#fevers

[selene-and-the-cold]

Thought of the day: the heaviness that comes with illness.

When the person is hit full force by their illness in the morning. They can barely open their eyes, alarm clock blearing next to them on the nightstand, but even opening one eye a crack costs so much effort. The lids feel leaden and swollen, and the mere thought of having to lift an arm to silence the alarm is pure agony.

When a person crashes after an entire day of muddling through their work despite coming down with a nasty cold, so as soon as they reach the sanctuary of their home, they collapse under the weight of their illness, barely able to make it to the sofa or the bed. They all but manage to kick off their shoes and jacket before they flop down, pulling a blanket halfway over themselves with heavy arms as they start to shiver from fever, falling asleep with the lights still on a mere minute after they lay down.

When a person has not managed to get up from their sickbed unattended for days. Their bones feel as heavy as stones, each movement costs them so much energy that it leaves them a panting, sweaty mess. Needing their SO/ friend to help them sit up whenever it is time for food or medicine. Having to be guided to the toilet, their SO's / friend's arm tightly wrapped around their waist to support them, while they lean heavily onto them.

Just a poor, sick person suffering under the weight of their illness.

[undercover-horn-blog]

"You feel a bit warm."

or

"You're a bit warm."

Said by the healthy person to the sick one after a quick, accidental touch or a mildly concerned forehead feel.

Drives me up the wall every time.

[feverflushed]

When the whumpee is really, REALLY out of it with a high fever, and it's making them really worried and anxious, so their partner has to reassure them, explaining every little thing they're doing to whumpee.

"I'm going to put a nice cold towel on your head, honey, it's going to feel really pleasant."

"You can't keep lying in those sweat drenched bedsheets. I'm going to change them for you, okay? Fresh, dry sheets feel so much better."

"I'm going to give you a little sponge bath, alright? Just some lukewarm water and a soft sponge..."

"Are you tired, love? I'll dim the lights for you so you can take a nap. And it'll help with your headache."

"I'm going to take your temperature again, dear, we need to keep an eye on that fever of yours... I know that the thermometer feels really cold, but bear with me for a moment...."

[softsnzstuff]

Character B comes home from an errand/trip and finds A asleep in a totally weird or random place. B sets down their things and comes over, stroking A’s cheek to gently wake them up ((don’t want them to be awake all night))

Come to find A is burning up. They blink open fever glazed eyes, confusedly focusing on the figure in front of them.

“B..?”

“Hey buddy. You fell asleep. How long have you had that fever?”

“… what fever?”

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1229

Imagine the quiet moments before the caretakers put the whumpee through Hell.

It’s for the whumpees own good, of course, but there’s a brief moment they look at each-other because they know it’s going to suck.

Maybe they’ve got to manually pump the whumpees stomach of a toxin, maybe they have to reset bones or stitch up horrendous gashes without painkillers. Maybe it’s as simple as resetting a dislocated shoulder, but the whumpee is so out of it, holding them down will only cause more distress.

Either way, they feel awful for what they’re going to put the feverish and delirious whumpee through, but it’s their best hope of keeping them alive/being able to move them before they’re able to get them proper medical help.

[batfamily-recs]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings 

Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne 

Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth 

Additional Tags: Whump, Tim Drake Whump, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Heavy Angst, Sickfic, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Good Older Sibling Jason Todd, Good Older Sibling Dick Grayson, Good Sibling Damian Wayne, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake's Missing Spleen, Fever, Vomit, Choking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Cannon?, idk who that is, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt Jason Todd, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fluff Summary:

Jason gets sick while out of patrol. A robin finds him and nurses him back to health, unfortunately, actions have consequences.

Or: Jason gets sick and learns more about Tim. Some of it he wishes he hadn't.

(I adore this fic, it’the cutest thing ever. The relationship between Jason and Tim is so sweet and how they worry for each other is everything to me)

[crowned-aeris]

WIP | Timkon sicfic ft. damian

This takes place in the Benign feathers verse, bcs i’m absolutely normal about my own au 👍🏼

===

He gasped, clenching his teeth as his dislocated wing was jostled. Tim limped along, forcing open the window to his safehouse before slipping inside.

A low whimper of pain stuttered through his throat as sweat beaded along his skin. His claws dug into the thick material of his pants, and he pressed his forehead against the cool, wooden floor. A feverish haze flitted through his mind, and Tim cursed himself for going while sick. Duke had said he'd take over for Tim, but past-Tim had been an idiot and insisted on going out as Wraith.

The falcon whimpered again, the pain throbbing uncomfortably in time with his heartbeat.

"Wraith!" someone's voice filtered through Tim's ears. Did he forget to disconnect his comm? "Wraith, what's wrong? What happened? Where are you?"

He quivered weakly. Pained chirps and calls for help escaped his lips as his trembling fingers refused to detach from his pants. Tim could hear the voice continue to call for him, but none of the words seemed to register.

There was a whooshing sound followed by something opening and closing. Tim twitched, but he couldn't lift his head from the floor. His chest felt tight, but the falcon couldn't breathe. Where did all the oxygen go?

"What happened, Birdie?" a familiar voice sighed. Dry hands gently lifted Tim's face from the floor and brushed back the sweat-slick hair that clung to his face. The cool skin pressed against his forehead, draining away the heat and peeling off the damp and uncomfortable mask.

Tim chirped weakly, his eyes still closed as he leaned into the person's touch. His claws remain fisted in his pants, and Tim doesn't think he'll be able to let go soon.

"Yeah, his right wing is dislocated, and he's running a pretty high fever," the person said. Tim whimpered at their disapproving tone, tears springing to his eyes as his grip tightened. "No, sweetheart, I'm not mad at you."

Careful fingers tugged through Tim's hair, brushing the strands, untangling the knots, and lightly scratching his scalp.

"Yeah, he's really out of it. I don't think I'll be able to pop his wing back in while he's like this. Can you send Seraph? Yeah, he'll be fine- I need whoever's closest... Okay, thank you," the hands shifted, and Tim was pulled closer into the person's embrace. The movement jostled his wing, and Tim couldn't help the pained gasp.

"I'm sorry. I know it hurts, Tim, I know. It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be alright. Your brother's coming over to help pop your wing in, and you'll be all better. I know you hate it when he finds your safehouses, but I can't fix you up like this. Honestly, this is your fault. Why did you have to go out?" the person sighed, their tone incredibly fond yet equally exasperated. Tim burrowed his face into the crook of their neck, the words passing through his ears like salt through a net.

"You just had to go out patrolling today, didn't you? You know, when we first met, I thought you were gonna be an asshole like all of those other rich Gotham people. You already knew who I was back then, didn't you?

If someone had told little me that I would fall for you of all people, then I would've called them crazy! But... when you died, when I heard your heart stop... God, I think a part of me died with you. Bart just... stopped, and Cassie didn't speak at all afterward. I'm so glad you're back, Tim, and I know I don't tell you this enough, but-"

"Clone."

"... Reaper," the person's tone shifted, and Tim whined and pressed his cheek against the person's.

"Hand him over."

"I… don't think he'd like that very much."

"...Fine. Hold Timothy steady, I don't want him to jerk around and make things worse."

"Will do," they said, and Tim felt a familiar sensation spread across him. It felt similar to a comforting blanket.

