“I think you must be the worst patient in the history of the world,” Stephen said, as he plonked the mug of lemsip down on the coffee table next to Nick.
“Says the man who moaned that he couldn’t go for a run the whole time he had a broken leg,” retorted Nick, grabbing the mug and downing the contents eagerly.
“I think a broken leg is a more legitimate cause for moaning than a bit of a cold.”
“It’s flu,” Nick protested, and started coughing noisily, as if to prove his point.
In fact the coughing fit went on for long enough that Stephen actually started to get worried. “Are you all right?” he asked, when it finally died away.
“No.” Nick glared up at him. “I’m sick.”
He did look rather pathetic, with his red-rimmed eyes, sore-looking nose, and pale skin. Stephen sighed, and sat down next to him on the sofa.
“Come here, you poor old thing,” he said, sliding an arm around the back of Nick’s shoulders and tugging.
“Less of the ‘old’,” Nick grumbled, resisting.
Stephen just rolled his eyes and tugged again, and this time Nick came, settling against his side.
“I’ll give you my germs,” Nick muttered.
“I’ve had worse,” Stephen told him. He pressed a kiss to Nick’s slightly limp hair. “Feel any better yet?”
“A bit,” Nick allowed, snuggling (although he’d later deny it) against Stephen. “You’re a good nurse.”
“Wow, can I have that in writing? Then I can produce it next time you’re complaining I haven’t heated the chicken soup to precisely the right temperature.”
A soft snore was his only answer. Stephen smiled. He’d most likely have a dead arm by the time Nick woke up, but he was content to let Nick sleep. It was the best medicine, after all.
Particularly when it came to patients as awful as Nick.