oh no, joey quinn

He's grumpy for it too, but he needs the cuddles to get to sleep, no matter how warm and sweaty and gross it feels.

Which, it does.

Everything feels damp.

It's silent for a while, until you can feel a drop of sweat make its way down your scalp, sliding through your hair slowly and then picking up speed when it gets to your neck.

It's disgusting.

"I'm not even moving and I can feel myself sweat." you complain, but Joe just hums. Adds, "Yea, it's sweltering." in agreement. He can feel you sweat too, but knows that it just means that the fan feels nicer for it. He doesn't add that bit of information - fan feels like a sensitive subject now. You had just had a big fight over whether or not to sleep with the floor fan on.

It wasn't exactly a silent one - the fan or the fight.

Joe desperately wishes for the fan to be moved out of the bedroom; it's a big floor fan that sounds like an airplane taking off, he'd always say. But you need it on. You'll take the loud constant whir that will bring you an actual breeze over suffering in a dead silent humid room that feels more like a sauna than anything else.

"Baby, you know I can't sleep with it on. It's too loud."

"Can't sleep with a fan on, but can fall asleep in the middle of The Expendables." you'd sarcastically said, making a face at him. The Expendables was basically a whole film of big loud explosions. He'd insisted on watching it the other day, and then fell asleep about 15 minutes into it.

"You know that's not-" Joe sighed with frustration. "That's hardly the same."

You could feel the sweat sit between your toes, it was that hot.

"Joe, without the fan on, I don't even want to touch my own body! Let alone yours!"

You fought, back and forth until you'd cut it off by going for a cold shower. When you got out, you found Joe in bed with all the lights off and the fan on, and you silently accepted Joe's kind compromise.

When you'd laid down on the bed, Joe had immediately rolled half onto you, and you knew that in return for the fan being on, he wanted to at least be able to fall asleep the way he wanted to. Needed to.

Touching.

All snuggled up.

Breathing your breath, limbs crossing limbs, bare skin pressing into bare skin. Feeling heartbeats and hearing heartbeats, until one of you can't feel their arm anymore from lying on a shoulder weird. Joe needs the comfort of a whole person to make a psychical connection with to feel instantly at ease.

It not his fault that you calm him down so much. That he loves you.

And you love Joe too.

But it's definitely too fucking hot for any of it. You feel too grumpy, and you know Joe isn't in the best mood either.

Joe might feel at ease, but you don't feel at ease at all.

You're still holding out hope that the clouds that had threatened rain all day will actually give way. The heat needs to break already. So far, no luck though. Just some flashes and some rumbling thunder up high in the sky.

You're not a fan.

You don't like thunder storms. There's something so very threatening about them. Every loud crash makes you jump a little, surprising you every single time.

Joe knows.

He remembers the first time he'd been around you during bad weather, and he had watched you from up close for a little while until something inside of him took over.

I, big giant man. You, small little defenseless woman. Must protect.

Cave man behaviour.

Cute when you're after a little babying, but absolutely awful when the heat and the humidity had you in an awful mood. Like right now.

Another flash lights up your bedroom for a split second, and you can hear how the storm's getting a little closer.

"I'm not scared, you know," you comment softly, and Joe just hums again. Acknowledges what you're telling him, but keeps you close for his own comfort. Doesn't seem to care if you're scared or not - just pretends that you are, because he likes that a little better.

He ducks into his shoulders a little more, curls up to you a little more, and you can feel how the side of his face slides against your chest.

Slides.

You try to hold back an audible wince at how much you hate that, and you endure Joe's weight for a little while longer. But then, slowly, the itch under your skin becomes too much and it builds until you feel like you're about to burst.

"I can't," you suddenly sputter, pushing at Joe's shoulders again. "Sorry babe, but I cannot." you say definitively, groaning as you move to sit up. This time, Joe lets you go.

When you see Joe's sad little face, half of you wants to reach out to wrap your whole self around him. But the other half wants you to go sit in the freezer.

Unfortunately for Joe, the latter wins.

"M'sorry, just..." you turn in the bed and find a piece of cold mattress to lie down on, your head near the foot of the bed now, your feet near your pillow. You get the best bit of air from the fan from there too, right in your face, and it feels a little better.

It really does help that you're damp all over.

Makes the air actually cool you down.

You suppose that's what sweat's meant to do in the first place, so it makes sense.

Joe watches you from his spot.

Watches as you starfish on top of the bed in the dark, hair blowing in the breeze, and Joe wants to frown, because this isn't what he wants. But then he sees how the creases on your face slowly disappear, and just witnessing you be a little more comfortable makes his own frown smooth out a bit too.

