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hi here's a quite fluffy little sickfic with my boys! hope you like :))
It doesn’t hit Rash immediately, that something’s wrong.
He walks into the kitchen a bit after six in the morning, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Stef is already there, sitting at the table, a plate of toast and a mug of tea in front of him. He looks at Rash, rumpled as ever in the early morning light, and waves.
Rash waves back, then sets to making his own breakfast. Porridge, some strawberries, a boiled egg, tea from the still-warm kettle.
He’s just pouring the water for his tea when he feels the sensation creep over him.
Something’s up.
It takes him a moment to work it out, such that the water overflows in his mug. He wipes it up hastily with a muttered, “shit,” and just like that, the pieces fall into place.
Stef has been utterly silent this entire time.
He’s never known Stef to be silent for more than, say, twenty seconds. He doesn’t think he’s capable of it.
Except Stef’s been sitting here for at least four minutes, and he hasn’t said a word. Now, Rash hasn’t spoken either, but that’s not unexpected. Stef knows Rash isn’t the chattiest in the mornings. Not that it stops him from trying to engage his beleaguered flatmate in all sorts of inane conversations when the sun’s barely risen.
So his silence is, to put it mildly, strange.
Rash brings his breakfast to the table and sits down opposite Stef, who has yet to touch his toast. The tea, at least, is half-drunk, although it hardly counts as breakfast.
“Morning,” Rash mumbles around a mouthful of slightly too hot porridge.
Stef nods.
Rash furrows his brow.
“Sleep well?”
Another nod.
“Anything on at work today?”
Another nod.
“And? Wanna tell me about it?”
A shake of the head.
“I was thinking of dyeing my hair green. What do you think?”
A shrug.
“Stef.”
They lock eyes across the table, or rather, that’s what Rash intends. But Stef’s breaking the eye contact almost immediately, and Rash wills himself not to freak out, except that now something is clearly wrong and he doesn’t know what.
“Talk to me, mate. What’s up?”
Stef looks up again, a bit sheepish, cheeks flushed pink. “Bit of a sore throat,” he manages, at last.
Ah. Well, that much is clear from his voice alone. Stef sounds awful. Like he’s spent the night gargling glass shards, or screaming at the top of his lungs.
“That sounds terrible,” Rash says, belatedly tacking on a, “sorry.”
Stef shrugs. “S’fine.”
“Okay,” Rash says, doubtfully. It doesn’t sound fine, but he won’t push. He returns his attention to his breakfast, finishing it all before Stef so much as touches his toast.
“You gonna eat that? Or anything?”
Stef shakes his head. His eyes are sort of glassy, now that Rash looks.
“Are you ill?” He reaches out his hand, but Stef smacks it away. Smacks is a generous word for the act, really, but it gets the job done all the same.
“No.”
“Okay…” Rash replies, not believing Stef but also not wanting to argue. Not this early in the morning. “Well, I’m off, then. You coming?”
They usually leave together, splitting off about halfway to the SFO office. Some days it’s a race, and some days it’s a leisurely ride.
Today it’s a solo trip, apparently.
“Goin’ later.”
“Right.”
Rash does not dwell on this. Definitely not. He does not spend the entire ride into work wondering if Stef is ill, wondering if he, Rash, is going to end up ill thanks to him. He does not.
It’s not until Sands knocks into his desk for the third time that day that Rash is forced to reconcile himself to the idea that, yes, he has been wondering about Stef this whole time.
It’s just that, usually, Stef texts him throughout the day. Stupid things, usually. Ideas for weekend plans that rarely materialise. Questions about police work that Rash probably shouldn’t answer (he usually answers them anyway).
But today, it’s radio silence. Rash’s own messages go unanswered.
He might just be busy, Rash tells himself.
As though either of them is ever really too busy for the other.
And that’s the thing, really. He’s missing Stef. That’s what’s happening. He’s missing Stef, even though they last saw each other not five hours ago.
Rash forces his eyes away from his empty lockscreen and onto the form he’s been filling out for the past half-hour. It’s about a parking ticket. It should’ve taken perhaps five minutes, but he’s been on Box 3, Badge Number, for double that time at least.
By three o’clock, he can’t take it anymore. Stef still hasn’t answered his texts (he’s only sent two or five, he’s not crazy, really) and he’s finally finished that form but there’s depressingly little else to do besides organise files and he does not want to organise files.
