pairing : gregory house x fem! rheumatologist!reader
w/c : 2,3k
warnings : established relationship, mild illness (nothing graphic), implied age gap, mutual pining, soft confessions, emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort
summary : greg canât tell reader he loves her, because saying it out loud is hard. so he wonât say it at all. but he will show it to her.
a/n : based on this request!
It was a truth universally acknowledged that no woman could ever make Gregory House soften. Especially after Stacy. Or even more specifically, after his leg injury.
Or so everyone thought.
A few months after House had managed to gather up a team in order to run his department - a diagnostician, theyâd said when you came in,
Cuddy hired you. Young, and full of new ideas in your field, Lisa didnât hesitate to make you head of the rheumatology department.
You heard about the infamous Gregory House since the minute you stepped foot inside the hospital.
Learned more about him when you accidentally spilled hot coffee all over him.
He was supposed to be mad, wasn't he? He shouldâve yelled, maybe said the most lewd comment known to mankind.
But instead of a cutting remark, heâd blinked. Blinked and let out the smallest and most dangerous smirk youâd ever seen.
âGuess youâre not a morning person either?â Heâd said.
You blinked, halfway expecting to be eaten alive. âYeah, well. Your fault anywayâ you had teased, trying to stifle down a giggle.
âOh great, youâre delusional. Youâll fit right inâ he teased, but he also had a soft little on his face - almost genuine. It made your heart swell.
And that was just the beginning.
The next day, you bought him lunch to apologise for the ruined shirt, and letâs be honest. Who was Gregory House to deny free lunch? Even Wilson didnât treat him with such joy.
âOh, I bet you find me irresistible,â He said with a smug little expression, before devouring like he hadnât eaten anything for days.
You figured that was it. A weird - one-off moment. But it wasnât.
He kept showing up. In the hallway, in your office. In that space just below the stairs, you liked to hide when things got too loud, too clinical.
At first, he acted like it was a coincidence. Like he just happened to need to pass through wherever you were. But House was many things, and subtle was never one of them.
âIâm beginning to think youâre stalking me,â you teased once, catching him for the third time that week loitering outside your office door.
âOh please. If I were stalking you, youâd know it pretty faceâ he shot back, but his eyes lingered longer than they shouldâve before he limped off.
Your playful and witty banter only carried on for so long before the tension between you shifted. One day, somewhere along the stolen lunches sarcastic quips over patient charts, House asked you out. Not anything fancy, emotional - just him, looking at you and asking you as casually as if he were ordering takeout.
âDinner?â No punchline followed. Just that.
You were stupid not to agree. Dinner turned into breakfast, turned into weekends, which turned into toothbrushes left behind and arguments over who stole whose sweatshirt. (you obviously? you loved his clothes)
Now itâs just you, and him. No announcements no big labels, just the strange unspoken understanding of you being his person. Somehow, heâs yours too.
Which is why today, when you show up at work sniffling and obviously running on less than four hours of sleep, House doesnât let it slide.
âYou look like death,â he said in a chirpy voice, hoping to get a small reaction from you. âStole Wilsonâs lunch. Hereâ He continued, dropping a small lunch box and an orange juice in front of you.
You barely glanced at him. âCanât. I have clinic duty, consults, and a paper that should be turned in by Fridayâ
He frowns and then moves quickly. He shuts your laptop down, earning a small âHey!â from you. âWhyâd you do that?!â
âCause I canât have you passing out during rounds and embarrassing meâ
âOh, baby. Youâre such a romanticâ You fret, rolling your eyes - Or attempting to do so. Your head pounded so much even that was difficult for you.
âAnd youâreââ He paused, bringing his hand to your forehead to check your temperature. âYou have a fever, sweetheart. Take the compliment and lie down before I carry youâ
Trying to protest was useless. Heâd always get what he wanted.
âYou know Iâll make it weird, come on. Up you goâ
You muttered something about abuse of power when he helped you to your feet, but the truth was that the room was already spinning, and you were grateful he held you.
âWhere are we going?â you asked, leaning into him slightly as he looped an arm around your waist.
âMy office. Big chair. Nap. Youâre banned from thinking for the next few hours.â he said, leading you down the hall like it was routine.
âNo - Not your office. Smells like sarcasm and regretâ you mumbled.
âExactly. Suits youâ
When he settled you on the worn-out leather chair, he didnât tease you about the way you curled up immediately, or how fast your eyes fluttered shut. Instead, he pulled his coat from the rack and draped it over your body.
He doesnât follow after the team immediately. He sits back at his desk, grumbling as he twiddles with his cane.
âUnbelievable. I get you lunch, save your life and the thanks I get is⌠Are you sleeping? Tsk tsk, sweetheartâ He grumbled, but his words held no anger.
From the couch, he heard your muffled, drowsy voice.
âLove you tooâ
He didnât answer. He didnât have to. The small, rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips said it all.
After a few minutes, he walked over to youâ placing a chaste kiss on your forehead. You were still warm.
âGoddamn hopeless romanticâ
He stood there for a moment, just watching you. Your features werenât totally relaxedâ the crease between your eyebrows was still there. The sight made something in his chest tighten, some old reflex he tried not to name.
With a sigh, he turned back to his desk, settling into his chair and spinning lazily in it once before grabbing a pen. Diagnostics could wait a little longer. He pulled your laptop toward him, flicking it open despite your earlier protests.
