Sick with a Fishie || Rafayel Fic
The first thing you register, swimming up out of sleep, is that your skull feels stuffed with wet sand.
The second thing is the smell of turpentine and salt air, which means you're home— Mo Art Studio, though you stopped thinking of it as just his the day you moved your toothbrush into his bathroom and your easel into the corner he'd cleared out without asking. You're on the low couch, tangled in a paint-splattered throw blanket that definitely wasn't on you when you fell asleep here last night, and there's a weight settled against your side that turns out to be your husband, half-draped over the armrest, snoring with his mouth open, one hand still loosely curled around yours— like even asleep he hadn't wanted to let go.
Your ring catches the light when you shift. You still haven't quite gotten used to that.
You try to sit up. The room tilts sideways like the floor of a boat.
"Ow," you say, to no one, and flop back down.
That's what wakes him. Rafayel startles the way cats do— something that would, under other circumstances, amuse you— from perfectly boneless to fully alert in half a second.
How the heck did that suddenly wake him up?
"Cutie— What's wrong—" He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, actually looks at you, and whatever he sees stops him cold.
Your face is flushed and glassy-eyed in a way that has nothing to do with just waking up. His hand finds your forehead before you've even gotten a word out. Wow. He works fast for a man who’s usually drowsy in the morning.
"You're burning up," he says, and for once there isn't a trace of a tease in it.
"You are the color of a boiled shrimp and you feel like a stovetop. You are not fine." He's already up, already moving, bare feet slapping against the studio's paint-stained floorboards as he digs through a cabinet that, as far as you knew, held nothing but brushes and jars of pigment. "Thomas left medicine here. For you, actually. He said I should 'keep some on hand since apparently I’m a Lemurian and I wouldn’t get human colds and being with me doesn't make you immune to anything,' which, rude— I’ve done more than enough research to go to the store and know what to get, but it’s useful right now—"
“You don’t have to fuss.”
He turns around holding a box of cold medicine upside down, squinting at the instructions with the focus of a top student studying for his finals, before putting it down.
“Excuse me? I’m not fussing.” He says the word like it personally insulted him, “I am taking care of my sick, naïve bride, who thinks I’m acting ridiculous about it—“
You open your mouth to argue back, but it turns into an embarrassing cough instead— deep and ugly. His hand moves to your back without him seeming to decide to do it, rubbing slow circles until it passes.
Then, he scoops one arm under your knee before you can protest or even process what’s happening, and the world lurches as he lifts you clean off the couch.
“Bed.” He’s not asking, “Not this stupid couch we fell asleep on.” He’s already walking, and you’re too dizzy and too warm and, admittedly, too comfortable to fight him.
"Wait— I haven't even brushed my teeth—"
"You think I care about that right now?"
“I care about that right now.”
He sighs through his nose like he’s going through the most difficult time of his life and detours toward the bathroom instead, kicking the door open and setting you down carefully on the counter edge. He keeps one hand braced at your waist so you don’t tip sideways, and loads your toothbrush.
“I— I can brush my own teeth, y’know.”
“Good for you. I’ll get you a medal. Now open.” He repeats, and you realize there’s no use trying to fight.
You give in mostly because arguing takes more energy than you currently have, and let your mouth fall open. He brushes with a gentleness that doesn't match the bossy tone at all, careful and unhurried, tilting your chin with two fingers when he needs a better angle, entirely too focused on the task.
He takes the toothbrush out and rinses it before taking a mouthwash cup and filling it with water. He brings it to your mouth.
Like a fish. An unwanted, humorous thought pops in your head.
The liquid is cool against the heat still sitting heavy in your face and skull, mint sharp enough to make your eyes sting a little. You follow it on instinct more than thought, cheeks puffing slightly as you hold it.
Rafayel watches like you’ve just completed a delicate piece of performance art under strict supervision.
He says it right as you were about to spit it. Something tells you he’s enjoying being bossy. You still spit
"There," he says when he's done, rinsing the cup off and setting it aside like he does this every day. "Was that so hard?"
“You’re insufferable.” Is all that comes out as you wipe your mouth.
"You married insufferable. A little late for regrets." He scoops you back up before you can retort, carrying you out of the bathroom like the whole detour was nothing at all.
He sets you down on his bed with a care that doesn’t match his grumbling, tugging blankets up around you so gently, careful not to hurt you.
When he straightens up his eyes catch on your face for a second too long, and something flickers there— something that isn't teasing, isn't performance, is just quietly, nakedly afraid.
“Hey,” you say softly, “It’s just a cold.”
“Yeah. You get sick and it’s just a cold, and then somehow you’re all fragile and can barely move and I—“ He stops. Drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t like it. Watching you like this. I don’t like not being able to just—“ his hand flexes, like he’s grabbing at the shape of a solution he can’t seem to find, “fix it.”
Outside the tall windows, the sea is doing what it always does— existing like nothing in the world is wrong. Inside, everything smells faintly of paint and salt and the warmth of too many nights spent falling asleep giggling or laughing on the wrong furniture.
