“That is disgusting,” Johnny says in a vaguely fascinated tone. Patrick blows his nose again until his ears pop and gives Johnny the finger when he’s done.
“Nice bedside manner you’ve got there,” Patrick grumbles. “Don’t quit your day job.”
“Suck it up, Kaner,” Johnny says, patting Patrick’s shoulder a couple of times. “Or, uh. You probably shouldn’t, actually.”
Patrick groans. Fucking awful. Seriously, why do people seem to think that Patrick’s got the monopoly on the terrible sense of humor between the two of them?
“Why are you here?” Patrick asks plaintively. “Can’t you harass me some time when my brain isn’t leaking out my nose?”
“I’m here to make sure you actually sleep and drink juice or whatever,” Johnny says, because he’s a weirdo that probably looks himself in the mirror every morning and chants “act like a captain” to his own reflection; of course he couldn’t just leave Patrick to wallow in his own germs by himself. “Harassing you is just a side-benefit.”
Ugh, why are they even friends, Johnny is the worst. It’s not like Patrick’s asking for hugs and back-rubs or something; a little bit of sympathy for his pathetic state is not out of the question.
(He actually kind of would like a hug, but in previous cases he's usually waited until he’s drunk enough that he can just go for one himself without risking the rejection factor of asking for it.)
Patrick glares at Johnny balefully and blows his nose again, dropping the tissue on the ground. The living room’s covered in tissues because he can’t find his trash can, and the thought of bending down to pick them all up makes his head spin. Whatever. They add something to the décor.
He realizes he’s listing slightly to the side when all of a sudden Johnny’s got a hand fisted in his sweatshirt, tugging him back upright, a weird, furrowed-brow look on his face.
“Go lie down, dumbass,” Johnny says gruffly, and yeah, Patrick’s all over that idea, except Johnny’s kind of going to have to let go of him first.
Oh. Okay, apparently Patrick’s getting escorted to his bedroom. All right, then.
Johnny pushes him down on the bed but evidently draws the line at actually tucking him in, so he just imitates a gargoyle at the foot of Patrick’s bed for a few minutes, watching Patrick flail his way under the sheets.
“Hate you,” Patrick mumbles into his pillow, head swimming a little; Johnny rolls his eyes, plants the tissue box on the nightstand and says, “Don’t die in your sleep,” before he flicks the lights off and pulls the door shut until it’s open just a crack.
Patrick ignores the fact that he’s weirdly soothed by Johnny’s familiar, monotone variety of comfort, and turns on his side and falls asleep within minutes.
Patrick wakes up a little while later, mouth dry from breathing through it, head pounding distantly; he wants to just go back to sleep, but he really needs some water or something, so he struggles out of bed and sniffs a few times before heading for the door.
He can’t hear any noise coming through the crack in the door, no TV or anything, and he wonders if Johnny’s left already; the thought of being here alone makes something twinge briefly in his chest, even though it’s what he was planning before Johnny barged his way in here to bully Patrick into getting better.
Except, Patrick opens the door and sees that he isn’t alone after all: Johnny’s got Patrick’s missing trash can in one hand, and he’s walking around the living room and picking up all of the crumpled tissues littering the floor. They’re Patrick’s tissues, and even he thinks they’re pretty nasty; but Johnny’s not even making grossed-out faces to himself while he picks up Patrick’s mess so that Patrick doesn’t have to, and it’s probably just his cold, but Patrick’s feeling a little weird and warm inside as he stands in the doorway, watching.
Johnny straightens up and sees Patrick standing there; he flushes a little and narrows his eyes like he’s daring Patrick to say anything, but for once, Patrick’s not really in the mood to make a smart comment.
One of them might actually break something if Patrick says thank you, though, so he just smiles instead, eyes half-closing as he leans on the doorframe for support. Oddly, Johnny flushes a little more at that. Patrick hopes he’s not getting sick too.
“Where are you going?” Johnny says sharply, setting the trash can down when Patrick straightens out of his lean and starts making for the kitchen.
“Water. I’m thirsty,” Patrick says, voice coming out hoarsely as if to prove his statement.
Johnny makes a stay there motion with his hands and disappears; Patrick can hear the water going on as Johnny washes his hands, and wow, Patrick really must be tired, because it feels like he only blinks a few times before Johnny’s back with a glass of orange juice in his hand.
“That’s not water,” Patrick says.
“Very good, you’re obviously the brains on the team,” Johnny says, and puts it in Patrick’s slack hand, curling Patrick’s fingers around it for him. “It’s better for you.”
Patrick flips him off with his other hand and downs the juice under Johnny’s watchful stare, wiping his mouth with his sleeve when he’s done.
“Anything else?”Johnny asks sarcastically, but he's kind of tensed like he’d actually go get whatever Patrick asked for. Staring at his dumb face, Patrick can’t really think of anything else he needs right then.
So of course, he says, “I think my pillow needs fluffing.”
“Fluff it yourself, asshole,” Johnny says immediately, and grabs Patrick around the back of the neck with one giant hand to lead him back into the bedroom, and Patrick thinks fuck it and lets himself drift forward a little, falling awkwardly into the open curve of Johnny’s arm and knocking into his chest.
There’s a pause, during which Patrick shuts his eyes and tries to look as sick and blameless as possible.
Johnny lets out a sigh somewhere above Patrick’s head, and it rumbles through his chest where Patrick’s cheek is pressed. Patrick’s half-expecting to be pushed away, but instead Johnny’s arm tightens around him, tugging him a little closer.
Patrick likes hugs, okay, like most normal human beings do; he’s spent a while training Johnny out of flinching away every time someone brushes his elbow or something, so it’s kind of nice to reap the benefits of all his hard work.
Patrick’s kind of drifting off again, just standing there with his nose buried in Johnny’s chest, until Johnny tugs on his hair and says quietly, “Back to bed, Kaner.”
“I think I got snot on your shirt,” Patrick says drowsily.
“Whatever. I’ll just make you do my laundry later,” Johnny tells him and pushes him away gently, marching him back into the bedroom.
“I guess you’re not so terrible at this,” Patrick says as he climbs onto the bed over his kicked-down sheets, dropping his head onto his pillow with his eyes already sliding shut, and this time, he feels Johnny pull the sheets up under his chin before he falls asleep.