He does not want to do anything else besides…besides just checking to make sure that Stef hasn’t managed to get himself killed on one of his asinine undercover SFO ops, or something.
He manages to convince Sands to let him go early, with the promise of overtime later in the week, and cycles to the SFO office.
Stef’s bike isn’t there. He knows exactly where Stef likes to keep it, just to the left of a sign that proclaims No Cycle Parking, and it isn’t here.
Rash’s heart beats faster than it should. Maybe Stef just decided to stay home today. It’s not like he would’ve been able to speak up much in the office, anyway.
But it’s Stef. He hates missing out on work.
Rash heads into the lobby, but is stopped immediately at the security desk. He hasn’t got a badge and hasn’t got any real justification for entering Stef’s workplace.
He turns to leave when a voice calls out to him.
“Arrash? Arrash Sayyad?”
He turns around and is met by the vaguely familiar face of Stef’s boss. Marcus. They’ve met once or twice, briefly. Rash likes him. Hopes the sentiment is returned.
“Have you seen Stefan today? You do live together, right?”
“Yes and yes,” Rash answers. His heart beats a little faster still.
“And? Is there a reason he hasn’t come in today?” Marcus’ tone is somewhere between worried and annoyed, a combination of emotions Rash is unfortunately well familiar with as regards his housemate.
“He’s ill,” Rash says. Possibly, he adds mentally.
“He’d usually call out. It’s that bad?”
“Um.” No, it isn’t. Or at least, it hadn’t been when he’d left. He’s not even sure that Stef is ill at all, except what other explanation can there possibly be?
He misses whatever Marcus says in return, suddenly thinking about those other explanations, which range from Stef randomly decided to move out to Stef was kidnapped to there was a burglary during which he’d gotten himself killed.
Totally normal lines of thinking.
Rash makes a noise that he hopes functions as a response, pulling out his phone as he does so. Gotta run, is the intended effect.
“Tell him to get well soon!” Marcus calls after him.
He tries calling Stef before he gets on his bike, and then again when he’s stopped at a red light. Nothing.
His heart is really pounding now, and it has nothing to do with the physical exertion.
Stef doesn’t do this. He just doesn’t.
When he gets home, Rash is half tempted to just run up the stairs. The lift is far quicker, as he well knows (he and Stef had raced, once. Okay, twice). But he can hardly stand the waiting, not even for the few seconds it takes the lift to arrive.
His hands are shaking when he turns the key in the lock, and he’s met with–
Stef, sprawled across the sofa, half-dressed in his work clothes, hair a mess, cheeks ruddy, mouth slightly open, snoring.
He’s asleep.
He’s asleep, and alive, and Rash had been freaked the hell out for no reason, except why hadn’t he at least fired off a message to his boss before deciding to skive off? It’s irresponsible and he’d been worried and it’s just not cool, okay?
Rash removes his shoes, drops his bag, and not-quite-stomps over to the sofa.
He’s intending on jostling Stef and then interrogating him, but his hand touches Stef’s shoulder and then just stops.
Stef’s burning up. Really burning up.
Rash’s anger evaporates, leaving him with only the all-too-familiar worry.
“Hey,” he says softly, crouching beside Stef and giving him a much gentler shove than he’d originally planned on.
Stef makes a soft, confused noise that has no business being as cute as it is. He blinks his eyes open, squints, then makes eye contact with Rash and scrambles upright.
“Sorry,” he grates out, then winces, bringing a hand to his throat. There are tears in his eyes.
Rash places a hand against Stef’s forehead. The heat there is even more intense. Stef leans into the contact, and Rash lets his hand linger for longer than strictly necessary.
“Why didn’t you say it was this bad?” Rash asks, locking away his more pointed questions about not speaking to his boss for later. “I could’ve helped, gone for medicine…”
Stef opens his mouth, then seemingly thinks the better of this idea and shrugs instead. He looks miserable. Absolutely miserable.
Rash kind of just wants to pull him into his arms and hold on for quite a long time.
Instead, though, he stands, slapping his palms against his thighs. “Right, well, I’ll go for medicine now. We hardly have anything here. D’you want anything specific? You can just text it to me so you don’t have to speak.”
Stef blinks slowly, then raises a weak hand in the direction of the kitchen. Rash follows it, and spots Stef’s phone sitting abandoned on the table.
Ah.
