★ Tea Time ⨟ H. Christensen
﹙characters﹚︰ Hayden Christensen
﹙pairing﹚︰ SICK!HUSBAND!Hayden x WIFE!reader
﹙request﹚︰ "Are you okay? You don’t look too well." — Hayden doesn't feel too good, so you make him some tea.
﹙notes﹚︰ Thank you so much for the commission @pmak2002 ♡ commissions info.
Rain droplets patter against the large living room window, the sound fading into the background along with whatever game show on TV nobody was bothered to turn from. Hayden is sitting on the couch, the flush of a fever painting his cheeks a splotchy red, a stark contrast to the pallor of the rest of his body. He's desperately trying, and failing, to focus on the script pages on his lap, but the words all seem smushed together, his eyes dim and tired. He looks up at the TV and immediately looks away, the light making his blooming headache worse.
Then, you walk into the room, a basket of laundry in your hands. Upon seeing your husband, you pause, setting the basket down on the floor in the hallway. "Haydie," you call softly, making him look up at you, his eyes narrowed. "Are you okay? You don't look too good." You walk over, take a seat on the couch and reach up, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead.
"I think I'm coming down with something," he mutters, leaning into your touch. "Oh, poor baby . . . you probably feel horrible. Let me go make you something." "No," he groans, shaking his head. You pause, a pout on your lips. "Hay, you have to drink something. You know, fluids! Hydration!" Hayden sighs, trying not to let his misery rub off on you. "Fluids. Hydration." He echoes. "I'll be right back." You get up, going to the kitchen.
He hears movement, and clattering, the boil of water, and a few minutes later, here you come. In your hands is a wooden tray — one you had insisted on buying forever ago that he was against, arguing it would be of no use. Well, he was obviously proven wrong today. On its surface is the electric kettle, neatly arranged matching mugs with faded holiday slogans, one of them chipped, a bottle of honey, some lemon slices, and some teabags. A half-empty sleeve of saltines sits off to the side, nearly falling off. You set the tray down onto the coffee table with a soft thump, the sound of wood on wood satisfying.
"Alright, we've got options." You declare, plopping down on the couch beside him. "Vanilla tea, ginger tea, peppermint tea, chamomile tea, rasp—" "Chamomile is fine. Hopefully it'll put me to sleep, and a nap sounds great right now." He cuts off your enthusiastic listing.
You nod, grabbing the chamomile teabag and depositing it into his mug, pouring some hot water onto it, letting it steep, and doing the same thing with your own mug. You make it just how he likes when he's sick: lots of lemon and a heap of honey, stirring it in until it dissolves completely. "Alright, here you go. Careful, it's hot."
"Thank you lovie," he murmurs quietly, taking the mug as you hand it over to him, the warmth seeping into his palms. "I'd kiss you, if I wasn't sick. Just a smooch. Right there, on the forehead." You turn to face him fully, smiling. "Just one." He leans down and presses a soft, stuffy kiss to your forehead. "Maybe two," he bargains, his breath warm against your skin, making you pull away with a giggle. "Uh, no! I'm not trying to catch whatever you have. One of us has to be well, and right now, it obviously isn't you."
He lets out a short, sharp laugh, then immediately regrets it, clutching his chest with his free hand. "Gosh, please, don't make me laugh. I don't think I can take it right now. I'm out of commission." He groans. You nod. "Alright. Noted. No more laughs."
The two of you sit in silence for a moment, then you reach up, brushing his curls out of his face. "Maybe you should take something before you go to sleep. We have some medicine. The one that tastes like cherries." You offer, making him frown. "The nasty, artificial cherry one? Isn't the tea enough?" He asks. You shake your head. "No you need something in your stomach, too. Like crackers! Here." You open up the sleeve, the plastic crinkling. You hold a saltine up to him. "Huh,"
With a soft noise of discomfort, his muscles aching, Hayden leans forward, taking the cracker in his mouth. It's bland and dry, but he nibbles obediently. He chews and swallows it down, then offers a small, grateful smile. "Thank you." You look at him curiously, adding some more honey to your tea. "For what? Crackers and tea? You don't have to thank me, Haydie. It's my job to take care of you when you're not feeling good."
“Tell me something,” he rasps, not wanting the quiet just yet. “Anything. Something from your day.”
"Hm, well, I had a very exciting day of doing the dishes and laundry. The last load is drying right now. I thought about going out and getting some flowers for the vase in the kitchen, because it's just sitting there empty and I'm sick of looking at it, but then I saw you looking all gross on the couch and came over to see what was wrong. Now I'm here." You recall. So, we have clean dishes, fresh laundry, but no flowers. Almost covered on all fronts."
You take his mug from him, setting it down on the table beside the tray. "You aren't gonna finish this," you murmur, pushing the mugs and crackers toward the middle of the table so they aren't accidentally knocked over. "We should go lay down. C'mon." You get up, taking his hands and pulling him up.
You both go into the bedroom, climbing into bed. You carefully maneuver yourself so you're propped up against the pillows beside him, your shoulders touching. You lace your fingers with his, putting his hand on your thigh, holding it there, your thumb tracing slow, absent circles over his knuckles. The rain has let up, but the afternoon is still grey and gradually darkening. Hayden can feel himself falling asleep, but he tries to fight it, focusing on the feeling of you beside him — your warmth, the rhythm of your breathing, the gentle pressure of your hand in his.
When you move, getting out of bed, he makes a soft sound of protest, a wordless plea in the back of his throat. "Shhh," you shush him softly, "I'm just gonna go clean up. I'll be right back." He hears the clink of ceramic, the electric kettle being set on its base, the microwave opening and closing, then you're coming back, climbing back into bed. You pull the covers down off him, keeping them at his hips. "Gotta keep these off you. You're already warm. Go to sleep, Hay. I'll be here when you wake up."