âClinic duty, consults, paper due to Fridayâ he muttered to himself, scrolling through your emails and files. âI donât remember agreeing to date an overachieverâ
Then, he started canceling. One email, then another - until your inbox and calendar were empty. But halfway through the process, Wilson walked in, probably ready to ask something - until his gaze landed on your sleeping form, curled up on Houseâs chair with his coat.
âReally?â He asked, eyebrows raised.
House didnât look up from your laptop. âSheâs sickâ
âAnd youâre⌠playing secretary?â
He vaguely gestured with his pen, as if saying Go away. âSheâs annoying when sheâs dying. This is self-preservationâ
Wilson chuckled, muttering a small âWhatever you sayâ before turning to leave.
âOh and tell Cuddy if she needs rheumatology, sheâll have to drag her away herselfâ
âFine, just donât fall in love with herâ
House didnât answer. He just kept typing. Because if he had answered, he wouldâve said something like, âToo lateâ
By the time youâd woken up, the sun had set and soft lamps were flickering in the office. You were groggy and unaware of how long youâd been sleeping, making House turn his attention to you the minute you shifted a little.
âSleeping beauty is finally awake, hm?â He said softly, coming to sit near your feet.
âYeah. How long was I out for?â
âLong enough for me to hack into your email accountâ He smirked, noticing how your expression went from sleepy to mortified.
âYou did what?!â you croaked, sitting up straighter despite his coat being wrapped around you.
âOh relax, you didnât have any dirty secrets. Just a lot of boring consults and an unholy amount of calendar reminders. Honestly, it was more disappointing than I expectedâ
âYou canceled my day, didnât you?â
âMhmm,â he popped a pill bottle open, handing it to you. âYouâre still feverish,â he said softly, concern etched on his features.
You took the pills reluctantly, eyeing the water bottle he passed next like it had personally wronged you. âYou know, youâre supposed to be the worldâs biggest jerk. This is very off-brand for youâ
âOh, donât worry,â he said, resting his chin on his cane while watching you sip the water. âIâll go back to bullying residents and making interns cry the second you stop looking like a Victorian ghost.â
You sighed, melting back into the chair. âI was fineâ
âNo you werenât, sweetheartâ
You blinked at the endearment - voice sounding much more softer than usual. It always came up low and tired, like he couldnât help himself. Like it slipped out from somewhere unguarded.
âIâm not fragile you knowâ You murmured, averting your gaze from him, focusing on his cane.
He gave you a look, deadpanned but affectionate. âYou fell asleep on my chair, wrapped up in my coat like a burrito. Forgive me for assuming youâre not at full strengthâ
âSuch a sap, Gregâ
âYeah, Iâm such a catchâ he drawled. âYouâre staying at my place tonightâ
âWhat? Why?â
âWhich part of âyou canât stand up straight without helpâ donât you understand? Iâm not leaving you alone. You might spiral into working againâ
âI have an apartment,â You said softly, even though deep down you wanted to be with him.
âSure. But I have better snacksâ
You tried to protestâreally, you did. But your head was still heavy, your limbs achy, and the thought of curling up in his too-big clothes, in his bed that smelled like him, was more comforting than youâd admit.
âOkay, doctors orders,â you said, giving in. âBut Iâm taking your Princeton sweaterâ
He stood up, putting his cane aside just to help you up and take your bag. âFine. But the movieâs on me. And if you fall asleep, I promise to take a picture and save it as my contact photoâ
You sighed, pressing your fingers on your temple to stop the throbbing in your temples. âYou wouldnât dareâ
âSweetheartâ He whispered when he saw your face contorting in pain. âI wouldâ
He opened the door for you, watching every single reaction you had. And despite the pounding in your head and the burn in your throat, you smiled. Because somehow, being lovingly bullied by Gregory House was the safest youâd felt all week.
By the time you reached his apartment, youâd been dozing on and off in his car, head lolling with every turn he took. He didnât comment on it. Just glanced every now and then, turning the music down.
Inside, the lights were low. His place smelled like burnt coffee and old books, and maybe⌠comfort. Tossing your bag on the couch, he headed to his room - emerging with a soft, worn-out t-shirt. No way heâd give you the Princeton hoodie. That would be saved for special occasions.
Without a word, House helped you sit on the edge of the couch - hands on your waist to steady you. âArms upâ he instructed.
He moved carefullyâfingers brushing lightly over your fever-warm skin, gaze never straying lower than your face. When he slipped the shirt over your head, he smoothed it down your arms like he was folding something delicate.
You didnât bother with pantsâhe wouldnât care, and you were already sinking into the couch as your bones had dissolved. He followed a second later, dropping beside you with a quiet grunt. His hand found your back automatically, warm and steady, tracing gentle circles like it was second nature.
âYou gonna pass out on me again?â he asked, voice quieter now.
âNo, unless you feed me anything. Maybe soup and oh - maybe grilled cheese?â
He snorted. âYouâre getting a cold sandwich and youâre gonna love itâ
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. âYouâre insufferableâ you spoke, breath fanning over his skin. It almost made him shiver.
âAnd yet,â he said, grabbing a blanket and draping it over your body. âYouâre here, on my couch, in my clothes⌠In my armsâ
ââŚand kind of in love with youâ
It wasnât meant to slip out. It just did. Fever loosened your tongue, and your heart as well.