Hands grabbed onto his wing, sending a shock of pain through his entire body. But before Tim could react, his wing was popped back into his socket, and he screamed.

"It's okay," the person breathed, their voice close to Tim's ear lips against the strands of his hair as the falcon sobbed, "You're okay, Tim, you're okay."

"Kon," he sobbed, "Conner, Kon- Kon."

The name tasted like a plea and a prayer on Tim's tongue as the tactile telekinesis faded from his skin.

"I'm here," The Kryptonian held him close, and Tim's talons reached up to cling to Kon's back. Tears ran rivers and trails down his face, dampening Kon's shoulders as Tim sobbed and blubbered, "I'm here- I'm here."

"He's running a fever," the other voice commented with disdain, "and delirious."

"You're just jealous that he's clinging onto me instead of you," Kon huffed, his voice bordering on smug under the worry.

"Silence yourself; you are the most inferior Kryptonian I have ever met."

"And you are the most jealous Bat I have ever met," Conner returned as he braced Tim against his hip; the alien was strong enough to carry the vigilante anyway.

Tim leaned back and rubbed his cheek against Kon's face, sighing as his feverish skin cooled slightly. A happy chirp fell from his lip as Kon pressed back, his instincts crowing in glee at the physical contact.

"You are so fortunate that I am susucceptible to diseases."

The vague cotton that stuffed his brain quickly cleared to reveal a bright recognition. Tim blinked open his eyes, wincing at the bright light before peering past Kon's shoulder to see Damian rummaging around the kitchen.

"Tt. Timothy's kitchen is so... bare."

"This isn't his main safe house," Kon said, "I'll try and get him to change into something else. Can you go and grab some medicine or something? Anything to lower his fever before it gets worse."

There was a vague hum before they were moving. Tim's eyes had slipped shut again, and he returned to his boneless state within Kon's arms.

"You're really out of it, aren't you?" Kon mused as he tried to peel a clingy Tim off of him.

He whined, pouting up at Kon when he finally managed to detangle Tim's limbs from his own, a fond smile on his face. "Come back."

"Wow, so demanding," Kon rolled his eyes, "not even a please?"

Tim pouted, "Please?"

"... Okay, that's not fair in the slightest........ Alright fine. C'mon, you shady bird, arms up!"

He grumbled but complied, sighing as Kon carefully tugged the suit off him, and the cool air graced his too-warm skin.

[morgansunflower]

I Thought Of You

Jason Todd X Reader

Warnings:suggestive content, explicit language, whump, past child neglect and drug overdose mentioning

Words:1478

Tyler panicked as he calls his Dad's girlfriend after his Dad loses conscious....

Tyler's hands shake as he unlocked his dad's phone. He began to stutter as he went to his recent calls. Inside his recent phone calls was Alfred from 3 days ago and Y/N today. He quickly called her thinking of her first.

-"hey-- Tyler is that you baby?.." he couldn't calm down "shh shh shh it's OK deep breaths baby" she cooed Tyler listened to her taking deep breaths "good job buddy. Now tell me what's wrong? Are you ok? Where's Jason?"

"it's-it's Jay he fell on the floor and he won't get up and I don't think he can hear me" the young child cried.

Y/N's heart falls as she rushes to get her keys

"ok baby don't panic, don't worry. I'm coming right now. Did he hit his head on anything? A hard object of any kind?" she asked "what happened during patrol?"

"no he just fell onto the floor. We were on patrol and he breathed in fear toxin but he had the antidote! I'm really really scared Y/N"

She, stayed on the phone with Tyler while driving to their house. She parks in their driveway. She quickly cuts the engine.

"ok Tyler I'm here I'm coming inside right now it's gonna be OK" she softly said hearing him crying

"o-ok"

She, hangs up slamming her car door shut, running into the house. With much haist Y/N came inside and shuts the door behind her. She sees Jason laying on the living room floor. He was barely coherent only able to try desperately to keep himself from passing out. Tyler was sitting on the floor beside his dad. Y/N runs to him and moved to her knees. She leans to his nose hearing a shallow breath, and then to his chest.

"his breathing is small but he's OK.. Let's put him onto the couch"

Y/N moved her arms through around his chest lifting Jason onto the couch. Jason sits on the couch as he began shivering from the intense heat. Somehow he knew he was OK. Tyler stood close by trying to keep his tears back.

Y/N leaned close to Jason feeling his forehead that feels as if he has a fever. She rubs his burning forehead.

He began blinking his vision blurred. He had his eyes half open to only barely see her deeply worried face.

"... Y/N?..." he slurred

"shh I'm here. You're safe honey just try to relax, ok? I'm right here Jason" she ensures

Hearing her voice, he knew for sure he was safe. That his little boy is safe. That she is safe.

Y/N took off his jacket following by his shirt. Tyler helped her by taking his shoes and socks off. She then undid his belt.

"can you try to stand with me" she gently said

Jason gave her sloppy nod. She helped him stand onto his feet. He gently applied his weight on her so he wouldn't fall. She pushed his jeans down to his ankles. She holds onto him while Jason's legs shake slightly stepping out of his jeans and was now only wearing his boxers. Y/N motions him to lay on the couch.

She inspected Jason in great detail.. She still sees no injuries which meant it was the fear toxin and not a wound.

"Tyler can you run and get me the medical bag from his room?"

"on it!" Tyler promised running to get the bag

Tyler returned with the bag. She opens it finding the thermometer, she places it in his mouth. She ran her knuckles through his hair. The thermometer began beeping. She takes it from his mouth.

"102. 5" she sighed.

"that's bad..." Tyler said shakily

She touches his am sweetly "oh don't worry baby he'll be OK"

"I'm glad you're here" he said as his eyes were starting to swell

She kissed Tyler's head knowing exactly what was going through the poor child's mind. Jason had told how his mother had overdosed a week before he adopted him.

As Jason slept Tyler left to get another blanket for his Dad... She uses her spy-contacts to tell Batman that the fear toxin had been modified to have a stronger effect and to cause fevers. He then thanked her for the information and asked how his son was.

As she responded to Bruce. Jason softly groaned mumbling a barely audible words as they slurred. She leans close to him kissing his cheek.

"I'm right here" she reminds him fearing his was having a nightmare

He didn't listen as kept trying to say what his heart was screaming to say.. She listened carefully to him. She nearly gasps hearing what he said. He leans into her touch basking in her presence he never wants to stray away from.

"ma... Ary.. Me.. Y/N" he slurred.

Y/N gasps her eyes start to shake. She scolds herself for externally freaking out. They had discussed marriage.. But she didn't expect him to say anything now.. He probably is emotional from the intense fever. Jason may not even remember this..

"I.." she didn't mind saying yes twice or even more times "yes I will marry you"

She kissed him and is then nearly tackled from Tyler. The red-headed boy began to cry. She then to lost control as she hugged him. She holds Jason's hand. Tyler's embrace gave her all the reassurance she needed. Soon thereafter Jason in a slurred speech told Tyler to get the ring..

Hours later. Tyler and Y/N began making soup for Jason for when he gets hungry. They had just finished baking cookies and we're enjoying it so much they decided to keep at it.

Jason gently stirs in his sleep he blinks several times. He feels the weighted blanket on him and the cool rag on his forehead. His body feels weak as he turns his head, his headache became worse.

