ofstoriesandstardust

Letting it ring, he figures he’ll call back when he’s done getting settled into this place. She probably just wants to check in on how his transfer went anyhow. 

He’s just getting done tugging his sheets over the bed to regulation and snags his phone as he goes to lay down. He props his head on his arm, clicking to her voicemail as he mindlessly kicks off his boots. 

Call me back as soon as you get this. I want you to hear this from me before you hear it from anyone else. 

He frowns at the heaviness in her voice, shifting up as his fingers swipe over the screen to call her back. 

The phone rings only twice before it clicks, April’s normally warm voice desolate. 

“Hey Bradley.” 

He feels his frown grow, sitting up straighter. “April, are- are you okay? Have you been crying?” 

There’s a long, heavy pause. 

“Bradley,” Her tone is soft. Gentle. Gentle like how Mav had been when- “are you in a place to hear something bad?” 

His jaw works, throat suddenly dry. He can’t seem to swallow right. 

“How bad are we talking, April?” 

“I heard from Pete this morning.” 

Even though he’s sat down on his bed, feet firmly planted on the ground, it feels like everything begins to spin. 

He feels dizzy, floating almost, as April talks, softly, slowly. 

It’d happened a few days ago. 

They weren’t sure what had happened. 

Too much had been classified; too many people had conflicting accounts. 

They didn’t know what had happened to you. If it was an accident. If it was intentional. If it had happened in the air or on the ground.

All they knew- 

All they knew was that you were gone. 

A sickening, bitter taste of fifteen years worth of regret suddenly floods his body, making him feverish. 

It was not an invitation. 

But here he finds himself, standing on the dewy grass at the cemetery near his childhood home. 

Of course Mav chose here, where the sunlight filters through the trees in dazzling patterns and his parents lay buried together a few plots away. 

Pete’s arms wrap around him so tight it almost feels like for a minute he can breathe around his grief. His eyes burn, tucking his face into his godfather’s neck. 

"Do you want me to come home early?" Bradley asks. You pull your phone away from your face and squint at it. It's only 1pm and you know he's meant to teach until at least 5. But you're feeling pretty sorry for yourself in your nest of blankets and your growing pile of tissues and you want him to hold you.

"No need," you say. You can handle a few more hours. "I called to ask you to pick up some stuff on your way home though, if you don't mind."

He scoffs and you can practically hear the exasperated raise of his eyebrows. "If I don't mind. That fever really has messed with your head, huh?" There's a shuffling sound, like he's moving the phone to his other ear. "I'll get all the good stuff," he tells you. "Top shelf flu medicine and soup and Gatorade and anything else you want. Any special requests?"

You shut your eyes and feel the bridge of your nose start to sting. You've been together long enough that it shouldn't get to you -- the ease of Bradley's love. The way he does things above and beyond for you from the simplest of tasks to big romantic gestures. It makes your heart constrict in your chest and you want more than anything to hold him right now. 

"No," you say thickly. "Just you, Bradley." He sighs over the phone. It sounds like longing. 

"Okay, sweetheart," he says, voice softer. "You took something, right? Like, Tylenol, or --"

"Yeah," you tell him, sniffling a little and hoping he doesn't hear it. "Yeah, I'm in bed under like, every blanket in the house and I took some with a piece of toast about an hour ago."

Someone calls Bradley's callsign in the background. He ignores it. "Go to sleep or something and I'll be home when you wake up, yeah?" You hear Rooster! again.

"Get back to work, Lieutenant," you whisper. He laughs. "Love you," you add.

"Love you back," he says immediately. "Get some rest, sick girl."

You do as he says, curling under the blankets and doing your best to doze. It seems to work, since your eyes pop open who knows how long later to the sound of the front door closing. You blink blearily and feel your head pounding, still. You're hot instead of cold which means your fever hasn't budged and you feel disgusting. Maybe Bradley will draw you a bath if you ask. 

Speaking of -- either you're being robbed or your boyfriend is home. The covers seem to have eaten your phone but you fish it out and check the time -- only 3pm. You've only been asleep for a little while and he's home way too early, so you roll yourself out of bed with a groan, taking a blanket with you even though you're sweating a little. 

Bradley is in the kitchen unloading two stuffed bags, his back to you. You watch him pull out soups from your favorite deli, far too many bottles of your favorite flavor of Gatorade, and an entire pharmacy's worth of cold and flu meds.

"Did you buy the whole store?" you say, voice scratchy from sleep. You sound sick to your own ears. Your boyfriend whips around and his shoulders loosen at the sight of you, though his brows are drawn tight with concern. 

"Should you be out of bed?" he scolds, though his arms reach for you as he does. "C'mere." You shuffle into his space and he gently rests one hand on your cheek and presses the back of the other to your forehead. "Still hot," he mutters.

"I'm always hot," you tease, though it comes out halfhearted as you're hit with another round of shivers. Bradley smirks but his brows don't unfurl. "You're home early."

He strokes the skin below your eye before turning back to the counter to put his purchases away. He doesn't have to be in uniform to teach, but he wore it today, so he must have had some meetings. Even in your sick state, you admire how handsome he is. "Couldn't leave you home sick all alone, could I?" he says. You amble over to the kitchen stools and plop into one before you fall over. Your head is still pounding.

"You could have," you tell him. He leaves out one Gatorade, a dose of cold and flu medicine, and a container of soup.

"I'll rephrase," he says. "I missed you and I wanted to come home to take care of you." The bridge of your nose starts to burn again. You close your eyes. It feels silly to be so overwhelmed but you can't help it. Everything hurts and you're feeling sorry for yourself and you have the most perfect man in the world ready and willing to take care of you. It's basic, expected behavior from someone who loves you but it never ceases to feel like a miracle. 

"I'm glad you're home," you whisper. You hear Bradley walk towards you, feel him slide next to your stool. You open your eyes to find him close, looking at you with tenderness and fondness and concern all wrapped in one. "I feel like shit," you say, laughing a little wetly. 

"My poor baby," Bradley sighs. You twist in your seat and reach for him, blanketed arms winding around his waist as he pulls you to him, face pressed into his chest and his arms looping around your shoulders. He strokes your hair and you cringe to think about how it's kind of dirty. But you don't linger on it and instead breathe him in -- he smells like oil, desert wind, and cologne. He smells like home.

"Here's what I'm thinking," he says. "I run you a bath and you soak while the soup heats up and I change the sheets and then we get some meds and liquids in you. And then we can get in bed and watch a movie, or something."

"Okay," you say into his shirt. You pull away to look up at him. "That sounds nice." Bradley smiles at you and cups your cheek, bringing his face down for a kiss. You press a palm to his mouth. "You'll get sick," you chide.

He kisses your hand before drawing it away. "I've got an immune system of steel. And if I do, you'll just take care of me." It's not a question, it's not a joke. It's just a fact and you both know it. You take care of each other. 

"Okay," you say softly, before pressing your lips to his. It's a chaste kiss but it's a familiar one. It's I'm here, I'm home. It's you're safe, you're going to be okay. It's I love you.

"Bath," Bradley mumbles against your mouth. "Let's go, sick girl."