"That better?" Joe asks, and you're not sure if it's a sarcastic question or not. If saying yes will hurt his feelings or not. You detect a little hidden bite in there though, so you don't answer.

Instead, you sigh a little contently and say, "Come over here."

Joe doesn't need telling twice.

In an instant, his legs have swung around on the bed and he finds a nice much cooler spot next to you.

"Here," you say, and you hold out your hand.

Joe gives it a glance before looking at your face. He knows you've only just showered, but your hair's mostly dry already. He notices it now as it drapes over the edge of the bed, swaying in the wind. You may be sweaty, grumpy, sticky, and uncomfortable, but you're still gorgeous. It's almost annoying how he likes the way the heat makes you look.

"Hold my hand." you say when it takes too long for Joe to grab hold of it.

It's your compromise.

Joe smiles.

Takes it.

It's not as nice, but Joe will take it, fingers intertwining as your palms glue together.

"That better?" he asks again, and this time there's no doubt about his intentions, voice much sweeter and softer, no hidden bite left in there at all.

"Hmm." It's your turn to hum now, agreeing as you add, "Better."

Joe gets to touch you.

You get the fan on.

It's not the best of both worlds - it's still fucking boiling - but it's definitely better than before.

And then, just when you think, maybe you actually could fall asleep like this, you can hear the soft patter of a few raindrops hitting the bedroom window.

Just a few at first, but it quickly picks up into a gentle, rhythmic pattern as the sound grows.

You squeeze Joe's hand, and there's still a slight slick to your palms and fingers, kind of clammy, definitely warm.

But it's kind of nice to be stuck together like this.

Joe squeezes back, and you let a happy sigh escape you.

You can actually fall asleep like this.

"Much better."

---

The Taglisted

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@everythinghasafacee, @ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @gri959

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@sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

@witchwolflea, @yunirgo

“The kitchen?”

“No don’t.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, bending over just enough to see his eyes had fully closed, pushing lightly at his shoulder.

“I need tea.”

“You don’t need tea,” he mumbled, snuggling into place a little more. “You need to sit right here.”

“Mm… is that right…” you used your fingernails to scratch at his scalp. “You’re extra clingy tonight.”

The words had barely left your mouth before the thought popped into your head: he’s getting ill. Joe gets noticeably more soft and needy when he doesn’t feel well. He also will milk the absolutely shit out of it once it gets acknowledged, so you refrained from saying anything then.

You see, Joe likes proximity in the way cats do. It’s always entirely on his own terms. He can be deeply affectionate but will remain allergic to being perceived as such. He will tuck his cold feet beneath your thighs in bed or rest his chin on your shoulder while you brush your teeth, but only whilst acting like he’s doing you a favour. Even after sex he usually maintains at least the vague illusion of independence, like he can’t quite let himself openly need things, like soft human touch in the form of a good snuggle for example.

But, feeling a little poorly apparently burns that instinct straight out of him.

When you finally make your way into your bedroom, he’s fully feverish, sprawled diagonally across the bed, both his cheeks pink with heat. You move around quietly in the dark, grab a few things before you plan to slip into the bathroom. Before you’ve even left the room though, his voice rasps out, “Where’re you going?”

You thought he was asleep – apparently not.

“To get ready for bed and get you some water.”

“I’ve already got some.” Joe slurs into his pillow.

You spot an empty water bottle on his bedside table and say, “You drank it.”

You step into the bathroom and decide to turn the lights on after you’ve closed the door. From behind it, you hear a soft muffled and miserable, “Come back.” and you know Joe would rather actually perish than admit weakness properly, but you very much would like him to not actually die.

So, you bring him water.

And a paracetamol.

And in the morning, you bring him some buttered toast he barely touches. You get back into bed and make him take a couple of bites – you’ve never seen someone chew so slowly. Halfway through you have to remind him he’s still got bread in his mouth and he can’t fall back asleep, and he quickly swallows and mumbles, “S’gone.” before he curls back up underneath the covers again.

He doesn’t really sleep though. You can tell just because every single time you try to get up afterwards, Joe quickly reaches for you.

“I gotta get up.”

“Mm.” He hums as he sighs, but doesn’t really let his grip waver.

“Let me go, please.”

Sometimes it’s your wrist, other times your waist, and once it’s just the back of your shirt that he grips onto and holds in a strong fist, forcing you to slip out of it in order to escape.

When he starts following you around the flat just so he can hold you and, more importantly, be held, you decide to call a spade a spade and speak the truth into the room.  

“You cannot physically restrain me every time I stand up just because you’re ill, Joe.”