He blinks again to see Y/N's phone on his coffee table. Then he began to allow panic to settle into his heart. Where were they?

"Y/N!! Tyler!!" Jason quickly moves his covers wincing from the sharp pain to his head from the horrible migraine.

He quickly moved to his feet but as he stands his knees try to buckle beneath him. He heavily breathed trying to keep from falling just as she came running to him. She rushed to Jason to keep him from falling.

"what are you doing Babe?!"

She then understand the answer of her question seeing the panic in his wavered breath. He let out a helpless cry shedding a tear. He began to stutter as he feels her arms finally wrap around his neck.

Jason heavily breathed in and out of his mouth. He hugged her tightly unable to calm down through his breath. He buried his heart wrenching face within the crook of her neck. She gently guided him back to couch sitting him down. Jason clings to her waist as he began to cry.

"shh we're here. Tyler's ok, I'm ok, you're OK" she whispered

She holds his fearful face in her hands. He holds her wrist his face clenched tightly. She kissed him wiping his tears away. Just then a smaller pair of feet come into the room.

"daddy" Tyler cautiously said

"son" Jason gasped with a wavered breath.

Tyler approaches him touching his face. Jason's heart couldn't bear the thought of never seeing his little boy. Never seeing his love.. His heart made his arms weaken more as they try to hold onto his son. Tyler hugged Jason, sweetly rubbing his Dad's back. Jason moved his arm to move Y/N into their embrace.

Jason then truly realized.. It was just a nightmare.

As Jason started to feel his body calm down and his migraine feel less intense. The two sit beside him. They're ok, he remind himself. He saw the light hit the diamond on her finger.

".. Is that... Did I" Jason was in shock yet again.

"You *ahem* did" she nervously answered

"you said yes! You said yes!!" he hugs her, laying his head on her chest "oh shit Y/N I wanted to be perfect to what you deserved. I'm so happy you said yes.."

"oh oh I made cookies and soup with Y/N's help of course I'll go get it" Tyler grinned running off

"ok buddy" Jason chuckled. He softly laughs seeing his clothes on the floor "did we uh"

"no we did not pervert" she laughs kissing his head

"well at least I'll remember when we do" he sits up and pulls her into his lap "I owe you big time then, huh? I get a damn fever and propose to you. I had a whole weekend planned for you"

"I'm happy where ever I am with you and our little boy" she smiled to him

Requested taglist @too-strong-to-lose @asrainterstellar

[cookies-over-yonder]

burning out

After a group sleepover at the Li-Wilson household, Taylor isn't feeling well.

for @silverlistenstothings (because marco)

ao3

⋆

“Taylor, are you okay?”

The teens are having another get-together, this time at the Li-Wilson household, and Grant and Marco have insisted on a big group lunch at the dining table. It’s been nice, well, nice-ish, considering all anyone can talk about was the blood, gore, death, and magical fuckery from the past year or so.

Taylor hasn’t said a word in a while, or eaten much off his plate, and Link is getting worried. His face is flushed too.

“Yeah, I think I’m just hot,” he says, sliding off his jacket to reveal one of his many, many Hatsune Miku tee shirts. When he takes a sip of water, Link sees how his hand trembles.

He must take notice of how Link’s worried gaze because he breathes out, “I’m good,” a few seconds later.

As the conversation continues, mostly by Normal, Scary and Grant, Taylor ties his hair up in a bun and starts to fan himself with his hand, his leather fingerless gloves discarded beside his plate.

“Taylor, honey, maybe we need to check your temperature,” Marco says lowly, so as not to disrupt the chatter across the table.

“No, I—I—I’m pretty sure I’m fine,” Taylor mumbles, though his breathing is rather shaky.

With the hot flash paired with the staggered breathing, Link starts to suspect it’s not just a fever. Anxiety is something he’s known for as long as he can remember.

“Are you sure?” Marco asks.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, just, um,” Taylor swallows and then stands up, “I think I forgot something in Link’s room, I’ll be right back.”

He grabs his cane and walks there far too fast for someone who just forgot something for lunch time.

Link follows him.

Opening the door to his room, he finds Taylor rummaging through his backpack, shaking and panting.

“Hey, hey,” he kneels down next to Taylor, putting a hand on his back, “what are you looking for?”

“Acetaminophen. I… I feel really hot and kinda dizzy, and my chest really hurts and I don’t know why, I—I can’t—”

Taylor gasps for air and shuts his eyes. Link sees his fists tighten around the edges of his backpack.

“ Link, ” he squeezes out, voice strained and weak. It’s a plea.

“I’m here, Taylor.” Link says rubbing Taylor’s back.

“I can’t—I can’t breathe,” he says, and he’s hyperventilating. Okay. Yeah. Anxiety attack.

“Okay, Taylor, hey, I’m gonna pick you up and put you on my bed, okay?”

He nods, and Link does exactly that. Carrying Taylor is different from usual, because instead of clinging to Link, it’s as if he’s paralyzed in fear.

Link sits across from him on the bed, and glances at his shaking hands before taking hold of them, giving them a tight squeeze.

Taylor leans forward, pressing his forehead against Link’s shoulder. He’s really warm.

“Help,” he wheezes, “I don’t know what’s—what’s…”

Taylor clears his throat, and ends up choking out a sob, and his breaths get faster and louder, and he whines something that sounds ever so slightly like Link’s name.

“I’m pretty sure you’re having an anxiety attack. I get them sometimes.”

Link lets go of one of Taylor’s hands to wrap an arm around him and run his fingers through Taylor’s hair.

“It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Taylor hums into his shoulder, still distressed.

“You’re okay. Just take a deep breath in.”

Taylor sucks in a breath.

“Okay, now breathe out.”

He breaths out with a little gasp in the middle.

“In again,” Link says, guiding Taylor’s head from his shoulder to his chest.

Taylor breathes in again, still staggered, but slightly slower, gripping the fabric of Link’s shirt with his free hand.

There’s a faint knock at the door, and the handle turning, and it opening.

“Hey—ah.”

Link hears Marco close the door behind him.

“Hey,” he says, hushed, as he sits on the bed beside Taylor.

Taylor tilts his head to the side and opens his eyes, half-lidded and bleary, breathing still shallow.

“I brought your water,” Marco says, putting a hand on Taylor’s back. “Keep taking deep breaths first. I don’t want you to choke.”

“Thanks—”

Taylor turns to bury his face against Link quite briskly.

Marco stays sitting next to the two with a hand on Taylor’s back as Link leads Taylor in breathing in and out, and after a few more cycles of the exercise his breathing is slow enough for water.

Taylor pulls away and sits up, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. Marco holds the glass up to Taylor, and he takes a sip from the straw.

“Thanks…” Taylor mumbles, closing his eyes once more and leaning back into Link.

“I need to take your temperature, honey,” Marco says, picking a thermometre up off the blanket. Link didn’t even notice it.

Taylor whines, but he backs away again, and turns to Marco with his mouth open. Marco sticks the thermometre under his tongue, and there’s a little beep from it. Then he pulls it out.

“You’ve got a bit of a fever, hon. You should lie down.”

Taylor looks too tired to protest, or even talk, and he just flops down onto Link’s mattress and closes his eyes.