Rafayel exhales through his nose, sharper than he means to.
“Stay here. You need breakfast before your medicine. I don’t want my beloved bride hangry.” Is all he says. Then he goes away, heading for the kitchen.
By the time he comes back, whatever sharp edge had crept into his voice is gone. He nudges the door open with his foot, both hands full— a tray with tea steeping in your favorite mug, a bowl of something plain and warm, the medicine box finally right-side up.
He sets it all down on the nightstand without a word, and then, instead of handing it to you and retreating like you half expect, he sits on the edge of the bed and starts arranging your pillows behind you himself, tucking one under your elbow, adjusting another so it actually supports your neck instead of just existing near it.
"You didn't have to make anything," you murmur. "I could've just had crackers or—"
"Shhh." He presses a finger lightly to your lips, teasing again now that the fear's had a moment to settle. "Like I'd let you survive on crackers, cutie. What kind of husband do you take me for?"
“The dramatic, over-the-top kind.”
“The correct, best kind.”
"Relaaax." He nudges the spoon toward you, clearly enjoying himself now, some private amusement tugging at his mouth like he's decided watching you fuss over crackers is the most endearing thing he's seen all week. "I like doing this. Don't ruin it for me."
That like doing this lands somewhere soft in your chest, more than it probably should. It makes you feel a little warm— the way he likes doing something for you. Hearing it, easy and a little smug, makes you reach for his hand.
He laces his fingers through yours without hesitation, thumb brushing slow over your knuckles, and for a moment neither of you says anything at all. Just the two of you, the smell of tea and salt air, the sea outside doing what it always does.
"Okay," you breathe finally. "Feed me, then."
The relief that crosses his face is almost funny, if it weren't so painfully genuine. "Finally. Was that so hard?"
He says it like he’s won something.
Like convincing you to eat is a victory he intends to remember in detail later.
He leans in slightly, spoon poised, and then pauses—just long enough to be annoying.
You narrow your eyes at him. “You are enjoying this too much.”
“I am very humbly providing necessary care,” he corrects immediately, entirely unashamed. Then, softer but still smug with a chuckle, “Also, a little bit yes.”
You open your mouth and the spoon meets you halfway. The food is warm and exactly what you need, soothing your throat and sending a sense of relief to your body. Rafayel watches carefully as you swallow, like he’s monitoring some critical experiment.
He keeps feeding you spoonful by spoonful, patient in a way that has nothing to do with the food and everything to do with not wanting to leave your side, until the bowl is empty and the tea has cooled enough to drink and you're leaning heavily into the pillows, eyelids drooping.
"Medicine," he reminds you, softer now, already shaking two pills out into his palm.
You take them without argument, and he watches you swallow like it matters, like it's the last piece of some ritual he needed to complete before he can let himself relax.
"Rafayel." You mutter softly.
He blinks at you, ears turning slightly red, “Yeah… Anything to get you better, pearl.” He murmurs, before a mischievous glint hits his eyes, “Especially when you can’t do anything yourself and need your wonderful, handsome husband at your beck and call—“
You find the energy to throw a pillow at him. He dodges it, laughing.
“I’m joking, pearl. But really, I’d do anything for you. You know that, yeah?”
You reach up before you can think better of it and rest your palm against his jaw, and he goes still under it the way he always does, like he's memorizing the shape of the touch.
"You know," you start, voice rough with sleep and congestion and not at all romantic, "when we said 'in sickness and in health,' I didn't think it'd be me testing that first."
Something shifts behind his eyes. He turns his face just slightly into your hand, nuzzling in it as his eyes falling half-shut.
“I told you. If it were up to me, I’d always be the one taking care of you.”
You let out a soft chuckle, “Riiiiight. Remind me again who was the one who needed babying when he—“
“If it were up to me. Clearly, it is not.”
Another laugh escapes you, before turning into another coughing fit.
His triumphant expression disappears so fast it’s almost comical.
“Stop laughing, cutie.” He pouts.
“Stop making me laugh, fishie.” You retort.
“I can’t help that I’m the funniest, most charming husband to ever exist,” he says with absolutely no shame. “It’s a burden I carry for the both of us.”
Then his gaze softens as it settles on you, some of the teasing draining out of it, replaced by something quieter. "For the record," he says, "If it really were up to me, I'd take every cold, every fever, every bad day meant for you and keep it for myself instead. I've had a lot of practice being fine when I'm not. You haven't." His thumb brushes once, slow, along your cheekbone. "So let me do the worrying part. It's the only part of this I'm actually good at."
Your chest goes tight, and it has nothing to do with the cold. “You’re good at way more than just that.”
"Don't," he says, but gently, "I know— I’m awesome— but don't get soft on me now, I'm trying to have a moment."
You laugh again despite yourself, and he watches you do it like it's the best thing he's seen all day, that quiet fondness still sitting there under the teasing.
"Also, for the record," he adds, tipping his head, that lazy, heavy-lidded look creeping back in, the one that has nothing to do with fevers, "you're unfairly cute when you're sick. Very inconvenient. I keep wanting to kiss you.”