His breath hitched - and the cogs in his brain started running. It was the medicine, wasnât it? It was making you bleary⌠and saying things you didnât mean.
But what if you did mean it?
He didnât say anything at first.
Just looked at you, really looked at you. Your lashes clumped from sleep, cheeks flushed and lips plump - all in your feverish state. You looked as if you hadnât realised what youâd just said. He found it adorable.
It would be easier to laugh it off. Deflect. Say something cruel and clever, to ruin the moment.
Instead, House reached up - carded his fingers through your hair, noticing how you let out a quiet, but content sigh.
âYouâre kind of high on ibuprofen,â he said finally, voice rough.
âMaybe. I meant it either wayâ you said, words muffled against the fabric of his shirt.
A beat passed.
Then another.
House didnât look at you when he answeredâjust let his hand trail down your arm before lacing his fingers with yours.
âIâm kind of in love with you too,â he muttered. âUnfortunately.â
You huffed sleepily, snuggling closer to him. âTragic. Canât have you become a softie nowâ
âOh, youâre an evil woman,â he said teasingly, squeezing your hand.
For a moment, you didnât move. His free hand continued its soothing motions on your back, making you feel safe, kept. Like even if he wasnât good with words, he was still choosing you, quietly, in all the ways that mattered.
Eventually, he shifted - manoeuvring you so you were lying on his chest with your legs entwined.
âSleep, sweetheart,â he said in a hushed tone, pressing a kiss to your warm forehead. âMaybe Iâll make you grilled cheese tomorrowâ
You smiled against his chest, the warmth of his body lulling you under again.
âYou betterâ you whispered.
And he didnât say anything elseânot out loud, at least. But the way he held you closer said everything.
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I saw your post about Clark taking care of his sick reader. I made the poor mistake of deciding to rearrange my living room/bedroom, exchanging furniture without opening the windows or taking allergy pills for the dust...and lost my voice the next day. I'm still getting it back. I sound sick/horrible but I'm fine. I can imagine Clark going ALL mother hen worried but theres nothing he can do but wait it out. Which is not the answer he wants đ¤Ł
-> CLARK KENT X GN!READER
-> You lose your voice.. Clark loses his mind
Clark is so worried about you no matter how serious the sickness is. It's not that he thinks you can't handle it yourself, it's just the way he was raised to always help people and to be kind, the kind look on his parents face and the warmth with which they help everyone around him ingrained in his DNA. He is so used to being able to help people with just about anything and everything due to his powers that he really does not know what to do with himself when you get sick. And then just top it off with the fact that he has never experienced what you are experiencing right now - he feels completely and utterly anxious.
So that's how you would probably end up on your couch, wrapped in a blanket, your favorite TV show or movie on as Clark - literally - flies through your apartment to do just about a million things he thinks might be helpful: Making you tea. Making you a hot water bottle. Making you something to eat. Do you want soup? His Ma said that was a good thing to cook for a sick person. Or do you need something with more substance like rice and vegetables? Or should he make you a comfort food like pancakes? How about he just cooks all three dishes? While he's got that going on he can just sweep through the apartment real quick to make sure you don't have to clean while you are sick (you literally told him you're fine) and also do you need anything from the grocery store because he can -
You have to force him to sit down and take a break or he would finish a to-do list longer than you could even keep track of. His eyes are still full of worry, no matter how many times you try to convince him that everything is okay. Every time you try to talk to him and your throat sounds scratchy or you have a coughing fit when trying to talk too much his hands fly up to your shoulders, gently holding you as if he needed to hold you together.
âDon't strain yourself, sweetheart,â he'd tell you every time, his heart aching. As much as you tell him that it will be okay in just a few days, he still tries to do things for you that will help you in any way.
He knows that there isn't much, if anything, that he can do to help you get your voice back but that does not stop him from trying so hard. Even if it just makes you feel a little more loved and appreciated, it will all be worth it to him.
Satoru was on his way to Kento's room, humming and holding a couple of travel mugs with coffee (black as sin for Kento, sugary and creamy for himself) when he decided to peek into the bond and see if Kento was already awake. He was, but something wasn't right.
Kento wasn't in bed and he heard some groaning coming from the bathroom, so he left the coffees on the desk and went that way. The door was ajar so he gently pushed it open all the way, and his heart sank. Kento was kneeling in front of the toilet, arms around the rim and his head resting against them. His breathing sounded labored, hair a mess and really dark circles under his eyes, made all the more noticeable by the stark pallor of his flushed skin.
"You're sick," was all Satoru could say at first.
Kento managed a small scoff and closed his eyes again, murmuring, "Glad to see the Six Eyes are working well, senpai."
Or: Small confessions take place while Nanami is riding out the effects of a new suppressant.
Synopsis: A sickfic oneshot where Chuuya is sick, and Dazai takes care of him (to the best of his abilities, anyway)
Rating: T
Additional tags: sickfic, fluff, (mild) hurt/comfort, canon-compliant, no established relationship
Word count: 5,167
Link to the work on AO3 (more tags & authors notes!)
Nakahara Chuuya was not weak. Not in any sense of the word. He was one of the youngest Port Mafia executives in the organizationâs decorated history, a skilled fighter, and possessed one of the most powerful abilities currently known. He was certainly not one to be messed with.
But of course, he was still human. Mostly, anyways.Â
Human. With all of the embarrassment, pitfalls, and messy vulnerabilities that come with the condition.