“Maybe he could stay another night?” Link asks, in part from worry and in part because having him around is well, really nice.

“Is Cassandra still out of town?”

“Uh-huh…” Taylor mumbles, turning over and burying his face in Link’s pillow.

“Okay, well I’ll have to talk to Dad about it, but I don’t see why not.”

Marco places the water on Link’s bedside table, and quietly steps out, leaving the door open just a crack behind him.

Link lies down on his back beside Taylor, and in what feels like less than a second, Taylor is practically lying on top of him, and he is really hot. Temperature wise. Well, maybe other ways too, but that’s irrelevant.

“Are you okay?” Link asks, carding his fingers through Taylor’s hair.

“I don’t know what happened,” he mumbles.

“I think you were just anxious.”

“But I don’t get anxious,” Taylor whines.

“I wouldn't be so sure. Especially not after everything.”

Taylor whines again, and tenses up a little. Link kisses the top of his head and rubs his back, hoping to soothe him at least a little.

⁺₊⋆

Link doesn’t know when he fell asleep, but when he wakes up, he’s the one pressed up against Taylor’s side with an arm draped over his torso, and Taylor is sound asleep with a cold compress on his forehead. Link plants a kiss on his cheek and leans back into the crook of his neck, closing his eyes once more.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ⁺₊⋆

[softblesses]

Winter is Here.

This is a fic created for the lovers of sickfic & some snz, mostly just created for my self indulgence. Please don’t reblog to non-kink blogs. It hasn’t been fully beta read or edited yet, but I’m impatient.

Feel free to hop into my dms to discuss and yell about N/eal Ca/ffrey & the show in general! I’m on a rewatch and back in my hyper fixate stages. I’m not done writing for these lot just yet!

~Part 1 below the line~

“Dammit, Neal. .” Was a phrase Peter Burke found himself saying multiple times a day, several times a week. His CI was late again, and hasn’t been answering his phone. Granted, it’s only been half an hour, but there’s no telling when Neal will arrive or what excuse he’ll come up with this time.

Eventually, almost two hours later, Peter spots him making his way across the bullpen and upstairs. There’s a coffee cup in his hand, of course, and his hat is slightly askew and dusted with snow.

“And what time do you call this, exactly?” Peter mutters, not looking up from his paperwork as he flicks through another page and sighs.

A pause. “I’m guessing you don’t want me to answer with the exact time?” Neal questions, removing his hat and taking a seat, tipping the cup up to his mouth to finish the hot drink up.

Peter sighs once again, simply sliding a pile of papers Neal’s way. “Paperwork day, congratulations,” he mutters, glancing up at his informant and watching his disappointed facial expression towards the task at hand.

Neal picks up a pen from the conference room desk, and scans over the pages. He flicks through them pages, click-clacks the pen a few times, and sighs heavily, followed by a yawn.

“Boring you already?” Peter hums, gaze still concentrated on the work before him as he hunches over.

“Somethin’ like that,” Neal mutters back, moving to stand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Burke sits upright, an eyebrow quirked upwards and arms folding neatly across his chest.

“Jeez, Peter. A man isn’t allowed to use the bathroom anymore?” His hands held up in surrender, before making his way to the door.

Heading across the bullpen, his pace a little slower than usual, Neal clears his throat; once, twice. It’s still scratchy, and he’d assumed it was just lack of water whilst sleeping overnight. He sniffles next, and surely that was just the freeze in the air outside; winter has dawned upon New York with a vengeance, and the chill he feels certainly confirms that much. But, a second before he reaches the men’s room, he sneezes. Not all that unusual. . . It happens, from time to time.

He eventually makes his way back to the conference room, blinking a few times and sniffling again. He should’ve warmed up by now; the office has heating, and usually he has no issues with temperature regulation. But something isn’t quite right this morning. Neal sits, shifting uncomfortably as he stares at the page in front of him. He’s always hated this part of their deal, working the cases and having to fill in page after page of writing afterwards — especially after a particularly in-depth job. But, it’s not that bad , and usually they get pizza and coffees and he’ll complain until Peter lets him take a break or two.

Today, Neal Caffrey is almost silent. Peter doesn’t like that, because a silent Neal means something is up. He’s planning something, or working on some sort of escape out of the inevitable boredom of paperwork, surely.

“Neal?” Peter calls for a second time, staring across at his partner. “Anyone home?”

Watering blue eyes glance upwards, and a quick swipe of his hand dries them off. “What?” He doesn’t mean to snap, but he’s tired, and Peter’s bothering him for something that will most likely be a quip against him. It doesn’t usually bother him, but today he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Jeez, someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, huh?”

“I was asking, do you want pizza? My treat.”

Neal looks back down at his papers, subtly trying to rub at his nose. “No, thanks. I ate.” It’s not all a lie. He had a pastry before leaving the house, but now he really wasn’t hungry.

Squinting at him, Peter shrugs. Something was off about him today, and he’ll get to the bottom of it. . After he rounds up the others, and gets their pizza orders in. He leaves the room after a minute or two, and Neal sinks down in his chair with a relieved sigh. He reaches into his suit pocket for the few squares of tissue he’d taken from the bathroom, and pats at his nose. Neal Caffrey doesn’t get sick. He thought to himself, stifling a sneeze against his wrist and rubbing his eyes.

He gets to his feet after that, collecting up his papers and sneaking out of the room and to his desk. It’ll be easier to concentrate here, that’s what he’ll tell Peter. He’s just tired, and the weather is making his head all fuzzy. In fact, he barely notices Peter coming up behind him, and he even uncharacteristically flinches as a hand settles on his shoulder a moment later.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine.” Neal deadpans, scrawling some notes onto his sheet.

“You sure?”

“Peter, I’m just doing what I’m not paid for. Can concentrate better down here — Jones chews too loud.” He mutters, and really, it’s not exactly a lie.

“Alright. . Pizza’s gonna be up there soon if you want some.” The footsteps wander away, and Neal’s left alone again.

An hour passes by, and then another, and Peter’s keeping an eye on Neal through the glass of the conference room. In fairness, he hasn’t seen him do anything particularly strange. . . Aside from visit the bathroom once or twice, and make his way back and forth from the water cooler. Maybe he’s calling the short friend. Or, maybe he’s just thirsty. Either way, he seems grumpy and Peter would rather leave him to sulk about the paperwork day alone, if that’s what gives them some peace for the rest of the afternoon.

The day begins to draw to a close as the clock ticks closer to five pm, yet the piles of papers don’t seem to be dissipating at the same rate. Peter exhales heavily as he signs off on another report, placing it carefully on top of the other one. He’d sent Jones home a few minutes ago, and Lauren too. They didn’t have as much to do, and the weather looked to be worsening — the both of them lived further than Peter does.

His eyebrows raise as there’s a small knock at the door, and his eyes light up at the pleasant sight of his wife. Peter stands, grinning now. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He questions, stepping closer and giving her a kiss on the cheek. . . But, she doesn’t look as happy to see him as he does her.

Uh oh. What did he do now?

“Well, I was on my way home and wanted to bring you some warm treats. . .” El trails off, folding her arms with the paper bag still in hand.

“But?” Peter adds expectantly, genuinely dumbfounded.

“Have you seen Neal?”

