Work Text:
Your nostrils? Burning. Your sinuses? Stuffy. Your eyes? Tired. Your head? Heavy. Your skin? Raw.
You've been staring at your work laptop for the last two hours, hardly getting a thing done between the constant coughs, sneezes, and sniffles. Your eyes stray to the time, then double-take—7:18. Shit.
You reach for your phone, scrubbing one hand over one of your dry and itching eyes as you open Robby's contact and type a message single-handedly.
don't come over
You realize as it delivers that you probably sent the text far too late—Michael's probably already halfway to yours. But, there's always the possibility that he got waylaid at work, hasn't left yet. It wouldn't be completely out of the ordinary. You add:
can i see you later this week? what's your weekend look like?
A pause, three dots from his side, then a single—?
Before you can answer, your phone buzzes with his call.
You groan tiredly, reaching out and grabbing your water bottle. You can do this—sound firm, and normal, and not like you've been awake since 2 in the morning. You take a pull of water, wincing at the slight burning as it goes down, and then answer before the phone can ring for a third time:
"Hey."
There's a pause on the other end. Then:
"Everything okay?"
"No, yeah," You fib, "Work's run over and um—I've had a long day. Not a long day like your long days, obviously, but I need to decompress—alone, for a bit, you know."
Another pause from his side, and you wince. How bad do you sound? You know that your voice isn't as strong as it usually is, that it likely has the whining strain of your clogged sinuses in it, no matter what you do. Dangit, why did he have to call?
"Anyway," You hurry to add, "I'll see you some other ti—ti—" You turn your head, unable to stop the sneeze that wells and bursts, followed by another, then a third. Fuck.
"Bless you."
"...Thanks," You grumble, grabbing a tissue from the box. "Anyway, can I see you this weekend—?"
"I wanna see you now."
"Well, I don't want you to see me now," You insist.
"Open the door."
"Excuse me?"
You blink down at the phone as the line cuts abruptly, and curse as you hear a knock on the door.
"Are you flippin' kidding me?" You groan. You peer through the peephole, huffing at the sight of Robby there, his hand hooked around the strap of his backpack.
"Seriously, Robby?" You wince; it hurts to raise your voice.
"Let me in."
"I told you not to come over! I feel like shit and I look like hell."
"I don't care."
"I do!"
"Just let me take a look at you." You watch Robby eye the door beseechingly before he shakes his head, shrugging, "If you don't let me, I'll be worrying all night."
You sigh heavily, resting your pounding head against the cool wood of the door. It'll be faster to let him in than to argue at this rate.
"Five minutes," You grit out, and nearly miss his, "I'll take it," As you unlock the door and step back.
You've seen him at work a time or two, but it's one thing to watch Robby assess a patient, and another to be the patient. He's shrugging off his bag the second he's inside, his eyes skating across your face—your bloodshot eyes, rub-irritated skin, and otherwise unkempt appearance.
"When'd this start?"
"Yesterday."
"Is it just the sneeze?"
"...Bit of a cough."
"Covid test?"
"Negative so far."
"Temperature?"
"99.3."
"When'd you take it?"
"Like, twenty minutes ago."
He grunts, reaches out, cups the side of your neck. As tempted as you are to lean into his touch, you're annoyed—annoyed that he didn't just turn around, leave you to your wallowing on the couch.
"You hydrating?"
"Yes."
"Have anything to eat?"
"Tomato soup."
"Sleeping?"
"I've been busy." Not that you've been all that productive. But he doesn't need to know that.
"You work today?"
"I had to—I told you, I had a long day."
"Are you taking tomorrow off?"
"I'll assess in the morning."
Robby tips his chin down a touch, a chastising look sweeping across his face.
"Don't start," You warn, "I've got a lot of shit to do and I don't wanna hear it."
Robby huffs an affronted laugh before he holds his hands up, a mutter of, "Okay," Falling from his lips. "You take anything?"
"Tylenol this morning."
"So you're achey, too."
"I was. A bit." You fold your arms across your chest, taking a step back. "You should leave."
"It hasn't been five minutes."
"I don't want you getting sick."
"I appreciate that."
"Robby, seriously. You've been working all day, and you look like you haven't been sleeping, either. Your immune system is probably shot to hell."
"Speaking from experience?" Another glance in your direction before he concedes, "Okay. I'm going."
You watch, equally relieved and chagrined as he swings his bag onto his shoulder, rests his hand on the door knob, and turns back to you. He gives you one more look, and then leaves.
--
The second knock on your door that evening makes you wheeze, "Son of a bitch," As you haul your body off of your couch and trudge over to your front door. You peer through the peephole, ready to give Robby another scolding—but you don't see anyone.
You frown, cautiously opening the door and looking around before you look down. There, sitting on your doorstep, is a paper bag. You pick it up, casting another wary look around the hall before retreating inside.
You draw out a plastic pouch of your favorite Liquid IV flavor first, followed by three cans of low-sodium Progresso soup. A dual pack of Nyquil and Dayquil next, a box of tissues, a bag animal crackers—and at the very bottom, a scrap of paper. You pull it out, unable to stop your smile at the sight:
Rest up, call if you need anything. Doctor's orders
- R
--
"Can I ask..."
"Mm?"
"When I came over?"
"Mhm."
"How much of that attitude was you feeling crappy?"
You consider the question for a moment, pushing your mind back to those couple of weeks ago. Your cold is gone, cough has long since backed the hell off, and your sniffles are nonexistent. But—some of your annoyance remains.
"Honestly?" You twist your lips as you from the bag of takeout to face Robby. "I was pissed."
It stops him in his tracks for a half-second before he's setting the dishes on the table and resting his hands on the back of one of your kitchen chairs.
"Pissed."
"Yeah. I told you not to come over, you did anyway."
"I was almost here."
"Right, but you could've respected my request and turned around."
"You sounded awful."
"I fucking know," You scoff, "And I get that this is, you know," You wave between the two of you, "This is your thing, but I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."
Robby's eyes narrow slightly before he draws himself to his full height, rounding closer.
"Is that what you think that was?" He plies. "That I think you can't take care of yourself?"
"Well—"
"I know that you're more than able—"
"Then—"
"—But that doesn't mean you always have to."
You fall quiet as Robby comes to a stop in front of you.
"I know," You sigh, "But..." You shake your head as the words stall. "All you do all day is take care of people. I should be a break from that."
Your eyes slid shut as Robby's hands curl around your chin, tipping your head toward him.
"...Look at me, sweetheart."
You hesitate before you do as you're told, searching Robby's warm eyes nervously.
"You could be ordering me to do a hundred and one chores around here, and it would still be a break from what I deal with at work."
"But—"
"No 'but's. I like to know that you're okay. Helps me sleep at night."
You sway into Robby, catching his lips in a soft kiss, and relaxing as he tips his chin up, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"Thank you," You mumble.
"Anytime, sweetheart."