#rc 1138

Now he's complaining.

Put that aside. Boss is lucky to have you. He's lucky that he'd won you over all those months ago even though the first date was far from perfect, but you were so willing to accept what he lacks and believe in what he's capable of and in his aspirations, and still are. You are perfect.

When he's planetside, he excuses himself from the barracks and stays over at your house. Often comes unannounced to surprise you, and it works every time. Your joyous smiles and your tight hugs are such treasures—he would literally shoot someone to see them again. And anyway, that's what his mission, his duties, are for. Coming home to you and enjoying everything you both have to share, the domestic bits and pieces of it, after every of those mandatory debriefs, on-call duties.

In the kitchen, Boss stirs your herbal tea, the spoon clinking against the porcelain mug as he's incorporated a tiny bit of sugar in there. His caf's brewing. The packet herby nuna cream soup he's discovered in the pantry is simmering in a pot behind him, while the toaster next to it automatically turns off as the bread slices pop up loudly.

Apparently and eventually the noise in the kitchen wakes you up, not long after your boyfriend. Still in your sock-clad feet and Boss’ worn bodysuit top, you're rubbing your eyes as you pad into the kitchen. Boss smiles at the sight of you.

“Hey.” Chuckling, the commando wraps his bare, strong arms around you as you crash into his chest. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” you mumble airily, but you sound very much awake. You peel yourself off of him, peering into the simmering pot and smiling at the sight of toast. “A really nice view to wake up to.”

Standing bare chested with only just black sweatpants in the middle of your kitchen, Boss looks at you teasingly.

“Dork,” you rasp, trying to laugh but your sore, painful throat prevents you to. “I'm talking about the food.”

“Trust me, I know,” Boss says, nodding to himself in confirmation. He then quickly rinses the teaspoon he used to stir the tea. “Am I not food?”

“Sometimes,” you answer, distracted by stirring the pot with the ladle.

Boss glances down as he leans back against the counter. He watches you for a moment. You usually hum. This morning you don’t, and he knows why. Last night you complained about the dinner you had with your friends that you might or might have not overconsumed the food your friends warned you about. His last night's concern skyrockets this morning. “Cyar'ika,” he begins carefully, “If I ask you not to talk too much, will you listen?”

You turn the stove off. “Hm?”

“Your throat's hurting.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, not even bothering to hide your wheeze.

“Okay, stop talking.” Your boyfriend holds a hand up almost sternly. “That's an order, cyar'ika.”

“But how am I supposed to wor—” you're cut off in surprise when Boss pushes the mug of tea he's been stirring for five minutes to make sure the small amount of sugar dissolves into your hands. You melt at the warmth in your palm, but you complain just as fast. “Um. Why is this tea?”

Boss shrugs. “It's for you.”

“I want caf. Where's my caf? I need one.”

He sighs. “You don't need it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You complained about your throat last night. And you were shivering. I lowered the temp in the bedroom and I consulted. This morning you must be feeling terrible, worse than last night.”

Every bit of his words ring true. You look at him suspiciously, but you lift the mug to your lips anyway. “Who are you consulting with?”

“A trained medic,” Boss says as you sip on your tea, “He dropped some of our top-shelf med supply this morning. That tea is one of them, to soothe your throat first thing. And this.” He shows you a tube of tablets that he draws out of nowhere—you’re feeling it's getting difficult to keep up, it's not good. “For your flu symptoms.”

Relief washes over you. Boss has always been very kind, and he loves taking care of you. And your house. And your needs. Basically he cares about everything about you.

“Okay,” you smile gratefully, gulping the last of your tea. “Um, tell my thanks to your medic. And thank you.” You hug and kiss his cheek before turning around for the stairs. “I'll go shower and head out.”

Boss sighs. It's one of those sighs that goes out of him when Fixer breaks into another argument with either Sev or Scorch. "Cyar'ika, you can be very adorable sometimes."

You grin widely as your cheeks flush in his praise. You turn slightly to glance over your shoulder. "Sometimes?"

"You're not feeling well," he says, ignoring your teasing. "You're staying home."

"What?! No—aherm.” You wheeze again, your voice now barely coming out. “Oh bugger…”

He raises an eyebrow challengingly. "No?"

You roll your eyes, switching to whispering. "Boss, honey, I've got deadlines and I have to be in office."