And thatâs how the all-powerful Nakahara Chuuya had found himself reminded of his humanity: pathetically bedridden by nothing more than the flu.Â
It had come on suddenly; the mildly annoying sore throat that creeped in during the evening had blossomed into a twisted amalgamation of the most irritating symptoms possible with only a nightâs worth of sleep. It was truly a bummer; Chuuya hadnât been able to sleep well before that at all for almost a week, and the one night he could only led to him waking up even worse in the morning.
Immediately upon waking up, he knew that something was wrong. His limbs felt heavy, and after lifting an arm that felt as though it was made of lead up to his forehead, Chuuya had found his skin feeling flushâfeverishly hot against his ice-cold fingers. He sighed, exasperated. Of course this would happen when he least needed it to. As if his life couldnât get any worse right now, his own body had caught in on the action. Reaching for his phone with the least possible movement he could, Chuuya swiped open the display with shaky fingers to a familiar contact.
âHello? Chuuya-san?â a deep, monotone voice answered.Â
âAkutagawa, hey,â Chuuya choked out, his voice painfully hoarse. Nasally, too. His heavy mouth breathing could definitely be heard over the line. He punctuated the greeting with a cacophony of coughing.
âAre you okay?,â his voice suddenly tensed, âis there an emergency? Where are you?â
âNo, noâŚâ Chuuya immediately reassured. The sudden reflexive response had taken a toll on his throat, it stung intensely and Chuuyaâs face contorted. âI just⌠I need you to tell Mori that Iâm out sick today.â
Akutagawa fell quiet. The only sound on both sides of the call was the buzz of static and Chuuyaâs sniffles.
âThatâs it?â his voice dropped, losing any hint of compassion it just had. He sounded angry, almost mocking.
Chuuya hummed in response, voice already fatigued.
âYou called me at seven in the morning for⌠that?â Akutagawa asked, thinly veiled irateness peeking through even the gritty quality of the phone speaker. Chuuya had assumed Akutagawa would have more sympathy for him, given that the boy had his own frequent bouts of illness, but he was frigidly uncaring toward the circumstances of Chuuyaâs current condition.
âPlease. I really donât think I can deal with him in this state.â
After an audible sigh from the other end, Chuuya had finally gotten a response from the boy.Â
âFine. But you owe me one,â Akutagawa muttered, hanging up the call before Chuuya could even begin to move his finger toward the red button.
Now with that matter taken care of, Chuuya finally had the blessing to spend the day at home recovering. Too sick to partake in his favorite vice, working, he settled for binge watching pointless sitcoms on his laptop. It made the time go by slightly better, the dumb jokes and repetitive plotlines blurring together into one amorphous haze as Chuuya periodically drifted in-and-out of a painful and somewhat hallucinogenic cough syrup and fever induced sleep. Two excruciating days passed, with absolutely no work done and two-going-on-three seasons of a show Chuuya couldnât quite remember the name of under his belt.Â
Chuuya hated being sick. It rarely happened, but when it didâit took its course on his body. This bout of the flu had left Chuuya helpless; shivering feverishly in delirium as hot tears, cold as they rolled down his scorching skin, filled his burning eyes. And the pain, the pain was the rotten cherry on top of the whole pile of garbage.Â
Nobody in the mafia was a stranger to pain. That was just the nature of the job. But the aches that tore through Chuuyaâs body were of another caliberâmaybe it was just the state he was in to begin with, but the random yet constant pain in each and every inch of his body was mind-numbingly torturous. There was a base layer of dull ache that often faded into the background, but was always there to remind him when he thought the worst of it had died down. Then, the random shooting pains in random muscle groups at various parts of the day. Those were the worst, by far. Then, the headacheâto be expected from the flu, but still unwelcome anyway. And finally, the burning buried deep into his core, a painful sensation lining the tubes of Chuuyaâs lungs from all the violent coughing. This was second to the random muscle pains, but only by a small marginâthe lung pain left Chuuya clutching at the bony wall of his chest after particularly bad coughing fits.
He didnât even want to get started on the coughing. It could count as an exercise at this point. Chuuya was dead tired, drained and worn out from the coughingârattling, deep, constantâ that plagued him constantly. The cough medicine wasnât very effective, neither were lozenges. And not only was his body tired of expending that much energy from the constant constricting of his chest, but his bronchial tubes, deep in the core of his body, were left in searing pain with each violent cough that pushed out of his weakened body.
How could a simple virus bring down such a man to his knees? It was a truly sick and twisted thing, the flu.
Two days had passed like that, with Chuuya spending the majority of the day agonizing in bed. As evening began to fall, Chuuya took another dosage of cold medicine for the night, before popping another cough drop as the lung pain grew unbearable. He choked down the dark liquid. Bitter and sickly sweet, it coated the membrane lining of his pharynx in such a way that he could finally suppress an oncoming cough threatening to rattle his already worn body. It was a nice relief. He lay back again, sinking his head into the head-shaped indent in his pillow, pulling the covers up as chills crashed over his feverish body like an icy wave crashing onto snowy shores. Chuuya was spent, dead tired as he drifted into sleep with a medicated ease.