“Oh, God, what did he —“ the agent glances over at Neal’s desk, surprised to see he’s still there. Not only

Is he still there, but. . .

“Is he asleep?” Peter scoffs out something of a laugh, shaking his head. “Working hard or hardly workin’, huh?”

“Peter!” El scolds, giving him a light tap on the arm.

“What?!”

“Have you actually paid attention to him? C’mon.” She gestures for her husband to follow her down into the bullpen, and all the way to Neal’s desk. He’s snoring, head resting against his arm. His cheeks seem to display a light flush, and the tip of his nose looks irritated and red.

Peter frowns.

“Honey, he’s sick. He must be exhausted!” El whispers, a look of genuine sympathy crossing her features. “We need to take him home. He needs fluids and rest, not paperwork and scolding.”

Peter is speechless for a moment. Neal? Sick? He’d thought he was simply up to something, and in a bad mood because of their boring day of work. He supposes it makes sense now — avoiding him, going to the bathroom more often and drinking lots of water. He must’ve been trying to soothe a sore throat, and had clearly been hiding it from Peter, too.

“He pulled a health con on me. .” He mutters, watching as his wife gently rouses his CI from the slumber he’s been in for God knows how long. Some Detective, huh?

Neal sits up fast, a sharp intake of breath causing a light bout coughing. There’s a sheet of paper stuck to his cheek, and his hair is disheveled and sweaty. Peter tries not to laugh at the sight, as bad as he feels for him at the same time.

“Contrary to popular belief,” Neal mumbles, voice thick with congestion now. “I was not asleep. I was envisioning. . Paperwork, with my eyes. Closed. My eyes closed.”

El pouts, looking at Peter, before reaching to pluck the stuck paper from Neal’s cheek. “I think you’re a little feverish, honey. Let’s get you home.” She offers Neal an arm, to which he takes without question; a dazed sort of look in his usually bright blue eyes. Peter gathers up their things, and they begin to lead the confused conman to their car outside.

“What about the paperwork?” Neal asks, frowning as he’s ushered into the elevator. “Peter always makes me do paperwork. El, did you know? Your husband. . He’s mean.” Neal ‘whispers,’ and leans against the wall for support.

“It can wait,” Peter answers simply. “And, I’m not mean.”

“He didn’t give me pizza.”

“You didn’t want pizza!”

“El, he’s shouting at me.” Neal pouts, closing his eyes and resting his head against her shoulder. She places an arm around him to keep him steady, biting against her bottom lip to keep in a chuckle. He’s clearly still sleepy, and somewhat delirious. Poor thing.

They manage to get Neal to the car in one piece, and Peter gets in the driver’s seat, whilst El sits in the back to keep an eye on their passenger. She glances at him, watching his teeth chatter and listening to him sniffle. He must’ve been feeling off all day, and the weather certainly can’t be helping anything.

“Neal?” She says softly, frowning as he flinches at the car engine starting up.

It takes a moment, but he looks at her, somewhat of a lucid gaze staring back.

“Tissue?” She smiles, offering him a packet that she had in her bag. He reaches for it, mumbling a quiet and stuffy ‘thanks,’ before plucking one out and holding it to his nose.

The rest of the car ride is mostly silent, with Neal resting his head against the cooling car window, and drifting off to sleep before they’d even left the parking garage building. Elizabeth and Peter exchange whispered conversation along the way, until they pull up outside their house and quietly argue about who has to wake Neal.

“But, he looks so peaceful!”

“He can’t stay in the car, he’ll get cold. C’mon.” Peter opens his door, and walks around the side of the car to let Elizabeth out.

She sighs, giving her husband a kiss on the cheek. “Get the stove heated and the ingredients for tomato soup onto the counter, would you? I’ll bring him inside.” He nods, giving her hand a squeeze, before making his way up to their front door and unlocking it.

“Neal, sweetie?” She’s careful when opening the car door, aware that he’s leaning against it. “We’re here.”

The chill of the air outside is enough to wake him up with a start, looking around in confusion and taking a moment to gather his surroundings. “Elizabeth,” Neal murmurs. “This is. . . Not my apartment.”

“Nope,” she hums back, reaching in to help him undo his seatbelt. “You’re staying for dinner. Come on.”

It takes them a short while, but she manages to get Neal up and out of the car, into the house and up the stairs. She brings him a pair of sweatpants Peter never wears, so that he can at least tie them up to fit a little better, and a long sleeved plaid pyjama shirt to change into.

“I’ll be just outside the door, alright?” She leaves the bathroom door ajar, so that she can listen to make sure he doesn’t fall over whilst getting changed. Thankfully, it all seems to go smoothly, and El is soon helping him downstairs and onto the couch.

Covering him up with a blanket, and giving his hair a little ruffle. “Let me get you some Tylenol for that temperature of yours,” she tells him softly, making her way into the kitchen to check on Peter first.

She brings him back a large glass of water and two Tylenol pills, carefully handing them to him and telling him to ‘drink up, slowly.’

Neal does as he’s instructed to, grimacing at the feeling in his throat as the pills slide down. His head rests against the back of the couch afterwards in defeat, and he looks at Elizabeth with an expression that could break even the coldest of hearts.

“You really are sick, huh?” She says quietly, placing his glass down on the coffee table. “Well, I’m making soup as we speak. I’ll get Peter to come sit with you.”

Neal shakes his head.

“He won’t bite,” she teases. “He’s worried about you, y’know. But, keep that a secret between us, okay?” A smile crosses her features, before she turns and makes her way back to the kitchen.

Neal feels the couch cushions get a little heavier beside him, and opens his eyes to spy Peter now sitting beside him. He doesn’t have the energy to say anything, and it hurts his throat to even try. He simply blinks, sniffles, and closes his eyes again.

“Who would’ve thought it?” Peter begins, reaching to tuck the blanket around Neal a little tighter; noting him tense up, but relax a moment later. “Neal Caffrey, famous con artist, forger and art thief,, befelled by the common cold, of all things. Why couldn’t you have been sick when I was chasing you? Would’ve saved me a damn load of time.”

“Alleged,” Neal croaks, opening his eyes again to glare at his handler.

Peter laughs, reaching out to pat the poor man’s shoulder.

“I could still beat you if I had the plague.” He mutters next, hiding his face under the blanket. ‘Hh—xght.’ Another stifled sneeze, although not all that well this time.

“Bless you, and, I doubt that very much. Looking at you now, you couldn’t run anywhere. Not even to the bathroom, I doubt.”

Neal pops back up again, sniffling and glaring still. “You don’t know that.” He whispers, reaching for the tissue box on the coffee table; Peter handing it to him, so that he doesn’t have to leave his blanket.

“Is that why you didn’t wanna have pizza with us today? Or work with me?” Peter asks quietly, leaning back against the couch cushions and grimacing slightly at the noise of Neal blowing his nose beside him.

A long pause. “Are you sure you’re FBI?” Neal quips, his voice still as scratchy as sandpaper.

Before Peter can make a comment back, El’s coming out of the kitchen, holding a tray for Neal. “Homemade soup, comin’ right up!” She smiles, setting it carefully down upon the coffee table. “No pressure to eat a lot, just have what you can.” She reassures gently, handing him the bowl.

“Thank you,” Neal mutters quielty, and it’s only for a second, but El could’ve sworn she saw his eyes get a little teary.