"No, I've checked your work progress and everything can be done remotely from home.” He approaches you, swiftly crowding you with his ridiculously built, strong body and his equally strong arms. Despite your protests, you can't help but melt as he cages you in them again, wrapped around your waist very snugly. "You're going to have breakfast, take your meds, wrap yourself in blanket, and sleep in.”

You look horrified. "Sleep in?"

"Sleep in," Boss nods, undeterred. "Or I'll take you upstairs myself and make a ronto roll out of you, sweetheart. Your choice."

You shuffle your feet in hesitance. It does sound tempting, and Boss knows your resolve is falling apart.

In the end, he ends up smiling so smugly. You don't say it, but he knows what you're thinking—you’re persuaded; you can't resist his charms and his unshakable duty to take care of you. Especially his charms. You know Boss as a soft-spoken person but also in a way stern about duty and orders. Plus, his thick unique accent is your sole weakness.

And then you're truly persuaded to eat the hot packet soup that you can't taste at all, with the dry toast—no butter in order not to make your strep throat worse. Boss pointedly sips on his fresh caf in front of you while having the same meal as you, yet innocently evading your ‘envious verbal attacks’ by saying that he has to be on-call at 1500, so he's got to be at HQ before that time.

And then to email your team leader and human resources to tell them you're really, really sick with the official doctor's orders in writing coming in hot soon on another email.

Boss literally nags at you when you even try to load the dishes into the washer, says he'll do it later after you're asleep—he’ll take care of the house and make sure to have lunch ready for you before he departs.

Now you're sitting with a glass of water and the tablets on the table, Boss snapping the tube close as he half-sits on the table. He looks at you, zoning out, and drags you back in by loosely brushing your hair with his fingers and pushing them away from your face so you don't look really terrible.

Grateful for everything he's done, you look up to meet his gaze. “I love you, you know that?” 

Boss smiles, his dimples showing and making the hummingbirds in your stomach flutter. “Love you too.” He leans in and kisses your head. “You'll always have me,” he mumbles to your hair, rubbing your arm. “Whatever you need. I'll do it for you.”

You grab his hand and squeeze, wishing you could kiss it but you don't want to risk infection—it’s the last thing he needs. Him being close is hazardous enough for him, but he insists on clone metabolism and stuff. So you just squish your cheek into his palm, your eyelashes flutter against his skin and make his chest flooded with warmth.

“Come on,” Boss urges you again, right after you take your meds. “Let's get you to bed.”

You squeal and giggle hoarsely as he hoists you up by the back of your knees, your chest meeting his while having your arms wrapped around his neck, and shuffle upstairs to your shared bedroom. A commando like him is strong, no doubt—admiring his strength, you always love it when he carries you. 

Boss gently drops you on your side of the bed with a slight groan. He smiles at you, brushing your hair away from your face once again before tucking you in and slipping behind you above the covers.

“Best day ever,” you mumble into your pillow.

“Don't say that. You're ill,” Boss playfully chides, pulling you close to his chest and throwing his leg over yours. “Best day would be to see you up and about again. Tirelessly chirping. Active, adorable. Like a little porg.”

You coo, not knowing what to say. “Thank you.”

Boss hums, gently rubbing your arms above the covers.

It's the comfortable silence and lazy atmosphere that make this almost like a Benduday morning. Soon enough, not within five minutes or so you think, your eyes droop heavily.

"Oh, you drugged that tea, didn't you."

Boss bites down on his lip to resist his amused smile at your tone. "You'll be fine. Just sleepy. Fi prescribed it for you."

You hum in question. "Fixer?"

"Fi," Boss insists, "From Omega. He's the squad medic. I consulted him."

"Oh." You have no idea who that is. "Prescribed? For all I know you dumped the whole bottle in there."

"Now why would I do that?"

"Because you don't want me to work.”

“No,” Boss corrects you, "Because I know you are so exhausted that your immune system drops, so I want you to catch a lot of rest.”

You yawn, turning around, and curl your body above his chest. Boss releases a deep sigh as he feels your feverish body, and tugs you closer. His warm body makes you purr beneath the covers, wishing that it could swallow you alive. "Well, it's working,” you murmur, your consciousness slipping out of you and for once it feels blissful.

"Good," Boss smiles into your hair, his arms snug around your cocooned body. "I'll stay, cyar'ika. Get some rest.”

divider by me!

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