..

“I got my sick note, L.t.” You sigh wearily, pushing a hand out of your bundle of blankets to point at the bedside table.

A folded note lies on the edge, and Simon can easily make out the typed text of a doctor's recommendation for rest.

He chuckles, the sound dark and barely audible. “Don't need a chit to tell me you're sick, Love.”

“Just thought you should know—”

The cough travels up your throat and you turn your face into your pillow, face scrunching in discomfort as you expel a bark of phlegm and sick air into the fabric. Pain travels through your temples like nails to your skull.

A hand falls to the curve of your shoulder, steady as your body rocks.

Once the cough dissipates, you grumble. "I feel so gross."

Simon's head tilts to the side as he regards you. His hand leaves your shoulder to press against your forehead, knuckles grazing your sweat-slick skin.

“You're runnin’ a temp.”

“Can't get it down.”

“I can help with that.”

Simon stands to his feet, hands curling around the top of your blankets to peel them back. You recoil from the cold that flushes down your body, goosebumps scattering down your flesh.

“S-Simon!”

Simon curls his arms underneath you, lifting you from the mattress you've tried to burrow into. Your hands move to clasp behind his neck, and you can't bring yourself to feel embarrassed—not when his warmth soaks into your skin like a heated blanket. It makes you want to bury your face into his neck and sleep, breathing in his scent of cigarette smoke and clary soap.

“Gonna put you in the shower, Love,” Simon tells you as he brings you into the small bathroom. The tiny window in the upper corner of the room is open, chilling the air.

You almost whine as Simon settles you on the closed toilet lid, the plastic cold enough to seep through your pajama pants.

“A hot shower?” You ask, already knowing that it won't be.

Simon doesn't answer, instead turning the handle all the way to the cold side. Water rushes from the showerhead, sounding like a thousand little beads hitting the tiled floor.

“Right,” he huffs, “you get in while I fix you some proper medicine.”

Your cheeks heat sheepishly. Of course he'd notice that the only medicine that had been scattered across your bedside table were blister sheets of paracetamol.

Simon points at the shower, body halfway through the door. “Get in. That's an order.”

The bathroom door closes.

*******

Your teeth aren't chattering anymore as you climb back into bed, nor is your skin glistening with sweat. You still feel like you got rammed by an armoured vehicle, but at least you're clean, internal temperature no longer fluctuationing between boiling hot and freezing cold.

But there's still a horrible ache in your nose from your blocked sinuses, and a tightness in your chest. Exhaustion, despite being in bed for a long time, still clings to you like a second shadow.

Settled snugly under the covers, your weighted gaze slides to your bedside table; your heart kicks against your ribs.

All the blister sheets have been tidied up, the empty ones nowhere to be seen. Your glass of water has been refilled, and there's a cup of steaming tea placed on a coaster that you've definitely seen on Simon's desk before.

Pushing yourself upright against the headboard, you can't help but smile a little stupidly as you grab the cup of tea.

The porcelain is warm against your hands, and you note that he's prepared it the exact way you like, only he's added a slice of lemon and some honey. The smell is faint to your clogged-up nose, but still strong enough to send your stomach somersaulting.

“Thanks, Simon,” you murmur beneath your breath, lips brushing the rim of the cup.

*******

It's much later when you wake up. If you had to guess, it's some time in the afternoon.

Simon flits inside the room like a shadow, dropping something off on his desk—probably reports—before looming over your bedside.

He taps a gloved finger to your forehead. “Rise and shine, Sergeant.”

Groaning, your face twists, muscles protesting as you stretch like a cat woth your arms above your head, curled fists pushing at the headboard.

“C'mon," Simon mutters. "Got you some nasal spray and tablets for all the mucus in your throat.”

You squint at Simon, suddenly finding all of this rather comedic. Here is your lieutenant, intimidating in all his mysterious allure and grizzly Manchester accent, telling you to take your medicine like a grumpy nurse.

The laugh in your chest morphs into a cough, and you press your mouth to the inside of your elbow as your lungs rattle.

“Bossy, you are,” you rasp, nonetheless complying with his orders and sitting up straight.

“Better I boss you around then leave you to rot like a corpse.”

“Very thoughtful, L.t.”

The stare you're given is less than impressed. Simon hands you the glass of water, along with two tablets cupped in his palm.

You take both, tipping your head back as you swallow down the tablets with a large gulp of water. Nearly gagging, you let Simon take the glass away from you as your hand settles at your sternum.

“Bloody hell, that's horrible,” you mutter, bringing the back of your other hand to your lips. A bitter taste lingers on your tongue.

“Don't whinge, Sergeant,” Simon scoffs.

You send him a glare as he violently shakes the small bottle of nasal spray. You frown at it, anticipating the uncomfortable burn in your nostrils.

A knuckle taps the underside of your chin, and you diligently tilt your head up. Your eyes flutter closed as Simon pumps a spritz of medicine into each nostril.

You pull back, grimacing as you sniffle, nose stinging. “Horrible, horrible, horrible.”

“Bit dramatic, Sunshine.”

“Reasonable, actually. Stuff's vile.”

“You'll live.”

*******

You breathe shallowly through your nose, eyes closed as tiredness lures you closer to sleep.

Your nasal passages aren't completely open yet, and each inhale still carries a faint whistle, but at least you're not drooling onto your pillow from an open mouth.

That would be a little embarrassing, seeing as Simon sits in a chair next to your bed. His chin is pillowed by his folded arms, which rest on the edge of the mattress; brown eyes are dropped to half-lid.

His fingers card across your scalp, moving over the side of your head in a repetitive pattern. Occasionally, his index finger traces a crescent over your ear.

Warmth leaks into your heart like a tipped can of paint. “Thanks for taking care of me, Simon,” you whisper.

You hear him breathe out, air feathering out across your nose and cheeks. Your stomach flips, knowing that he's pulled off his balaclava.

“Anytime, Love,” Simon whispers back, gruff voice turned to something gentle.

You fall asleep just as the crickets begin to chirp outside.

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