They leave Neal to eat his soup, fetching their own bowls and taking a seat at the table. He doesn’t eat much, but the feeling of the warm soup against his aching throat is nice. The steam is nice too, and he simply sits there for a while with the bowl held up to his face, before putting it back on the tray and curling up into the blankets.

“Do you think anyone has ever done this before?” El asks, stirring her soup absent minderdly, as she watches over Neal ftom across the room.

“What? See Neal Caffrey act like a little, stubborn kid?” Peter retorts, picking up a piece of bread and taking a large bite.

El rolls her eyes, but there’s a fond look on her face as she shakes her head. “No,” she answers. “Take care of him. You know? He looked so. . . Shocked, when I brought him the soup. D’you think he’s always been alone in this sort of thing?” She considers, her own heart feeling heavy at the notion of Neal being all alone and unwell.

Peter falls quiet, dipping his bread into his soup for so long that it falls in. “Ah, crap—“ he mutters to himself, sighing. “You’re probably right. . He probably hasn’t been looked after. I don’t know much about his past, but I don’t doubt it was lonely.” He looks up at El, a sad sort of smile on his face.

“But, he’s got us now.”

•••

Neal wakes up two hours later, to the sound of the television on low volume, and quiet voices chatting around him. He blinks slow, looking around; Peter’s sitting on the floor in front of him, with Satchmo resting on his legs. Someone’s beside him, too. . . Must be El. Everything still feels heavy, but he doesn’t feel as shivery anymore. It still hurts to swallow, but feels a little less like knives now, at least.

“Neal,” a soft, female voice breaks his train of thought. Elizabeth. “How’re you feeling?”

It takes him a minute to answer, but opening his mouth to talk somehow becomes a cough instead, and the next thing he knows someone is handing him water. Oh, Peter. Peter’s kind to him. He takes a long drink, shakily passing it back and moving to sit a little better.

“Tired,” Neal answers, voice even more hoarse from lack of use during his nap.

“Do you want to go up to bed? Guest room is all set up for you.” Elizabeth offers, reaching out to gently rest her palm against his arm.

Neal thinks on it for a moment, scrunching his nose and trying to rid of the itch whilst he does so. A shake of his head; upstairs means being alone. Downstairs means being warm, and comfortable and with Peter and Elizabeth. It’s safe downstairs.

He moves a moment later though, and both Peter and El’s gazes immediately snap towards his direction.

“‘M just going to the bathroom.” Neal informs, trying his best to escape the entanglement of blankets without any help. . Failing miserably, and having Elizabeth help him unwravel.

He denies needing help, taking quite a while upstairs, before eventually re-emerging and taking each stair very slowly and one at a time. Peter decides that as funny this situation is, he doesn’t like it one bit. Neal usually bounds down the stairs, with the same energy as a golden retriever — and the cheerfulness of one too.

“You sure you don’t want to go to bed?” Peter asks, earning a frown from Neal as Elizabeth tucks him back in.

“You know. . .” El begins, giving Neal’s hair another little ruffle and passing him his water. “When I got sick as a kid, my Dad used to let me have a ‘couch bed’ night. He’d set me up on the couch downstairs, and we’d watch my favourite movies and drink hot chocolates, until I fell asleep. How about we do the same?” She suggests, smiling at the two men beside her.

A small smile forms upon Neal’s face, and he nods. A couch bed night sounds nice. He’s never had one of those before.

•••

El and Peter stay downstairs for the majority of the evening and into the night; Neal didn’t take long to fall asleep, and only woke up once, before the husband and wife made their own ways to bed, leaving the bedroom door open incase Neal needs anything during the night. Things seem to stay peaceful, until a thud from downstairs rouses El from her slumber, and she’s quick to shake Peter awake, too.

“Did you hear that?” She whispers, sitting bolt upright.

“No, but I guess it’s my problem now. .” Peter mumbles, still half asleep as he moves to sit up.

The sound of Satchmo whining confirms to Elizabeth that she didn’t wake up for nothing, and she’s already rushing out of the room and down the stairs before Peter can even plant his feet upon the floor. But, she wasn’t expecting to find Satchmo with his paws resting against Neal’s knees, and the quiet sound of. . . Crying?

“Neal?” Her voice is soft, so as not to startle him. “What happened? Are you hurt?” She crouches beside him, and Peter soon makes his way downstairs.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. . Neal, honey? Did you have a bad dream?” She reaches out, and he flinches away, not quite lucid enough to register their company.

A soft gasp falls from her lips, and she stands. “He’s burning. I’ll get some things, will you calm him down?” She reaches to give Satchmo a pat, and turns to make a beeline for the stairs.

A quiet sigh follows after that, and Peter takes a seat beside Neal. Unsure if he’s even lucid enough to understand him, he reaches out slowly to rub the other’s arm, in attempt to somewhat comfort. “You know I don’t do so great when people cry,” Peter keeps his voice quiet. “But, I’ll make an exception here; just this once.” He gives Neal’s shoulder a careful squeeze, painfully aware of how warm he is.

“She’s gone, Peter. .”

Ah, so is he somewhat aware of his presence.

“It was a dream, Neal. You’ve got a fever — it makes your dreams worse. You’re alright now.” He reassures gently, turning his head at the sound of his wife’s footsteps drawing closer again.

“Here, Neal. It’s for your temperature. Can you open your mouth, for me?” It takes a moment of repeating herself, but he eventually complies, and Peter reaches to switch on a lamp so that they can see better.

Neal’s shivering makes it so that he can’t keep the thermometer in place independently, so Elizabeth carefully holds it in place for him. A sympathetic expression is stuck upon her face, and she gently reaches to wipe away some of Neal’s tears.

“We’ll get you some medicine and you’ll be feeling less upset,” she reassures gently, removing the thermometer as it begins to beep at an urgent pace.

‘103.6.’ Is the reading on the screen, and she turns it around to show Peter. He gives a disapproving shake of his head (which is really out of concern,) and reaches to move Neal’s blanket. But, the sound of a tired sob and the weak grip of Neal’s fingers stop him.

“Alright, he can keep the blanket. I’ll get him some water for the Tylenol.” Peter mutters, wasting no time in fetching what they need and returning to Elizabeth trying to help Neal clean up his tear stricken cheeks.

Taking a seat beside him again while Elizabeth takes the almost empty glass from him, she watches as Neal begins to lean to one side, until he’s resting against Peter’s arm. “Y—you’re not gone?” The CI murmurs, sniffling as his teeth chatter togerher.

“We’re not gone, Neal. We’re right here. El’s getting you a cool cloth for your forehead.” He wraps an arm around him, carefully guiding Neal’s head against his chest to make him more comfortable. If this is where he’ll sleep and calm down, so be it. Peter can sacrifice a few hours of rest to help his friend.

The cool cloth is placed gently against his forehead, and both El and Peter stay with him until his shivering has dissipated and he’s fast asleep again.

“Never seen him like that before,” Peter whispers. “And I don’t ever want to see it again.”

Elizabeth reaches to take her husband’s free hand. “Think you can carry him to the guest room? No use having an FBI agent completely sleep deprived, and his CI with neck ache from sleeping like that.”

“I’ll have you know, I make a great pillow.” Peter whispers back, assessing the current situation for a moment. “I can carry him.”

