#the aids quilt will never not make me sob uncontrollably

[thatkindamusicjustsoothesthesoul]

If y’all aren’t watching fellow travelers I don’t know what you’re doing

[alwayssunnyprompts]

Can you write a fic, or short story, or oneshot, or anything like that about a sick scenario? Like, Dennis being sick and Mac taking care of him? Or the other way around. Sick or anything with like vulnerability? (Also the way you describe sounds in your work is great I love it a lot so maybe stuff like that?) if you don't want to that's totally okay I understand. Thank you! xo

Thank you so much! This is one of my favorite asks I’ve gotten and I loved writing it! Set while Mac and Dennis are still living together, maybe around season 5. Enjoy some very sick Mac and very caring Dennis!

Dennis glances at the clock for the third time in half an hour. Mac should have been back 15 minutes ago.

Not that he’s counting.  

Outside is the worst blizzard that’s hit Phillyin a while. There’s almost a foot on the ground already, double what there’d been a couple hours earlier when he’d sent Mac to buy movie night provisions. 

Mac finally trudges home at 8:30 pm, bursting in with a groan, shivering and covered in melting snow. He tosses the grocery bags haphazardly onto the kitchen counter and plops down on the couch next to Dennis. He’s breathing heavily, his head resting on the back of the couch andhis eyes shut. Dennis can see the redness of windburn on the tip of his nose and his cheeks. 

“Hey, bud,” Dennis says cautiously. 

“Bro, that place was insane. I forgot people got nuts when the weather gets bad. Everybody was running around like it’s the end of the world. Some shelves were just totally empty. Ugh, it was a mess,” he coughs a little, “come on, let’s just watch some movies." 

Dennis smiles, clapping Mac on the shoulder. 

"Sure, pal." 

Four hours later, they’re still going strong. Well, Dennis is. Mac’s spent the last 10 minutes nodding off, forcing himself awake. They’re finishing up Alien vs. Predator when he decides that he’s done for the night. 

"Dennis, I’m exhausted. I need to go to sleep, bro.”

“C'mon, man. What kind of lame excuse is that? Just one more!” Dennis rolls his eyes. 

“I’m serious, Dennis. I feel weird. My joints are super stiff and I can’t breathe very good. I think I might be coming down with something." 

"Well, then stay the hell away from me, dude. I’m not letting you get me sick. One sneeze and you’re on your own. Understand?” Does he really mean that? Probably not. However, the idea of getting sick is not only time-consuming and disgusting, it’s uncomfortable and stressful and he wants nothing to do with it. 

He looks back at Mac, who sways a little, seeming unfazed by Dennis’s remarks. 

“I–I have to go lay down,” he mutters,“I’ll see you later, Den." 

He starts to walk to his room and loses his balance, leaning on the arm of the couch for support. Dennis is at his side ina second, all previous thoughts of abandonment and quarantine forgotten. He rests a hand on the small of Mac’s back. 

"Hey, you good?" 

Mac looks pale, but more alert. 

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, dude. I must have tripped." 

Dennis doesn’t have to look at the empty living room to know he didn’t trip on a damn thing. 

"Okay. Well, how about I help you so youdon’t trip again. How does that sound?”

A blush colors Mac’s cheeks and he nods, leaning into Dennis’s side. He grabs around Mac’s waist and leads him to the bed. 

“Do you want to change?” He’s still fully clothed, winter jacket and all.

 He looks down at himself, considering the outfit. 

“Yeah, I probably should, huh?" 

Dennis sighs, and grabs Mac some pajamas from his dresser. He grabs his robe too, partially because he might get cold, but also because he likes seeing Mac wear it. 

"Here. Do you need…help?”

Mac grabs the clothes from his hands.

“No, dude! I can do it myself." 

Dennis can hear the congestion in his chest, and see his legs quivering under the pressure of standing. He rolls his eyes. 

"Okay, fine, asshole. I’ll be right here if you need me, though." 