He assembles the pieces quickly. Pictures Stef getting up from the table, leaving behind his plate of uneaten toast and his phone. Heading to his bedroom, getting mostly dressed, coming out to the sofa to rest, perhaps, then getting too comfortable, too exhausted, too ill, and falling asleep, unable to hear his phone ringing from across the flat.
Rash squeezes Stef’s too-warm shoulder, then goes to fetch his phone. The lockscreen is covered with missed texts and calls, mostly from Rash and Marcus, as well as a couple coworkers. He clears them away–Stef can deal with all that later–then hands the phone over.
Stef squints at the screen, then types something. Rash feels his phone vibrate. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be back soon.”
There’s a chemist’s just three blocks away. Rash spends entirely too long poking around, looking for the best things, such that he almost forgets to check Stef’s message.
He wants honey, which they’ve already got, and a particular brand of Polish tea, raspberry flavoured, which they haven’t.
The chemist’s, obviously, hasn’t got that either, but there’s a Polish market a few blocks further along. Rash finds the tea, gets an extra box just in case, adds a chocolate bar as a little treat for himself, then manages to snag the bus on the way back.
When he returns, he thinks that Stef’s fallen asleep again, but as soon as he shuts the door behind him, Stef sits up, giving him a little half-wave.
Rash raises the bag in his hand in return, kicking off his trainers as he does so.
He stops off in the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil and depositing his chocolate on the counter. He steeps the tea for a little longer than required–it’s how Stef likes it–then brings the mug, the honey, and a spoon into the living room, along with the actual medicines.
Stef reaches for the tea immediately. The mug nearly slips out of his grasp, but he manages to save it, then draws his knees to his chest and balances it atop them, keeping it in place with one hand.
Rash passes over the honey and watches with a careful eye as Stef squeezes what seems like half the bottle into his tea. They trade, honey for spoon. Stef has to stir for quite a long while to dissolve all the honey.
And then he holds out the spoon, uses it to gesture to the honey, and Rash sort of just knows what’s being asked. He squeezes a fair bit of honey onto the spoon, wonders if the metal is still hot, and finds out that it is when Stef tentatively licks it, then flinches away.
Rash does not laugh. Not even a little bit. Stef looks at him, almost pouting, and Rash doesn’t know quite what possesses him to do it, but he finds himself leaning over a bit and blowing on the too-hot spoon.
“Alright now?” he asks, the words nearly sticking in his throat. Stef very hesitantly tries it again and gives him a thumbs-up, wincing as he swallows.
“Okay, then,” Rash says, as Stef sips carefully at his tea. “I’ve brought paracetamol, cough drops, cough syrup, some sort of medicated spray, and a thermometer.” He’d meant to buy the majority of these things ages ago, when they’d first moved in, but then they’d gotten busy, and he’d forgotten. Just so long as Leila doesn’t find out it’s taken him this long to acquire basic at-home medical supplies.
Stef puts up with Rash sticking the thermometer under his tongue and looks vaguely ashamed of himself when Rash reads out the display.
“38.4.”
He accepts the paracetamol without complaint–Rash is glad he’d managed to find a liquid version–but seems content to stick with his honey-and-tea rather than any of the other medications.
Fair enough.
Rash sits beside him as he drinks, and eventually has to grab the mug from his hands when he begins to fall asleep.
Stef looks up, momentarily startled, and there’s that damn desire again, to touch him, hold him, and Rash sets the mug aside and allows himself to give in.
“Hey, c’mere.”
Stef scrunches up his face in that way he sometimes does when he’s confused, then smiles, a little loopy but so genuine. He shifts, then leans heavily onto Rash’s shoulder, wrapping a clumsy arm around him.
He’s boiling hot, and Rash starts sweating immediately, starts thinking about the likelihood of his getting sick from this, and then Stef shifts a little, his head coming to rest in the crook of Rash’s neck like this is exactly where he’s meant to be, and suddenly all Rash can think is that this is somehow perfect.
He wakes up two days later, Stef’s body curled around his, with a tickle in his throat and a heaviness behind his eyes.
It’s worth it, completely.
thanks so much for reading! i had such a fun time with this one, hope you liked it <333
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
As I said last night, God, thank you for leading me. Thank you for drawing me into the scriptures and for drawing out of me today’s sermon. I like where I landed and it clearly resonated with people at church.
Thank you, too, for caring people. Sometimes I’m the recipient of that compassion, which buoys me. Sometimes I get to be a co-conspirator in working for your justice, which makes me feel purposeful. I got to do both today.