In the middle of the night, Chuuya stirred awake, feeling his body freezing as he found himself shivering under layers upon layers of blankets. His throat was bone-dryâand when he tried to swallow, the little saliva that made its way down seared painfully. And his mouth had a faint aftertaste of the minty honey-lemon lozenge that had once been in his mouth when he was awake, now dissolved in his sleep. His mind felt hazy, tired from sleep and foggy from the medications heâd been choking down. Yet, he could make out wisps of sound from the foyer: someone fumbling with the front door. Finally, that familiar sound rang out in the air.
The front door had been opened.
But how? Chuuya had sworn heâd left it locked when he last came home, not to mention he always double-checked if it was locked before going to sleep. Was this another hallucination, or a legitimate threat?
Quickly, as if on instinct, Chuuya reached for the bedside table, sliding the top layer of lacquered wood on the rail. Heâd opened a secret velvet-lined storage compartment. This nightstand was an amazing Facebook marketplace find, and an even better place to keep emergency weapons for situations like this. Chuuya chose a reliable pocket knife from the assortment of various small items in the compartment: an assortment of his valuables, important legal documents, a metal key on a string, a handgun, a small worn leather diaryâand of course, the pocketknife. The rustling of furniture and items from Chuuyaâs part had masked the sound of the footsteps getting closer and closer. They were certainly faint, as the intruder attempted to be as quiet as possible, but the creaking of Chuuyaâs old floorboards had betrayed them.
The footstep sound had stopped, growing louder and louder in Chuuyaâs congested ears until it had silenced. They should have been right in front of his bedroom door by now, if Chuuyaâs somewhat impaired senses were to be trusted. He wanted to push himself up, and stand alongside the wall to ambush the attacker, but the adrenaline wasnât working its usual magic. Chuuya was still bedbound by the fever, pain, and weakness thatâd accompanied both. The time itâd take for him to move all his body weight would have put him in a vulnerable position. So the bed had become his fort, and he was set on defending it however he could.
After a second, the door opened quietly, although the old wood had still creaked despite the intruderâs cautiousness. Chuuya swallowed a cough away, desperately trying to keep silent. He gripped tighter to the knife, still hiding under the covers.
The side of a head peeked through the doorway, staring intensely at himâfixed onto Chuuyaâs wide eyes and terrified yet determined expression peeking through the sheets. The intruderâs features couldnât be made out in the faint lights peeking through the window from the city street below.
âDonât come any closer if you want to live,â Chuuya warned, the threat coming out far weaker than heâd hoped. His voice was strained, gravellyâalmost gone.Â
After a second of silence, a voice rang out in the eerie stillness. Chuuya was convinced he had fully lost it when he heard that familiar din. This wasnât just a fever dreamâit was a fever nightmare.
âYouâre awake? How unusual!â a rather cheerful voice rang out, closing the door behind them as their figure came into view. So tall. The shadows had made the slender figure look even more disproportionate. If this shadow-figure didnât possess the one voice Chuuya was more than painfully familiar with, then he was certain it was some nightmare hallucination manifested from diphenhydramine overuse.Â
Of course, seeing Dazai as a shadow lurking in the corner of his room could definitely count as a waking nightmare.Â
Chuuya pulled the covers over his head, trying to keep his burning eyes closed so he could go back to sleep and hopefully end this fever dream. The fever had manifested his defected partner a couple of other times, tooâamongst other things. It wasnât the most improbable thing that this was just another episode of his brain being cooked into delirium, but for some reason this just felt so much more real than every other time.
*****
Dazai was shocked that Chuuya hadnât replaced the locks to his apartment. He wasnât necessarily opposed to the idea of climbing up the fire escape, as he usually did to check on his ex-partner through the window, but this saved him the trouble of climbing the often wet corrugated iron in the dark.Â
But it was still kind of surprising. Chuuya wasnât lazy, nor was he careless. After almost two years of Dazai being a traitor, Chuuya hadnât bothered to replace the front door lock that heâd given Dazai the spare key to. And Chuuya shouldâve been well aware that Dazai had possessed a spare key after all the random visits heâd received during their partnership. Plus, Chuuya had the spare key to Dazaiâs apartmentâheâd moved out a while ago for the Armed Detective Agency dorms, but Dazai assumed Chuuya still had the key hidden somewhere, even despite being aware that Dazai had found himself a new gig as a detective. Dazai figured heâd probably taunt or chide him about it, seeing it as a massive downgrade from the decorated position of executive in one of the most elusively notable underground organizations in not only Japanâbut the world as a whole.Â
Regardless, Dazai saw his still-working key as a sort of unspoken invitation. Why else would Chuuya refuse to change the lock if he didnât still want Dazai to find his way through the front door at some point? He would never admit that kind of thing out loud with words like a normal person, Dazai figured, it was through his actions that he expressed himselfâalbeit cryptically.
Now, face-to-face with the man himself, Dazai found himself taken aback at the abject terror in his face as he shivered, mostly shrouded in blankets. His face bore an expression that was clearly not mocking, not anger⌠but fear.
Heâd heard that Chuuya was sick, but he wasnât expecting it to be so bad that he was nowhere near in his right mind.