Watch Mac struggle to the bathroom is as hilarious as it is pathetic. He finally makes it, swinging the door almost-shut behind him. Dennis hears him breathing heavily, and grunting as he takes off his layers of clothes. A full 20 minutes pass before Mac emerges, sweaty and exhausted. He drops his street clothes in a rumpled pile on the floor and collapses onto the bed. 

"Ughh, Dennis, I think I’m dying.” He groans, rolling over to sprawl out. Dennis can tell he’s getting worse. His nose sounds clogged and gross, and his chest is making crackling noises if hetakes too deep of a breath. He groans, burying his face in a pillow. 

“Dennis?" 

"What is it?”

“I think I might get a migraine. I feel that pressure you asked me to watch out for.”

Dennis feels a pang of anxiety. Ever since Mac had crashed Dee’s car trying to fake his and Charlie’s deaths, he’d been getting debilitating migraines. They weren’t frequent, but a few times a year he’d be totally out of commission. The rest of the gang didn’t know about it. He’d been doing so well, too—it had been more than six months since his last one. Dennis doesn’t think they have any medicine left in the apartment. 

“Okay, we’ll deal with this,” he liftsMac’s quilt and motions for him to get under, “come on, you should get as comfortable as you can.”

Mac scoots slowly under the covers, grabbing one of his pillows and holding it against his chest. 

“Dennis, what are we gonna do? I’ve never had the flu and a migraine at the same time. How does that even happen? Jesus Christ, this is bad, dude.” He grips the pillow tighter. 

“Hey,” Dennis lays down on his side, so he’s face-to-face with Mac. He reaches over and ruffles his hair gently, “we can deal with this. It’ll be okay. We’ve done this before. Right?”

Mac nods. “Yeah." 

"Do you want the hot or cold pack?" 

"Not yet.”

“Alright. Try and get some sleep, okay?You’ll need it. I’m gonna go look for some meds and food for when you wake up. Call me if you need anything." 

Mac nods.

"Okay…thanks Dennis.”

Dennis leaves the door open just a crack, enough that he’ll be able to hear if something happens or Mac yells for him. 

Aside from his own meds, their cabinets are virtually empty. They have a few cough drops, some ice packs, Band-Aids, Mac’s hot pack, but not a single painkiller to speak of. Dennis drags a hand over his face. He thought they were better than this. At the very least Mac’s overprotective nature should mean there’s at least a Tylenol or two somewherein the house. But he’s not seeing anything. He glances out the window, the piles of snow illuminated by the street lights. There must be a couple feet at least, and it’s still coming down. The roads are covered now too. Neither of them are getting out of the house anytime soon. 

He goes to the kitchen and pours a glass of water, and searches the pantry. He takes out some tea bags, honey, and a few cans of soup (the shitty chicken noodle that Mac loves so much) that they keep on hand for situations like this. He sets it on the counter and goes to lay on the couch. He lets his eyes close for a little while.

When he opens them again, his mouth feels like cotton and his back is aching.

“Jesus,” he mutters, stretching.

The clock in the kitchen reads 3:45. He’d slept longer than he’d planned to. He stands up and gets a glass of water, and then shuffles over to check on Mac, peeking into his room silently.

Mac is curled in the fetal position. He’s shivering, his hands resting limp on the blankets in front of him. Dennis sits down on the edge of the bed as quietly as he can, reaching over to brush sweaty strands of hair from his face. The darkness under his eyes looks reddish and bruised, and he’s burning up. Dennis’s fingers brush against his forehead and he shudders at the touch, unconsciously moving closer. He whimpers softly, shifting with discomfort.

“Mac?” Dennis tests the waters. He really doesn’t want to have to wake him up, but if something else is wrong, he needs to know. “Mac?”

Mac moans, his eyelids fluttering as he looks up at Dennis as best he can. His eyes are dazed as hell.  

“Den?” He sounds absolutely awful. His voice is rough and quiet, like even talking takes a tremendous amount of energy. Guilt settles like a stone in Dennis’s chest.

“Hey, asshole,” he whispers affectionately, trying to push past his discomfort and worry to smile reassuringly, “how are you feeling?" 

