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Scott isn’t sick, it’s just that time of year. The time of year where everyone feels a little rough, not sick, just not their best.
Yes, Scott isn’t feeling his best.
But, as always, things to do.
Kip’s birthday is coming up, the big three-oh, and Scott’s in the secret birthday group chat started by Elena. He doesn’t understand half of what goes on in there but he knows he’s been put in charge of getting Kip where he needs to be. Plus, finding the perfect gift, which is proving challenging.
He has a photoshoot next week for Underarmour. They’re bringing out some new line of athletic shorts in three thrilling shades of gray and Scott’s supposed to be confirming the time, or the theme or something. He’ll check.
There’s the new rookie who since Christmas has been down in a way Scott finds a little too familiar. He hasn’t figured out what there is to be done yet but he will do it.
He swallows around the scratch in his throat and looks at his watch. Kip will be home in an hour. He can fit in a run before then.
—
His feet are heavy on the final mile of his run, chest straining more than it should be. He’ll take the elevator when he gets in, instead of his usual stairs, two at a time. It’s an off day – they happen.
The slight headrush as he steps into the corridor is unusual but it passes as soon as it arrives. He downs a gatorade in the cool of the fridge air – no Kip home to tell him off for leaving it open.
He sits down after his shower, luke warm rather than his usual cold, and pulls the hand-knitted blanket from Kip’s sister around his shoulders. It is January, after all and the blanket is beautiful. And Kip says he looks cute wrapped up in it which- well Scott quite likes hearing that from his fiancé.
The main light stays on – his eyes are feeling oddly droopy and he doesn’t want to fall asleep before Kip gets in.
—
The sound of Kip’s key in the lock rouses him.
Shuffling to the door, blanket still over his shoulders, he’s greeted by the sight of his fiancé all bundled up against the New York cold. Scott smiles as Kip shucks off his many layers, a flurry of movement and stories from the library and the subway and his dad’s house.
“Hey, love,” Scott murmurs in a pause.
“You sound sick,” Kip accuses, stopping to run his eyes over Scott. “You look sick.”
“Oh, no I’m not. Dehydrated or something, I went on a run.”
Kip mutters something that sounds like of course you did.
“Go sit down,” he says out loud. “I’m making you some lemon and ginger.”
“Kip I-”
“Sit, sweetheart.”
Scott sits, watching Kip bustle about the kitchen from his place on the sectional. He winces at the sound of mugs being set down on the counter.
Kip passes him a steaming mug and rests the back of his hand on Scott’s forehead.
“No fever yet.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Yes, dear,” Kip agrees in that voice that means he couldn't disagree more.
He sips the drink, the sweet steam rising up and over his face. The liquid feels good against his throat, warm and soothing. Kip joins him on the couch, pulling the blanket around his own shoulders.
Scott frowns.
“You shouldn’t get too close, I might get you s-”
“What was that?” Kip catches, angling his body to look down at Scott. “You might get me what?”
“Nothing,” he says, holding back a sniff.
Kip shakes his head and pulls Scott in to lean on him, depositing a kiss on Scott’s hairline. Scott melts into him. He smells of books again, old and musty. Scott loves it, would love it even more if he could ignore the growing ache across his body.
“Tell me about your day?”
Kip does, filling the quiet with meandering recounts of his morning and snarky comments about certain colleagues. Scott lets himself lean fully into Kip, mouth falling open because for some reason breathing through his nose isn’t working. He nuzzles against the rough fabric of Kip’s jacket, pleasing on his skin. Kip tells Scott about the students doing well, about the ones who would really benefit from picking up a book once in a while, about the definitely dodgy cafeteria food. Halfway through, he rests his hand on Scott’s head, soothing away the ache with gentle touch. He fills Scott in on interdepartmental drama and the specific woes of an art historian in modern day America. Scott isn’t sure how much of it he takes in but he can ask Kip again.
The hand in his hair pushes him into drifting off, eyes weighed down by comfort. He vaguely feels Kip pull the blanket tighter around him, prize the mug from his useless fingers, and push Scott further into lying down. He lets it all happen, never one to say no to Kip’s gentle care, even if he doesn’t need it.
He wakes himself up with a snort, upper lip uncomfortably wet.
“Hi there,” Kip says, pressing a Kleenex under his nose.
“Mmph, I’m gross,” Scott grumbles, grabbing it from Kip and sorting himself out. Kip doesn’t need to be doting on him like he’s a child.
He’s not even sick.
He says as much.
“Well, my not-at-all-sick love,” Kip says, laughter in his tone. “How about we watch a movie and I’ll order us in some chicken soup?”
“That sounds nice,” Scott allows from his place on Kip’s chest.
—
Waking up the next morning, there’s a truck resting on Scott’s chest. His head is full of cotton wool, heavy cotton wool that makes his skull throb. He wants nothing more than to fall back into unconsciousness.
“Kip?” He whispers, throat scratchy.
“Mhm?” The warm body next to him replies, turning over to rest a hand on Scott’s forehead again.
“I think I might be sick.”
Kip, the angel that he is, doesn’t laugh or say I told you so. He just nods sympathetically, mouth folding into a soft grimace.
“I know, baby, let’s get you better.”