Dazai licked his lips, and apprehensively walked toward Chuuya. He let the little glimpse of streetlight from the window fall onto his face so that Chuuya could see that it wasnât anyone besides his other half in the room with him.Â
âDonât you recognize me, chibi?â Dazai cooed with an irritatingly fake sympathetic tone. He was finding this amusing. Chuuya covered his ears under the blanket, curling up into a ball with the knife still grasped in his fingertips. He did, unfortunately, recognize him. Chuuya could be in a coma, and his heart rate would still go up when heâd sensed that chaotic presence in his vicinity. Of course, Dazai kept talking. âI heard from a little birdie that you were sick, and of course, I wanted to see for myself!â
Dazai crept closer, placing his tan-colored coat onto the back of Chuuyaâs desk chair before sitting down on the bed. The mattress sank under his weight. Chuuya peeked, one eye peering out from the blanket. âWh-What are you talking about?â he stopped to cough, âWho?â
âI saw some of your cute little subordinates yesterday, so I obviously was curious as to where their big important executive was,â Dazai mused, blasĂŠ about the whole deal and mockingly aggrandising when referring to Chuuyaâs title.
The implication was that there was some altercation with the mafia and the agency. Chuuya understood it in some part, instinctively frowning at the thought. Yesterday shouldâve been Thursday, owing to whatever lucid part of Chuuyaâs mind being able to find the scraps of clarity needed to correctly remember what day it was. That meant that he wouldâve been out on a deal at the port. Akutagawa had texted him that evening, mentioning how the mission had fallen throughâand it was a cruel twist of the knife that irony cruelly presents itself as that right here in front of him was the culprit of the failed missionâwhat was supposed to be his missionâsitting pretty on the foot of his bed. Watching him in his pitiful state. Mocking him with his sarcastic words and a gaze that only barely disguised his amusement.Â
Chuuya felt the weight shift closer to him on the big bed as Dazai crept closer. He curled himself under the blanket until the skin of his knees brushed up against his cheek, still shaking from how cold he felt.
âGetâŚâ Chuuya weakly called out, âget the hell away from me.â
A coughing fit overcame him, the searing pain in his lungs only encouraging his body more, the dry coughs began to turn into wheezing until he lay back limp on the bed. Everything hurt.
âYouâve gotta stop smoking, slug. Youâve been doing it more, recently. Itâs no good for you, especially with your asthma and all,â Dazai chided, his tone lighthearted; but deep down, the message was sincere. âI donât want you dying on me anytime soon, chibi. If youâre gone, then whoâs gonna be my wingman to pick up pretty ladies for a romantic double-suicide date night?â
Chuuya wanted to protest, argue back, but his mind was too tired to think of anything to retort back. Plus, heâd just end up hacking up another lung before he got out what he wanted to say.Â
But Dazai was right, though. It was a bad habit he had; heâd gone from an occasional social smoker to making it a near daily ritual. Losing his partner in crime had only put more stress upon him as the number of executives available to take care of all the Port Mafiaâs mountains of work had been knocked down a peg thanks to their defector dearest. The newfound vice was his solace, the momentary calm in the storm in the whirlwind of chaos and stress from his job.
But that wasnât on Chuuyaâs mind. Nowhere near it. The only thing that was processing was the immense physical discomfort coursing through his body and the disorientation of whatever waking dream was going on around him.
The worst part about fever dreams is that they always felt so painfully real, all of the distorted miragesâacid trip colors and spinning skiesâcould have been as realistic and detailed as a recent notable memory from just days before. Not to mention they were always about the one thing that was on your mind before you fell asleep. Chuuya had found himself, years ago, sick and falling asleep to a Minecraft playthrough, only to awake in a dream world that felt awfully real where he was trapped in a loopy, horrifically scary acid-shader version of the game. It was so oddly terrifying it turned him off of the game for months after that dream. Tonightâs dream revolving around Dazai was not unexpected, but certainly unwelcome.
Yet the rush of cold air hitting Chuuyaâs skin felt real, awfully so. Dazai had pulled the blankets only slightly so he could take a look at Chuuyaâs face, covered in part by Chuuyaâs ice-block fingers. Dazai felt his breath catch in his throat, and he swallowed as he collected his shock. Even under the covers of darkness, it was obvious that Chuuya was seriously illâhis skin had taken a sickly pallor, and his body was covered in a glimmering sheen of sweat despite the fact that he was shivering like he was trapped outside in the middle of a snowstorm.Â
Reaching out his hand, Dazai placed his fingertips on Chuuyaâs foreheadâpushing strands of soft hair stuck to his forehead from sweat aside.Â
âMy GodâŚâ Dazaiâs voice dropped to a whisper, âChuuya, youâre burning up,â Too astounded by the sudden sensation of searing heat hitting his fingertips, he hadnât even added a nickname or anything silly or condescending; nothing but concern was on his mind in that moment. It was no fun to banter with Chuuya when he was too incapacitated to retort.
Chuuya groaned in response. He lifted his hand limply, trying to push Dazaiâs freezing digits off of his face, not able to muster up enough energy to meaningfully move them off of him. Dazai lifted his hand up off him, getting up off the bed and walking out of the room.Â
Was that the last of itâof himâthat Chuuya had to see tonight? Could he fall back asleep, and when he did, would he wake up in reality or trapped in another feverish nightmare? He closed his eyes, stinging from the heat burning inside his body, and placed a hand over his eyes. The cold skin making contact with his face had made his body automatically try to contort further into itself, trying to warm himself up.Â
No, of course it wouldnât be the last of him that Chuuya was going to see tonight. The door creaked open again, and the footsteps got louder until there was a person-sized mass crawling on the bed next to him. He was ruffling through a box, too. He was talking, albeit quietly. Yet every noise in the room felt annoyingly loud. Was there any part of Dazai Osamu that wasnât obnoxious? Chuuya wondered.