He keeps his hand gently stroking Mac’s hair, pausing for a few seconds to rest it against his forehead again, and his cheek, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. Mac still looks zoned, taking time to process the answer. A weird expression is spreading across his face. But, to Dennis’ surprise, he simply sniffs in response. At first, he thinks it’s just because of the virus, then he takes a quick breath in, sniffling again. In a few seconds, he’s gasping and sniffling and… goddamnit. Tears start to fall, dropping over where Dennis is still cupping his face. 

"Ah, shit,” Dennis says under his breath, moving to brush the tears away as they fall, “shh, no… hey, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong." 

The words slip out so naturally that he doesn’t realize what he’s saying until he’s said it. If Mac hears the term of endearment he shows no sign of it. His breath hitches and gives way to a wet sob and he brings his hands up to cover his face. The shaking returns. He presses his body against Dennis, his head putting pressure on Dennis’ thigh. The sobbing alone is broken and pathetic, but on top of it, his lungs sound like shit, mucus-filled and wheezing with every breath. 

Despite himself, Dennis finds his own throat tightening and his eyes misting over at the strangled, congested sounds. Mac doesn’t cry often, and when he does it’s never this random and uncontrolled. It’s usually soft and stifled after a nightmare, or a few tears escaping if it’s been a particularly hard day for them. But this is different. 

Dennis can see angry red blotches forming on Mac’s cheeks as he rubs at his eyes violently, his breathing starting to sound erratic. Dennis swallows his welling emotions. 

"Mac,” he takes his face in both hands, “look at me." 

Mac rubs at his eyes one last time before lowering his hands. Tears are still flowing steadily, and Dennis can see that tiny blood vessels have burst under his right eye. The rest of his face is pinched and pale as he continues crying. 

"Is it your head? Or something else?”

Mac nods. 

“Both?”

Another nod, quicker this time. 

“Okay. Come here.” He opens his arms, gesturing. Mac slowly crawls onto his lap, burying his face in Dennis’s shirt. He’s hot as a goddamn space heater and he’s heavy as shit. Dennis can feel his legs aching under the weight of a full-grown man lying on top of him, but he sure as hell isn’t going to say anything about it. 

He can feel Mac blinking against the crook of his neck, his breath hot and fast against Dennis’ collarbone. He wishes they had something he could give him. Even just ibuprofen or some shit that did enough to dull the pain that he could calm down and get a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep. 

He runs a hand up and down Mac’s back, pausing togently rub the nape his neck and then reaching with both to stroke his temples. Mac immediately recoils from the touch. 

“It hurts,” he chokes out. 

"Mac, don’t be–” he pauses, takes a deep breath, “I know. But, it’ll make your head feel better, I promise. If it doesn’t, I’ll stop right away. Okay?" 

"Okay.”

He pushes himself into a better position and places his hands back on Mac’s temples, massaging so lightly he’s sure that it isn’t helping anything. Mac gasps at the pressure, his eyes starting to well up again. He works with a little more purpose, and Mac closes his eyes, tries to breathe around the gunk in his lungs. His chest is heaving with exertion.

“Dennis, do you hate me?” His voice is so quiet. 

“Where did that come from? Wh–Mac, that’s…” he sighs, “that’s ridiculous. Of course I don’t hate you.”

He knows it’s just the pain and the fever talking, but it’s more than that. There’s genuine sadness behind the delirium. His heart pounds as he holds Mac’s head with the gentleness he’s reserved only for him, wishing he could transplant his feelings directly into Mac so that he’d be able to understand. He presses his cheek against the top of his head. 

After a few minutes, Mac sags against him. Dennis carefully lifts his hands and pulls him closer, holding him as his eyelids droop. He murmurs something unintelligible, head nodding against his chest. 

“What’d you say, buddy?” He asks softly.

“I love you,” his words slur together like he’s drunk. 

Dennis’s heart swells, and he feels a hot blush color cheeks. He chuckles.

“Of course you do. Close your eyes try to go back to sleep. I’ll be right here."