It takes almost an hour, but Neal’s fever eventually goes down to a low grade one again, and they can all rest easy for the rest of the night. He’s safe in the guest room beside them, his congested snoring heard in the master bedroom. But, neither of the couple in the bed mind it. It’s a comforting reminder that he’s asleep.

[goldenavenger02]

summer sun for you forever

For @badthingshappenbingo. Prompt: fevers

Azula had disappeared into darkness. Aang saved the kids of the Fire Nation. Kiyi and Ursa were finally getting along again. But, things seemingly never worked out for Zuko.

"Zuzu?"

Zuko wasn't sure when he had finally given up on the paperwork and gone to bed, but given the lack of sunlight streaming through the windows, it was not long enough for it to be considered an usual amount of sleep.

That was before he factored in the fact that most of the Fire Nation no longer wanted him off of the throne, the scratchiness in his throat that had started the night before and Kiyi pushing on his bicep to wake him up.

Again.

"Zuzu. Are you awake?"

"No, I'm sleeping. Like you should be."

"You're talking, so you're awake," she argued while crawling over so she was in her face, "I heard you coughing."

"I wasn't-" he sat up, only for the scratchiness to go over the edge, sending him doubling over as the coughs made his chest burn.

When he finally caught his breath, he was met with a raised eyebrow from Kiyi that she had definitely picked up from either Sokka or Katara but the persistent exhaustion made it impossible to ask as he laid back down on the uncomfortably warm pillows.

"Do you want me to get mommy? She's really good at helping people feel better."

Right. Kiyi was here, which meant that his mother was asleep in the palace and unaware of any of this; he swallowed down the scratchiness and shook his head, "she needs to sleep, Kiyi. So do you."

"But you're sick."

"Come on," he sat up, coughing a few times into his elbow before offering his other hand to her, "let's get you back in bed."

"But what if 'zula comes back? I don't wanna go with her." Kiyi shook her head as she stamped her foot on the ground in defiance with her arms crossed.

He couldn't bring himself to argue with her, unsurprised that she had become a monster in Kiyi's closet; it had only been a few days since Azula had fled into the woods after kidnapping the majority of the fire nation children.

Their mother hadn't let her sleep in her own bed the night after they got her back and was visibly on edge after she or Ikem would put Kiyi to bed. Zuko had even found himself peeking into her room at night to make sure she was still there.

"Azula is not coming back, Kiyi," Zuko assured her as he stood up, holding onto the bed frame for a moment as the world spun around him, before holding his hand back out to her, "and even if she did, everyone is keeping an eye out. She wouldn't be able to get to you, I promise."

"Okay," she admitted defeat and pressed her small palm into his, allowing him to lead her back to her room, "are you gonna tell Mommy? That you're sick?"

And that question penetrated right through Zuko's foggy mind, because he wasn't sure; he hadn't been taken care of by his mother since he was a child, since before Lu Ten had died and even though a small part of him so desperately craved that comfort, it had been years.

"I'm gonna go back to sleep," he decided as he lifted Kiyi into her bed before tucking her in and stopping himself from kissing her forehead, "you should too. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, Zuzu." She yawned, rubbing her eyes as she laid down.

"Good night, Kiyi." He whispered back and took a quick glance over the room, just to be sure, before making his way back to his room on shaking legs with the hope of getting another few hours of sleep.

…

When he awoke again to the sun shining through his windows and onto his face, everything felt worse.

The scratchiness in Zuko's throat had elevated to a swollen ache, the cough felt heavy in his lungs and sitting up felt like an impossible chore due to the pounding in his temples; there was no denying it, he was sick and it was bad.

The last time he had been nearly this sick had been in Ba Sing Se, but he highly doubted that this was another war of the mind given the lack of nightmares involving dragons and Air Nomad tattoos.

So, despite the throbbing in his head, he pulled himself to his feet and slowly changed into his royal robes while hoping that there wasn't a heavy workload for him to attend to today.

After tying his hair up with the crown pushed into the hairbow, despite the top knot adding to the pressure in his head, he made his way to the dining room.

What he wasn't expecting as he walked in was such a tight hug from Kiyi around his legs that he nearly fell over before she looked up at him and said, "I told mommy that you were sick."

Zuko kept his hand on Kiyi's back as his mother approached slowly and rested her hand against his scarred cheek, his back going ridgid at the touch while she brushed a few stray hairs away from his eyes before resting her hand on his shoulder.

"Kiyi wasn't kidding. You're feverish, Zuko."

"Why would I make that up?" Kiyi questioned, finally letting go of his wobbly legs to raise an eyebrow at Ursa, the same way she had at him last night.

"Finish your breakfast, sweetheart," Ursa insisted, reaching down to run a few fingers through her hair before turning back to him, "you should lay back down."

" 'm busy, mom," he managed to choke out, his voice much hoarser than he expected, "Fire Lord stuff."

"I see," Ursa nodded, her hand still lingering on his shoulder as she turned to face one of his advisors, "Lin, can you rearrange the Fire Lord's schedule so it is only essential and urgent matters for the next few days? It would be in the best interest of the Fire Nation if my son spent some time in the infirmary."

"Mom-" Zuko started, only for his chest to rebel and send him into another coughing fit that left his vision spinning.

"I think the basis for my case was just made by the Fire Lord himself."

"Very well, Lady Ursa." Lin bowed in their direction before exiting through the other doorway in the large dining room.

With the way Kiyi was proudly showing off her trick of tossing sliced strawberries in the air and catching them in her mouth with Noren's attention on her, Zuko knew that there was no other option then defeat as his mother rested her hand on his upper back and gently nudged him toward the palace infirmary.

"Let's get you taken care of."

…

Ursa hadn't been back in the Fire Nation for a full month and Zuko had already fallen ill.

Admittedly, she wasn't that surprised; her son had always been more sickly than Azula, seemingly catching every single virus that made its way into the walls of the palace.

However, her hands still hadn't returned to a normal warmth from one of her daughters kidnapping the other and that was before Kiyi had woken her up by jumping on her bed and proclaiming, "Hi, mommy, Zuzu's sick."

Which led her to where she was now, gently taking down her son's top knot in his bedroom, after their visit to the infirmary, while he shivered under her touch.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." She murmured as she laid the crown on the table before gently holding onto his arm as he maneuvered onto his back.

"Not your fault," he insisted, his hoarse voice cracking as he rested his hot cheeks onto the pillow, "Kiyi was just trying to help."

"I know she was, she cares a lot about her big brother."

There was a brief smile on his lips, although it looked more like a grimace, before his eyes fluttered shut and his breathing, despite being tinged with a wheeze, evened out.

The court physician had been confident in Zuko's recovery, which helped some of Ursa's fear ebb away, but the damp cloth that she used to wipe the sweat from her son's forehead was just as cold as her palms.

He hadn't been asleep for more than a few minutes when there was a soft knock on the wooden door, one that could only belong to her daughter; Ursa folded the cloth and rested it on her son's forehead before making her way to the door and opening it.

"I wanna see Zuzu."

"Kiyi, he needs to rest," Ursa insisted, kneeling down so she was eye to eye with her, "he's sick, remember?"

"Can I help?"