Before Chuuya could answer ânoâ to his own complaint/question, he felt cold fingertips snaking their way under his chin, pressing up against his throat. The cold stabbed into his skin, prickling and making him shiver even more. Dazai held Chuuyaâs face up in the palm of his hand. His hands were so big, Chuuyaâs face fit into them perfectly like two puzzle pieces conjoining into perfect alignment.
And if it couldnât get worse, Dazaiâs thumb slid up to Chuuyaâs mouth, opening his pale, chapped lips slightly before he shoved something inside Chuuyaâs mouth. He fiddled with the cool plastic and metal stick as he tried to get it positioned comfortably under Chuuyaâs tongue. After he was satisfied with where heâd placed the thermometer, Dazai waited, unable to take his eyes off the shivering body that lay next to him.
It was an awkward silence, just Dazaiâs quiet breathing and the sound of Chuuyaâs labored snivelling breaths filled the air until the thermometer broke the silence with beeping. Dazai turned on the bedside lamp so he could read the number. Chuuya covered his eyes with the blanket again, the warmly dim lighting feeling overbearing on his senses.
â39.6,â Dazai recited, voice dropping into a low, monotone tone. His usual bounciness had completely deflated, being fully replaced with serious concern as he reread the numbers over and over again in his head. It was an awfully high fever.
Dazai had noticed the knife lying on the bed by Chuuyaâs hand. He placed it onto the table. Then he got to work, digging through the box again to fish out a bottle of something. The shaky shaking of the little pills against the plastic walls of their container was just so loud in Chuuyaâs mind. He tried to bury his head under the pillow. Dazai had noticed, muttering an apology before scurrying off the bed and out of the room again.Â
It was finally quiet, although the lamp was still on. But that wasnât that big of a concern to Chuuya, who found himself drifting back into something that was almost sleep but fell too short of the markâdelirium. An uncomfortable, surreal feeling washed over him, the room spinning around his closed eyes. Chuuya muttered something under his breath, the exact words inaudible. He wasnât too sure what heâd said either, it had just escaped. It could have been anything: a cry for help, for mercy, a prayer, or just some exclamation of suffering. He didnât know, and didnât really care at this point.
Dazai had come back to the room, placing a glass or porcelain object with some heaviness to it onto the lacquered antique wood surface of the nightstand before climbing back into the bed and fiddling with that loud container of pills again.
âChuuya,â Dazaiâs voice was strangely soft as it broke the stillness of the nighttime air. If Chuuya was fully lucid right now, heâd be pissed about being patronized. But in his incapacitated state, he could only give a weary â mmmhâ in response.
Dazai moved the pillow from Chuuyaâs face, and supported his weight as he helped Chuuya sit up against the bedframe. Vision blurry, Chuuya watched as Dazai held up a small pill to his face.
âItâs a fever reducer and painkiller,â he explained, handing Chuuya the tiny cylinder. Chuuya looked at it, analyzing it as best he could; it seemed like generic paracetamol upon further inspection. Apprehensively placing it in his mouth with shaky fingers, Dazai grabbed the cup of water off the table, and placed it in Chuuyaâs hands.Â
Chuuya whimpered, the glass was so damn cold against his feverish skin. Dazai whispered apologies. Despite the discomfort, Chuuya took a sip anyway, the room-temperature water feeling like a glacial river as it coursed down his throat. It felt strange against the soreness. He wasnât quite sure if it was a good or bad sensation. Â
Placing the glass back onto the nightstand, Chuuya sank further into the shroud of blankets wrapping him. Still so cold, it would only be a matter of time before the medicine would kick in again. Chuuya shuddered, looking through a bleary gazeâwatery eyes threatening to cryâat Dazai, who looked more concerned and confused than anything else.
âIâm so c-coldâŚâ Chuuya choked out, mouthing it more than speaking. He knew what he wanted, even if subconsciously. Dazai must have understood too, turning the lights off as he slipped himself into the cocoon that covered Chuuya. He wrapped his arms around the smaller body, becoming another layer in the shroud.
Chuuya sank into his touch, pressing his face into Dazaiâs chest. Despite the apparent coldness of his extremities, Dazaiâs body was warm; heâd become a space heater, and Chuuya could finally stop shivering so violently once he was securely in Dazaiâs embrace. It just felt good to be held like this, the solid physical form surrounding Chuuyaâwith his face pressed up to a wall of warm skin with a living, beating heart underneath itâit had brought a primal sense of security to him.
Dazai ran his fingers through Chuuyaâs hair. It was still soft, albeit slightly tangled from a sick Chuuya neglecting it.Â
Heâd missed this, the closeness. The sharp contrast to being around Chuuya all the time to only catching glimpses of him on the opposite side of the street, or through his bedroom windowâit was torture. It was as though heâd left half of himself behind when heâd left the mafia. If there was one thing he actually missed about that godforsaken organization, it was the short-tempered executive thatâd begrudgingly never left his side. Nothing else. Nothing more.Â
Heâd certainly taken Chuuya and his companionship for granted, thatâs for sure. That was one of his biggest regretsâeven out of Dazaiâs long list of regretful decisions.