"You know you shouldn't."
”Are you depriving your husband of his birthright?” He lets out a mock-gasp.
“I’m depriving my husband of getting my icky germs on him.”
He places the back of his hand against his chest like you’ve delivered a mortal wound.
“How dare you. Lemurians are resistant to your human diseases, you know.”
You roll your eyes, “Okay— but it’s the principle! It’s still icky.”
“Why’s it always about logic with you?” He groans, letting out the most theatrical sigh you’ve heard. “The principle,” he repeats mournfully, like he’s reciting the title of a tragic play. “Do you hear this? My own wife is invoking principles against me.”
“There are no witnesses.”
“The sea is its own witness.”
“You’re breaking my heart.” He gasps, clutching the said heart.
“Fine. The sea loves you and cares so much about whether or not you get a kiss from your sick, sneezing, bacteria-having, snotty wife.“ you cough.
“My cute sick, sneezing, bacteria-having, snotty wife.” He corrects.
“You’re going to kiss me.”
You glare at him through the lingering haze of fever, which unfortunately makes you look more exhausted than threatening. It’s not like you didn’t want to. You didn’t want him feeling disgusted by your current state after the kiss.
“I’m not. You’ll be grossed out.”
“I’d never be grossed out by you, cutie.”
“Stop with the lines. I’m not kissing you for saying sweet things. This is for your own good.”
“Well, boo-hoo. If you won’t, I will.”
That’s when he moves. Slow and certain. Like he’s decided something and the world simply has to adjust.
Someone turn this ego’s man down a notch, you must’ve fed it too much.
“Rafayel—” you start, but it’s already too late.
One hand braces gently at your waist, steadying you against the pillows before you can shift away. The other slides up— warm fingers curling lightly under your jaw, not forcing, just holding, anchoring you in place like you’re something he’s been careful with all morning and still hasn’t decided to stop being careful about.
“I won’t make you do it. But I never said I’d behave.” His voice has dropped—less teasing now, softer in a way that makes your chest tighten more than the fever ever could.
You narrow your eyes. “That is the same thing.”
“It is literally the same—”
Just enough that your argument breaks in your throat before it finishes forming. His forehead nearly touches yours. His breath is warm. Familiar ocean breeze, paint, and something distinctly him.
“…Still think I’ll be grossed out?” he asks quietly.
You hesitate. Because up close like this, he doesn’t look amused anymore.
“I think you should be,” you mutter, weaker now.
He leans in closer— just enough for you to pull away if you really didn’t want this. You know you should. You’re literally sick right now. What if you cough into the kiss? What if you get all snotty and unsanitary?
You should push him back. Every ounce of logic in your body tells you to push him back.
But you pull him down closer anyway.
Rafayel lets out a smirk, “There’s my beautiful bride…”
Then he closes the distance.
The kiss is soft at first— careful, like he's still giving you room to change your mind— but the second your fingers curl into his shirt, that carefulness slips a little, and there's nothing hesitant about it anymore.
It doesn't last long. It's not supposed to. But it lingers just enough that when he finally pulls back, you're both a little breathless for reasons that have nothing to do with your congested lungs.
When you reluctantly pull away, forehead against his, he looks at you. He looks at you like you’re a full-blown masterpiece and not a germ-ridden mess.
Like the idea of distance from you is the part that doesn’t compute.
Like that idea has never made sense. No matter how far you were from him or where you went.
No matter if you just went on a mission or were another lifetime away.
He always wanted you with him.
No matter if you’ve forgotten.
He flicks your forehead, “What are you thinking about?”
You find the energy tickle him a bit for that, and he yelps.
Rafayel chuckles, “You would’ve noticed it if you weren’t so deep in thought staring into the abyss.”
You roll your eyes, “I was just thinking that you’re always with me.”
“As any devoted, loving man should be.” He responds.
That makes you smile, “Yeah— but… you’ve always been with me.”
“Is the sickness making you sentimental?”
“Sorry, cutie… It’s just— are you just now noticing that? After our marriage?”
You sigh, “I meant through everything. It’s been you. Even when I didn’t know it. Even when I go somewhere, I know you’re with me. I find that I don’t want to go anywhere where you’re not.”
His eyes soften more— if that’s even possible— and for a moment, he just looks at you like he’s trying to make sure he heard you correctly.
His fingers find yours again—this time slower, firmer, like he’s anchoring himself there as much as you. You’ve always been his anchor, right?
Then he smiles— and it’s warm and emotional and nothing like his smirk.
“Good. I’ll always find you. I have a record of it.”
“So don’t talk like you’re going anywhere,” he adds, lighter again—almost teasing, but not quite enough to hide the edge underneath. “It’s inconvenient. I have a schedule that involves you in it.”
Then he shifts closer, elbow resting beside you on the bed, like he’s settling into something familiar.
“Thank you, Rafayel.” You finally say, the sickness making you a little drowsy— and you’re not sure what you’re thanking him for. For taking care of you, for enduring it all, or for never giving up.
He softly sighs, kissing your knuckles.
”Anything for my beloved bride.”