And with brown eyes full of a mix of worry and pleading, Ursa couldn't help but relent; she knew that in doing so, she increased Kiyi's chances of contracting the same illness but at the same time she was aware of just how close the two of them had grown in the few months of knowing each other.

"You have to let him sleep, okay?"

She nodded without any sort of rebuttal and reached up for Ursa.

She picked her daughter up before returning to Zuko's bedside and used the cloth to wipe away the buildup of sweat that had gathered in her brief absence.

A coughing fit broke through the silence, making Kiyi flinch back against her chest, but Ursa just held onto her tightly while reaching over to firmly rub his back so his lungs could work out some of the congestion.

"Is he gonna be okay, mommy?" Kiyi whispered, her hands wrapped tightly in the fabric of her dress.

"The doctor said he will be," Ursa assured, trying to force herself to believe the words despite how much every single wheeze made her hands grow colder and colder, "it might take a few days though, for him to feel better."

"Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Maybe Katara can help, with her water bending."

She wasn't sure how her daughter had thought of sending for the powerful member of the Southern Water Tribe, the same teenager who was part of the small group of Zuko's friend group that included the Avatar himself, but all she could do was wonder why she hadn't thought of it first.

"That's a very good idea, Kiyi," Ursa praised before turning to the guard that was stationed outside of the door, "Tao? Can you send for Master Katara?"

"Of course, Lady Ursa."

…

Zuko's head was pounding when he woke up to the all too familiar cold hovering over his chest, the confirmation that Katara was trying to heal him; from what, he couldn't remember until he blinked a few times only to feel a flare of pain in his raw, inflamed throat.

"Do you have a six of earth?"

"Go fish!"

"Ugh," he heard Aang groan before pleading, "can we please play something else?"

"We can try Pai Sho again."

Zuko blinked and looked upwards.

"Hey there," Katara greeted softly with her water-covered hands still hovering over his chest, "welcome back to the land of the living."

He tried to speak, but throat was stinging and his lungs constricted into a coughing fit that filled his eyes with tears from the burning in his chest as it forced him to sit up.

"Easy, easy," Katara's voice broke through the sound of the coughs wracking his body as she held him upright and a now dry hand firmly pat his back, "try and breathe, Zuko."

And given how hard he was coughing, he would argue that he did try his best to breathe, but it was only when the coughing fit started to subside that he could finally pull a substantial amount of oxygen into his lungs.

"Here," Kiyi's voice cut through his deep breaths, forcing him to turn his head to see her holding a glass of water, "Mommy said you had to drink something when you woke up."

He took the glass in his shaking hand and started sipping at the cold water, letting it temporarily sooth the stinging in his throat before letting his questioning about why Katara and Aang were there allow itself to be visible on his face.

"Your mother sent for me, asking if I could heal you. Given the coughing fit, though, you can see how well that's going."

"Also, Kiyi cheats at Go Fish," Aang added as he showed his face from behind Katara, "and she's really good at Pai Sho."

"I don't cheat!" Kiyi shouted with her hands on her hips, making his head throb, "and Uncle Iroh taught me how to play, he said I'm better than Zuzu at board games."

"Because you have the patience for-" Zuko retorted, but his chest rebelled again and made him cough again, forcing him to sip at the water once again as the burning spread through his lungs.

"Maybe you should stop talking." Katara suggested as she took the empty glass from him and set it on the bedside table before gently pressing him back down onto the pillows.

Zuko nodded, his eyelids already growing heavy again as the familiar cold of healing covered his forehead.

"Can I help?"

Zuko opened his right eye to see Kiyi making eye contact with him, unable to hold back his response with a smirk. "Did you become a waterbender recently?"

"No, I'm a firebender, silly," despite how awful he felt, his little sister's smile was infectious as she climbed up onto the bed, "and that means I'm super warm."

With that, she promptly leaned against him with her head against his collarbone and wrapped her arms around his left side; she wasn't wrong about being warm, it was a common fact about all firebenders.

But due to the fever that was wreaking havoc on him, he couldn't help but relish in the warmth and hold her closer as the cold water once again covered his aching head.

"Go to sleep, Zuzu. We can take care of you."

He didn't have the energy to fight against her statement and let his eyes flutter shut once again, taking in the comforting sound of her steady breathing beside him, allowing himself to feel safe in her presence.

[selene-and-the-cold]

There's something about nighttime-illness that makes it so, so special to me. The dimmed lights, the rustling of bedsheets when the sick person tosses and turns, or moves closer to their SO, snuggling up against them or curling into their chest for comfort.

The disrupted sleep, disturbed by fits of coughing or fever, depraving the sick person and the SO alike of sleep.

The soft whispers and hums of reassurement, worry, love and care.

Hands groping around in the dark, for a desperately needed tissue or handkerchief that has been lost somewhere between the sheets.

Soothing caresses in the dark, hands finding the blanket to tuck in a shivering sick person, the lamp on the bedside table being switched on and off and on and off again, following the ebb and flow of the sick person's symptoms.

Just a sick person suffering at night and their SO taking care of them 🌙💕

[undercover-horn-blog]

Another hot lil scenario I love:

A and B are walking somewhere. A is really sick and seems like they're getting worse. B (a friend or romantic partner) asks whether they think they have a temperature.

Here, we can add in any symptom that tipped B off. "Your eyes look glassy." "You're really pale." "You're shivering."

A replies honestly and says they're not sure. They feel awful, yes, but they're not sure whether they're actually running a temperature or not. It's hard to tell.

Next, a look of mutual agreement passes between them and B quickly takes a step toward them, pushes their fringe aside and gently places a hand on their forehead.

Bonus if B immediately goes "Yeah, no, you definitely do" or "Okay, that feels far too warm. Let's get you home" or something.

[feverflushed]

Ok, but: effortless caretaking.

A is on the couch,  trying to sleep off their fever, their head on B's lap.

On the other side, B is doing their own thing, watching a movie or reading a book, but their hand keeps holding a cold wet towel against A's forehead. From time to time, they caress A's cheek to check if their fever is going down.

Maximum comfort for the both of them, just a sweet, domestic moment between two people who really care about each other.

[softsnzstuff]

Something that’s not talked about enough - fever fatigue!?

I can’t articulate it so someone pls help but when their fever makes them feel so shitty that all they can do is just lie there??

Like everything just hurts and their body feels heavy and their head is fuzzy and it’s not that they don’t want to do anything, there’s just no energy whatsoever?!

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1102

I have a scene in mind: 

In which the friends notice your whumpee is not doing well, and decide to talk to them. 

They send one friend up to carefully knock on the door to the whumpees bedroom, and it takes a moment for the whumpee to open the door. They’re pale but desperately trying to show that they’re just fine. Their slumped shoulders and hooded eyes say otherwise. 

The friend is just about able to pass it off as casual conversation; “Y’know, just making sure because we- I noticed you’ve been pretty quiet.” (The friends assumed it would embarrass the whumpee less if only one person approached them) 

However, their cover is blown when someone sneezes. Your whumpee peaks around the door frame to see the rest of the group (terribly) hiding down the hall to eavesdrop. 

“I- I’m fine.” Your whumpee insists despite themselves, and once again hide in their room, where they aren’t seen again for a while; they don’t even answer to knocks at the door. In the end, the friends decide to just enter the room...

...where they find the whumpee fighting a fever by themselves (and losing).