It was as if Chuuya had read his mind from his touch alone, as he murmured into Dazaiâs chest: âI missed you.â
Heart sinking, Dazai moved his mouth down near Chuuyaâs ear, unable to help himself from leaving little butterfly kisses on the side of his neck. âI missed you too. More than you could ever imagine.â
After a second of comfortable silence, Chuuya worked up the energy to lift his face up, unexpectedly. Dazai looked down in surprise, his honey-brown eyes going wide before softening. Theyâd both found each other being pulled to each other without even trying to by a force that felt like gravity. Chuuyaâs hot lips melted into Dazaiâs, kissing him hungrily in spite of the fatigue thatâd overtaken him. Dazai took in the taste of him, the faint taste of bittersweet cough syrup and the numbing buzz of honey-lemon cough drop aftertaste lingering on his tongue. It was inebriating, intoxicatingâneither wanted to pull away.Â
Chuuya had to break the kiss first, pulling off Dazai's face for breath and sliding back down into the comfort of his chest. He was dead tired, and the medication had finally started to kick in enough so that the fever was starting to break as his body was on the verge of giving out. Heâd fallen asleep so fast that it was akin to passing out.
âWow, chibiâyouâre not half-bad looking when youâre sleeping peacefully without that awful expression thatâs always on your face,â Dazai teased, brushing his fingers through the knots of Chuuyaâs silky hair. âI just know youâd kill me if I was still here in the morning.âÂ
*****
Chuuya had woken up sweaty, hot under the layers upon layers of blankets. The wisps of early morning sunlight poured through the translucent curtains, and Chuuya blinked his tired eyes open to find himself where heâd remembered falling asleep last night. The fever had broken, and he was feeling slightly better, nowâfinally able to lift himself up, and rub the tiredness out of his eyes. The memory of the nightâs events had flashed through his mind, and quickly dissipated like a firework; the only traces of it left in his now-clear mind was nothing more than a faint afterimage of a strange fever dream he couldnât quite remember fullyâthe ash settled into nothingness, becoming one with the darkness.Â
Did that really happen? Chuuya wondered, trying to salvage the scraps of memory slipping out of his mind like sand. He looked around the room; nothing seemed out of place. No tan trench coat hanging on the desk chair, no box of medicine and first aid supplies on the side of the bed, nothing. No evidence that anything out of the ordinary had happened during the nighttime. Chuuya sank back into bed, rolling his head to the side to get into a more comfortable position. The movement had felt much easier than before, his muscle aches were definitely going awayâalthough he was still annoyingly fatigued.Â
He couldnât escape shitty Dazai, not even in his sleep.
And then it caught his eye. A glass of water on the nightstand. His stomach dropped, and a creeping feeling of uneasiness had placed a twisting, big hand on his shoulder. Chuuya didnât remember placing itâbut it was such an ordinary item. It meant nothing, he tried to assure himself. Heâd placed it there himself and had just forgotten about it.Â
âIt happens. It just means nothingâ , he reminded himself silently. It meant nothing. It meant nothing at all.
*****
âKunikida-kun,â Dazai whined into the phone microphone, his bright voice sounding unusually flat.
âGood morning, Dazai,â Kunikidaâs stern voice responded. He was already late to work.
Dazai coughed loudly into the microphone. Kunikida shoved the phone away from his ear, as if on instinct. Ranpo glanced over at the sudden noise before getting distracted by the happy beeping of the microwave; his breakfast was ready!
Kunikida took a deep breath, leaning against the back of his swivelly office chair as he braced himself to hear the rest of this call. He took a sip of black coffee. Bitterly hot, it was a reliable comfort on irritating mornings like this.
âKunikida-kuuun,â Dazai began again, âIâm siiiick!â
Sighing, Kunikida opened his notebook. Flipping to a page bookmarked with a small colored tab sticking out of the page, he glanced at the writing before pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He could hear sniffling through the line.
âDazaiâŚâ he said, sighing. âYouâve already used up all of your sick leave for the year.â
âYouâre kidding,â Dazai complained, a newfound congested sound peeking through his usual tone of voice. âItâs only March!â
âShouldâve thought of that when you used up all of your leave when you werenât actually sick.â
âKunikida-kun is so mean!âÂ
âSee you inâŚâ Kunikida checked his watch, â...twenty minutes.â
Dazai hung up defeated, pressing his phone face down onto his bed. He definitely felt physically awfulâand he definitely wasnât happy about the fact he was going to have to clock into work sickâbut he just couldnât help the corners of his lips turning up as he relived the night before in his mind.
Can't believe I'm saying this but ... my first one shot in years is up on AO3.
"Fever Haze"
đ¸ Rating: General Audiences
đ¸ Word count: 5,357
đ¸One-Shot sickfic
(Summary below the cut)
> Read full chapter here <
Akechiâs eyes went wide as he properly entered Akiraâs makeshift living space and his gaze wandered over the horrendous amount of used tissues, lying around like it was the newest interior design trend.
âHey.â is all Akira could say before a coughing fit took over his entire body, shaking him until everything hurt.
Akechi only stood there, holding onto his case with gloved hands, blinking and trying to process the chaos before him.
âLet me try to assess the situation here,â he finally says, sounding more than slightly annoyed. Fuck it, Akira might actually start purring. He could always blame it on the fever.
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Organization for Transformative Works
Last Sickfic for @sicktember. This one is Final Fantasy XIV again and is set in the current expansion, Dawntrail.
I hope you enjoy the fic and enjoyed the other ones for Sicktember as well. I know there were less but some of them were longer to make up for it.