardly even stand,” Archie said firmly, running a hand through Simon’s sweaty hair.

Simon shuddered at the touch and melted, letting his eyes fall closed once again to avoid eye contact. Damn it Archie. Stop making this harder than it needs to be.

“Simon.”

Archie’s voice was more intense than Simon had heard it in a long time, and he forced himself to meet his gaze.

“I truly can’t think of a better way to spend my day off. Let me take care of you. Please? You always do it for me,” He half-whispered, the intensity replaced with a quiet plea.

Simon didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled the blanket tighter and leaned into Archie's hand as it combed through his locks. 

Fine. If that was how it was going to be, oh well.

Archie smiled at Simon’s silent acceptance, and leaned over to kiss the top of his head.

“Get some rest. I’m going to go warm up some soup and get you some ibuprofen.”

Simon sleepily watched him disappear into the kitchen, looking nearly as excited as he did at the start of the movie.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•