“Mm, watch me.”

You just about manage to place what you’re holding on the kitchen counter before you get pulled backwards and fall against him with an undignified noise. You get caged in by warm limbs that radiate fever heat and feel the scratchy drag of stubble against the back of your neck as he buries his face there. You’d complain some more, but then Joe sighs so deeply and relieved, it actually makes your chest ache a little for him.

It gets worse at night.

Or, better, depending on perspective.

Joe already sleeps close under normal circumstances, but sick Joe acts like separation might actually kill him, and sometime around two in the morning you wake up almost unable to move because he’s practically wrapped around you entirely. He’s got one arm across your waist, one leg tangled between yours, and his face pressed into the space between your shoulder blades. It feels a bit like he’s tried to get as physically close as possible in his sleep, yet still found it insufficient.

Your throat has never been drier, you’re fucking boiling.

You shift slightly to reach for your glass of water and immediately feel him tighten around you.

“Noo,” he mumbles sleepily.

“Sh I need a drink.”

Joe lets you go for a millisecond before you hear the soft complaint of it being cold come from behind you.

“Joe, you’re so hot you’re sweating. I’m sweating because of you.”

You have a sip of water, and tell him he could probably use one too. “Sit up a bit.”

Moving the covers exposes more cold air to Joe’s damp skin and, it’s already sort of difficult to make someone half asleep have a sip of water from a glass in the dark, but one with chattering teeth is a whole other challenge. He just about manages it without spilling, and you use your other hand to touch his forehead.

“You’ve got a fever, I think.”

“Mm. Still cold, c’mere please.” And he sounds so fucking wrecked saying it, voice rough and sleepy and entirely unguarded, you easily end up giving in and quickly find yourself chest to chest under the covers. You decide you can just be hot and sweaty for a bit if that makes him feel better.

You end up barely getting any more sleep that night.

When the morning light starts to filter into the room, there’s a moment where Joe’s eyes blink open slowly as your fingers move through his hair. They’re unfocused at first before they settle on you with a level of exhausted softness that catches you off guard a little. Joe always feels things so intensely, but also so very privately, that this takes some adjusting. You’re used to his emotions having to fight through three layers of sarcasm before reaching the surface, and now it’s all just… right there.

Right here.

“You okay?” you murmur.

“Mhm.” Joe nudges closer, finds he’s got no energy at all even though he’s just slept for hours. Everything’s heavy and sore.

“You look terrible.”

“Mm. Feel terrible.”

You’ve got one arm wrapped around him, and you can feel how wet his back is. This man needs a hot shower, at the very least. A good breakfast too. Vitamins. Some pain meds too, maybe.

It’s silent for a while, and then he suddenly whine-whispers, “Come closer.”

You laugh quietly into the dark and you do your best to move closer somehow, impossibly, until he makes this deeply content sound against your throat and falls properly asleep again.

After about another thirty minutes of cooking yourself alive next to Joe, you decide to attempt productivity.

Joe is still asleep when you carefully slip out of bed. For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, he doesn’t immediately wake up when you leave. That’s good. That’s promising. He needs to sleep this fever off, sweat all of it out, and you’d prefer to not be stuck to his side for every single passing second of it, if possible.

You risk making coffee and open your laptop at the kitchen table, trying to work through some messages whilst the flat stays quiet around you.

You get nearly forty minutes in before you hear soft shuffling.

You glance up to find Joe standing in the hallway looking genuinely devastated and… wet.

He’s wet, and he’s hurt.

His hair is flattened on one side, he’s only half wearing his hoodie which hangs off one shoulder, and his expression reads exhaustion and betrayal.

“Hey, how’re you feeling?” you can’t help the soft fond chuckle that escapes you just from the look of him.

“What am I waking up alone for?” he croaks with a deep frown as he shuffles closer, padding towards you with slow determination.

“Had some things to do,” you’re already holding out an arm for him to attach himself onto whilst the other brings your cup of coffee to your lips. Joe doesn’t go for your hand though, he doesn’t take it. Instead, he stops right next to you and looks down expectantly.

“What is it?” you coo like you’re talking to a child, using your arm to touch his damp lower back for some soft touches.

“Move.” He nudges your thigh with his knee.

You frown in confusion, “So you can sit down?” because there’s three other chairs at the table, all easily accessible.

“So I can sit on you.”

You laugh so suddenly coffee nearly goes down the wrong way.

“I feel awful.” Joe complains, disregarding your coughing entirely. “Why do I feel so bad?”

You just blankly stare up at him in silence for a moment, the answer is so obvious. He still just waits there patiently until you inevitably sigh and shift your chair back enough for him to collapse into your lap with all the dignity of a large dog that thinks it’s small. His face finds the crook of your neck to bury itself into before he mumbles, “There.” into your skin.

“There what?” you find it’s impossible to hide the humour in your voice. Big man snuggling into your lap that can barely hold all of him – it’s ridiculous, this. It doesn’t seem like Joe thinks so, though.

“Better.” Joe says on the back end of a sigh, sinking into you a bit more, making you just a tad more uncomfortable. The warmth of him settles heavily against your chest, all sleepy weight and fever heat.

“Wait, can you–” you try and shift in your seat a little, “Yea, that’s better.” You can reach your laptop from his new angle, and with Joe in your lap, you do your best getting back to what you were doing before.

There’s a moment where you think just from Joe’s slow breathing that he’s fallen back asleep, but after a while you stop trying to work altogether because every time your hand moves away from his back for too long, he sleepily tries to find it with his own. When, after a few times, he takes hold of it and threads your fingers together without even opening his eyes, you decide to stop trying to work. It’s of no use like this, anyway.

“All right. Come on, up.”

You manage to move onto the sofa with him for a while, and at one point, you extract yourself long enough to put laundry away.

Or at least, that’s the plan.

You make it from the kitchen to the bedroom with a basket balanced against your hip before you hear slow footsteps behind you. You don’t even turn around when you tell him he should go lay back down on the sofa.

“Mmm,” Joe hums, completely ignoring what you said. He hovers in the doorway, sort of dazed and out of it. When you glance a look over your shoulder, you make eye-contact and Joe immediately tries to defend himself.

“Was jus’ curious what you were doing.”

He wasn’t just curious what you were doing. He came to get you.

“You are carrying a blanket.”

Joe looks down at what he’s holding and it takes him a second to come up with a good explanation for it.

“I’m cold.” He lies. Well, he probably is cold, but that’s not why he’s here. Then he wanders over, drops his forehead onto your shoulder and simply remains there, participating to your household task by being an extremely inconvenient accessory.

You try folding one of his shirts, and Joe’s arms slide around your waist.

You try hanging a jumper in his wardrobe, and Joe’s chin settles on your shoulder.

You attempt to walk across the room, and Joe simply just… follows.

“You know what though?” you say eventually, “You’d probably feel better if you just went and laid back down… went back to sleep.”

You’d get all of this done so much faster if there wasn’t a whole other person attached to you is what you mean, but you don’t want to tell Joe to his face that he’s being annoyingly clingy. His ego wouldn’t be able to take it.

“Yea probably,” he hums against your shoulder, but makes no attempt to move away from you at all.

“So…” you try, and hope for a deep sigh from him that means he’s going to give in and listen to you.

Instead, a very soft and sad, “Jus’ want you.” gets mumbled into the room, and you’re instantly glad you didn’t actually tell him he’s being annoying clingy. You actually feel bad for even thinking it in the first place.

By the afternoon he’s back asleep on the sofa with his head in your lap, one hand still loosely hooked around your wrist, even unconsciously unwilling to let go. Your mind can’t help but wander back to the work you abandoned hours ago and still need to finish, but instead, you sit and watch rain gather against the windows whilst you listen to Joe’s breathing and feel the occasional sleepy twitch of his fingers around your hand.

At some point he very quietly murmurs, “Jus’ another minute… don’t go anywhere.” and you know it’s just his fever talking. He’s just tired and feeling a bit dramatic, dangerously fever-soft, he’ll deny having said it tomorrow. Still, you remind yourself to slot it away so you can let it pull your chest tight when you think of it again.

Joe spends so much time pretending not to need things, that his affection is a casual thing and his intimacy is effortless and unserious and entirely under his control… but when he’s sick like this, half-asleep against you with his cheek pressed to your thigh and his fingers still tangled with yours, he loves with his whole body, without any of the usual deflection.

You smooth your fingers through his hair slowly, no need to hide your smile.

“Not going anywhere.”

And you feel him relax immediately, boneless with relief, turning his face further into your lap before pressing one sleepy kiss against the inside of your wrist.

You suppose just another minute was never really about time.

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @beau-hawkins, @dailyobsession, @eddies-puppet, @everythinghasafacee, @gri959, @hazelenys, @iliwyshann, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia, @mandyjo8719, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles, @nunofurbusiness123, @overthinking-raccoon, @overtrred28, @readergf, @royale1803, @screaming-ontheinside, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson, @sunvick, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow, @xxladymjxx, @14ferluvr, @starry-swan, @royale1803, @andrearose89